The Lives of Others (67 page)

But his mother dents this carapace. Watching, when he can bear to, the three-way pull between relief, fear and curiosity on her readable face, her fear barely winning out over her indestructible love, something goes through the rickety cage of his chest, but he stops it there. Emotion is a luxury, he knows; like all revolutionaries he cannot draw the correct line between emotion and sentimentality. He reminds himself of a story that had made a deep mark on him as a child – the man who had been following the Buddha around for years and years, in the hope that he would be accepted as a disciple, one day breaks down, falls at the Buddha’s feet and declares, ‘Master, I have nothing!’, to which the Buddha says, ‘Give that up too.’ That temporary tightening he feels behind his eyes when he sees his mother looking at him with the devotion of a dog – that is his ‘nothing’; he will have to learn to give it up too.

She has Madan-da cook him all the dishes she thinks he loves, five different things at every meal – bottle-gourd with poppyseed paste, green papaya with little shrimps, parshey fish filled with roe, lentil cakes cooked in sauce, white egg curry – and hovers around while he toys with it with the tips of his fingers.

His father dares to confront him one day, soon after he returns. Supratik knows the calculation that has gone behind this: if he does not do it quickly enough, he will never be able to speak to his son with any authority. Pity battles with antagonism, as Supratik watches his father hem and haw and stammer pathetically before he can even begin. In fact, he has to help him out with the opening: ‘Do you want to say something to me?’ he asks.

‘Yes, no, yes . . . yes, I do, actually. You’ve blackened our face,’ Adinath launches in. ‘You’ve brought down so much shame upon us that we cannot show our face to the outside world any more.’

What does his father know of the ‘outside world’ that he cannot bring himself to name any longer? It is Supratik who knows about it: he has loped in and out of that demesne with the cautiousness of a preyed-upon animal. And fear? Yes, that too; he knows he is going to be hunted down. There is an inevitability about it that he finds oddly liberating, even euphoric at times. Yes, he knows that outside world.

The world, say, of his Badal, who had lived with a tuberculotic, unemployed father, a mother and two younger sisters in one room the size of a cardboard shoebox in a bamboo and tin shack in a slum in Santragachhi; Badal who had dreamed of a better life for his parents and sisters and no doubt for himself too, a better life that consisted of living somewhere with brick walls, not the insubstantial, bendy partitions made out of gunny-cloth and thinly beaten woven canes, a life in which he could get some kind of job that would provide two meals a day for his family of five and perhaps, if he got lucky, a couple of eggs for his father because the doctor had prescribed proteins for him, but protein had seemed as unreachable as the moon when every other day his mother had been unable to light their little mud-and-brick oven because there had been nothing to cook on it. The loose change Badal had earned, walking the streets twelve hours a day, peddling jam, jellies, pickles made by a cooperative, had not stretched to proteins. It had been commission work and there had been days when he had failed to push even one measly bottle on any household. That had been the life of his comrade Badal, who had tasted, daily, hourly, the bitter grit of humiliation as door after door had been shut in his face, and the children and servants who had answered his knocks, he had been able to tell instantly, had been instructed to lie and say that there was no one at home. Badal, whose anger had bubbled and spilled over like the foamy starch of boiling rice, watching everyone he loved desiccate as if their life-spirit was being sucked out, little by little, until one day they would all turn into husk. He had rebelled against that imminent state of huskness and had thrown in his lot, his anger and his dammed-up frustration and energies and his human capabilities of thinking and working, with the party he had thought could bring about some change in making the world a less hostile place for him and his own. For which he had been smoked out of his slum by the police, who had thrown a Molotov cocktail on the street outside – it was President’s Rule in the state now, the second time in as many years; the police could do anything now, not that they couldn’t when there was a government in place, mind you, but they could do it with the
overt
blessing of the state machinery now – had thrown a Molotov cocktail, then entered each shack on the excuse that some slum-resident was doing his usual terrorism stuff, and had rounded up about fourteen young men. Badal had tried to escape by running out of the back, through the mazy warren of the narrow space between the rows of shacks, a two-foot-wide zigzagging line, really, of compacted earth and mud and the estuarine trickles of washing-up and used bath water and liquid sewage, all trying to merge into one or two open drains, but he had been surprised by the policemen waiting on the other side of the woven-cane boundary wall he had so easily climbed over, thinking, while surmounting it, that he could run away and lie low somewhere else for a few days and then return after things had calmed down and Calcutta Police had transferred their attention to some other hapless place where they thought they could trawl successfully for Naxalites, but, no, that was not to be. The slum had become, in a matter of a few seconds after the raid began, an eerily silent, abandoned hive; those who had doors to their shacks had slammed them shut and the rest hid inside, pretending not to exist, praying that their hovel would not be visited and turned upside down by the police. Badal’s bullet-riddled body had been discovered, minutes after the black vans had left, lying on the outer edge of the boundary wall, where the police had shot him. Later, Supratik had been told by Subrata, another comrade, who had gone to visit Badal’s parents, that Badal’s mother had spat on his face and tried to scratch his eyes out. ‘You boys are responsible for my son’s death,’ she had howled at him, ‘you boys taught him to play with fire with your politics. I wish my fate on all your mothers.’ On his mother, too, Supratik had not failed to note. For it was he who had taught Badal first how to grind finely potassium nitrate, sulphur and charcoal, then mix them in a ratio of 2:1:1 very carefully into clayey balls with water, sometimes with nails or screws or ball-bearings as shrapnel, then tie them up even more carefully with jute threads, dry them overnight, ready to be carried in jute side-bags and lobbed where they saw fit; it was he who had directed Badal where to get hold of pipe-guns and ammunition on the black market or, better still, the cheap and easy Sten guns that had started making an appearance from 1963, not long after that ridiculous border skirmish with China; he had educated Badal in all this and more – target practice; dismantling and putting back together a Sten in order to work out if they could manufacture it locally; how to absorb the recoil of a gun and steady oneself during and after firing . . . True, all too true, literally, that he had taught Badal to play with fire.

Now that he is facing his father, who speaks of his confected luxury of shame, his inability to show his face to the outside world, Supratik is reminded of a more authentic, more painful variety of it, in his unwillingness to visit Badal’s mother after Badal’s murder. Could
that
be described accurately as shame, the real, soul-staining thing?

Or was it the feeling that went through him when, just before escaping from Majgeria, he had seen Kanu and Bijli’s ill two-year-old son squatting on the hut floor, unable even to cry out for his mother, and shitting his guts out, the ground clearance between his arse and the floor not big enough so that the virulent chemical-yellow, clayey stuff that came out of him was continuous between arsehole and floor, gluing him almost; and Supratik had seen the vermicular seethe of that infected shit and wondered if, by the time Kanu took him to Medinipur Town, to the abandoned ghost house that was the public hospital with its absent doctors and staff and nurses and the few medical supplies that came through stolen and resold on the black market by the staff, by the time he got lucky enough to have a doctor see the child, perhaps after days of waiting, he wondered if the child would be alive.

It struck him again, with vivid force, that all this talk of ‘the outside world’ turned round one thing only: what the outside world made of your own life. You were forever at the centre of things, the subject of the sentence; it was not the outside world you were thinking of, but where
you
stood in the regard of that world. He wanted to say to his father that others thought of their own lives too, perhaps more often, more deeply, than they did of his father’s. The assumption that his father would always have some sort of a privileged access to that outside world, much more so than his son, by virtue of his age, grated Supratik’s nerves raw. He wanted to quiz him, firing one question after another to this ridiculous man about the world outside. How much did he know about, say, the lives of those students who were being rounded up by the police in raids on neighbourhoods, men’s hostels of universities, taken into cells and tortured until they gave up names and whereabouts of their Naxalite comrades? Of those boys broken by beating and electric shocks, for whom betrayal was an abstract noun in all senses when placed beside the very real and immediate pain of a nail being uprooted with a pair of pliers? He, Supratik, had seen the blue-black stub of a comrade’s finger, not quite a human appendage, and the shadows under his eyes which looked as if they would never smile again. But it had been shame, that easily bandied-about emotion, that had cast its shadow on the comrade’s face: shame that, under torture, he had given the names and addresses of his comrades and was now an outcast from the Party; shame and fear, for if the police had not got him, then his comrades, whom he had thrown to the lions, would. The prospect of that punishment corroded him daily into a whittled-down version of his previous self, smaller, more frangible, as if that ruined finger had become, by some synecdoche, his entire soul.

He, Supratik, has witnessed all this, not the emasculated, pompous fool in front of him, making grand claims about the world outside. He can ask his father, for example, how much he knows about the nearly daily occurrence of bombings in the city, bombings that Adinath terms, with derision, ‘playing with fireworks’ in the same breath as he expresses relief because he occupies the third floor of the house, far above the ‘mosquitoes and the bombs that those dangerous Naxalites have taken to hurling’, as if the Naxalites are spoilt children with expensive toys? ‘Hurling’! Does he know that in at least half of these incidents explosives are being targeted
at
Naxalites by Congress and CPI(M) goons? Does he know that Naxalites are now caught in a pincer movement – if the bombs and guns and knives of the enemy parties do not finish them off, then the police will be only too happy to oblige?

This is going to be the next phase of their revolution now: the urban side. Supratik has been entrusted with drawing up the strategies for action in the city. But in all the operations that he has so far thought about, the line between offensive and defensive ones, already delicate, has become blurred: so much of their city activism originates in the need to defend themselves from the trident of Congress, CPI(M) and the state. And, as always, it boils down to a bare economics: if they cannot find enough money to finance their defence, they will be wiped out without ever managing to reach the proactive attack stage. It’s a question of survival now and that is the most ruthless question of them all. Us or them?

Us versus them.

It gives Supratik a little thrill to witness his father going to considerable lengths to avoid the word ‘Naxal’. He tries to manipulate the conversation so that he can get Adinath to bring himself to utter the word.

‘And how exactly have I brought so much shame upon you?’ he asks calmly. That is another thing – the great effort he puts into appearing so placid is repaid, with interest, in the way it makes his father more and more turbulent.

‘Y-y-ou . . . you know it yourself, how dare you ask? Don’t you have any shame?’

‘How can I? You’ve just told me it’s all yours!’

‘If you’re to stay in this house, you have to obey the rules,’ Adinath splutters.

‘Otherwise?’

‘Otherwise . . . otherwise . . .’

‘Otherwise you’ll throw me out, am I correct?’ In his smoothest, most unruffled manner Supratik carries on, ‘You don’t have to go through the trouble of doing that. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I had left of my own accord.’

Sandhya, who has eavesdropped on most of this exchange, confronts her husband at night. ‘What do you want?’ she cries. ‘That he goes away again? Do you want that? Do
my
wishes mean nothing to you? If he goes away this time, you’ll see my dead face, I’m warning you.’

Supratik does not know of this. He thinks his father is off his case because he has been defeated by his son’s cold contempt.

One lunchtime Madan lingers on, annoying Supratik with his usual ‘You didn’t touch your food, look what you’ve made of yourself, all skin-and-bones, this is what happens when you eat like a sparrow, did they not give you enough to eat where you were’, until Supratik realises that this mantra is only an excuse; Madan is stalling for time, waiting to have a moment in private with him.

He tries to make it easy for the old man. ‘Do you have something to say to me?’ he asks gently once the servants have departed. How old is he? he wonders. Pushing sixty? Older? He cannot think of a time when Madan-da has not been there. He remembers Madan-da reading aloud to him from Tagore’s
Words and Tales
when he was little. Or could that be a scene from his father’s life, told to him when he was young and now appropriated by him as a kind of false memory? Madan-da does little, if any, of the cooking nowadays, delegating it to a younger fleet of servants, whom he orders about and directs, but nobody has found it in their heart to let him go, certainly not while Supratik’s grandmother is alive, or indeed his mother.