Chapter 10-

THE TAIL OF THE SERPENT

In the beginning, the war meant nothing to the convicts; it obtruded on their lives only in odd little ways: their lighting-up time was curtailed, their ration of molasses was cut, worms began appearing in their boiled rice and weevils in their chap- attics-dark brown specks which looked like sesame seeds, tasted like sour mud and blistered their tongues.

The regular ships from India had stopped, and there were no fresh chalans. Ships had to be diverted to tasks more important than transporting criminals to the Cellular Jail. Hitherto, chalans-monthly drafts of new prisoners from India-had been the most eagerly awaited events in the colony's life. Even the warders and petty officers, once convicts themselves, sought out new arrivals from their own districts for news of their homes. Now, news of home came only in letters brought by itinerant ships, letters that were mutilated by an ever-tightening censorship. There were other changes. Spurned by the war itself, those outside its main current strove to prove their zeal. Mulligan and his underlings went about enforcing the law of the colony with unprecedented sternness, determined to bring home to everyone that despite the reverses of the war, the British Empire was as enduring as the sun and the hills; making it clear to the convicts that even though they comprised its rejects, they still were a part of the great Raaj, privileged to do their bit in the grand muster of the empire. Their working hours were gradually stepped up, their privileges less gradually cut down, their punishments stiffened. The dreaded kolu, the human oil-mill, was reintroduced for all serious breaches of prison discipline, and flogging, which had been forbidden for years, was declared to be legal once more. But by and large, the prisoners were ignorant of the progress of the war. No newspapers were permitted, and their only source of information was the brief contact that some of them had with the settlers. And then one day, the conflict of the outside world made a sharp intrusion into their isolation. On their way to carry a load of sisal from the store-shed near the quay to their own yard, a batch of prisoners came upon a slogan inscribed in charcoal on the wall of a culvert:

Hitler-ko Jail

Angrez Murdabad! All of them saw it, and those of them who could read, repeated it to the others. By afternoon, it had gone round the entire jail.

"Victory to Hitler-death to the British!" someone had dared to write on the wall in this jail-town of British India. Mulligan had fumed, spluttered, roared like a bull, brandished his cane in their faces. Then and there he had dispatched a couple of warders to rub out the writing. He made a proclamation that anyone found repeating rumours to other prisoners would be put to work on the oil mill, that anyone found writing anti-British slogans would be publicly flogged.

But the very next morning, as the pumping gang was being marched to the sea-water trough, they saw on the white embankment wall behind the timber godown, a charcoal drawing of a fat, solar-topeed figure, dangling by his neck from a gallows, and under it the slogan: Angrez-raaj Murdabad!

The figure was unmistakably that of Mulligan himself.

The prison grapevine shook with activity. Vague rumours began to circulate of a German spy landed by a submarine to write slogans; there were whispers of crushing defeats suffered by great armies, of mass sinkings of mighty ships, of teeming cities flattened down by bombs raining from hundreds of aeroplanes, of proud countries overrun and subjugated by a world conqueror: Hitler.

And with the defeats, came hope, wild and unreasoning, fattening itself gluttonously on their yearnings. Any day now, the British would collapse and their empire fall, crushing to death all who throve in its shadow, its Mulligans and Sadashivans, its Josephs and Balbahadurs, its warders with their seven-foot lathis.

The war had come closer; the picture of the saviour with his short moustache and staring eyes came into sharper focus, became transformed into that of some alien god who had come to liberate the oppressed, an avatar of Vishnu. Was this what the war would achieve sudden and universal release from the beehive existence of the Silver Jail? The men who still believed in prayer began to pray to the new avatar. Long live Hitler! Down with the British Raaj!"

Mulligan and his assistants plunged into a fury of activity. They were determined to discover who had written the slogans. Stool pigeons were planted in all the barracks and in the settle- ments, like jungle animals trained to lure others into captivity. Trusted warders were directed to show sympathy with enemy victories in private conversation with the convicts. Jemadars went about offering forbidden cigarettes to those on the secret black list. All those with histories of anti-British activities, the political prisoners, were kept under special surveillance.

At the end of the week, during his evening rounds, Mulligan made a dramatic announcement: anyone who gave information identifying the slogan-writer would at once be made a feri; if he were one already, he would get a whole year's remission of sentence.

To those whose sole aspiration was now confined to becoming a feri, to live outside the prison, wear ordinary clothes and lead their own lives, this was a very tempting offer. For those who were feris already, particularly those within a year or so of release, it was a promise of liberation, for it meant that they could, if they wished, ask to be immediately repatriated.

But the promise of Hitler seemed still more desirable. Mulligan could never match it, nor the Chief Commissioner nor even the Viceroy. For a whole month, nothing happened a month during which the hope of a British collapse hung over the landscape like a permanent full moon; the month when the battle of Britain was at its fiercest. Then, with no more German victories to feed their flames, the fires began to die. The Andamans curled up for the annual fury of the south-west monsoon. And then one day the flame died out, without a flicker, just as suddenly as it had come to life. The hopes in the prisoners' hearts spent themselves against prison routine.

The big Ramoshi, Ghasita, accepted a packet of Red Lamp cigarettes and whispered to his jemadar that he had some information he would like to give Mulligan-sahib. To Mulligan he reported that he had seen a man late one evening, scrambling down the jack-fruit tree near the culvert that had the slogan written on it. "When was this?" Mulligan asked. "The day before we saw the writing?"

I think so-I cannot remember. It was so long ago."

'Why didn't you report it before?"

He was too old a hand to squirm under Mulligan's glare. 'I did not connect it with the writing on the culvert...he shrugged his shoulders, his benevolent, glazed eyes quite unrevealing.

They were the eyes of a habitual opium smoker. There were dozens of convicts in the jail who smoked opium, some of the warders too; Mulligan was aware of that. Some of the feris grew the stuff in the jungle and warders sold it to the inmates at extortionate prices. The pay the convicts received was certainly not enough to buy opium with. Where did the money come from? There were some things going on in the prison that he would never know, he had decided long ago; perhaps it was just as well.

Now I hope the sahib is going to make me a feri,' the big Ramoshi reminded him.

Mulligan's face reddened. 'So you can grow opium yourself and make money, instead of having to buy it,' he retorted. "A D-ticket convict with a record of two murders...

"Three,' the big Ramoshi corrected him. "The first one was a double murder. Man and wife."

God, the nerve! "A murderer three times over, and you expect to be made a feri?" That is what the Sahib had promised-made a public announcement, that anyone who gave information would be made a feri.'

Mulligan had no answer to that one. He was sharp, the big bastard, sharp and unscrupulous. He too must have been waiting for a quick German victory to sort out all his troubles. Now that it had not materialized, he had decided to change sides.

'But you did not actually see who it was,' Mulligan pointed out. 

'It was dark, sahib. I could not see the man very well. All I saw was that he wore a D-ticket blouse."

"That's nothing to go on,' Mulligan muttered almost to himself. "At least sixty of them here, about half of them permitted to work outside the barracks. That doesn't get us anywhere. You know you have been very wrong to keep this thing to yourself. It would have been much more useful to come out with it on the very day it was your duty to report it."

I did not connect it with the writing on the wall,' Ghasita said blankly. "When will sahib make me a feri?"

'I don't know. We'll see if anything comes of this,' Mulligan conceded. 'Whether you get made a feri will depend on what we are able to discover."

Next morning, when Gian and the two other clerks were issuing empty rice bags for filling with dried copra, Mulligan strolled into the victualling shed. He was followed by his dog, a sour-faced bull-terrier bitch with pink eyelids. He sent away the two men with the rolls of bags that were already counted, and then perched himself on one of the bales of cotton cloth.

"Who do you think has been writing those things-the seditious slogans ?' he asked Gian, sounding very offhand. I don't know, sir,' Gian said, wondering, for a moment, if Mulligan was suspecting him.

I didn't expect you to know; but who do you think it might be?" Gian wanted to be helpful. Might be one of the feris, sir,' he hazarded. Mulligan shook his head. 'I have reason to believe it is someone from inside a D-ticket walla."

Then Gian's heart began to thump. The prison was now riddled with spies and stool pigeons. Any jemadar who had a grudge against you could concoct something to report to Mulligan. And he was particularly vulnerable, having wormed himself into Mulligan's favour, a convict with a 'Dangerous' classification working as a clerk. And then, as he remembered the money he had secreted, he had to gulp hard to overcome the sudden dryness of his mouth. He wished he had never touched the money. Before that, his conscience had been absolutely clear. 'I would myself never do a thing like that, sir,' he said. 'Because... because I really want the British to win the war.'

No one is saying you did it, damn you,' Mulligan assured him. 'At least a dozen of you could have done it, from those who are employed on prison duties. And there are fifty others, not allowed out without escorts. But even for the others, it's easy to slip away from a working party for a minute or two while the sentry's busy and dash off. Dash off and write a few words on the wall-or, climb a tree, for instance."

The fear was right on the surface now, crawling on his skin, showing itself clearly. Mulligan could not fail to notice how nervous he felt, Gian thought. He tried to think of something to say, anything at all, but the words refused to come.

I want you to keep your eyes open,' Mulligan was saying. "They'll talk to you more easily than to the warders-only natural. You act as though you are in sympathy with them. You know, say things such as how you want Hitler to win the war and all that. Let me know if anyone behaves suspiciously, if you hear any rumours...anything at all. Report to me direct. I must get to the bottom of this."

The fear had passed, just as suddenly as it had risen; now there was only a flood of gratitude. "Yes, sir,' Gian promised eagerly.

Remember I shall make it worth your while."

"Thank you, sir."

All you have to do is to keep your eyes and ears open. But your special responsibility will be to keep a watch on just one man keep him under surveillance without his knowing it-Debi-dayal.,

Gian avoided his eyes, pressing down the feelings of nausea, trying to concentrate on Mulligan's dog who was looking for rats, while Mulligan went on talking, his words coming out of the side of his mouth in sharp jabs because he was speaking in a confi- dential whisper, screwing up his face, and rubbing his cheek with his right hand in a circular motion. "Tagged every minute he is out of the barracks, understand? He will be sent out a lot from now on, on outdoor jobs, just to give him enough rope; see?"

Yes, sir.' " "According to the record, you two were at the same college.

But you must be careful not to show extra friendliness, or anything. He must not suspect. Is that clear?'

Yes, sir."

"I want to catch him red-handed, if possible. Then I can make an example of him-stop all this seditious talk and rumours. Until then, I am going to do nothing let everyone go about just as before...Debi-dayal and the others who are under suspicion. But any time he is outside the jail compound, it will be your duty to keep a watch on him-never let him out of your sight."'

They were fair, they were always fair, even under extreme provocation, Gian reminded himself. He could never visualize anyone but the British being so fussy. The Indian police would just have rounded up all the suspects, taken them to the thana and beaten them to a pulp to extract confessions the police, or even the sentries in the jail here, if given a free hand. The thought of what would happen to them all if the jail were left in charge of someone like Balbahadur was too horrible to entertain. And yet, be asked himself, was not that what the nationalist movement aimed to do: to remove all the British and put thousands upon thousands of people like Balbahadur in positions of authority? 'Here,' Mulligan said. "You had better keep this. And don't let anyone know you have one: not even the jemadars here. None of them are to be trusted, really. Use it only in an emer- gency, only when you think it absolutely imperative, like-like catching someone red-handed."

It was a shining new police whistle. Gian accepted it with gratitude. It was a symbol of the confidence that Mulligan-sahib was placing in him. The whistles, like the prison siren, were intended for raising a general alarm and were a signal for the sentry-squad at the gate to rush to the scene of trouble. Only petty officers and jemadars were allowed to carry them.

Thank you, sir,' Gian said.

Even after Mulligan had gone, he was not particularly distressed by his new assignment. Once you got used to the idea of being a stool pigeon, there was nothing to it. For one thing, he had never thought that it was Debi-dayal who had been writing the slogans; and even if he were the man, could he not warn him that he was being watched? 

Above all, Gian was thankful that Mulligan himself was carrying out the investigation, and not one of his subordinates. He admired Mulligan's thoroughness, and, even more, his restraint. He was convinced that Mulligan would never pronounce judgement on a man without incontrovertible evidence, and that in his hands, the ends of justice would never be in jeopardy.