Читать книгу The Least of These - Andrew E Matthews - Страница 5

My dear, dedicated and cherished wife.

She was resting on our few belongings in the shade of a bus station building, her red saree like a chaulai, the only flower in a forgotten garden, a single spill of colour in the dry and dusty surroundings.

I approached from behind her, carrying two small symbols of extravagance, tiny gifts of celebration, or perhaps guilt offerings. I recall my insides tightened as she adjusted her position uncomfortably, one hand on her stomach, the other leaning heavily on the suitcase alongside her.

But I could envisage no alternative to our predicament. The promised garden of abundance was but a few straggly plants, the fruit of which was uncertain at best. How could I reveal the true gravity of our situation without causing distress?

No, I had to find the evidence Mishra wanted, that was all. I had to produce the material that would secure the job. Shanti did not need to know; it was kinder to leave her at peace than to burden her with my mistakes.

Forcing fear from me, focusing on what was needed, to provide a sense of hope and security, I stepped up quietly behind her, and slipped the small tray with its meagre offerings in front of her.

"Sweetmeats for the lady."

She did not disappoint; she never did. Her face laughing with delight, hands clasped together, she bestowed on me her treasured look of love and faith before tenderly reaching for the first of the sweets, holding it delicately, carefully, as if it were a far greater gift, a much more magnificent endowment than a mere morsel of food.

After the first tantalising taste had satisfied the baby's longing of sweet things, her eyes moved back to mine, without hint of fear or reprimand.

"Well?" she asked.

I pulled the camera from behind my back where it hung in its black case, letting her believe what she wanted, the camera providing a suitable alibi - I didn't need to say anything.

Her face beamed back at me and her hand closed on mine. Now she could savour her sweet in complete contentment.

"It's not much," I warned.

"It's a job."

I avoided her eyes, ostensibly looking at the bus signs.

"We're going to the town of Baripada. Not too far - a bus ride."

I didn't tell her it was a three hour ride on an over-crowded old bus with uncomfortable seating. It was hardly the moment to dump reality on her. That came soon enough.

The ride itself was uneventful. Uncomfortable for Shanti, uncomplaining as always, whereas for me it was a mixture of emotions - concern for Shanti, frustration with my shortcomings, excitement at the possibilities.

I confess the dominant feeling was excitement. The confidence and faith I had in my own abilities, misplaced of course, were re-asserting their rule over my general outlook. I knew I could do this. I had no reason to doubt that I would find the evidence Mishra was looking for - I had no experience to suggest otherwise. So, with the confidence of youth, I felt that it was only a matter of time, and a short time at that, before my position at the newspaper would be confirmed and Shanti's assumption would become reality.

I enjoyed the journey, infinitely more than the subsequent journeys I had to take on that same route, but I will come to some of those.

This one filled me with an immense sense of purpose. As I watched the land fade and disappear under the smoky haze into which we were travelling, the land cut into the myriad shapes of the drying paddies like a patchwork of garden beds, littered with mounds of cut rice, the odd pair of skinny bullocks pulling large-wheeled trays heaped high with the collected mounds, my spirit swelled with a sense of mission, a desire to protect and champion the rural way of life that was being eroded, a way of life I romantically thought close to the ideal.

In fact I had little idea of what that life was really like.

But as I watched the rice-paddied landscape, randomly ripped through by small waterways and inevitably interrupted by villages, congregations of the people who work and live off the land, I grew in my conviction that their traditions needed protecting against destructive western influences, the front line of which was represented by the Christian missionaries, one of whom I was to investigate and expose.

But how exactly did we come to be on a bus to Baripada?

I had recently completed my studies in Journalism and it was my desire for paid journalism work, mostly, that had brought me to Orissa. Earlier, while Shanti had waited at the bus station, I had been sitting in the office of one Roshan Mishra, a newspaper editor.

He was a round little man. I don't mean that in an insulting way; he just was. He was also critically important to me. I sat in his office, separated from him by an ocean- sized desk, varnished with a dark stain, the desk inundated with waves of papers.

I waited as calmly as I could while he looked again at my portfolio of articles and viewed recent photos I had taken of a clash between Hindu and Christian believers. The Christians had gathered in the centre of the village before marching to their church, singing and proselytizing. The offence was met by resistance. By the time they reached their church, men had gathered.

I had waited, hoping, as all journalists do.

And I was rewarded. The Christians tried to push through the group and a clash ensued. I got some good photos. Until they started beating the kids as well. I know a journalist is supposed to be impartial and simply observe, but the kids... perhaps something in my background, perhaps some innate personality twist - something in me baulks at blaming children for their parents’ folly. I tried to stop the men. I had a sore head for days afterwards.

I also had sore emotions. The fools. I ask you - how did they think photos of them beating children was going to help their cause? And then beating the journalist who was helping them? If I had already been a paid journalist my writing would have punished them the very next day. As it was, I had time to calm down and realise that my hurt had to give way to the cause, especially the cause of securing a paid position.

I already had some good photos to support that cause and these were now spread across the desk, floating on the waves of paper, all my hope contained in Mishra's eyes as they darted between photos, his fat little hands - I mean no disrespect - snatching photos from the fleet and sliding them upside down into a pile at the point where his belly met the desk, apparently unsalvageable for the anticipated article.

I needed this job, badly. Competition for this kind of work is stiff in India - it's probably the same anywhere in the world. One needs family connections and money to keep you going while you build your portfolio and reputation. I had neither.

To be honest, I was taking the greatest risk of my life. We desperately needed money now. Our supply had run out, but rather than seek menial employment I had risked everything on Roshan Mishra coming through with the job he had promised in his letter.

'Promised' is perhaps too strong as the wording was vague, but that's what I told Shanti. He was certainly interested in employing me and had invited me to an interview, which he implied, was a mere formality. After all, I did have certain advantages. The newspaper he ran was state-based, but a large regional paper, printed in the Oriya language. Big enough to be a great start for a young journalist like myself. I had grown up with Oriya as a second language and good writing is good writing. I was proficient enough to reduce the competition in this region.

So there I was, having spent almost the last of our supply to get there, trying not to fidget or let on just how desperate I was. In India one needs bargaining power, and when bargaining, desperation is deadly. I was very conscious of my hands - I was all but sitting on them to keep them still. Be calm!

All the while the other hands, the god-like hands, with apparent arbitrary apathy snatched photos from the ocean desk. Would there be any left, I wondered?

The hands stilled above the few remaining scraps of hope, a stop in the storm. He looked up from the photos to me. I smiled, pretending confidence. His face was inscrutable, but I held my nerve... well, no, maybe not. The false smile was probably fastened to my face, revealing all.

The hands descended from the heavens once more, swooping up one of the last remaining... he flipped the photo around for me to see.

"This one."

My heart leapt. I think I held my breath, not sure whether he was asking a question or maybe, just maybe, thinking of actually using it and printing a story!

The photo was of a moment at the beginning of the clash where a man had grabbed the stick of his opponent with both hands and a struggle had followed. You couldn't tell who the attacker was.

"Christians defy Council ban," he stated.

And then, unbelievably, I lost my focus. Clearly he was implying that he could use the photo and I would write the article - I should have complimented him on a good choice and offered to write the article immediately, irrespective. Instead I sat with that foolish grin on my face, nodding my head, but at a complete loss as to how I would write such an article.

You see, in my panic I could not make the connection between the facts, being Christmas day and the Christians going to church, and the story about a Council ban that Mishra was apparently asking me to write.

They obviously did a better job of training me at Journalism School than I thought: 'objective journalist' was the catch cry.

"Well?" Mishra asked.

"Yes Sir," I answered pathetically. "How do you suggest I bring the Council ban in, Sir?

He was impatient.

"They were in a group?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then they were marching without Council permission. That is enough. The violence that erupted was a direct result of this defiant action of theirs."

He spoke fast, watching me closely as he continued. I tried to look impressed at his logic as well as amused at how I could not have made such a logical connection myself. I am smart enough to know he was watching for body language, trying to come to a decision, perhaps even reconsidering a decision he had previously made.

My awareness that I had made a foolish mistake, that I had sailed my little boat called Hope straight back into the storm, did not help my confidence.

"We have a duty, as journalists," he continued, "to inform the public of what is really going on. What we see is not everything."

I was fully attentive now - the obedient student, in full agreement. I had to at least try to turn the impression of foolishness I had created.

"We have to delve," he continued, warming to his cause, "uncover the real motives behind the actions. American and European missionaries come over here, fly into a poor area in a helicopter, make great promises to the illiterate untouchables, promising gifts if they convert. And what does a conversion cost them?"

"Twelve dollars."

He nodded, I think a little pleased that I knew.

"Twelve dollars. And when they go back to America, having washed their hands with disinfectant, they tell their people they had thousands of converts. And the people are so impressed they give them money, hundreds, thousands for each conversion. It's very good business."

He paused, turning to the window now and staring out over the sea of building block houses typical of Indian cities, as if he could see past them to the vast array of scattered humanity beyond, the rural villages of India.

"But here, back in the village, confusion. The new converts insult their neighbours. They no longer observe the age-old traditions, the festivals, the sacrifices. The people fear as a result that the land will not deliver its food or the rains won't come. Families are split apart. Societal disintegration."

I waited for him to turn, but he remained staring out into the distance. I didn't want to let the opportunity pass, so I spoke.

"I'm very much in agreement, Sir."

He turned back to the desk.

"The law states that no person shall convert another by force, allurement or fraudulent means."

He planted his finger onto one of my photos.

"Some of these people, for sure. And why? We don't need more religion in India. We have plenty religion", he said, rolling his eyes but also glancing towards his incense holder and the image of a deity on the bookshelf. "Is it just business? There are other ways to make money."

I saw my opportunity. This was an area in which I felt some confidence. I leaned forward in my seat eagerly, matching the passion in his voice.

"The missionaries are the forerunners of capitalism, Sir. They target the poor and the illiterate. They promise wealth and then come the jobs in factories - cheap labour for producing consumer goods for the West. Or for those who can read, call centres. I've written about it. It's in my portfolio, Sir. The missionaries are used to prepare the way for the spread of western imperialism and the further enrichment of the West."

I began to feel hopeful again. Mishra's head was nodding gently.

"And we need to prevent that from happening here," he said slowly. "I like your work, Banerjee, very much"

Oh, how my emotions rolled, but Roshan Mishra was no fool. He had not achieved his position through family connections, but sheer hard work and smart decisions. He was not about to take any risks for my sake.

"I'll be very happy to consider you for a permanent position."

It took a moment for the realisation to sink in, and the disappointment. I was still freelance with no assurance of income. I tried to think how to persuade him, how to react, but the acute disappointment and my desperation overwhelmed my senses as Mishra continued, easing himself back into his comfortable and large office chair.

"I suggest you locate yourself in the town of Baripada. There's opportunity, along the lines we've been talking about. A foreign missionary resides there...

I then made the second mistake of that interview, sailing back against the wind, interrupting him and confirming for Mishra that he had made the right decision.

"Sir, I came all this way, with my wife, on the basis of your letter." I even waved his letter at him.

"Oh, recently married?"

I was immediately on my guard. I nodded; he pretended passing interest, but it was more than that.

"She must be young."

I smiled, not committing either way.

"And beautiful, of course."

Again, I smiled. My senses were on high alert. I would not be drawn on the subject of my wife - Mishra did not need to know anything about her, even if it was only polite interest. He let it pass and returned to the subject of my employment.

"And as I said in my letter, we need someone of your calibre. But it'll be freelance for a few months at least."

"Freelance doesn't guarantee any income, Sir. I will not disappoint you. I came to Orissa for this position."

"And I need to justify your employment to my superiors. You are young. Inexperienced."

He was not just talking about me as a journalist. I controlled my disappointment, finally. Mishra seemed to relent, or perhaps he saw an opening.

"Listen to me. Baripada offers opportunity. We are planning to open an office there, just as soon as we can..." he paused, choosing his word, "acquire the right land to build on. That will mean possible promotion."

Now I was listening. He continued, lowering his voice for emphasis.

"The missionary I just mentioned - he's been there a long time. He's hard to pin down, that one. You bring me evidence of his illegal conversions and you will have your permanent position. I'll even loan you a decent camera."

He lifted that impressive looking camera, the one that now hung around my neck, from a drawer in his desk, holding it up like a trophy ready for the taking.

"Well?"

"If there's evidence, I'll find it, Sir."

"Then soon you'll be on permanent staff."

And so it was that we found ourselves on the bus to Baripada.

I was itching to start digging for dirt, to find the evidence that would secure me the coveted employment and make me a journalist whose articles leapt to the front page, but one has to eat and sleep and so does one's wife.

First we needed lodging and were fortunate to find a two- roomed, mud-brick home with a roof in need of new thatching, a remnant of a village that had been subsumed by Baripada's growth. The dusty path leading to the front door would be mud in the rainy season, and the roof would leak, but I planned to have moved well before then. All I needed was evidence of an illegal conversion; how hard could that be?

As it happened, I did not have to wait long to encounter the missionary who, I believed, was to provide the soil out of which my future would grow.