Primal Instinct

One

Since the time of the Second World War, the value of human life in Bengal—especially in the city of Calcutta—has diminished greatly. During the famine of the fifties, we had made life and death our humble servants. Then, when Jinnah Sahib’s open conflict began, we came to embrace the god of death himself. As a people, the only reason we have survived is that we can live with death as our constant companion, with ease and comfort. We have dwelt alongside tigers and snakes since time immemorial—who is there to harm us?

The first blaze of open conflict has subsided, but beneath the surface, embers still smolder, flaring up here and there, only to vanish again beneath the ashes. Yet, in the everyday life of Calcutta, there is no apparent difference. Trams and buses run as before, the bustle of human activity does not cease. Occasionally, in the borderlands between the two communities, a sudden uproar breaks out—shouts, gunshots, the shops slam shut in an instant, and a few bloodied corpses are left lying in the street. Suhrawardy Sahib’s police arrive and chastise the Hindus, the body count rises by two or four. Somewhere, a motor van comes and collects the corpses, which then disappear. Afterward, life in the city resumes as before.

Byomkesh and I were living in Calcutta. Though our house on Harrison Road did not lie directly on the frontlines, we remained as cautious as possible. Fortunately, a few months earlier, Byomkesh’s brother-in-law Sukumar had taken Khoka and Satyabati westward for a holiday, so when the open conflict began, Byomkesh sent a telegram forbidding their return to Calcutta. Since then, they have stayed in Patna. In the meantime, under Satyabati’s relentless barrage of letters, we made two trips to Patna; for she would not believe we were still alive unless she saw us with her own eyes from time to time.

In any case, knowing that Khoka and Satyabati were safe brought us considerable peace of mind. In times of political upheaval, one values the safety of loved ones more than one’s own life.

The day on which this story begins fell between Durga Puja and Kali Puja. Durga Puja had, as usual, been celebrated with great pomp, and there was no doubt Kali Puja would be observed in due course. That morning, Byomkesh and I were sitting with the newspaper when Batul Sardar arrived. We paid him his “salami.” Batul was the local gang leader—a short, stocky man, with a vermillion mark on his oily forehead. Since the outbreak of open conflict, Batul’s influence had grown; under the pretext of protecting the respectable residents from the hands of other goons, he collected “salami” from everyone. No one dared refuse, for fear that one day Batul himself might take their life.

Despite the extortion, a certain understanding had grown between Byomkesh and Batul.

Byomkesh Samagra

On the occasion of collecting his dues, when Bantul arrived, Byomkesh would offer him tea and cigarettes, and engage him in conversation; much news could be gleaned about the machinations of both enemy and ally. Bantul, in these moments, would steer the talk toward business. After the war, the American soldiers had sold off many firearms for a pittance before departing; Bantul had managed to acquire some of these weapons, and now he was trying to sell them to us. He would say, “Buy a rifle and keep it at home, sir. We can’t keep an eye on everything at all times. In troubled times, it’s good to have a weapon at hand.”

I would reply, “No, Bantul, we don’t need a rifle. Something that big can’t be hidden; one day the police will get wind of it and haul us away in chains. If you could manage a pistol or a revolver instead—”

Bantul would say, “It’s hard to get a pistol, babu. Still, I’ll try—”

Bantul came once a month.

That day, as usual, Bantul took his tip, reassured us, and departed. For a while, we sat in a kind of listless gloom, reviewing the temporary state of affairs. How much longer could this go on? How long can one sit with the sword of Damocles hanging overhead? Independence might be on its way, but will we live to enjoy it? Even if we survive the battles ahead, how long can we live on crushed gravel and tamarind seeds? Byomkesh never had much work at the best of times; now, there was none at all. Where open, wholesale murder is being conducted, what use is Byomkesh’s talent for unraveling mysteries?

I said, “Give up on Bharatir and start worshipping Lakshmi instead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, go out at midnight with a knife under your arm—if you can dispatch a few black marketeers, you won’t have to worry anymore. Given the times we’re living in, Bantul should be our role model.”

Byomkesh was silent for a moment, then said, “You’re not wrong; the spirit of the age is the only true law. But you know, that sort of thing needs to be in your blood. Whether it’s murder or black marketeering, without the strength of your ancestors’ blood, it can’t be done. My father was a schoolmaster, taught mathematics at school and studied Sankhya philosophy at home. My mother was a Vaishnav girl, forever immersed in thoughts of Nandagopal. So that sort of work is not for me.”

I knew Byomkesh’s childhood history. When he was seventeen, his father contracted tuberculosis, and his mother died of the same disease. No relatives came to look in on him. After that, Byomkesh crossed the ocean of learning on nothing but water and rice, carving out a new path in life through his own efforts. Perhaps he still has relatives, but Byomkesh keeps no contact with them.

A while passed in melancholy silence. Today, a letter from Satyabati might arrive; inwardly, I was waiting for it.

Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping at the door. I got up and