A Burning(62)

Sometimes they go overboard. One private university offered him and his wife a week at a bungalow in Singapore, all expenses paid. He thought about it more than he would have liked to. Then he declined.

Nobody can say that PT Sir is not an ethical man.



* * *



*

IN THE FIELD CLOSE to the railway station, where PT Sir, then an ordinary teacher, first saw Katie Banerjee and Bimala Pal, a thousand men wait once more. They fill the field, its boundaries marked by lights which make day of the arriving dusk. Under the lights, unruly rows of ice-cream carts wander, no doubt announcing orange ices and cups of vanilla. PT Sir is too far away to hear. He is also too far to see the distant protesters, though he has been informed that they are there, university students who hold banners that say Justice for Jivan.

PT Sir stands high above the crowd, on the stage, before a microphone. He joins his hands and continues with his speech. “Soon after the people called for the terrorist to be brought to court,” he says, “for the case to be swiftly resolved, look at how your ruling party handled it! Have you ever seen a government so attentive to the will of the people? Have you ever seen a government which demands that the courts move with speed?”

On he goes.

Among the frowning men in the crowd, some looking his way, others distracted by a pen of TV cameras off to the side, a woman stands, looking at PT Sir. She pays no attention to the man with the basket of chips who makes his way through the people. She pays no attention to a man with arms folded who digs his elbow in her side. When a breeze picks up, it fails to cause a ripple in her dupatta, the one she was not allowed to keep for modesty.

    PT Sir knows who she is. Isn’t she the ghost who begs him for mercy? Isn’t she the ghost who searches the gaze of her teacher, hoping that he might offer rescue? Maybe that is why they had the white curtain up at the court—not so that Jivan could not influence his testimony, but so that he would not have to face her.

PT Sir’s mouth speaks, while his eyes remain locked on hers.

“The vanquishing of good over evil is a signal! It is a signal of a party that listens to the public. It is a signal of a party that does what it promises!”

The crowd roars. They whistle and laugh. They wave flags raised high. One man is lifted onto another’s shoulders, and a few TV cameras turn to capture this.

PT Sir surveys the crowd, his lips pulled into a smile, and when he looks for her once more, he cannot find her. The dust of the field tickles his throat, and PT Sir makes a fist before his mouth, takes a step back from the microphone, and coughs. From a bottle on the floor, he takes a sip of cold water. The irritation is gone.

When he speaks once more, his voice finds courage, and he finds courage too. Look at the rapt crowd. Look at the public, gathered before him, drinking in his words while he stands where Bimala Pal stood not so long ago.

By the end of the speech, he feels barely anchored to the stage by his hands on the microphone, his whole self charged as if by the wind in the field and the electricity in the wires. When the crowd disperses, they fill buses where they hang from open doorways, and return to homes where the pride of the year is a new refrigerator. They will bend in fields, earning two rupees for crops that will sell in the city for forty, and stand by roadsides hawking stacks of dinnerware which will chip at first wash. They will watch, wide-eyed, the one movie that plays in the theater on their half day off from carpentry or construction or cleaning bathrooms, while PT Sir, in the government office’s special elevator, moves upward.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book would not be in your hands without the tireless work and faith of Eric Simonoff and Jordan Pavlin. It has been a dream and an honor to have their creativity, their brilliance, and their generous hearts touch and transform this book. Immense gratitude also to magnificent Gabrielle Brooks, who took on this book and championed it in a way that has left me marveling.

My warmest thanks and admiration to the intimidatingly on-top-of-everything, smart people who have assisted them and given time and thought to this book: Jessica Spitz, Taylor Rondestvedt, Nicholas Thomson, and Demetris Papadimitropoulos.

I hope Sonny Mehta knew what it meant to me to receive his blessings. I treasure his memory.

I’m in awe of icons Ruth Liebmann, Paul Bogaards, Nicholas Latimer, and Emily Murphy for their advocacy, endless behind-the-scenes work, and for bringing such care to this book. A thousand thanks wouldn’t be enough.

Gratitude to Kim Shannon for guiding me expertly and good-naturedly through my first galley signing.

Gratitude to Tyler Comrie for designing a gorgeous cover.

    I know that a book comes into being because of the astute reads, creativity, and hard work of many, many people. My gratitude to the teams at WME, especially Fiona Baird, Laura Bonner, and Lauren Rogoff, and at Knopf, especially Ellen Feldman and Lara Phan. Thank you.

Warmest gratitude to my colleagues and mentors at Catapult, especially visionaries Andy Hunter, Pat Strachan, Jonathan Lee, and Nicole Chung, who have created a workplace full of trust and creativity, a workplace that cheers on writers, poets, and artists. Thank you for your extraordinary support.

Gratitude to guiding lights Katie Raissian, Mark Krotov, Alane Mason, James Meader, and Peter Joseph for including me in the literary community and lifting me—and many others—up.

Countless thanks to my teachers, especially Amy Hempel, Lynn Steger Strong, Colum McCann, Peter Carey, Nathan Englander, Veena Das, and Anand Pandian in the United States, and to all at Ashok Hall in Kolkata, especially Jharna Ganguli, Chaitali Sen, Mamta Chopra, and Sangeeta Banerjee.