A Suitable Boy, Page 96

  ‘It is this sovereign trust, this sovereign trust, my Lords, that the legislature of Purva Pradesh has delegated to the executive in the Zamindari Abolition Act. Its date of activation; the sequence of the taking over of the estates of the zamindars, these decisions (quite possibly arbitrary, whimsical, even malicious) to be taken in many cases by very junior officials of the administration; the terms of the bonds sought to be offered by way of compensation, and the mix of cash and bonds; and many other points not merely of detail but of substance. My Lords, this is no mere filling in of details, this is improper delegation of authority, and the act, even if there were no other grounds, would be invalid on these grounds alone.’

  Small, cheerful Mr Shastri, the Advocate-General, rose smilingly to his feet. His stiff white collar had gone limp with sweat. ‘Your Lordships please. A slight cor-rec-tion to my learned friend. Date of vesting is au-to-ma-tic with President’s assent. So act is ac-ti-va-ted at once.’ Although this was his first interruption, it was offered with undramatic and amiable courtesy. Mr Shastri’s English was not elegant (he pronounced ‘carte blanche’, for instance, as ‘ka-thee bi-lan-chee’), nor his manner of advocacy fluent. But he argued superbly if simply from first principles (or, as his irreverent juniors might say, prin-ci-ples), and there were few lawyers in the state, perhaps in the country, who were a match for him.

  ‘I am obliged to my learned friend for his clarification,’ said G.N. Bannerji, leaning forward on the lectern once more. ‘I was referring, my Lords, not so much to the date of vesting, which, as my learned friend points out, is immediate, but to the dates of the taking over of the estates.’

  ‘Surely, Mr Bannerji,’ said the large judge to the right of the Chief Justice, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, ‘you cannot expect the government to take over all the estates simultaneously? That would be administratively unworkable.’

  ‘My Lord,’ said G.N. Bannerji, ‘it is not a question of simultaneity but equity. That is what worries me, my Lord. Guidelines could have been laid down in several ways—on the basis of income, for instance, or geography. The present act, however, enables the administration to pick and choose. If, for instance, they decide tomorrow that they do not like some particular zamindar, say the Raja of Marh, because he is too vocal on some issue that goes against the policy or even the interests of the government, they may under the impugned act issue an immediate notification that his estates in Purva Pradesh will be taken over. This is a gateway to tyranny, my Lords, a gateway to nothing less than tyranny.’

  The Raja of Marh, who, owing to both heat and sloth, had been drowsing off while leaning further and further forward in his chair, suddenly came back to life on hearing his name. He floundered around in confusion for some time, unable to place himself in his surroundings after his fleshly dreams.

  He tugged the gown of a junior lawyer who was seated in front of him.

  ‘What did he say? What is he saying about me?’ he demanded.

  The lawyer turned around, his hand raised slightly upwards in a gesture of placation. He whispered an explanation. The Raja of Marh stared blankly and uncomprehendingly at him, then, sensing that nothing had been said that harmed his interests, became somnolent once again.

  Thus the argument progressed. Those outsiders who had come with the expectation of high or low drama were deeply disappointed. Many of the litigants themselves were mystified by what was going on. They did not know that Bannerji would be on his feet for five days on behalf of the applicants, that this would be followed by five days of Shastri for the state and two final days for Bannerji’s rebuttal. They had expected skirmishes and fireworks, the clang of sword on shield. What they were getting instead was an ecumenical but soporific fricassee of Hodge v. The Queen, Jatindra Nath Gupta v. Province of Bihar, and Schechter Poultry Corp. v. United States.

  But the lawyers—especially those at the back of the court, who were not involved in the case—loved every minute of it. This, for them, was indeed the clang of sword on shield. They were aware that G.N. Bannerji’s manner of constitutional argument, very different in this case from the statute-and-precedent traditions of British and therefore Indian advocacy, had come to be of increasing importance ever since the Government of India Act of 1935 set the frame which the Constitution of India itself would follow fifteen years later. But they had never heard a case argued in such wide-ranging form before, and that too by so distinguished a barrister at such length.

  When the court adjourned at one o’clock for lunch, these lawyers streamed out, gowns flapping like bats’ wings, and joined the smaller streams of lawyers from other courtrooms. They moved towards the part of the High Court building which was occupied by the Advocates’ Association, and headed straight for the urinals, which stank frighteningly in the heat. Then they wandered off in groups to their own chambers, or to the library of the Advocates’ Association or to the coffee shop or canteen. Here they sat and discussed with avidity the merits of the case and the mannerisms of eminent senior counsel.

  11.3

  At the adjournment, the Nawab Sahib walked over to talk to Mahesh Kapoor. Upon discovering that he did not mean to attend the afternoon sitting, he asked him to join him for lunch at Baitar House, and Mahesh Kapoor agreed. Firoz too went over to talk for a few minutes to his father’s friend—or his friend’s father—before returning to his law-books. This was the most important case he had been associated with in his life, and he was working day and night on the small part of it that he might have to argue—or at least brief his senior in.

  The Nawab Sahib looked at him with pride and affection and told him that he would be taking the afternoon off.

  ‘But Abba, G.N. Bannerji will begin his argument on Article 14 today.’

  ‘Now remind me—’

  Firoz smiled at his father, but forbore from explaining Article 14.

  ‘But you will be here tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, perhaps. In any case, I’ll be here when your part comes up,’ said the Nawab Sahib, stroking his beard with a look of affectionate amusement in his eyes.

  ‘It’s your part too, Abba—lands granted by crown grant.’

  ‘Yes.’ The Nawab Sahib sighed. ‘Anyway, both I and the man who wants to wrest them away from me have been wearied by all this brilliance, and we’re going off for lunch. But tell me, Firoz, why don’t they close the courts at this time of year? The heat is dreadful. Doesn’t the Patna High Court take its vacation in May and June?’

  ‘Well, I suppose we follow the Calcutta model,’ said Firoz. ‘But don’t ask me why. Well, Abba, I’ll be off.’

  The two old friends wandered into the corridor, where the heat hit them like a blast, and from there to the Nawab Sahib’s car. Mahesh Kapoor instructed his driver to follow them to Baitar House. In the car both studiously avoided discussing the case or its implications, which, in a sense, was a pity because it would have been interesting to know what they would have said. Mahesh Kapoor could not, however, refrain from saying:

  ‘Tell me when Firoz is going to argue. I’ll come and listen.’

  ‘I’ll do so. That’s very friendly of you.’ The Nawab Sahib smiled. Although he had not intended it, perhaps his remark would be interpreted as ironic. He was reassured when his friend continued:

  ‘Why—he’s like my nephew.’ After a pause, Mahesh Kapoor added: ‘But isn’t Karlekar leading him in the case?’

  ‘Yes, but his brother is very ill, and he may have to go back to Bombay. If that’s the case, Firoz will have to argue in his place.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was a pause.

  ‘What news of Maan?’ asked the Nawab Sahib at last, as they got out at Baitar House. ‘We’ll eat in the library; we won’t be disturbed there.’

  Mahesh Kapoor’s face darkened.

  ‘If I know him, he’s still infatuated with that wretched woman. I wish I’d never asked her to sing at Prem Nivas on Holi. It all came about because of that evening.’

  The Nawab Sahib was s
ilent, but he seemed to have stiffened at the words.

  ‘Keep an eye on your son too,’ said Mahesh Kapoor with a curt laugh. ‘Firoz, I mean.’

  The Nawab Sahib looked at his friend, but said nothing. His face had gone white.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Kapoor Sahib, I am all right. What were you saying about Firoz?’

  ‘He visits that house too, I’ve heard. No harm in it if it’s a brief thing, it’s not as if it’s an obsession yet—’

  ‘No!’ There was such sharp and unaccountable pain, almost horror, in the Nawab Sahib’s voice that Mahesh Kapoor was taken aback. He knew that his friend had turned religious, but he had not imagined he had become such a puritan.

  He quickly changed the subject. He talked about a couple of new bills, about how the delimitation of constituencies throughout the country was expected any day now, about the endless troubles in the Congress Party—both at the state level between him and Agarwal, and at the Centre between Nehru and the right wing.

  ‘Why, I, even I, am thinking that this party is no longer a home for me,’ said the Minister of Revenue. ‘An old teacher—a freedom fighter—came to me the other day and said a number of things that I’ve been thinking over. Perhaps I should leave the Congress. I believe that if Nehru could be persuaded to leave the party and fight the next elections on his own platform and with a new party, he would win. I would follow him, as would many others.’

  But even this startling and momentous confidence provoked no response from the Nawab Sahib. He was equally abstracted at lunch. Indeed, he appeared to have difficulty not only in speaking much but in swallowing his food.

  11.4

  Two evenings later, all the lawyers for the zamindars and a couple of the clients themselves met in G.N. Bannerji’s hotel room. He held these conferences from about six to eight each evening in order to prepare for the next day’s arguments. Today, however, there was a dual purpose to the conference. First, the other lawyers were present to help him prepare for the morning session, when he would wind up his opening of the case. Secondly, he too had been requested today to give them advice for their own arguments of the afternoon, when they would be pleading their own particular sections of the case before the bench. G.N. Bannerji was happy to help them, but even more keen to see them go at eight o’clock sharp so that he could enjoy his evening in his standard manner with the person whom the juniors gossiped about as his ‘lady-love’: a Mrs Chakravarti, whom he had installed in great style (and at the expense of his clients) in a railway saloon on a siding at Brahmpur Junction.

  Everyone arrived promptly at six. The local seniors and juniors brought the law-books and a waiter brought cups of tea. G.N. Bannerji complained about the fans in the hotel and about the tea. He was looking forward later to a Scotch or three.

  ‘Sir, I have been waiting to say how fine your argument on public purpose was this afternoon.’ This was a local senior lawyer.

  The great G.N. Bannerji smiled. ‘Yes, you saw how the Chief Justice appreciated the point about the connection between public purpose and public benefit.’

  ‘Justice Maheshwari did not seem to.’ This was guaranteed to provoke a response.

  ‘Maheshwari!’ The junior member of the bench was dismissed in a single word.

  ‘But, Sir, his comment about the Land Revenue Commission will have to be answered,’ piped up one enthusiastic junior.

  ‘What he says is not important. He sits still for two days, then asks two stupid questions, one after another.’

  ‘Quite right, Sir,’ said Firoz quietly. ‘You addressed the second point at length in yesterday’s argument.’

  ‘He’s read the whole Ramayana, and still doesn’t know whose father Sita is!’ This twist to the standard witticism provoked laughter, some of it slightly sycophantic.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued G.N. Bannerji, ‘we should concentrate on the arguments of the Chief Justice and Mr Justice Bailey. They are the best brains on the bench and they will sway the judgement. Is there anything they said that we might deal with?’

  Firoz said, a little hesitantly: ‘Sir, if I may. It seems to me from Mr Justice Bailey’s comments that he is not convinced by your imputation of motives to the state in separating the two payments. You made the point, Sir, that the state had by sleight of hand divided the payment into two parts—the compensation proper and a rehabilitation grant. And that their motive in doing so was to get around the conclusions of the judges of the Patna High Court in the Bihar zamindari case. But would it not in fact be to our advantage to accept the government’s contention that the rehabilitation grant and compensation are separate?’

  G.N. Bannerji said: ‘No, why? Why should we accept their contention? Anyway, let’s see what the Advocate-General has to say. I can reply to all that later.’ He turned away.

  Firoz ventured on, rather earnestly: ‘I mean, Sir, if it could be proved that even an ex-gratia payment like a rehabilitation grant can be thrown out under Article 14.’

  G.N. Bannerji’s rather pompous grandson cut Firoz off: ‘Article 14 was fully argued on the second day.’ He was trying to protect his grandfather from what seemed to be a perverse point. To accept the government’s contention on such an important point would surely be to throw away their own case.

  But G.N. Bannerji silenced his grandson in Bengali with, ‘Aachha, choop koré thako!’ and turned to Firoz with his finger pointed upwards. ‘Say that again,’ he said. ‘Say that again.’

  Firoz repeated his comment, then elaborated it.

  G.N. Bannerji considered the point, then wrote something in his red notebook. Turning to Firoz he said, ‘Find me whatever American case-law you can on the point, and bring it here to me at eight tomorrow morning.’

  Firoz said, ‘Yes, Sir.’ His eyes were shining with pleasure.

  G.N. Bannerji said: ‘This is a dangerous weapon to use. It could go badly wrong. I wonder if at this stage—’ He went off into his thoughts. ‘Bring me the cases anyway, and I will see. Let me see the mood of the court. All right, anything else on Article 14?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Where is Karlekar?’

  ‘Sir, his brother has died and he has had to leave for Bombay. He got the telegram just a few hours ago—while you were on your feet.’

  ‘I see. And who is his junior for the crown grant writs?’

  ‘I am, Sir,’ said Firoz.

  ‘You have a momentous day ahead of you, young man. I imagine you will handle it.’ Firoz glowed at this unexpected praise, and it was hard for him not to grin.

  ‘Sir, if you have any suggestions—’ he said.

  ‘Not really. Just argue that the crown grants conferred absolute rights in perpetuity, and the grantees are therefore not like other intermediaries. But all this is obvious. If I think of something else I’ll tell you tomorrow morning when you come here. On second thoughts, come ten minutes earlier.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  The conference continued for an hour and a half. But G.N. Bannerji was becoming restless, and everyone felt that the great lawyer should not be overtaxed when he still had to argue the next day. The questions had not dried up, however, when he took off his spectacles, pointed two fingers upwards and said the single word:

  ‘Aachha.’

  It was the signal for people to gather up their papers.

  Outside, it was getting dark. On the way out, a couple of juniors, unconscious of the fact that they were still within earshot of G.N. Bannerji’s son and grandson, were gossiping about the lawyer from Calcutta.

  ‘Have you seen his lady-love?’ asked one.

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ said the other.

  ‘I hear she is a real firecracker.’

  The other laughed. ‘Over seventy, and he has a lady-love!’

  ‘But think of Mrs Bannerji! What must she think? The whole world knows.’

  The other shrugged, as if to imply that what a Mrs Bannerji might think was outside either his concern or his imagi
nation.

  The son and grandson of the great lawyer heard this exchange though they did not see the shrug. They frowned to themselves, but said nothing to each other, and tacitly allowed the subject to drift away on the evening air.

  11.5

  The next day G.N. Bannerji wound up the opening for the petitioners, and several other counsel argued for short periods about their own specific points. Firoz too got his chance.

  For a few moments before Firoz got to his feet, his mind plunged suddenly into an inexplicable blackness—an emptiness, almost. He could see all his arguments lucidly, but could see no point to anything at all—this case, his career, his father’s lands, the scheme of things of which this court and this Constitution were a part, his own existence, even human life itself. The disproportionate strength of the feelings he was undergoing—and the irrelevance of these feelings to the business at hand—bewildered him.

  He shuffled his papers for a while, and his mind cleared. But now he was so nervous, so puzzled by the untimely incursion of these thoughts, that at first he had to hide his hands behind the lectern.

  He began with the formulary remark: ‘My Lords, I adopt the arguments of Mr G.N. Bannerji on all the main points, but would like to add my own arguments with respect to the question of the lands covered by crown grants.’ He then argued with great force of logic that these lands fell into a different category from the others, and were protected by contract and proclamation from ever being taken over. The bench listened to him appreciatively; and he defended his contention against their questions as well as he could. His curious uncertainty had disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen.

  Mahesh Kapoor had taken time off from his heavy workload to come and hear Firoz. Though he listened with warmth and enjoyment to Firoz’s arguments he felt that it would be a disaster if the court accepted them. A fair proportion of the rented land in Purva Pradesh fell under the category of grants given by the crown after the Mutiny in order to establish order once more through the intermediation of powerful local men. Some of these, like the Nawab Sahib’s ancestor, had fought against the British; but it had been felt that they and their families could not with safety be antagonized further. The grants were therefore given subject to good behaviour—but to nothing else.