The conversation starts with talk of Bimala, as usual. ‘How is she coming along, Miss Gilby?’ he asks.
‘Wonderfully, just wonderfully, I must say,’ she answers, throwing a smile in his direction. ‘We’re in the middle of learning a song — Long, long ago it’s called. Perhaps you know it, Mr Roy Chowdhury?’
‘Yes, I do. Bimala seems to hum nothing but English airs nowadays. Whatever it is she might be doing — folding clothes, cooking, arranging flowers, sitting with me while I eat — there is an English tune on her lips.’ He chuckles gently.
Miss Gilby’s smile broadens. ‘Well, we are a success then, what do you think?’
‘Oh, an extraordinary success. She’s so much more confident now, so much more, more — what’s the word? — outgoing, I think, if that’s not too literal or punning. Did you know that Bimala’s naw jaa refuses to go to sleep nowadays unless Bimala reads out to her from one of her English books?’
‘Really?’ Miss Gilby is very surprised.
‘Yes, that’s the exact specification — a story from an English book. Bimala reads out every sentence in English — that’s part of the order, too — and then translates it for her. It seems to have become a daily ritual.’
Miss Gilby laughs with sheer pleasure at this achievement.
‘It’s just as well that Bimala has someone to talk to these days: I’ve been occupied with so many things that I’ve hardly had the time to sit and have leisurely conversations with her.’
‘I have noticed there are some demands on your time of late. I’ve been wondering about all these meetings and this crowd of gentlemen who are around the house of evenings. Do they have anything to do with what I’ve been reading about in Dawn?’
He remains quiet for a while, then lets out a sigh before saying, ‘Well, Miss Gilby, it’s a long story and I do not know how acquainted you are with recent political developments. I’m afraid I would just bore you to tears if I launched into it.’
‘On the contrary, Mr Roy Chowdhury, I shall be very glad to be enlightened. As it is, I feel somewhat in the dark, left out of great happenings.’
‘There are no great happenings. Just a gathering of Bengali men very concerned with the destruction of our industries, our country’s steady downward spiral into poverty. We’re trying to work out ways and means to address the issues and do something about them.’
‘Are government policies to blame for some of these ills?’ Miss Gilby wants it straight from the horse’s mouth.
‘I’m not going to lie to you or beat around the bush, Miss Gilby. You must know about things such as the abolition of cotton import duties more than twenty years ago, or the imposition of the countervailing excise fifteen years later. It seems that our country has become just a supplier of raw materials to Europe. We grow cotton, or silk, it’s all shipped to England to be made into cloth, and this cloth, grown by us, on our soil, is sold back to us. Who does it benefit? Who makes the money? We have become a huge market for Europe. What is effectively erased is the need for industries in this country. Our production, our manufacturing, our sectors are all being wiped out. But it is our produce that powers British export.’ He pauses for a while. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Gilby.’
She is silent, sensing that he hasn’t quite finished. If she hadn’t read about it beforehand, she would have been very shocked.
‘Do you know British traders are buying increasing quantities of foodgrains and agricultural raw materials for export? This is forcing up prices and causing periodic famines.’ There is another long pause. They take a turn at a narrow mud track running past a field of unidentifiable vegetation, thick, lush, and somewhat menacing. The track leads to the village: Miss Gilby can see the straggle of huts, the minarets of the small mosque and the market square, which is nothing now, now that there are no traders or farmers selling their wares here, but just a clearing, empty, deserted.
‘What is the solution, Mr Roy Chowdhury? Am I wrong in thinking that the changes you want, the establishment and flourishing of science-industries in Bengal — and all this I gather from my very recent and, I’m sure, very rudimentary and incomplete reading — this beginning of technical education, the revival of traditional and indigenous crafts, all of this huge venture, is impossible without some radical political changes?’ She’s not going to bring herself to utter the momentous word.
‘You’re right, Miss Gilby.’ He pauses again. Something in the air between them tells Miss Gilby that he is going to say the unsayable.
He does. ‘All this could really be a preparation for the larger agitation for an independent India.’
There, it is out in the open now, Miss Gilby thinks, relieved and concerned at the same time. There is a loose group of five or six men walking towards them. One of them is carrying a large basket on his head and another, two ploughshares. There is an enormous coil, like a rolled up garden hose, of what Miss Gilby used to think was water-lily stem in another man’s hands. She now knows it is an edible aquatic plant called shaapla, which bears beautiful pink flowers. The men look scantily dressed to Miss Gilby. This is one thing about India she has never come to terms with, this sparsity of attire of its people, the general and constant sense of dirtiness of the little they wear, as if those were the only articles of clothing they had and washing them would mean having to go unclad for the duration of washing and drying. The men’s clothes look threadbare and soiled even from this distance. They are probably poor farmers.
Mr Roy Chowdhury obviously knows them for he gets off his horse with an ‘Excuse me, Miss Gilby, these are some of my tenants. Do you mind if I have a word or two with them? You can carry on ahead if you wish.’
He dismounts as Miss Gilby says, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait, shall I?’
The men greet Mr Roy Chowdhury with long salaams. He, in turn, takes each man’s hand in his, individually, and lowers his head briefly. Miss Gilby is struck again by the respect with which Mr Roy Chowdhury treats everyone, his unshakeable sense of the dignity of every human being. The men cannot stop staring at her. She gives them a general smile, trots off a few paces ahead and waits while Mr Roy Chowdhury and the men exchange words, which sound to her agitated, concerned. At one point when she turns to look in their direction, she sees one of the men in what she can only term a supplicant’s position — arms outstretched and held up, palms open, much in the way Muslims pray to their Allah. Mr Roy Chowdhury speaks with both his hands clasped and held against his heart. From this distance, she cannot hear very much but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference even if she could for the local dialect is all but incomprehensible babble to her.
After several minutes, Mr Roy Chowdhury joins her, his arms now laden with the bundle of shaapla stems; half a dozen or so of those stems end in delicate flowers. His brows are furrowed, his eyes shaded.
‘Not very good news, I’m afraid, Miss Gilby. The salt factory I started last year is making heavy losses. It seems unfeasible now to keep it running for much longer. These men say that because locally produced salt costs more than British salt, they’re finding it difficult to sell it to customers. They are suffering losses too. They want me to shut down the factory and let them sell foreign-manufactured products.’
‘Did you agree?’
‘I never asked them to sell swadeshi products only. For the very brief period they did, their losses were so heavy that I immediately reverted. These men are very poor, they have to make a living somehow.’