A Suitable Boy(411)
But he was duly reported. It was clear that he had infringed the stringent rules for the examinations. On the grounds that an exception could not be made for him, his papers were cancelled and he was not allowed to appear for the remaining exams. In effect, he was to lose a year. He had appealed to the Vice-Chancellor to let him appear for the ‘compartmental’ exams; these exams, normally held in August for students who had failed in a single paper, would enable him to enter the next year if he took them as a set. His appeal had been turned down. In desperation he had turned to the possibility of a legal remedy. Firoz had agreed to be his lawyer.
Pran, being the junior member of the student welfare committee, which had been consulted in the original decision, had been asked by the Proctor to sit in on the hearings. He greeted Firoz with a nod in the courtroom, and said: ‘Let’s meet outside after this is over.’ He was not used to seeing Firoz in a black gown with white bands round his neck, and he was pleasantly impressed even while he thought it looked rather silly.
Firoz had filed a writ petition on the student’s behalf, claiming that his rights under the Constitution had been infringed. The Chief Justice made short work of his submission. He told him that hard cases made bad law; that the university could be trusted to act as its own overseeing authority unless the process of such oversight was blatantly unfair, as was not the case here; and that if the student insisted – unwisely, in his view – on recourse to the law, he should have been advised to file a suit with the local magistrate, not to come directly with a writ to the High Court. Writs to the High Court were a newfangled device that had come in under the recent Constitution, and the Chief Justice did not much care for them. He felt they were used far too often simply in order to jump the queue.
He cocked his head to one side, and said, looking down at Firoz: ‘I see no reason for a writ at all, young man. Your client should have gone to a munsif magistrate. If he wasn’t satisfied with his decision he could have gone to the District Judge on appeal, and then come here on further appeal. You should spend a little time choosing the appropriate forum rather than wasting the time of this court. Writs and suits are two quite different things, young man, two quite different things.’
Outside the court, Firoz was fuming. He had advised his client not ‘to attend the hearing, and he had been glad he had. He himself had been shaken by the injustice of it all. And for the Chief Justice to have rebuked him, to have implied that he had not considered the proper forum – that too was intolerable. He had helped argue the zamindari case before this very judge in this very courtroom; the Chief Justice must know that he was not given to flippant arguments and unconsidered recourse. Nor did Firoz like being called ‘young man’ unless it was imbedded in an approving remark.
Pran, whose heart was on the student’s side, sympathized with Firoz. He patted him on his shoulder.
‘It’s the correct recourse,’ said Firoz, loosening the bands around his neck as if they were constraining the flow of blood to his head. ‘In a few years writs will be the accepted method in such cases. Suits are just too slow. August would have come and gone by the time we got a hearing.’ He paused, and added passionately: ‘I hope they’re flooded with writs soon.’ Then, with a slight smile, he remarked: ‘Of course, this old man will have retired by then. He and all his brethren.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pran. ‘I know what I meant to ask you. Where’s Maan?’
‘Is he back?’ said Firoz with pleasure. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, I’m asking you. I haven’t heard and I thought you might have.’
‘Am I your brother’s keeper?’ said Firoz. ‘Well, I suppose, after a fashion, I am,’ he went on, gently. ‘Or wouldn’t mind being. But no, I haven’t heard. I thought he might be here by now, what with his nephew and all that. But, as I said, I haven’t heard from him. Nothing to worry about, I hope?’
‘No, no, nothing. My mother’s worried. You know how mothers are.’
Firoz smiled slightly ruefully, rather in the way his mother used to smile. He looked very handsome at that moment.
‘Well,’ said Pran, changing the subject. ‘Are you your own brother’s keeper? Why haven’t I seen Imtiaz for so many days? Perhaps you can let him take a stroll outside his cage.’
‘We hardly see him ourselves, you know. He’s out all the time visiting some patient or other. The only way to get his attention is to fall ill.’ And here Firoz quoted an Urdu couplet about how the beloved was both the illness and the medicine, not to mention the doctor whose visit made it all worthwhile. Had the Chief Justice been listening he could have been excused for saying, ‘I fail to see the relevance of this particular submission.’