BLACK AND WHITE

(A short story)

“JARASANDHA”

Translated by BASUDHA CHAKRAVARTY from the original in Bengali

I was having a talk with Haralal on the subject of specialists. According to him a craze for specialists had developed everywhere after independence.

“Even if it’s so,” I said, “it’s nothing compared to what obtains in your medical profession. Some among you are busy with only people’s skin, some with the heart, some others with mere bones. If things go on like this, more sub-divisions among them are likely to appear after a few years. Dentists, for instance, will be divided into two groups, one examining only the upper set of peoples’ teeth and the other concerning themselves only with the lower set.”

“That’s well said” he replied, “But it does not do for us who are in the moffusil, to become specialists. We have to attend with the same set of hands everything from dysentery to ringworm and to operate on boils as well as to cut the umbilical chord.”

“That’s right. From what I have seen of your chamber these few days, it is a miniature zoo. The diseases I have noticed here are varied, the patients even more so. I have been told that quite a cross-section of the very different types of character who crowd Banaphul’s novels introduced themselves first in Dr. Balai Mukherjee’s dispensary.* They have proceeded thence straight to the durbar of literature. Even he did not always know how.”

“But that was possible only because there was a Banaphul within Dr. Balai Mukherjee. I am a mere doctor. My pen can pour out prescriptions; it has no other capacity. That’s why I have been so long asking you to drop in here. You have got a third eye. Should you keep it open these few days, you will get substantial material for your writing from this my chamber.”

This doctor friend is an admirer of my writings. I know that two things cause this admiration: his regard for me and his ignorance or rather superficial knowledge of the nature of my writings; yet I accepted silently his praise and felt glad within myself.

It was raining outside. We were in a moffusil town. So we heard frogs croaking in some nearby pool, hole or pit. It was early at night. Yet people had almost ceased going about the roads. There was very little chance of patients turning up at such an hour. Haralal lit another cigarette and somewhat spread himself out on the chair. He then returned to the old topic on which our evening tete-a-tete had started–whither we were going after independence, what we had got and not got. We had spoken a few words when we heard an umbrella being shut up outside the door and closely following, saw somebody enter the room.

Haralal was enthusiastic in his “Welcome, Mr. Bardhan.”

As my gaze turned to the gentleman, it fell on his head. It had a mass of silver-white hair which was hanging on all sides making up something like a hat. He was rather of short stature but of tight appearance, the face being strong and rigid and the body showing no sign of looseness. So there was a total disparity between the body and the head. The gentleman sat on a chair just beside mine and said. “Do I understand this is the literary friend you spoke of?”

“Yes, I have already told you of him. He has been thinking of coming here for a long time and at long last, has found the time.”

Mr. Bardhan turned towards me, said “Namaskar” and added, “You are having a look at my head, aren’t you? Do please have it. Many do. You being a writer, it’s expected of you to have a look all the more.”

A long time ago when I was at school I saw a performance of “Mewar Patan” or Fall of Mewar at our village. Uncle Bidhu as we called him, played the role of Govinda Sinha. He looked much like this gentleman. He wore hair of cotton and a beard of jute fibre and in a shivering voice declaimed, “Well, Rana, it’s not in Govinda Sinha to condescend to make a treaty with anyone.” That scene now reappeared before my eyes. It seemed to me that it was the same Uncle Bidhu who had put off the beard somewhere and come to Haralal’s chamber with only his hair on.

I returned the Namaskar and said, “Please don’t mind. But are you sure it’s not false hair?”

The gentleman burst into a guffaw and then said, “But no one else has suspected that of me. Rather I have, while journeying by bus, found that should there be a ladies’ seat half vacant and the occupant of the other half–in most cases, a young woman happen to look at my head, she immediately asked me to be seated by her. Once I thankfully said, ‘Let it be, you would be inconvenienced if I sit there’. The reply was a sweet smile: ‘Not at all. Where’s the inconvenience? You being an old man, must be feeling ill at ease.’ I looked about and found that at least half a dozen among those who were standing, were considerably older than me. But they had not this hair that I had.”

So saying, he pointed at his head. Then he added, “Truly this my mass of hair is a great treasure. But then, yes,” he turned to me and said, “from a certain point of view you can call it false hair. It is not my own, it is a gilt from somebody else.”

“How is that?”

It was I who put the question but both Haralal and myself eagerly looked at him for the answer.

“I have got it from a jail” Mr. Bardhan said “Oh, no, it is not what you are thinking of just now. The doctor is my witness to that. I forged no notes, did not defalcate: nor was I a dacoit in the Swadeshi cause or a political murderer. All my life I have had to hold charge of persons who indulged in such activities. The apprehension that somebody among them would break my door and disappear, did not permit me to keep much track of sleep at night. This hair, I suppose, is a consequence of that.

Haralal introduced the gentleman to me though formal introduction was no longer necessary. Mr. Bardhan was a jail official who had been pensioned off: he did not like to be called retired, rather he regarded himself as re-tyred, that is to say, the motor was in perfect order, only the tyres had to be replaced. He had built a house on an acre of land in an open space about a mile off and with it, an agricultural farm and poultry. He kept himself occupied with farming and his geese and chickens.

“I am not merely occupied, I am keeping quite O. K.” Mr. Bardhan added, “But let that go. The subject you were discussing got stuck in my hair and was shunted halfway; please proceed with it now.”

“That was nothing important. Better tell us about yourself, of the many wonderful events in your life. They would be of use to my friend here.”

“Weren’t you saying something about independence?” Bardhan asked.

“That was the stock subject of these days” Haralal replied–“how everything seems to have changed after independence–now an old topic. But if you tell us what sort of change you have seen within your jail, we shall listen with interest. It would all be sholly new to us.”

Mr. Bardhan gave a little thought to the matter and said: “Change you mean? Yes, I have seen change sure enough. But that is of the commonplace sort you have seen even outside jail. You won’t get much of interest there. But just after independence one might say, as a result of it, I was in a considerable predicament. I can give you that story. Perhaps you won’t dislike it.”

I resettled myself and said, “Please begin.”

Haralal called the servant and ordered tea.

Mr. Bardhan said: “One of my introductions is unknown to you. In a manner I am of the same breed as Rabindranath Tagore, Lord Sinha and Jagadish Bose. They were all first Indians–one being a Noble Prize-winner, another a peer and the third an F. R. S.; so also I am the first Indian jailor of a Central Jail.”

“Is that so? But we did not know of it. Were the jailors there all Europeans?”

“Always. Yet the jailor’s boss–I mean the Superintendent–was often an Indian.”

“What was the reason?”

“The reason probably was that there were always in that jail some white prisoners. The post of Chief Executive Officer–meaning the jailor, had to be reserved for the whites so that the white prisoners, though prisoners, had not to be under the surveillance of any black man. There was a group of whites also among the wardens–meaning those who kept watch in the wards. These were called European Warders–and in colloquial language, sergeants. Their duties lay in the white ward.

“After August 15, 1947, the European jailors lost their seats of power. I joined and became one of the ‘First Indians.’ The sergeants were still there. The real Europeans among them–all from the British Army–gave no trouble. Whatever their inner thoughts, there was nothing in their outward conduct to make one think that they looked upon the Indian jailor in a light different from their previous white masters. There was no flaw in their performance of duty or in discipline.

“Only one man caused difficulties. His name was W. C. Jackson. The man was probably of mixed breed, though in appearance, and according to the records and his own statement, he was an unalloyed European. He was considerably senior among the warders. That he could not brook this black man imposed on him, became clear from many of his gestures and postures. However, no instances of open or distinct insubordination or opposition were available. It was all petty acts of meanness on his part–of the nature of what are in English called pin-pricks.

“The Superintendent at that time was an Irishman. So my position became just like that of mutton-sandwich. There was a white above; a white below and this black figure was in the middle. I had to watch my steps. An additional reason for so doing was that my posting at a position associated with sahibs and carrying a high salary, led a number of my friends to frequent the upper corridors at Writers’ Buildings, Thanks to them the top bosses particularly watched how I managed things. The white skin had not at all lost its prestige with the native Government, rather it had gained. Should I have failed to get on with the whites, the bosses would have put a stamp on me as ‘Tactless’ and despatched me straight to North Bengal.

“I had to proceed with much deliberation in order to stave off that calamity.

“The jail was entirely enclosed within a high wall and had only one gate. So it is surely unnecessary to narrate the importance of the gate. A sergeant had charge of gate-control. The seniors among the sergeants were given that charge. It was frequently Jackson’s turn. The jailor was also concerned in many ways with the business at the gate. That required Jackson to come once or twice everyday to my office.

“One day I had such an occasion to send for him. He tame at considerable delay for which there was no valid reason. He stood brushing against the table which was not usually done. He bent himself considerably forward and with movements of his hands and feet spoke to me in a manner suggesting that he was an officer of the same rank as I. He had shown an attitude of disdain also before but it had not been so marked as on that day when it was made almost plain pointedly before my eyes.

“I had come to know that Jackson’s behaviour with me had become a subject of discussion among the workers of the jail. Even the seniors among the prisoners were interested in the matter. I quite realized that the impression that was being created about me did me no credit and what was more important, it was fatal for jail discipline. Like the spinal chord in the body the jailor is the pivot of the jail administration. Should any weakness develop there somehow, the whole structure would get loose and unless put into gear in time, might even break down.

“You are doubtless aware that none among those who constitute our realm is a goody-goody fellow. I am not saying this only of those who are inmates–that’s to say, those we have kept confined within walls: the vast ranks of sepoys who live in the barracks outside cause us no less worry. A strong spinal chord is necessary even in regard to them.

But I would interrupt the tale to tell you something. You will have to tolerate a few English words interspersed with my speech. My command over the Bengali language is meagre. That does not, however, mean that I have much command over the English language either.”

“That’s well” I said “if you can command a mixed language, please get along with it. It won’t sound bad on a rainy night. So far as I have got to understand real Khichuri** too may turn up. I seem to be scenting it.”

“Is that so?” Haralal sniffed in an effort to get the smell, “but, no, I don’t get it. I knew that writers had a third eye, but have never heard it said that they have got a third nostril.”

“If you have not heard of it, please now see for yourself. If you have doubts, you may go inside and resolve them.”

“I think I also smell it” the gentleman raised his nose a little upwards and said in a pleased voice.

“So you have nothing to fear” I reassured him. “Please start.”

Mr. Bardhan returned to his story: “What was it I was speaking about? Oh, yes. I had to take the question of jail discipline particularly into consideration. I decided at once that it won’t be right to allow the man to go much further. On the day I was speaking of I interrupted him to say ‘Jackson,..’

‘Yes, Sir’ he replied

‘I have been told you were in the army.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘You must have had to learn drill there: wasn’t it so?’

‘Yes, of course. I had not only to learn it but to teach it for a number of years.’

‘But it seems you have forgotten the first lesson in drill–how to deport yourself before an officer.’

“I had begun the talk in an intimate tone as if I was having a tete-a-tete with him. But laterly my tone may have sounded different.

“Jackson was taken aback. For a few seconds he looked straight at me. Then he skipped back, stood to complete attention and said ‘I am so sorry.’

“The next few days passed off well. There was no flaw in Jackson’s deportment. His dress was neat and clean. His etiquette was completely O. K. But he avoided me so far as he could. He did not come into my presence except when needed. Then one day I had again to pull him up.

“The jailor has every morning to go within the jail just before the unlocking of the barracks and cells. It is the rule that after he takes the salute of the reserve force outside the gate, the gate sentry has to hold the big door open and as soon as the jailor goes in, the European Warders would salute him as per wont. Jackson was posted there that day. He had no helmet or cap on his head. It is not the custom to raise the hand over a bare head in salute. In that case one has only to stand to attention, raise the heels a little over the ground and resettle them. Possibly he did it. But he was on duty at the time and should have been in full uniform. There was no valid reason for him not to put on his head a helmet or at least a forage cap.

“I said nothing and went inside the jail. When I returned that way, I did not find him there. It was not expected of him to be always at the gate, he had also business with many people at the office. Not that many people had turned up at the time; yet he must have found an excuse to butt in somewhere.

“He was on gate-duty also the next day and was found in the same condition. He was in bare head, so there was no question of his raising his hand in salute. A few sepoy-jamadars used to accompany me on these rounds. It was not possible to say anything in their presence. So I had to keep silent this time too.

“About two hours later I came to the office, sent for the young clerk at the uniform store and said, ‘You have got helmets in your stock, I suppose?’

‘Yes, Sir, I have.’

‘Bring one.’

“He was a little surprised and wondered what I should do with a helmet. I asked him to hurry up.

“Immediately on receiving the helmet, I sent for Jackson and said ‘Just see if it fits you.’

“Two deputy jailors were waiting at the room and the clerk was of course there. They looked at one another. Jackson was also dumb-founded. He looked at me for sometime and said ‘But, Sir, I don’t need a helmet. I got one some days ago. Someone else must have wanted it.’

‘Nobody wanted it of me’ I said ‘I have found everybody has got it. But I have been noticing for the last two days that only you are bare-headed. That is a part of your uniform. You should put it on at least in the morning. What do you say to that?’

“The deputy-jailors were suppressing their smile. The clerk being a young chap, was probably unable to suppress his laughter and went and stood outside. But Jackson put on a grave face and stood silent, I was putting my signature on something with my head bowed down. As I looked up a little, I found his red face had turned redder.

‘Well, you may go now’ I said, ‘It’s a matter of much regret that a senior warder that you are, you should have to be reminded of such petty things.’

I used the word ‘Warder’ intentionally. I knew that though ‘European Warder’ was their official designation, they did not like it. For, even an ordinary sepoy was a warder.

“Jackson bade a retreat. He did not try to raise his head again. My Indian staff was mightily pleased. But I had a lurking suspicion that it would not be easy for him to take retreat easily nor would he easily forget the pinch of it.

“One day two months later the Superintendent called me to his office, handed over to me a completely sealed envelope which had been just opened, and said ‘Here’s something for you’.

“There was no one else in the room. The Superintendent said ‘Please be seated. You will take time to read it.’

“I took out the thing within the envelope and read it. It was an anonymous petition ostensibly addressed by a prisoner. It had been sent to the Inspector-General of Prisons, the head of the Prison Department. It was from top to bottom an indictment against me. The new jailor, it said, was committing unspeakable atrocities on the luckless prisoners. Their quota of food had been reduced, the food supplied was inedible. The little concessions they had been enjoying so long, had mostly been withdrawn. There was no way to complain to the Super. The jailor had threatened that in case they complained, none would ever be in a position to return home. In former days there had been no question of anybody being beaten. Now the baton was used off and on. The jail was full of corruption. Those who could spend money knew no end of happiness. They had not to bother about doing labour. They ate, relaxed and roamed about. All they had to do was to give the jailor some money in the beginning of the month. The jailor had a number of henchmen among the sepoys. They obtained letters from the rich prisoners, visited their homes and procured money. The sergeants had by searching the sepoy at the gate got hold of two or three such letters from within their uniforms. They had reported the matter to the jailor but it had all been hushed up, never reached the Burra Sahib.

“It was a compact, full two-page complaint. There were some grammatical mistakes but the typing was flawless.

“Not merely some vague allegations; what would be called a specific instance with the name and address of the man concerned all thrown in, had been cited towards the end of the plaint.

“A few months ago a Nawab from U. P. who had no longer a guddee had come to jail to serve a ten-year term. It had been an affair concerning a woman. One of his Begums was a Bengali and of the modern type. So there was nothing surprising about that the Nawab had a special fascination for her with the result that she had been given written possession of a house in Calcutta’s British quarter, a new-model Buick car and quite a flock of male and female servants. The Nawab used frequently to come and pass a number of days there.

“The young lady was beautiful, hence she had no lack of admirers. It was quite possible her relation with one or two among them was rather intimate. What was usual in such circumstances, happened. Details of the circumstances in which somebody came to be noticed by the Nawab or who that somebody was, are not known to me. This much I remember that the Nawab sought to finish both of them, he did even fire two bullets from his revolver. One having missed, the Begum was saved but her admirer was not. Though he did not immediately succumb, he went to hospital never to return.

“The Sessions Court sent this Nawab to jail as Division One prisoner. But the final power in this regard did not lie with the Court. That lay within the jurisdiction of the Government. We had to follow the Court’s orders so long as the final decision was not communicated by the Home Department. It was thus that the Nawab was enjoying the amenities of a Division One prisoner.

“The anonymous petition had mentioned the case and said that it was reliably learnt that Government order had been received to the effect that the Nawab had been demoted to Division Two. The jailor had concealed the letter somewhere. The Nawab was still in Division One. His men bad rewarded the jailor alone with one thousand rupees. The satellites of the jailor had also got sizeable rewards.

“The concluding lines of the petition were a prayer on behalf of the poor prisoner that the Inspector-General should himself inquire into the matter and take appropriate measures.

“The I. G. had, as a matter of course, placed the burden of inquiry on the Superintendent and called for a report on all the complaints made in the petition as early as possible.

“The Super Sahib was smoking a pipe. As I finished reading the plaint and looked at him, he said: ‘Are you aware of any order regarding that fellow, the Nawab, having come?’

‘None, so far as I know. Any such order would have caught my notice. The Admission Branch would also have been sure to inform me.’

‘I also look into the mail everyday. I particularly glance through the letters from the Head Office. I quite remember that man. I would certainly have noticed any order concerning him. However, please make a thorough enquiry at the Office.’

“Enquiries at the office elicited no definite information from anybody. Two or three sergeants took turns at gate duty; the mails were brought from the head office by a bearer; the sergeants took charge of them. Then they entered them in a book and delivered them to the mail-Babu. Only the numbers stated on the top of the letters were mentioned in the book. The mail-Babu’s work lay in ascertaining if the record tallied with the original and signing it by way of acknowledgment. Ordinarily he put all the numbers within a single bracket and appended his signature by its side.

“I sent separately for all the sergeants that were there and demanded to know if they had duly received any letter regarding the Nawab. They all gave the same reply–that they had no time to read the letters, they only saw to it that the numbers were correctly entered. The mail-Babu had, as a matter of course, to read all the letters, enter receipt in the register and deliver them to the different branches or departments as according to the subjects they dealt with. He was called and said he had received no order of the kind mentioned. The Admission Branch held charge of classification of prisoners. No letter of the kind mentioned could be traced there.

“Then we approached the Head Office. We sought to know if they had sent within the past two months any Government Order concerning Division One convict Nawab Riazuddin Khan. The reply came a few days later. It was that such an order had been sent to jail on such and such date. The number of the letter, a copy of it and the peon-book in which it had been entered, were all procured and showed that the Government had really ordered the Nawab to be placed in Division Two, the order had reached the jail about a month and half ago and had been received, with the usual signature, by W. C. Jackson.

“I bit my lips, and though the man was at last within our grasp when he came in, gave a long salute, placed before me the record-book in which entries were made before dispatch to the mail-Babu, retreated two steps and stood at attention. ‘what’s the matter?’ I demanded.

He replied politely, ‘Kindly look once into the entries on the 13th.’

‘Please look and, you will understand.’

“I looked and saw that particular number distinctly entered between other numbers. Had it appeared at the top or the end, after entry could have been suspected but there was now no room for such suspicion. The number was placed well in the middle of the list. There was no difference in it from the numbers serially arranged on its two sides. A large second bracket enclosed the whole list from the right and by its side was the mail-Babu’s signature:

B. C. Pyne.

“Nobody could probably say what the letters B. C. originally meant: Bipin Chandra or Bhabani Charan. That’s to say, the name given by Pyne’s parents had been almost obliterated. It was not known from what man of humour the name bandied about by the people at the jail had first emitted but no name could have been more suitable. The word had a rustic flavour about it yet nothing need stop giving it out. It was Bok Chunder meaning the Unintelligent Chap.

“A long time had since passed. Pyne was nearly fifty. But he had well maintained the dignity of his name.

“B.C.’s bosses might or might not have been pleased with him but he was favoured with an increasing number of children. So he was always pressed upon by his office and his family. We were also embarrassed with him.

Pyne used to come before everybody else and was the last to leave. He was all the while bent over his work. He always dittoed what others said and did not concern himself with others’affairs. Whatever one might say to him, he was silent. The whole office seemed irritated with him and wanted to boss over him. But everybody in his heart of hearts loved Bok Chunder. Everybody, old or young, seemed to have a soft corner for Pyne.

“I kept the record-book and dismissed Jackson.”

“The mail-Babu was called. The whole office burst with him into my room.”

‘You have noticed the number, haven’t you?’ I said.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Have you got the letter of that number?’

‘No, Sir. I have been searching it for the last two days, these my colleagues have also joined the search.’

‘But this signature is yours, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘So then?’

“There was no answer. I made myself more clear: ‘Then I must assume you received the letter. What do you say to that?’

‘Yes, it’s so as I have signed it.’ The Senior Deputy Jailor flared up: ‘Did you look well into the letters and see they tallied with the numbers or did you only suppose they did?’

“There was no reply to this question either. Somebody from behind gushed his teeth and muttered the name given to Pyne at the jail.

“I gave Pyne two days’ time. If he could not produce the letter within that period, he would be produced before the Burra Sahib and there was no doubt about that he would order that a written explanation should be called for.

“To lose a letter would be an ordinary fault but this was not. In this case as the result of non-receipt of a very urgent and serious Government order in time, a prisoner of influence had enjoyed privileges and special amenities which had no Government sanction; this had a financial side as well, the loss incurred by the Government had also to be taken into consideration. Along with that it might also be asked if the order had been, with a dishonest motive, removed or destroyed in collusion with the prisoner or his family members.

“I had also to make a little speech to explain how serious the matter was. But it did not seem Pyne had realized anything. All he did was to stare blankly at me.

“What had been feared, did happen. The Super, ordered Pyne’s suspension. In his letter of explanation he had said or been made by others to say that he had not actually received the letter, but had in good faith, that’s to say, out of confidence in a dependable colleague like the gate-sergeant, signed the list even without satisfying himself that the numbers tallied with the letters received. The Super, did not believe this plea or if he did know it to be true, had not accepted it as a satisfactory explanation. He had framed the charge sheet himself. It mentioned dishonesty along with negligence of official duty and all that. It seemed he had not been wholly uninfluenced by the anonymous petition.

“Whoever might be behind that unsigned petition, has the object of harassing me. But as circumstances would have it, the entire blow fell upon the mail-Babu. He broke down completely. I received information that his big family was already wailing and going almost without food.

“There was suppressed discontent in the whole office. Everybody there believed that whatever else he might do, “Bok Chunder” was incapable of taking a bribe. Even if he was willing to accept it, he won’t be bold enough to do it. He had not received the letter, or perhaps someone had removed it from his table and then made a bargain over it with the Nawab. Jackson was quite capable of such action. Perhaps he had stolen away the order and had only registered the number with “Bok Chunder’s” department.

“I was being pressed to convince the Sahib that all that Pyne had been guilty of, was negligence, he had signed the list without satisfying himself that all the letters were there. He might be appropriately punished for that but dishonest he was not.

How could I convince them that the Sahib had declined to keep my request? An anonymous letter had crept and confused the whole thing. A serious fault had been detected at his office. He had to save his face with the higher-ups. Possibly he was thinking of something else as well. The mud thrown at his jailor had besmeared his administration to some extent. To purge it of this humiliation some one had to be sacrificed. If that man had offered his neck for the purpose, he could not help.

“What could I do either! Pyne used sometimes to come and stand near me. That was all he could do. He said nothing, only kept standing. The very sight of him reminded me of the anonymous letter which could not be mentioned to anybody. Every syllable of it was false, yet I felt I could not face this man straightaway. I felt very small. It seemed he was paying for my guilt. He is only a scape-goat.

“The stage had been almost set for sacrificing B. C. Pyne when something surprising happened, –of the kind you call dramatic.

“It was nearly ten at night. I was glancing through the newspaper once again before going to bed when the orderly came and said that a Memsahib wanted to see me.

‘Memsahib ! So late at night! What does she want?’

‘Something very urgent, she says.’

“I entered the sitting room and found a girl seated in a chair on the other side somewhat stooping forward and looking downwards. She had English clothes on. She rested her right elbow on the arm of the chair and her cheek on her clenched fist. She seemed to be intensely thinking of something. She did not hear the flapping of my slippers. I emitted a little noise from the throat and she gave a start. She stood up immediately and said ‘Good evening. I am disturbing you at a very odd hour. But I had no option.’

“Her voice showed that she was still much agitated, there was considerable restlessness within her. I asked her to move ahead and sit on the front sofa and myself sat on the coach opposite.

“The girl was of young age, probably a, little above twenty-five. Her face was calm and gentle but very pale and haggard. Her colour also seemed very much white. I raised my face to hear what she had to say. She had a bag in her hands, not a vanity bag but an attache case. She opened it, placed a long envelope on the table in front of me and said ‘It is to reach you this that I have come. I have had to take recourse to late at night because the matter is very confidential.’

‘What’s it?’

‘Kindly go through it. You will then readily understand.’

“The envelope was open. A foolscap sheet came out of it, hand-written from start to finish. A glance through it was enough to make me start up. How is this! It is the anonymous petition, sure enough. The handwriting was also known to me.

“I stopped reading, faced her and said, ‘But who are you?’

‘I am Mrs. Jackson.’

“She spoke in a quiet, steady voice. The restlessness noticed a little while ago was gone.

“At that particular moment words failed me. Perhaps she noticed in me that bewildered feeling and so said, ‘You wonder why a wife should do something that will spell ruin for her husband. I have come to know that a poor clerk like I am, has got involved in this matter. He has been suspended and will probably lose his job. His wife and children will starve. But he is absolutely innocent. I thought I should stand by him in what is a dire calamity for him.’

“Jackson did not live in jail quarters. He had rented lodgings somewhere outside, the rent being paid by the Government. I had been told that whatever he himself might be, his wife was a pure Englishwoman. Only He who knows my inmost mind could say why the point struck my mind on that occasion. Not only did it arise in my mind: an irrelevant question also escaped my lips: ‘Please don’t mind, are you English or Anglo-Indian?’

“The girl seemed ashamed and also a little sad. She cast her eyes down and said, ‘I am not English. There might be something Anglo-Indian about me; in my name or these clothes. One or two drops of English blood could perhaps have been traced in the body of some of my remote ancestors. All the same I am an Indian and shall expect you to look upon me as such.’

‘Please excuse me’ I said in a slightly embarassed tone. “I asked that question as a matter of course, not thinking of anything much that there might be to it.”

‘No, no, you are not to blame at all. Until only the other day we clung with our lives to that word ‘Anglo.’ We thought that though not fully of the king’s race, we were of their stock, their kinsmen, howsoever distant the relation might be; we were different from Indians. Now that they have wound up their reign and left, we have realized that ours was merely a hallucination, an illusion. Really I am no different from your mail-Babu.’

“I returned to the matter she had really come about: ‘Does Jackson know you have come to deliver to me this paper?’

‘No, he is on night duty today. Perhaps he is now at the gate. I had to come in secret.’

‘But know he will. And then?’

‘I am ready for whatever happens. I have left my boy with my mother. I fear for him, don’t bother about myself.’

‘The boy is...’

‘Yes, he is my child by my first husband. I married my present husband after his death. You know, it was I who typed that paper. I did not at first agree to do it. He threatened that unless I did it, he would spirit away my boy. Then I was obliged to do it, merely for the boy’s sake...’

“There she stopped. Tears flowed down her two eyes.

‘Please think over it yet, Mrs. Jackson, whether it would be right for you to invite so much danger upon yourself in the present circumstances.’

‘I have given full thought to it, Mr. Jailor. I made up my mind and so have come to you. Only please give me word that you would anyhow save that innocent man.’

‘It does not seem after this he would have any trouble. But your husband may lose his job.’

‘How could I help that?’

“She said this in a mild tone and got up. I accompanied her to the top of the staircase and saw her, as I stood there, look this side and that and disappear with quick steps into the fog- ridden darkness of night.”

* Banaphul is the pen-name of Dr. Balai Mukherjee, a well-known writer of novels and short stories.

** A compound of rice, split pulse, spices and ghee.

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