A Suitable Boy(393)

‘What is so important that you can’t visit him?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor after a while. Her husband had turned back to the newspaper.

‘Yesterday’s Cause List,’ replied her husband laconically. But Mrs Mahesh Kapoor persisted, and the Minister for Revenue explained, as one would to an idiot, that the Cause List of the Brahmpur High Court contained a bench-by-bench list of the next day’s agenda; and that the judgment in the zamindari case would be announced in the Chief Justice’s court at ten o’clock that morning.

‘And after that?’

‘After that? After that – whatever the verdict is – I will have to decide what the next step must be. I’ll be closeted with the Advocate-General and Abdus Salaam and God knows who else. And then, when I return to Patna, with the Chief Minister and – why am I explaining all this to you?’ He returned pointedly to his newspaper.

‘Can’t you leave for Patna after seven o’clock? Evening visiting hours are from five to seven.’

Mahesh Kapoor put the newspaper down, and almost yelled: ‘Can’t a man have peace in his own house? Pran’s mother, do you know what is happening in this country? The Congress is threatening to split down the middle, people are defecting left and right to this new party.’ He stopped, then continued with increasing emotion: ‘Everyone who is decent is leaving. P.C. Ghosh has gone, Prakasam has gone, both Kripalani and his wife have gone. They are accusing us, rightly enough, of “corruption, nepotism, and robbery”. Rafi Sahib, with his usual circus skills, is attending the meetings of both parties – and has got himself elected to the board of this new thing, this KMPP, this Peasants’ and Workers’ Peoples’ Party! And Nehru himself is threatening to resign from the Congress. “We also are tired,” he says.’ Mahesh Kapoor gave an impatient snort before repeating the last phrase. ‘And your own husband feels much the same,’ he continued. ‘This is not why I spent years of my life in prison. I am sick of the Congress Party, and I too am thinking of leaving it. I have to go to Patna, do you understand, and I have to go to Patna this afternoon. Every hour the shape of things is changing, at every meeting there’s some new crisis or other. God knows what is being decided for this state in my absence. Agarwal is in Patna, yes, Agarwal, Agarwal, who should be clearing up the Pul Mela mess, he’s in Patna, manoeuvring endlessly, giving as much support to Tandon and as much trouble to Nehru as he possibly can. And you ask me why I won’t defer going back to Patna. Bhaskar won’t notice my absence, poor boy, and you can explain my reasons to Veena – if you remember one-tenth of them. You take the car. I’ll find my own way to the court. Now, enough –’ And he held up his hand.

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor said nothing further. She would not change; he would not change; he knew that she would not change; she knew that he would not change; and each knew that the other knew this.

She took some fruit with her to the hospital, and he took some files with him to the court. Before departing to visit Bhaskar, she told a servant to prepare and pack some parathas for her husband so that he would have something to eat on the journey to Patna later in the day.





11.30


IT WAS a hot morning, and a scorching wind blew along the exposed corridors of the Brahmpur High Court. By nine-thirty, Courtroom Number One was packed solid. Inside the courtroom the physical atmosphere, though stuffy, was not unbearable. The long mats of khas recently suspended over a couple of the windows had been freshly sprinkled with water, converting the hot wind of June into a cooler breeze inside.

As for the emotional atmosphere, it was surcharged with suspense, excitement, and anxiety. Of those who had argued the case, only the local lawyers were present, but it seemed that the Brahmpur Bar, whether connected with the case or not, had decided en masse to attend this historic occasion. The press reporters too were present in force, and were already scribbling away. Swivelling and craning their necks in turn, they tried to catch sight of each famous litigant, each Raja or Nawab or great zamindar, whose fate hung in the balance. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the balance had already tilted, but the curtain that hid the scales was still in place. A few minutes more, and it would be drawn aside.

Mahesh Kapoor entered, talking to the Advocate-General of Purva Pradesh. The reporter for the Brahmpur Chronicle could hear only a couple of sentences as they squeezed past him up the side-aisle. ‘A trinity is sufficient to run the universe,’ said the Advocate-General, his perennial smile a little broader than usual; ‘but this case, it appears, needs two extra heads.’