As soon as they were both seated, Trevor Harries had said: ‘If I may, Mr Chatterji, I’ll come straight to the point. I would like to recommend your name for judgeship to the government. Would this be acceptable to you?’
Mr Chatterji had said: ‘Chief Justice, this is an honour, but I am afraid I must decline.’
Trevor Harries had been rather taken aback. ‘Might I ask why?’
‘I hope you do not mind if I am equally direct,’ had been Mr Chatterji’s reply. ‘A junior man was appointed before me two years ago, and his comparative competence could not have been the reason.’
‘An Englishman?’
‘As it happens. I am not speculating about the reason.’
Trevor Harries had nodded. ‘I believe I know whom you are referring to. But that was done by another Chief Justice – and I thought the man was your friend.’
‘Friend he is, and I’m not talking about the friendship. But the question is one of principle.’
After a pause, Trevor Harries had continued: ‘Well, I, like you, will not speculate about the correctness of that decision. But he was a sick man, and his time was running out.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Trevor Harries had smiled. ‘Your father made an excellent judge, Mr Chatterji. Just the other day I had occasion to quote a judgment of his on the question of estoppel.’
‘I shall tell him so. He will be most pleased.’
There had been a pause. Mr Chatterji had been about to get up when the Chief Justice, with the slightest suspicion of a sigh, had said: ’Mr Chatterji, I respect you too much to wish to, well, tilt the scales of your judgment in this matter. But I don’t mind confessing my disappointment that you wish to decline. I dare say you realize that it is difficult for me to make up the loss of so many good judges at such short notice. Pakistan and England have each claimed several judges of this court. Our workload is increasing steadily, and what with the constitutional work that will be upon us soon, we will need the best new judges we can get. It is in this light that I have asked you to join, and it is in this light that I would like to ask you to reconsider your decision.’ He had paused before continuing. ‘May I take the liberty of asking you at the end of this coming week if your mind is still unchanged? If so, my regard will remain unchanged, but I will not trouble you further on this point.’
Mr Chatterji had gone home with no intention of changing his mind or of consulting anyone else on the matter. But while talking to his father, he had happened to mention what the Chief Justice had said about the 1933 judgment. ‘What did the Chief Justice want to see you about?’ his father had asked. And the story had come out.
His father had quoted a line of Sanskrit to him, to the effect that the best ornament for knowledge was humility. He had said nothing at all about duty.
Mrs Chatterji came to know about it because her husband carelessly left a little slip of paper near his bed before he went to sleep, which read: ‘CJ Fri 4:45 (?) re J’ship.’ When he woke up the next morning he found her quite cross. Again the facts came out. His wife said: ‘It’ll be much better for your health. No late night conferences with juniors. A much more balanced life.’
‘My health’s fine, dear. I thrive on the work. And Orr, Dignams have a pretty good sense of how many cases they should brief me in.’
‘Well, I like the thought of your wearing a wig and scarlet robes.’
‘I’m afraid we only wear scarlet robes when trying criminal cases on the original side. And no wig. No, there’s much less sartorial splendour in it these days.’
‘Mr Justice Chatterji. It sounds just the thing.’
‘I’m afraid I shall turn into my father.’
‘You could do worse.’
How Biswas Babu came to know of it was a complete mystery. But he did. One evening in his chambers Mr Chatterji was dictating an opinion to him when Biswas Babu addressed him unconsciously as ‘My Lord’. Mr Chatterji sat up. ‘He must have slipped back into the past for a bit,’ he thought, ‘and have imagined that I’m my father.’ But Biswas Babu looked so startled and guilty at his slip that he gave himself away. And, having given himself away, he hastily added, shaking his knees swiftly: ‘I am so pleased, although prematurely, Sir, to administer my felici –’
‘I’m not taking it, Biswas Babu,’ said Mr Chatterji, very sharply, and in Bengali.
So shocked was his clerk that he quite forgot himself. ‘Why not, Sir?’ he replied, also in Bengali: ‘Don’t you want to do justice?’
Mr Chatterji, displeased, collected himself and continued to dictate his opinion. But Biswas Babu’s words had a slow but profound effect on him. He had not said, ‘Don’t you want to be a judge?’