by Vikram Seth
But though he had addressed her as ‘daughter’, Veena felt that he had been reminded the instant he saw her of the ministerial rival whose daughter she really was.
5.6
‘Is the Government aware that the Brahmpur Police made a lathi charge on the members of the jatav community last week when they demonstrated in front of the Govind Shoe Mart?’
The Minister for Home Affairs, Shri L.N. Agarwal, got to his feet.
‘There was no lathi charge,’ he replied.
‘Mild lathi charge, if you like. Is the Government aware of the incident I am referring to?’
The Home Minister looked across the well of the great circular chamber, and stated calmly:
‘There was no lathi charge in the usual sense. The police were forced to use light canes, one inch thick, when the unruly crowd had stoned and manhandled several members of the public and one policeman, and when it was apparent that the safety of the Govind Shoe Mart, and of the public, and of the policemen themselves was seriously threatened.’
He stared at his interrogator, Ram Dhan, a short, dark, pockmarked man in his forties, who asked his questions—in standard Hindi but with a strong Brahmpuri accent—with his arms folded across his chest.
‘Is it a fact,’ continued the questioner, ‘that on the same evening, the police beat up a large number of jatavs who were peacefully attempting to picket the Brahmpur Shoe Mart nearby?’ Shri Ram Dhan was an Independent MLA from the scheduled castes, and he stressed the word ‘jatavs’. A kind of indignant murmur rose from all around the House. The Speaker called for order, and the Home Minister stood up again.
‘It is not a fact,’ he stated, keeping his voice level. ‘The police, being hard pressed by an angry mob, defended themselves and, in the course of this action, three people were injured. As for the honourable member’s innuendo that the police singled out members of a particular caste from the mob or were especially severe because the mob consisted largely of members of that caste, I would advise him to be more just to the police. Let me assure him that the action would have been no different had the mob been constituted differently.’
Limpet-like, however, Shri Ram Dhan continued: ‘Is it a fact that the honourable Home Minister was in constant touch with the local authorities of Brahmpur, in particular the District Magistrate and the Superintendent of Police?’
‘Yes.’ L.N. Agarwal looked upwards, having delivered himself of this single syllable and as if seeking patience, towards the great dome of white frosted glass through which the late morning light poured down on the Legislative Assembly.
‘Was the specific sanction of the Home Minister taken by the district authorities before making the lathi charge on the unarmed mob? If so, when? If not, why not?’
The Home Minister sighed with exasperation rather than weariness as he stood up again: ‘May I reiterate that I do not accept the use of the words “lathi charge” in this context. Nor was the mob unarmed, since they used stones. However, I am glad that the honourable member admits that it was a mob that the police were facing. Indeed, from the fact that he uses the word in a printed, starred question, it is clear that he knew this before today.’
‘Would the honourable Minister kindly answer the question put to him?’ said Ram Dhan heatedly, opening his arms and clenching his fists.
‘I should have thought the answer was obvious,’ said L.N. Agarwal. He paused, then continued, as if reciting: ‘The developing situation on the ground is sometimes such that it is often tactically impossible to foresee what will happen, and a certain flexibility must be left to the local authorities.’
But Ram Dhan clung on. ‘If as the honourable Minister admits, no such specific sanction was taken, was the honourable Home Minister informed of the proposed action of the police? Did he or the Chief Minister give their tacit approval?’
Once again the Home Minister rose. He glanced at a point in the dead centre of the dark-green carpet that covered the well. ‘The action was not premeditated. It had to be taken forthwith in order to meet a grave situation which had suddenly developed. It did not admit of any previous reference to Government.’
A member shouted: ‘And what about the Chief Minister?’
The Speaker of the House, a learned but not normally very assertive man who was dressed in a kurta and dhoti, looked down from his high platform below the seal of Purva Pradesh—a great pipal tree—and said: ‘These short-order starred questions are addressed specifically to the honourable Home Minister, and his answers must be taken to be sufficient.’
Several voices now rose. One, dominating the others, boomed out: ‘Since the honourable Chief Minister is present in the House after his travels in other parts, perhaps he would care to oblige us with an answer even though he is not compelled by the Standing Orders to do so? I believe the House would appreciate it.’
The Chief Minister, Shri S.S. Sharma, stood up without his stick, leaned with his left hand on his dark wooden desk and looked to his left and right. He was positioned along the curve of the central well, almost exactly between L.N. Agarwal and Mahesh Kapoor. He addressed the Speaker in his nasal, rather paternal, voice, nodding his head gently as he did so: ‘I have no objection to speaking, Mr Speaker, but I have nothing to add. The action taken—call it by what name the honourable members will—was taken under the aegis of the responsible Cabinet Minister.’ There was a pause, during which it was not clear what the Chief Minister was going to add, if anything. ‘Whom I naturally support,’ he said.
He had not even sat down when the inexorable Ram Dhan came back into the fray. ‘I am much obliged to the honourable Chief Minister,’ he said, ‘but I would like to seek a clarification. By saying that he supports the Home Minister, does the Chief Minister mean to imply that he approves of the policy of the district authorities?’
Before the Chief Minister could reply, the Home Minister quickly rose again to say: ‘I hope that we have made ourselves clear on this point. It was not a case of prior approval. An inquiry was held immediately after the incident. The District Magistrate went into the matter fully and found that the very minimum force which was absolutely unavoidable was used. The Government regret that such an occasion should have arisen, but are satisfied that the finding of the District Magistrate is correct. It was accepted by practically all concerned that the authorities faced a serious situation with tact and due restraint.’
A member of the Socialist Party stood up. ‘Is it true,’ he asked, ‘that it was on the prodding of members of the bania trading community to which he belongs that the honourable Home Minister’—angry murmurs rose from the Government benches—‘let me finish—that the Minister subsequently posted troops—I mean police—throughout the length and breadth of Misri Mandi?’
‘I disallow that question,’ said the Speaker.
‘Well,’ continued the member, ‘would the honourable Minister kindly inform us on whose advice he decided on the placing of this threatening body of police?’
The Home Minister grasped the curve of hair under his cap and said: ‘Government made its own decision, bearing the totality of the situation in mind. And in the event it has proved to be effective. There is peace at last in Misri Mandi.’
A babble of indignant shouts, earnest chatter and ostentatious laughter arose on all sides. There were shouts of ‘What peace?’ ‘Shame!’ ‘Who is the DM to judge the matter?’ ‘What about the mosque?’ and so on.
‘Order! Order!’ cried the Speaker, looking flustered as another member rose to his feet and said:
‘Will the Government consider the advisability of creating machineries other than the interested district authorities for making inquiries in such cases?’
‘I do not allow this question,’ said the Speaker, shaking his head like a sparrow. ‘Under Standing Orders questions making suggestions for action are not permissible and I am not prepared to allow them during Question Time.’
It was the end of the Home Minister’s grilling on the Misri Mandi incident. Thou
gh there had been only five questions on the printed sheet, the supplementary questions had given the exchange the character almost of a cross-examination. The intervention of the Chief Minister had been more disturbing than reassuring to L.N. Agarwal. Was S.S. Sharma, in his wily, indirect way, trying to palm off full responsibility for the action on to his second-in-command? L.N. Agarwal sat down, sweating slightly, but he knew that he would have to be on his feet immediately again. And, though he prided himself on maintaining his calm in difficult circumstances, he did not relish what he would now have to face.
5.7
Begum Abida Khan slowly stood up. She was dressed in a dark blue, almost black, sari, and her pale and furious face riveted the house even before she began to speak. She was the wife of the Nawab of Baitar’s younger brother, and one of the leaders of the Democratic Party, the party that sought to protect the interests of the landowners in the face of the impending passage of the Zamindari Abolition Bill. Although a Shia, she had the reputation of being an aggressive protector of the rights of all Muslims in the new, truncated Independent India. Her husband, like his father, had been a member of the Muslim League before Independence and had left for Pakistan shortly afterwards. Despite the powerful persuasion and reproach of many relatives, she, however, had chosen not to go. ‘I’ll be useless there, sitting and gossiping. Here in Brahmpur at least I know where I am and what I can do,’ she had said. And this morning she knew exactly what she wanted to do. Looking straight at the man whom she considered to be one of the less savoury manifestations of humankind, she began her questioning from her list of starred questions.
‘Is the honourable Minister for Home Affairs aware that at least five people were killed by the police in the firing near Chowk last Friday?’
The Home Minister, who at the best of times could not stand the Begum, replied: ‘Indeed, I was not.’
It was somewhat obstructive of him not to elaborate, but he did not feel like being forthcoming before this pale harridan.
Begum Abida Khan veered from her script. ‘Will the honourable Minister inform us exactly what he is aware of?’ she inquired acidly.
‘I disallow that question,’ murmured the Speaker.
‘What would the honourable Minister say was the death toll in the firing in Chowk?’ demanded Begum Abida Khan.
‘One,’ said L.N. Agarwal.
Begum Abida Khan’s voice was incredulous: ‘One?’ she cried. ‘One?’
‘One,’ replied the Home Minister, holding up the index finger of his right hand, as if to an idiot child who had difficulty with numbers or hearing or both.
Begum Abida Khan cried out angrily: ‘If I may inform the honourable Minister, it was at least five, and I have good proof of this fact. Here are copies of the death certificates of four of the deceased. Indeed, it is likely that two more men will shortly—’
‘I rise on a point of order, Sir,’ said L.N. Agarwal, ignoring her and addressing the Speaker directly. ‘I understand that Question Time is used for getting information from and not for giving information to Ministers.’
Begum Abida Khan’s voice continued regardless: ‘—two more men will shortly be receiving such certificates of honour thanks to the henchmen of the honourable Minister. I would like to table these death certificates—these copies of death certificates.’
‘I am afraid that that is not possible under the Standing Orders. . . .’ protested the Speaker.
Begum Abida Khan waved the documents around, and raised her voice higher: ‘The newspapers have copies of them, why is the House not entitled to see them? When the blood of innocent men, of mere boys, is being callously shed—’
‘The honourable member will not use Question Time to make speeches,’ said the Speaker, and banged his gavel.
Begum Abida Khan suddenly pulled herself together, and once again addressed L.N. Agarwal.
‘Will the honourable Minister kindly inform the House on what basis he came to the total figure of one?’
‘The report was furnished by the District Magistrate, who was present at the time of the event.’
‘By “present” you mean that he ordered the mowing down of these unfortunate people, is that not so?’
L.N. Agarwal paused before answering:
‘The District Magistrate is a seasoned officer, who took whatever steps he considered the situation required. As the honourable member is aware, an inquiry under a more senior officer will shortly be made, as it is in all cases of an order to fire; and I suggest to her that we wait until such time as the report is published before we give vent to speculation.’
‘Speculation?’ burst out Begum Abida Khan. ‘Speculation? Do you call this speculation? You should be—the honourable Minister’—she emphasized the word maananiya or honourable—‘the honourable Minister should be ashamed of himself. I have seen the corpses of two men with these very eyes. I am not speculating. If it were the blood of his own co-religionists that was flowing in the streets, the honourable Minister would not “wait until such time”. We know of the overt and tacit support he gives that foul organization the Linga Rakshak Samiti, set up expressly to destroy the sanctity of our mosque—’
The House was getting increasingly excited under her oratory, inappropriate though it may have been. L.N. Agarwal was grasping his curve of grey hair with his right hand, tense as a claw, and—having cast his calm demeanour to the winds—was glaring at her at every scornful ‘honourable’. The frail-looking Speaker made another attempt to stem the flow:
‘The honourable member may perhaps need reminding that according to my Question List, she has three starred questions remaining.’
‘I thank you, Sir,’ said Begum Abida Khan. ‘I shall come to them. In fact I shall ask the next one immediately. It is very germane to the subject. Will the honourable Minister of Home Affairs inform us whether prior to the firings in Chowk a warning to disperse was read out under Section 144 of the Criminal Procedure Code? If so, when? If not, why not?’
Brutally and angrily L.N. Agarwal replied:
‘It was not. It could not have been. There was no time to do so. If people start riots for religious reasons and attempt to destroy temples they must accept the consequences. Or mosques, of course, for that matter—’
But now Begum Abida Khan was almost shouting. ‘Riot? Riot? How does the honourable Minister come to the conclusion that that was the intention of the crowd? It was the time of evening prayer. They were proceeding to the mosque—’
‘From all reports, it was obvious. They were rushing forward violently, shouting with their accustomed zealotry, and brandishing weapons,’ said the Home Minister.
There was uproar.
A member of the Socialist Party cried: ‘Was the honourable Minister present?’
A member of the Congress Party said: ‘He can’t be everywhere.’
‘But this was brutal,’ shouted someone else. ‘They fired at point-blank range.’
‘Honourable members are reminded that the Minister is to answer his own questions,’ cried the Speaker.
‘I thank you, Sir—’ began the Home Minister. But to his utter amazement and, indeed, horror, a Muslim member of the Congress Party, Abdus Salaam, who happened also to be Parliamentary Secretary to the Revenue Minister, now rose to ask: ‘How could such a grave step—an order to fire—have been taken without either giving due warning to disperse or attempting to ascertain the intention of the crowd?’
That Abdus Salaam should have risen to his feet shocked the House. In a sense it was not clear where he was addressing the question—he was looking at an indeterminate point somewhere to the right of the great seal of Purva Pradesh above the Speaker’s chair. He seemed, in fact, to be thinking aloud. He was a scholarly young man, known particularly for his excellent understanding of land tenure law, and was one of the chief architects of the Purva Pradesh Zamindari Abolition Bill. That he should make common cause with a leader of the Democratic Party—the party of the zamindars—on this issue, stunned members
of all parties. Mahesh Kapoor himself was surprised at this intervention by his Parliamentary Secretary and turned around with a frown, not entirely pleased. The Chief Minister scowled. L.N. Agarwal was gripped with outrage and humiliation. Several members of the House were on their feet, waving their order papers, and no one, not even the Speaker, could be clearly heard. It was becoming a free-for-all.
When, after repeated thumps of the Speaker’s gavel, a semblance of order was restored, the Home Minister, though still in shock, rose to ask:
‘May I know, Sir, whether a Parliamentary Secretary to a Minister is authorized to put questions to Government?’
Abdus Salaam, looking around in bewilderment, amazed by the furore he had unwittingly caused, said: ‘I withdraw.’
But now there were cries of: ‘No, no!’ ‘How can you do that?’ and ‘If you won’t ask it, I will.’
The Speaker sighed.
‘As far as procedure is concerned, every member is at liberty to put questions,’ he ruled.
‘Why then?’ asked a member angrily. ‘Why was it done? Will the honourable Minister answer or not?’
‘I did not catch the question,’ said L.N. Agarwal. ‘I believe it has been withdrawn.’
‘I am asking, like the other member, why no one found out what the crowd wanted? How did the DM know it was violent?’ repeated the member.
‘There should be an adjournment motion on this,’ cried another.
‘The Speaker already has such a notice with him,’ said a third.
Over all this rose the piercing voice of Begum Abida Khan: ‘It was as brutal as the violence of Partition. A youth was killed who was not even part of the demonstration. Would the honourable Minister for Home Affairs care to explain how this happened?’ She sat down and glared.
‘Demonstration?’ said L.N. Agarwal with an air of forensic triumph.