by Paul Scott
Rowan, while talking, had come round to the other side of the table and stood with his back to her. He took some papers from the briefcase. She saw him hesitate over the buff envelope which she had returned to his care.
He said, ‘Although H.E. handed this envelope to me without explaining what was in it I gather it’s a photograph of the man in question. I feel I ought to warn you that if so it was probably taken the year before last, sometime in August 1942. There are bound to be changes.’ He put the envelope back in the briefcase. He looked round the table, then walked across to the door under the clock, opened it and went out.
She glanced at the clock. It showed about a quarter of a minute short of ten-thirty. The door on the left of the room opened. The clerk came in – a middle-aged Indian with a balding head and gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore a home-spun cotton shirt and dhoti. His feet, sockless, were tucked into black leather shoes. He came down to a chair placed several feet to the left-rear of the table almost out of her sight, and sat. The sounds he made were clearly relayed. She could just make out his crossed legs and the shorthand notebook which he held ready on his knee. He made a few marks on it with his fountain pen, testing the nib and the flow of ink. Satisfied, he put the cap back on the pen and began to adjust the folds of his dhoti. It seemed an act of vanity, like that of a woman wearing a long-skirted dress making sure it hung gracefully. She particularly noted the action. The clerk was unaware of the presence of an invisible audience. He coughed, cleared his throat, began to tap the pen on the notebook; puk, puk, puk. She found herself fighting a tickle in her own throat and then remembered that no one could hear her if she coughed to clear it. She did so. The tapping continued uninterrupted: puk, puk, puk, puk.
Abruptly the door under the clock opened again – the tapping stopped and the clerk stood – and Captain Rowan entered followed by the official from the Secretariat – a lean elderly Indian wearing a grey chalk stripe suit and a pink tie. He carried a black document case. He cast an upward glance in the direction of the grille, then came and sat with Captain Rowan. Their backs were towards her. They sat with plenty of space between them. Midway, on the other side of the table, the empty chair faced her directly and her view of it was not obscured. The crackling of the papers the two men were leafing through was now the only sound.
‘Shall we begin?’ Captain Rowan asked suddenly.
The lean Indian’s voice was soft and low-pitched.
‘Oh yes. I am quite ready if you are.’
‘Tell them we are ready, Babuji.’
The clerk went to the door in the right-hand wall, opened it and spoke to someone in Hindi, then closed the door again and went back to his chair.
For an instant Lady Manners closed her eyes. When she opened them the room still contained only the three men. Her hand tugged at the pleats and mother-of-pearl buttons and then lay inert. She breathed in and out slowly in an attempt to slow her heart-beat. The door opened again. She could not see who opened it because it opened on a side that would hide whoever entered until he was inside the room out of range of the door’s arc. For a moment or so the door remained as it was at an angle of ninety degrees to the wall and no one came from behind it.
When he did he came hesitantly – a dark-skinned man dressed in loose-fitting grey trousers and a loose-fitting collarless grey jacket buttoned down the front. He wore chappals without socks. Having emerged beyond the range of the door he stopped and glanced at the occupants of the table and then at a man who was holding him by the right arm – to guide or restrain, or both; it wasn’t easy to tell. The other man was in uniform – khaki shirt and shorts. He wore a pugree and carried a short baton. The hand on the arm suggested authority but also aid or comfort such as might be given in an unfamiliar situation to a man who normally gave no trouble, whose mind and body were disciplined to routine and were slow to respond to unusual demands.
The hand was on the arm for no longer than a few seconds. The guard let go, came to attention and dismissed, closing the door behind him. The man in the floppy collarless jacket and trousers stood alone.
‘Sit down, please,’ Captain Rowan said. He indicated the chair.
It was the same profile as in the photograph: the same neat, masculine ear. But not the same. The face of the man in the photograph had been held erect, was well fleshed; a dark, handsome face with hair that curled – a bit unruly on the forehead. This man’s hair looked as though it had been cropped some months ago and had not grown out in its former fashion. Under the brown pigment of the face there was a pallor. The cheek was hollow. The head looked heavy, as if long stretches of time had been spent by the man, seated, legs apart, hands clasped between them, eyes cast down, considering the floor, the configuration of the stone. He moved towards the table, stood by the chair, still in profile.
‘Baitho,’ the official from the Home and Law department repeated.
The man extended his right hand, clutched the back of the chair and then with an awkward movement twisted round and sat, holding the back until the weight and position of his body forced him to release it. He gazed down at the table. His shoulders were hunched. It looked as if he might have his hands between his knees.
‘Kya, ham Hindi yah Angrezi men bolna karenge?’ Captain Rowan asked.
Briefly she had an impression from the man’s glance at Rowan of eyes startlingly alert, in sockets which compared to those she recalled from the photograph were large and deeply shadowed. The man looked down again.
He said, ‘Angrezi.’ The voice was notably clear.
‘Very well. In English, then.’
Rowan opened a file.
‘Your name is Kumar, your given name – Hari.’
‘Han.’
‘Son of the late Duleep Kumar of Didbury in the county of Berkshire, England.’
‘Han.’
‘At the time of your detention you were living at number 12 Chillianwallah Bagh in Mayapore, a district of this province.’
‘Han.’
‘The occupier of the house in Chillianwallah Bagh being your aunt, Shalini Gupta Sen, née Kumar, widow of Prakash Gupta Sen.’
‘Han.’
‘You were taken into custody on August the ninth, nineteen forty-two by order of the District Superintendent of Police, in Mayapore, and detained for examination. On August the twenty-fourth as a result of that and subsequent examinations an order for your detention under Rule 26 of the Defence of India Rules was made and you were thereupon transferred in custody to the Kandipat jail, Kandipat, Ranpur, where you have remained in accordance with the terms of the order.’
‘Han.’
‘I understood you elected to speak in English. So far you have answered in Hindi. Do you therefore wish to have these proceedings conducted in Hindi and not English?’
Again Kumar looked up from the table, but this time his glance was not brief and only now was she convinced that the man in the room was the man in the photograph and the conviction did not come from the speaking of his name or his acknowledgement of it but from the sudden resemblance to the photograph that had become superimposed on his prison face, the prison structure of bone. The resemblance, she thought, must lie in the expression. He gazed at Captain Rowan in the way that he had gazed to order into the lens of a camera – as into a precision instrument that could do no more than the job it was designed for and could not penetrate beyond whatever line it was he had drawn and chosen to make his stand behind, the demarcation line between the public acceptance of humiliation and the defence of whatever sense he had of a private dignity.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said – and she shut her eyes, to listen only to the voice – ‘it was a slip. I seldom have the opportunity of speaking English to anyone except myself.’
A pause.
‘I understand,’ another voice said above her head. She kept her eyes shut. The voices were those of two Englishmen talking. ‘These proceedings,’ the second of the two voices went on, ‘are authorized by an order of the Governor in
Council dated the fifteenth of May, nineteen hundred and forty-four and the purpose of the proceedings is to examine any facts relevant in your case to the detention order under the Defence of India Rule. You may if you wish decline to submit to the examination, in which case the proceedings will be terminated immediately. I am also instructed to advise you that the purpose of the proceedings is to examine and not to make a recommendation in regard to your detention. You should not assume that refusal or acceptance of the examination or the examination itself will have any bearing on the order for your detention or upon its eventual termination. On that understanding I now ask you whether you decline or submit to the examination.’
A pause.
‘I submit to the examination on that undertaking.’
‘Your submission is recorded. In the case of Kumar, Hari, son of the late Duleep Kumar, at present lodged in the Kandipat jail, Kandipat, Ranpur, under warrant dated August twenty-four, nineteen hundred and forty-two, Rule 26, Defence of India Rules, and in accordance with order dated fifteen May nineteen forty-four, of the Governor in Council, Government House, Ranpur, Captain Nigel Robert Alexander Rowan and Mr Vallabhai Ramaswamy Gopal examining. Examinee not under oath. Transcript of proceedings for submission on confidential file to His Excellency the Governor, copy on the confidential file to the Member for Home and Law, Executive Council.’
Again a pause. She opened her eyes. Kumar still sat with his shoulders hunched. He had returned to his contemplation of the table, as if in deference to a formal rigmarole that was no particular concern of his, but as the silence lengthened, was filled by nothing more enlivening to the ears than the sound of Captain Rowan adjusting and checking the papers in front of him, Kumar glanced up again to stare at his chief examiner and again she was struck by the alertness his eyes – and the clarity of his voice – were evidence of. She could not interpret it beyond that. Impossible to say whether he sensed danger or saw the examination as a source of hope. It could be either. It could be both. But whichever it was the alertness and the clarity betrayed the presence of the man inside the hunched submissive figure of the prisoner.
‘Since a detention order under the Defence of India Rules is made without recourse to trial in the criminal courts,’ Captain Rowan began, ‘the documentary evidence in front of this examining board consists of summaries of evidence, statements and submissions by the civil authorities of the district in which you resided. In this instance, which involved five other men as well as yourself, the documents were submitted to the office of the Divisional Commissioner before the order for detention was made on you and these five other men. We are however only concerned with these documents as they relate to you. It is not within the terms of reference of this board to disclose the details of these documents to you, but it is upon them that we shall base our questions. I shall begin by reading to you a list of names. The question I ask in each case is – were you at the time of your detention personally acquainted with the man whose name I read out. I invite you to answer yes or no as the case may be, after each name. With the name I shall give a brief description – for example occupation – to reduce the risk of confusion. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘The first name is S. V. Vidyasagar, sub-editor employed on the Mayapore Hindu, originally employed as a reporter on the Mayapore Gazette. Were you acquainted with this man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Narayan Lal, employed as a clerk in the Mayapore Book Depot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nirmal Bannerjee, unemployed, graduate in electrical engineering of the Mayapore Technical College, son of B. N. Bannerjee, a clerk in the offices of Dewas Chand Lal, Contractor.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bapu Ram, trainee at the British-Indian Electrical Company’s factory, Mayapore.’
‘Yes.’
‘Moti Lal, last employed as a clerk at the warehouse of Romesh Chand Gupta Sen, contractor of Mayapore, sentenced to six months imprisonment in 1941 under section 188 of the Penal Code. Escaped from custody during February 1942, and according to this document not apprehended at the date of the document’s origin.’
‘Yes.’
‘Puranmal Mehta, stenographer employed in the office of the Imperial Bank of India, Mayapore.’
‘Yes.’
‘Gopi Lal, unemployed, son of one Shankar Lal described as a hotel-keeper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pandit B. N. V. Baba, of B-1, Chillianwallah Bazaar road, Mayapore, described as a teacher.’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall now divide those names into two groups. In the first we have two names – S. V. Vidyasagar and Pandit Baba. The questions I shall ask relate to the kind of acquaintanceship you had with these men. In the case of Pandit Baba the records at my disposal, those on your case file, give me no idea why at the time of your arrest you were asked what you knew of him. Perhaps that would be clear after a study of the case files of the other men arrested at the same time as yourself, but those case files are not available to this examining board because they aren’t pertinent to this examination. I would stress the latter point to you. This board examines you wholly on the basis of the file pertaining to your own arrest and subsequent detention. In other words, you are examined by a board unprejudiced by anything that is recorded in the cases of the other men arrested. My first question, with regard to Pandit Baba, is therefore this: Would you tell the board why – in your opinion – you were asked what your relationship with him was? I would remind you that your reply to this question as recorded in the file was to the effect that you had nothing to say. In fact ninety-nine per cent of your recorded replies to questions were to that same effect. I hope the same situation isn’t going to arise this morning. Will you then answer the question? Why should you have been asked if you knew this Pandit Baba? Have you any idea?’
There was an appreciable pause but when Kumar spoke any initial hesitancy he might have felt to answer questions was quite absent from the tone of voice.
‘I believe he was thought to have a lot of influence over young Indians of the educated class.’
‘Who thought this?’
‘The civil authorities in Mayapore.’
‘Including the police?’
‘Yes. The police once had him in for questioning because one of his disciples got into trouble.’
‘Disciples?’
‘Young men who gathered round him to listen to him talk.’
‘What sort of trouble had this particular follower got into?’
‘I believe he’d published or distributed a political pamphlet, or made a speech. I forget which.’
‘Were you one of Pandit Baba’s followers?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know the man who got into trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Then who told you about this affair?’
‘I heard it as a matter of course. I was employed on the Mayapore Gazette. In a newspaper office you hear quite a lot that never becomes common knowledge.’
‘What happened to the man who published this pamphlet or made this speech?’
‘He was sent to prison.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I forget.’
‘What happened to the Pandit?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How well did you know Pandit Baba?’
‘I knew him as a man my aunt hired to try to teach me an Indian language.’ A pause. ‘He smelt strongly of garlic.’ A pause. ‘He was very unpunctual.’ A pause. ‘The lessons weren’t a success.’
‘When was this?’
‘In 1938.’
‘He tried to teach you Hindustani?’
‘Yes.’
‘Until then you knew no Indian language at all?’
‘None.’
A rustle of paper. Then Gopal’s voice: ‘I have several points in regard to the detenu’s early background and I should like to raise them at this juncture.’
Rowan nodded. Gopal addressed Kum
ar direct:
‘Your father took you to England when you were aged two, according to this document. You were born in the United Provinces. Your father was a landowner there. Have you an inheritance in the United Provinces?’
‘No. My father sold his interest to his brothers before leaving for England.’
‘Your father never taught you your native tongue?’
A pause.
‘He was at pains to try to teach me nothing.’
‘Why?’
‘He wanted me brought up in an entirely English environment so far as that was possible. I had a governess, then a tutor. Then I went to a private school and on to Chillingborough. I didn’t see much of him.’
‘Why was he wanting this – did he tell you?’
‘He wanted me to enter the Indian Civil Service, as an Indian, but with all the advantages of an Englishman.’
‘What were those advantages, was he saying?’
‘I think he thought of them as advantages of character, manner and attitude. And language.’
‘Because he thought the English character, manner, attitude and language were superior to the Indian?’
‘No. More viable in relation to the operation of the administration.’
‘I am not fully understanding that reply.’
‘It is an English administration, based on English ideas of government. He thought an Indian at a disadvantage unless he had been trained to identify himself completely with these ideas. He admired the administration as such. He thought it would be best continued by fully Anglicized Indians.’
‘Did you share his ambition for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I knew no other.’
‘You wished to enter the Indian Civil Service and serve the administration ?’
‘Wish is the wrong word. It suggests the existence of an alternative choice and a preference for one of them. In my case I was never aware of an alternative.’