The Lowland Read Online Free PDF Page B

slogans, copied out in Udayan’s hand. China’s Chairman is our Chairman! Down with elections! Our path is the path of Naxalbari!
    The walls of the city were turning thick with them now. The walls of campus buildings, the high walls of the film studios. The lower walls flanking the lanes of their enclave.
    One night, Subhash heard Udayan come into the house and go straight to the bathroom. He heard the sound of water hitting the floor. Subhash was sitting at the study table. Udayan pushed the can of paint beneath their bed.
    Subhash closed his notebook, replaced the cap on his pen. What were you doing just now?
    Rinsing off.
    Udayan crossed the room and sat in a chair by the window. He was wearing white cotton pajamas. His skin was damp, the hair dark on his chest. He put a cigarette to his lips and slid open a matchbox. It took him a few strikes to light the match.
    You were painting slogans? Subhash asked him.
    The ruling class puts its propaganda everywhere. Why should they be allowed to influence people and no one else?
    What happens if the police catch you?
    They won’t.
    He turned on the radio. If we don’t stand up to a problem, we contribute to it, Subhash.
    After a pause he added, Come with me tomorrow, if you want.
    Again Subhash was the lookout. Again alert to every sound.
    They crossed a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow section of Tolly’s Nullah. It was a neighborhood considered remote when they were younger, where they’d been told not to wander.
    Subhash held the flashlight. He illuminated a section of the wall. It was close to midnight. They’d told their parents that they were going to a late show of a film.
    He stood close. He held his breath. The pond frogs were calling, monotonous, insistent.
    He watched as Udayan dipped the paintbrush into the can. He was writing, in English, Long live Naxalbari!
    Quickly Udayan formed the letters of the slogan. But his hand was unsteady, adding to the challenge. Subhash had noticed this previously, in recent weeks—an occasional tremor as his brother adjusted the radio dial, or framed the air in front of his face in the course of saying something, or turned the pages of the newspaper.
    Subhash remembered climbing over the wall of the Tolly Club. This time, Subhash wasn’t afraid of being caught. Perhaps it was foolish of him, but something told him that such a thing could happen only once. And he was right, no one noticed what they did, no one punished them for it, and a few minutes later they were crossing the bridge again, quickly, smoking cigarettes to calm themselves down.
    This time it was only Udayan who was giddy. Only Udayan who was proud of what they’d done.
    Subhash was angry with himself for going along with it. For still needing to prove he could.
    He was sick of the fear that always rose up in him: that he wouldcease to exist, and that he and Udayan would cease to be brothers, were Subhash to resist him.
    After their studies ended, the brothers were among so many others in their generation, overqualified and unemployed. They began tutoring to bring in money, contributing their earnings to the household. Udayan found a job teaching science at a technical high school close to Tollygunge. He seemed satisfied with an ordinary occupation. He was indifferent to building up a career.
    Subhash decided to apply to a few Ph.D. programs in the United States. Immigration laws had changed, making it easier for Indian students to enter. In graduate school he’d begun to focus his research on chemistry and the environment. The effects of petroleum and nitrogen on oceans and streams and lakes.
    He thought it was better to broach it with Udayan first, before telling his parents. He hoped his brother would understand. He suggested that Udayan should go abroad, too, where there were more jobs, where it might be easier for both of them.
    He mentioned the famous universities that supported the world’s most gifted scientists. MIT. Princeton, where Einstein had