Three Kinds of Men

In truth, human history was constructed upon three primitive impulses. One type of man was addicted to spitting on the road as he walked along. Another kind instinctively pulled out a handkerchief whenever touched by another human being—or kept himself at a safe distance. And yet another, those with less water in their bodies, did not sweat at all; they roamed through summer and winter in the same clothes, untouched by climate.
 
Although Plato, Voltaire, Hegel, and Nietzsche each offered their own interpretations of these dispositions, nothing certain was ever agreed upon. Every age produced its wise men, and each explained these instincts in a different way, but none of those explanations ever became universal.
 
I once knew a learned man. Once upon a time, he was a fearsome lawyer, famous across the city. Now he lives under the patronage of an industrialist, looking after the deeds of 170 properties, registering offices, houses, and shops for rent, keeping track of endless legal documents.
 
I came to know him more closely on the day when, jumping ahead of forty people in line, I managed to present my papers before the honorable magistrate and received the sacred certificate of virtue. It was this lawyer who often helped fellow citizens in their peculiar troubles.
 
The lawyer said to me: “Men are usually of three kinds.
 
First: those who think neither of themselves nor of others. Second: those who think only of themselves. Third: those who think only of others.”
 
He explained further.
 
The first type—those who care for neither self nor others—are the safest for mankind. For they never attempt the most heinous crime: competing with the Creator in the act of creation itself. The Gita says: Do your work, desire not the fruits. In this spirit, there is no room to think of self or of others. Such men, wise or unwise, cause no harm to society, and are never attracted to revolutions or reforms.
 
The second type—those who think only of themselves—may seem selfish to us, but they are, in fact, divine in form. Humanity is never shaken by their profit or loss, for their reason for living is only themselves. What nobler life could there be than one that minds only its own business? Within every human resides a godlike sovereign of justice; thus, in self-devotion alone lies the path to liberation.
 
The lawyer concluded: “I believe in this theory.”
 
The third type—those who think not of themselves, but of others—are the most dangerous for humanity. They live by words like sacrifice and selflessness, and it is precisely they who cause mankind’s greatest misfortunes. For in seeking the welfare of greater society, they often obliterate the smaller ones.
 
“Remember this,” the lawyer said, “all the wars, all the bloodshed, all the chaos in the world were created by those selfless men who thought they were serving mankind. Every war was fought for some ‘greater good.’ Yet common people never understand such changes—because each one fears that in such a war, I myself may be the first to die. And so, fear of death is the single thorn that blocks the vast future possibilities of civilization.
 
We lack the courage to accept that after my death, others may live, and perhaps they may live even better than me.”
 
Satyada smirked and interrupted: “This is impossible. Tell me—when Kalu the mason mounts Swapan Jana’s wife at noon, do you feel the orgasm yourself?”
 
I confessed, “Ever since I discovered that Kalu secretly does this—while Jana remains blind to it, or pretends to know—whenever I see Rita Boudi, my manhood rises.
Even the day Jana’s mother died, when Rita held her child and wept in a torrent of grief, I stiffened again. Kalu too had gone to the cremation that day, running around in sorrow. But only I stood aroused. At last, I relieved myself in the crematorium toilet.”
 
The lawyer twisted his face mischievously and said: “So you mean to say—you feel nothing of another man’s grief or sorrow, but you feel a strong sensation at the tip of another man’s phallus? Often the one who watches, who listens, experiences more joy than the one who performs the act.”
 
Banshkathi now looked up. He had been pretending to ignore us, scrolling on his mobile, but our words had pierced his intellect, and he was eager to speak.
 
“This,” he declared, “is the age of sadism. Tears, love, quarrels—these have diminished in society, and only grown in television serials. No one fights in the streets anymore; they fight inside gaming software. No sex with wives for months; men take greater pleasure from blue films and their own hand. No one goes to the field to watch cricket; everyone sits before the TV and screams. It is a transition—from reality to unreality.”
 
The lawyer nodded: “But the core question remains: the structure of human instinct. Whether hidden or visible, civilization expanded upon three impulses. Yet whose contribution was greatest—remains unknown.”
 
Outside the club, the Lakshmi Puja pandal still glittered. The leftover bamboos from Durga Puja lay scattered across the lanes. Beside the pond, a few houses stood. At one window, a young woman stood with a dog beside her.
 
On the pond floated the skeleton of the goddess.
 
Banshkathi lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He had read every book in the club’s library. The lawyer rarely visited. I came in the evenings. On the far side of the hall, twelve or fourteen men were watching the India–Pakistan T20 match. Twisted screams of joy and despair echoed back to us.
 
I occasionally looked toward Ranjan Ray’s eldest daughter, standing on the balcony in her faded maxi. I have this habit of staring at women—it is my weakness. Human nature is often analyzed by dividing the world into two: good and evil, right and wrong, justice and injustice. Yet such divisions are only superficial.
 
The skeleton of Durga kept floating. The neighborhood children ignored it—cricket was far more real to them than the bones of a goddess. The girl at the window went inside, but the dog sat at the bars, whining, as though calling someone from within.
 
The lawyer flicked his ash: “Do you see? A society that leaves its goddess a skeleton still wants to float upon the raft of devotion. Men may be of three kinds, but each will one day float like those bones—in neglect, in indifference.”
 
Satyada laughed: “Then we are all equal. Whether spitting, thinking of self, or rotting in selfless service—at the end, skeletons all.”
 
Banshkathi leaned forward. He dimmed his phone and said: “Yes, but notice—this skeleton has not sunk. The water has not dragged it down. Perhaps this is civilization’s greatest irony: we live, yet do not float; but the goddess, though dead, floats on.”
 
For a moment we were silent. A gust of wind rose by the pond. It seemed as if someone whispered in the air: “Man is not of three kinds, but of one. At the root of all is fear—fear of death, fear of shame, fear of hunger. Everything else is a mask.”
 
From the cricket room came a sudden roar—India had lost the match. The men cursed. One shouted, “We must save the country!” Another yelled, “All leaders are thieves!”
 
And in that instant, the dog at the window bared its teeth and laughed—laughed like a man. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I had imagined it. But no. Banshkathi clenched his cigarette between his lips and muttered: “This is the reality. Here, even a dog knows it is more human than man.”
 
The lawyer, in a grave tone, said: “Man is three kinds—but a dog is only one. And so, in civilization’s crematorium, it will be the dog who lights the final candle.”
 
We did not laugh. Only the pond trembled, as if the goddess’s breath still lingered upon the water.
 
The trembling stopped. Soon, the air was filled with the smell of hot meat—someone had opened a biryani pot inside the club. We knew well: once eating begins, philosophy ends.
 
Yet tonight, something strange occurred. The voices of those eating slowly merged into a chant: “More rice… more meat… rice… meat…”—a monotonous mantra.
 
The lawyer frowned: “See? Stronger than fear of death is this hunger. Civilization began with hunger, and to hunger it will return.”
 
Satyada sneered: “Hunger and lust—these are what keep man alive. There are no three kinds. Within everyone burns the same two flames.”
 
Just then, the strange thing happened. The dog at the window rose upon its hind legs. Resting its forepaws on the grill like hands, it peered inside. Its eyes were empty, yet a clear light shone within them.
 
We watched in shock. From inside, the rice and meat floated off the plates, piece by piece, into the dog’s mouth. And none of the eaters noticed.
 
Banshkathi’s voice was dry: “There you see. The goddess’s skeleton floats, and her offerings go into the belly of a dog. Men chant only their greed. That is civilization’s real irony.”
 
I felt my lips drying. The girl reappeared at the window. This time, she stared at us. In her hands was an old registry book—like the lawyer’s own deeds and ledgers. She seemed to be calculating property.
 
The lawyer whispered: “Do you see? The one who thinks of others is the most dangerous. Perhaps tonight, this girl will decide—whose house shall stand, and whose shall sink.”
 
On the pond, small waves rose. The skeleton of the goddess drifted slowly toward her window. It seemed the goddess too wished to listen—who will remain, and who will go.
 
None of us spoke. Only the dog laughed again—this time louder, clearly echoing the voices of the men eating inside.
 
Night deepened. The club lights went out. Only the TV screen glimmered. The match had ended, yet the replay of the last six kept playing—over and over—as if the television itself mourned the loss.
 
We stood outside. The dog sat down, weary, yet its eyes glowed with strange knowledge. It seemed to know more than us—our fate, our fears, our very dreams.
 
The lawyer sighed. “You see? Civilization always repeats the same picture. After war, only the replay of defeat remains. Never victory.”
 
Satyada muttered: “Don’t talk like that. Man lives on hope, on lies, and on other people’s beds.”
 
Banshkathi finished his cigarette and dropped it. “No. Man lives only on excuses. There are no three kinds. Each man is the same: the fruit of his fear. And whichever way fear pulls him—that is the kind he becomes.”
 
At that moment, the pond grew still, like glass. And upon it appeared our reflections.
 
But none of us were human in the water. I was a bucket of spit. Satyada was a cloud of trapped smoke. Banshkathi was a stack of paper. And the lawyer was a register filled with empty signatures.
 
We stared at those reflections. None of us spoke.
 
The girl at the window shut her registry book. Her eyes held no fear, no surprise—only a calm detachment. She was the final judge.
 
The skeleton of the goddess faded away into darkness.
 
From inside the club, someone suddenly screamed again: “We will win! Next time, we will win!”
 
The four of us stood silently. Only the dog yawned, gently, and lay down to sleep.
 
Whether man is of three kinds or not—we never knew. But that night’s scene taught us this: Perhaps man is of only one kind— the kind that, even after losing again and again, still whispers, “Next time, we will win.”