‘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 judgment. 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.’