EEE ENGLISH

‘I received this letter from two old British ladies when I was SP  Malda,’ said the Superintendent of Police, just after review of pending departmental proceedings  during one of his crime conferences. He was a short man, his one good eye as well as the glass eye hid behind a pair of thick lenses to give him the look more of an overworked Section Officer toiling under a  DC fan than of a cop with a swagger. His voice was soft , but you don’t need a baritone boom to be heard when you are Police Chief of a district as huge as Midnapore with a captive audience of subordinate officers assembled for the monthly crime conference.I would look forward to his crime conferences, held on the 10th of every month . Midnapore was, indeed, a huge district, its population was close to a crore even in 1991, there were about 36 Assembly constituencies spread over 46 police stations.

‘Dear Mr. Superintendent of Police,’ the SP continued with the letter, ‘we are on our way to Hong Kong and would be having a stopover at Calcutta. We would like to visit Maldah where we spent part of our childhood when our father, Mr. EEE English was the Superintendent of Police.’

'I turned around my chair as I read the letter, and saw that one EEE English was indeed the SP of Malda in the 1930s, ' he told us.

‘If the Circuit House is still by the side of the river, we would like to stay there.’

‘But the ladies had two more requests which were quite interesting,’ he waved a V at us.

‘We would like to see something written in our father’s hand.’

‘We would like to meet a person who knew him, the letter went on.’

‘Fortunately the District Order Books in Malda were neatly stacked and I called for them,’ the SP continued with his narration, ‘I found a page with a noting : Heard Officiating Sub Inspector Mohammad Zahid Hossain, OC Nawabganj P.S. He pleads guilty. He is dismissed.’

‘I was quite bemused. The British were known to have a sense of fair play, and here was this officer who had dismissed a sub inspector summarily,’ the SP announced. We in the audience also shook our heads in confirmation.

Anyway, the SP soon found out an old man , in his 70s, who claimed to have known EEE English. Naba Kishen Basu was the landlord of the building in which the district Enforcement Office was housed . He called for him one day.

‘Of course we knew him,’ he said,’ kids found his name funny and they would just playfully call out the initials of name, E...E...E... and run away. But he would catch them and offer a flower from his huge garden.’

‘Do you know about the  dismissal of Mohammad Zahid Hossain, Bada Babu of Nawabganj Police station?’

‘Oh,  that has become a part of folklore of that place which is now in Bangladesh, SP Saheb.  It was on a weekend when the local zamindars would come for game of bridge or tennis and wine and dine at the Maldah Club with  the SP and the Collector. There was this zamindar who was the maternal uncle of Bikash Kali Basu.’

‘Vivek, do you know Bikash Kali Basu , have you met him?’ the SP suddenly asked me, probably to test my attentiveness.

‘Yes, sir, he was the DG when we joined the state. I remember  our first meeting with him at Writers’ mainly because he didn’t appear quite pleased at the high number of officers with science background amongst us, I said. I did not tell him how uncomfortable the ex- DG had been when my batchmate Dr Sudhir Misra informed him that his doctoral thesis at Pusa had been on blue-green algae about which he had never heard in his life.

‘Oh then you know him quite well,’ the SP said and continued with his narration.

The zamindar informed EEE English about some great work done by the OC of Nawabganj which had made him famous. Being absolutely in the dark of any great crime breakthrough or significant arrest in that area, he asked the zamindar as to what the  OC had done to earn such high praise.

‘Mr. English, there was this Hindustani  constable from Purnea who died when he was on leave. It is being said that as he lay dying, he asked  his children to take him back to Nawabganj for cremation. The obedient children lugged him back to Nawabganj where the OC, despite being a Musalmaan, arranged the entire cost of shraddh including brahman bhoj and endeared himself to the local people.’

As I listened, tilting my head away from the Additional SP who was spewing fennel and asafoetida fumes through his muffled burps, I was struck with the fierce sense of loyalty that prevailed in those days, Here was a person, barely “middle pass”, who had thrown all customs and rituals to the wind, actually almost his life as it were,  and had desired to be cremated in a distant land. For what?  To save the skin of an OC,  because he knew that his death in a distant place, without any record of grant of leave from the Superintendent of Police , would put his Bada Babu in a terrible soup!

EEE English mused over this information. The power to sanction leave rested only with the SP, and if OCs started making their own private arrangements , what would remain of the force, he wondered. Clearly, this had to be met with the harshest of punishments and an example set. He sent for the OC to appear before him.

‘I had gone to the Police Office to collect the monthly rent, that day,’ said Naba Kishen, ‘when suddenly everyone became quiet as they heard  EEE shout from inside his chamber.

‘Do you know that you do not have the power to grant leave?’

Silence.

‘Then why did you do so?’

Silence

‘You know that you are liable to be dismissed for this?’

Silence

‘After a short while, I saw the OC come out. He looked at us, straightened his headgear and walk away.’

It was the next weekend when the zamindar again turned up, and in between the tennis sets, told EEE ,' Mr. English, I think you were very harsh on the Bada Babu. He was a man of unimpeachable integrity. He had left the OC’s official quarter the day he had returned from Malda , and now he doesn’t have enough money to go to his desh in Mymensigh.His dismissal has cast a pall of gloom in the police station and the village. He was a fearless and fair person, much loved, a figure of authority now, an object of pity.’

‘Ki kore khacche, how is he eating ?’  EEE asked, out of genuine concern.

‘He has been staying in one of my outhouses, but he has refused my offer of food and of money to return home. I am told he has sent a postcard to his sons to come over with the money,’ the zamindar said.

EEE English  heard him through, left his game,  and walked away.

The following day he ordered for the ferry to be readied to take him to the police station. They  set sail,  and approaching dusk, he reached the zamindar’s house which was hardly a kilometer away from the police station. The news of SP’s visit spread like wildfire. Half naked kids, women with children in arms, men with their farm tools  slung on their shoulders, a fair smattering of respectable elders came over at the baithak of the zamindar’s house. Women of the house peeped from the privacy of latticed windows. A moderate haze of dust had set in as the cows were returning home in the fading sunlight during the godhuli bela.

Mohammad Zahid Hossain was sent for, and he came in shortly. It had been over a week since his khakis had been consigned to history with the signature and seal of EEE English’s order of dismissal. He waded through the crowd which parted in deference , stood proudly before the SP,  and extended an elaborate flourish of a salaam. There was a murmur all around.

‘Kyamon accho Zahid Hossain?’ EEE  opened up.

The OC  made another flourish  of all- is -well, invoked the grace of Allah on him, and asked his  SP as to what made him come to the village.

‘I am told you are in hurry to retire to your desh,’ the EEE said.

‘Ji Hujoor,’ he nodded, then gestured with his arms to indicate that no reason stands for him to stay there any longer.

‘When will your sons be coming to take you up, you already seemed to be in a spot?’

Mohammad Zahid Hossain stepped forward  and did something he had never done in his life. He clutched the hand of the white SP and thanked him for his concern about his welfare even at this stage.

Time stood still. The SP looked at the Bada Babu and at the small gathering which had fallen silent after the initial murmur of excitement. The bells of the cows had stopped jingling, and the air was pregnant with a hope . There were faces pleading, a few were straining on an invisible leash which normally held back the deferential natives when in the vicinity of white authority.

‘Take this,’ the  EEE English  dug into his pockets and held out a hundred rupee note, a huge amount for the OC, a denomination the majority may not have ever seen in their lives.

The OC  folded his hands, it was to both acknowledge the gesture as well as to refuse it.

‘My sons would be coming any day, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘Zahid Hossain, this is my last order, take this and go to your people , I command you so,’ the EEE raised his voice and stretched himself to the full.

There was no need to make any further ado over this. He accepted the money just as he had the order of dismissal. It was the code of the times, the White authority was infallible. If a few moments ago the OC had taken the unprecedented step by clutching the hand of EEE, now the latter did something which no one had ever see him do. He came forward and engulfed Mohammad Zahid Hossain in a huge embrace and held him to his bosom.

It was getting dark, diaphanous sheets of smoke from the hearth hung around a few houses, the evening puja in the temple had started, a few bells rang , some women ululated , and in the lambent light of the mashaals now lit in the verandah of the baithak, stood the silhouetted image of EEE English and Mohammad Zahid Hossain. EEE’s eyes were shut, he was looking skywards, his lips seemed to say something. Was he offering a silent prayer to the Almighty for the welfare of Zahid Hossain? Or was he offering a prayer to be excused for a decision taken in a rash moment?

Shortly, the embrace was broken. EEE English  had to return. As he turned around,his finger went up to his eyes. Was it to flick a speck of dust or a small drop of tear?

Surely he must be terribly remorseful, thought the zamindar.

The zamindar stepped forward. He spoke for himself, he spoke for the assembled group of people.

‘If you are feeling so bad, Mr. English saheb, why don’t you reinstate him?’

EEE  looked at him, looked at Bada Babu, and at the crowd.

All of us in the crime conference craned our necks forward in anticipation of some good piece news. But the SP had now stopped his narration. We looked at him, just as the crowd in Nawabganj would have looked at EEE English in fading light about sixty years ago. He was expressionless, and he allowed the pause to lengthen. Light filtered in through the skylight making his bald head glow, and the only sound one could hear for sometime was the sound of blades of the fan above dancing on this glowing orb.

‘That cannot be done,’ EEE said and walked away.

‘Shei ta kora jabey na,’ the SP shifted to Bengali in his narration, slicing the air with his index finger for effect.

P:S - The daughters of EEE English could not make it to Malda. The Delhi belly which they carried from their first stop in India forced them to stay back in their room in Calcutta for three days.