‘Crowd, rather—’ said the battling Begum, leaping up again and slipping out of his coils. ‘You are not going to deny, surely, that it was the time of prayer? The demonstration—the demonstration of gross inhumanity, for that is what it was—was on the part of the police. Now will the honourable Minister not take refuge in semantics and deal with the facts.’
When he saw the wretched woman get up again, the Home Minister felt a stab of hatred in his heart. She was a thorn in his flesh and had insulted and humiliated him before the House and he now decided that, come what may, he was going to get back at her and her house—the family of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar. They were all fanatics, these Muslims, who appeared not to realize they were here in this country on sufferance. A calm dose of well-applied law would do them good.
‘I can only answer one question at a time,’ L.N. Agarwal said in a dangerous growl.
‘The supplementary questions of the honourable member who asked the starred questions will take precedence,’ said the Speaker.
Begum Abida Khan smiled grimly.
The Home Minister said: ‘We must wait till the report is published. Government is not aware that an innocent youth was fired upon, let alone injured or killed.’
Now Abdus Salaam stood up again. From around the House outraged cries rose: ‘Sit down, sit down.’ ‘Shame!’ ‘Why are you attacking your own side?’
‘Why should he sit down?’ ‘What have you got to hide?’ ‘You are a Congress member—you should know better.’
But so unprecedented was the situation that even those who opposed his intervention were curious.
When the cries had died down to a sort of volatile muttering, Abdus Salaam, still looking rather puzzled, asked: ‘What I have been wondering about during the course of this discussion is, well, why was a deterrent police force—well, maybe just an adequate police force—not maintained at the site of the temple? Then there would have been no need to fire in this panicky manner.’
The Home Minister drew in his breath. Everyone is looking at me, he thought. I must control my expression.
‘Is this supplementary question addressed to the honourable Minister?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, it is, Sir,’ said Abdus Salaam, suddenly determined. ‘I will not withdraw this question. Would the honourable Minister inform us why there was not a sufficient and deterrent police force maintained either at the kotwali or at the site of the temple itself? Why were there only a dozen men left to maintain law and order in this grievously disturbed area, especially after the contents of the Friday sermon at the Alamgiri Mosque became known to the authorities?’
This was the question that L.N. Agarwal had been dreading, and he was appalled and enraged that it had been asked by an MLA from his own party, and a Parliamentary Secretary at that. He felt defenceless. Was this a plot by Mahesh Kapoor to undermine him? He looked at the Chief Minister, who was waiting for his response with an unreadable expression. L.N. Agarwal suddenly realized that he had been on his feet for a long time, and wanted very badly to urinate. And he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. He began to take refuge in the kind of stonewalling that the Chief Minister himself often used, but to much shabbier effect than that master of parliamentary evasion. By now, however, he hardly cared. He was convinced that this was indeed a plot by Muslims and so-called secular Hindus to attack him—and that his own party had been infected with treason.
Looking with calm hatred first at Abdus Salaam, then at Begum Abida Khan, he said: ‘I can merely reiterate—wait for the report.’
A member asked: ‘Why were so many police diverted to Misri Mandi for a totally unnecessary show of force when they were really needed in Chowk?’
‘Wait for the report,’ said the Home Minister, glaring around the House, as if challenging the members to goad him further.
Begum Abida Khan stood up. ‘Has the Government taken any action against the District Magistrate responsible for this unprovoked firing?’ she demanded.
‘The question does not arise.’
‘If the much-anticipated report shows that the firing was uncalled for and irregular, does Government plan to take any steps in this regard?’
‘That will be seen in due course. I should think it might.’
‘What steps does Government intend to take?’
‘Proper and adequate steps.’
‘Has Government taken any such steps in similar situations in the past?’
‘It has.’
‘What are those steps that have been taken?’
‘Such steps as were considered reasonable and proper.’
Begum Abida Khan looked at him as she would at a snake, wounded but still evading the final blow by twisting its head from side to side. Well, she was not done with him yet.
‘Will the honourable Minister name the wards or neighbourhoods in which restrictions have now been placed with regard to the possession of cold steel? Have these restrictions been placed as a result of the recent firing? If so, why were they not placed earlier?’
The Home Minister looked at the pipal tree in the great seal, and said:
‘Government presumes that the honourable member means by the phrase “cold steel” objects such as swords, daggers, axes, and similar weapons.’
‘Household knives have also been wrested by the police from housewives,’ said Begum Abida Khan in more of a jeer than a statement. ‘Well, what are the neighbourhoods?’
‘Chowk, Hazrat Mahal, and Captainganj,’ said L.N. Agarwal.
‘Not Misri Mandi?’
‘No.’
‘Although that was the site of the heaviest police presence?’ persisted Begum Abida Khan.
‘Police had to be shifted in large numbers to the real trouble spots—’ began L.N. Agarwal.
He stopped abruptly, realizing too late how he had exposed himself by what he had started to say.
‘So the honourable Minister admits—’ began Begum Abida Khan, her eyes gleaming triumphantly.
‘The Government admits nothing. The report will detail everything,’ said the Home Minister, appalled by the confession she had elicited from him.
Begum Abida Khan smiled contemptuously, and decided that the reactionary, trigger-happy, anti-Muslim bully had just condemned himself out of his own mouth sufficiently for much further skewering to be productive. She let her questions taper away.
‘Why were these restrictions on cold steel imposed?’
‘In order to prevent crimes and incidents of violence.’
‘Incidents?’
‘Such as riots by inflamed mobs,’ he cried out in weary rage.
‘How long will these restrictions continue?’ asked Begum Abida Khan, almost laughing.
‘Till they are withdrawn.’
‘And when does the Government propose to withdraw these restrictions?’
‘As soon as the situation permits.’
Begum Abida Khan gently sat down.
There followed a notice for adjournment of the House in order to discuss the issue of the firing, but the Speaker disposed of this quickly enough. Adjournment motions were only granted in the most exceptional cases of crisis or emergency, where discussion could brook no delay; to grant them or not was in the Speaker’s absolute discretion. The subject of the police firing, even had it been such a subject—which, to his mind, it was not—had been sufficiently aired already. The questions of that remarkable, almost unreinable woman had virtually become a debate.
The Speaker went on to the next items on the day’s business: first, the announcement of bills passed by the state legislature that had received the assent of the Governor of the state or the President of India; next, the most important matter on the agenda for the entire session: the continuing debate on the Zamindari Abolition Bill.
But L.N. Agarwal did not stay to listen to discussions on the bill. As soon as the notice for an adjournment motion had been rejected by the Speaker, he fled—not directly across the well to the exit but along an aisle
to the perimeter gallery, and then along the dark, wood-panelled wall. His tension and animus were palpable in the way he walked. He was unconsciously crushing his order papers in his hand. Several members tried to talk to him, to sympathize with him. He brushed them off. He walked unseeingly to the exit, and made straight for the bathroom.
5.8
L.N. Agarwal undid the drawstring of his pyjamas and stood at the urinal. But he was so angry that he was unable to urinate for a while.
He stared at the long, white-tiled wall and saw in it an image of the packed chamber, the taunting face of Begum Abida Khan, the furrowed academic expression of Abdus Salaam, Mahesh Kapoor’s uninterpretable frown, the patient but condescending look on the face of the Chief Minister as he had fumbled pathetically through the poisonous swamp of Question Time.
There was no one in the lavatory except a couple of sweepers, and they were talking to each other. A few words of their conversation broke in upon L.N. Agarwal’s fury. They were complaining about the difficulties of obtaining grain even at the government ration shops. They talked casually, not paying any attention to the powerful Home Minister and very little attention to their own work. As they continued to talk, a feeling of unreality descended upon L.N. Agarwal. He was taken out of his own world, his own passions, ambitions, hatreds and ideals into a realization of the continuing and urgent lives of people other than himself. He even felt a little ashamed of himself.
The sweepers were now discussing a movie that one of them had seen. It happened to be Deedar.
‘But it was Daleep Kumar’s role—oh—it brought tears to my eyes—he always has that quiet smile on his lips even when singing the saddest songs—such a good-natured man—blind himself, and yet giving pleasure to the whole world—’
He began humming one of the hit songs from the movie—‘Do not forget the days of childhood. . . .’
The second man, who had not seen the movie yet, joined in the song—which, ever since the film had been released, was on almost everyone’s lips.
He now said: ‘Nargis looked so beautiful on the poster I thought I would see the movie last night, but my wife takes my money from me as soon as I get my pay.’
The first man laughed. ‘If she let you keep the money, all she would see of it would be empty envelopes and empty bottles.’
The second man continued wistfully, trying to conjure up the divine images of his heroine. ‘So, tell me, what was she like? How did she act? What a contrast—that cheap dancing girl Nimmi or Pimmi or whatever her name is—and Nargis—so high-class, so delicate.’
The first man grunted. ‘Give me Nimmi any day, I’d rather live with her than with Nargis—Nargis is too thin, too full of herself. Anyway, what’s the difference in class between them? She was also one of those.’
The second man looked shocked. ‘Nargis?’
‘Yes, yes, your Nargis. How do you think she got her first chance in the movies?’ And he laughed and began to hum to himself again. The other man was silent and began to scrub the floor once more.
L.N. Agarwal’s thoughts, as he listened to the sweepers talking, turned from Nargis to another ‘one of those’—Saeeda Bai—and to the now commonplace gossip about her relationship with Mahesh Kapoor’s son. Good! he thought. Mahesh Kapoor may starch his delicately embroidered kurtas into rigidity, but his son lies at the feet of prostitutes.
Though less possessed by rage, he had once again entered his own familiar world of politics and rivalry. He walked along the curved corridor that led to his room. He knew, however, that as soon as he entered his office, he would be set upon by his anxious supporters. What little calm he had achieved in the last few minutes would be destroyed.
‘No—I’ll go to the library instead,’ he muttered to himself.
Upstairs, in the cool, quiet precincts of the library of the Legislative Assembly, he sat down, took off his cap, and rested his chin on his hands. A couple of other MLAs were sitting and reading at the long wooden tables. They looked up, greeted him, and continued with their work. L.N. Agarwal closed his eyes and tried to make his mind blank. He needed to establish his equanimity again before he faced the legislators below. But the image that came before him was not the blank nothingness he sought, but the spurious blankness of the urinal wall. His thoughts turned to the virulent Begum Abida Khan once more, and once more he had to fight down his rage and humiliation. How little there was in common between this shameless, exhibitionistic woman who smoked in private and screeched in public, who had not even followed her husband when he had left for Pakistan but had immodestly and spouselessly remained in Purva Pradesh to make trouble—and his own late wife, Priya’s mother, who had sweetened his life through her years of selfless care and love.
I wonder if some part of Baitar House could be construed as evacuee property now that that woman’s husband is living in Pakistan, thought L.N. Agarwal. A word to the Custodian, an order to the police, and let’s see what I am able to do.
After ten minutes of thought, he got up, nodded at the two MLAs, and went downstairs to his room.
A few MLAs were already sitting in his room when he arrived, and several more gathered in the next few minutes as they came to know that he was holding court. Imperturbable, even smiling slightly to himself, L.N. Agarwal now held forth as he was accustomed to doing. He calmed down his agitated followers, he placed matters in perspective, he mapped out strategy. To one of the MLAs, who had commiserated with his leader because the twin misfortunes of Misri Mandi and Chowk had fallen simultaneously upon him, L.N. Agarwal replied:
‘You are a case in point that a good man will not make a good politician. Just think—if you had to do a number of outrageous things, would you want the public to forget them or remember them?’
Clearly the answer was intended to be ‘Forget them,’ and this was the MLA’s response.
‘As quickly as possible?’ asked L.N. Agarwal.
‘As quickly as possible, Minister Sahib.’
‘Then the answer,’ said L.N. Agarwal, ‘if you have a number of outrageous things to do is to do them simultaneously. People will scatter their complaints, not concentrate them. When the dust settles, at least two or three out of five battles will be yours. And the public has a short memory. As for the firing in Chowk, and those dead rioters, it will all be stale news in a week.’
The MLA looked doubtful, but nodded in agreement.
‘A lesson here and there,’ went on L.N. Agarwal, ‘never did anyone any harm. Either you rule, or you don’t. The British knew that they had to make an example sometimes—that’s why they blew the mutineers from cannons in 1857. Anyway, people are always dying—and I would prefer death by a bullet to death by starvation.’
Needless to say, this was not a choice that faced him. But he was in a philosophical mood.
‘Our problems are very simple, you know. In fact, they all boil down to two things: lack of food and lack of morality. And the policies of our rulers in Delhi—what shall I say?—don’t help much either.’
‘Now that Sardar Patel is dead, no one can control Panditji,’ remarked one young but very conservative MLA.
‘Even before Patel died who would Nehru listen to?’ said L.N. Agarwal dismissively. ‘Except, of course, his great Muslim friend—Maulana Azad.’
He clutched his arc of grey hair, then turned to his personal assistant. ‘Get me the Custodian on the phone.’
‘Custodian—of Enemy Property, Sir?’ asked the PA.
Very calmly and slowly and looking him full in the face, the Home Minister said to his rather scatterbrained PA: ‘There is no war on. Use what intelligence God has given you. I would like to talk to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. I will talk to him in fifteen minutes.’
After a while he continued: ‘Look at our situation today. We beg America for food, we have to buy whatever we can get from China and Russia, there’s virtual famine in our neighbouring state. Last year landless labourers were selling themselves for five rupees each. And instead of givin
g the farmers and the traders a free hand so that they can produce more and store things better and distribute them efficiently, Delhi forces us to impose price controls and government godowns and rationing and every populist and unthought-out measure possible. It isn’t just their hearts that are soft, it is their brains as well.’
‘Panditji means well,’ said someone.
‘Means well—means well—’ sighed L.N. Agarwal. ‘He meant well when he gave away Pakistan. He meant well when he gave away half of Kashmir. If it hadn’t been for Patel, we wouldn’t even have the country that we do. Jawaharlal Nehru has built up his entire career by meaning well. Gandhiji loved him because he meant well. And the poor, stupid people love him because he means well. God save us from people who mean well. And these well-meaning letters he writes every month to the Chief Ministers. Why does he bother to write them? The Chief Ministers are not delighted to read them.’ He shook his head, and continued: ‘Do you know what they contain? Long homilies about Korea and the dismissal of General MacArthur. What is General MacArthur to us?—yet so noble and sensitive is our Prime Minister that he considers all the ills of the world to be his own. He means well about Nepal and Egypt and God knows what else, and expects us to mean well too. He doesn’t have the least idea of administration but he talks about the kind of food committees we should set up. Nor does he understand our society and our scriptures, yet he wants to overturn our family life and our family morals through his wonderful Hindu Code Bill. . . .’
L.N. Agarwal would have gone on with his own homily for quite a while if his PA had not said, ‘Sir, the Custodian is on the line.’
‘All right then,’ said L.N. Agarwal, with a slight wave of his hand, which the others knew was a signal to withdraw. ‘I’ll see you all in the canteen.’
Left alone, the Home Minister talked for ten minutes to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. The discussion was precise and cold. For another few minutes the Home Minister sat at his desk, wondering if he had left any aspect of the matter ambiguous or vulnerable. He came to the conclusion that he had not.