12.22
THE next day, L.N. Agarwal’s fears or hopes were fulfilled. The march began peacefully when it set out from a primary school. The girls (Malati among them) marched in front so as to foil any police action, and the boys marched behind them. They shouted slogans against the government and in support of the primary schoolteachers, some of whom were marching with them. People looked out at the procession from the windows of their houses, or from the open fronts of their shops, or down from their roofs. Some of them encouraged the students, others complained about the disruption to their business. The primary schools had gone on another day’s strike, and many children waved at teachers whom they recognized. The teachers sometimes waved back. It was a clear morning, and only a few puddles remained of the previous night’s rain.
A couple of banners protested the action of the university that sought to make membership in the students’ union voluntary. Yet others protested growing unemployment. But most of them protested the plight of the primary schoolteachers and expressed their solidarity with them.
When the crowd got to within a hundred yards of the Secretariat, they found their path blocked by a large contingent of policemen armed with lathis. The students stopped. The police advanced until they were within five yards of each other. On the instructions of the DSP an Inspector told the students to either disperse or return. They refused. They had been shouting slogans all the while, but these now became more and more insulting, and embraced not only the government but the police. The police, who were the lackeys of the British, had now become the lackeys of the Congress-wallahs; they should be wearing dhotis, not shorts; and so on.
The policemen became restive. They wanted to get at the loudest slogan-mongers in the crowd. But with a cordon of girls – some wearing burqas – surrounding the boys, it was difficult for them to do anything but brandish their lathis threateningly. The students, for their part, could see that for all L.N. Agarwal’s threats, the police were carrying sticks, not firearms, and this made them bolder.
Some of them, recalling the Home Minister’s devious behind-the-scenes style, started to bait him personally; apart from rhyming his name with ‘dalal’ as they had the previous night, they invented a number of new couplets, such as:
‘Maananiya Mantri, kya hain aap?
Aadha maanav, aadha saanp.’
Minister, what form do you take?
Half a human, half a snake.
Some challenged his manhood in more direct ways. Rasheed and another office-bearer of the students’ union attempted to keep the students calm and their slogans to the purpose, but to little avail. For one thing, some of the protesters belonged to student federations over whom the newly-elected Socialist Party students’ union had no real control. For another, a certain intoxication had seized hold of the assembly. The high-minded banners now contrasted pathetically with the low-minded mockery.
Finding that the protest that he had helped organize was getting completely out of hand, Rasheed now tried to persuade at least his immediate neighbours to calm down. They did, but others did not follow. Indeed, by then, loud jeers and insults had broken out in several other groups. He tried to shout that this was not what their march or their platform was all about, but found himself becoming a subsidiary butt of their indignation. One young man from the medical college, full of wit and zeal, told him: ‘Just now you were All India Radio, now you’re a little squirrel squeaking in Agarwal’s pocket. First you try to whip us up, then you try to cool us down. We aren’t clockwork toys.’ And as if to prove his independence of the office-bearers, the boy now made his way through the protective cordon of girls and continued his pejorative peltings, retreating whenever the police advanced. His friends laughed, but Rasheed, frightened now as he looked at the faces of the police, and disgusted by what this principled march had degenerated into, turned away – and, despite the heckling of some other students, turned back. What the boy had said had had enough truth in it to make him feel sick at heart.
It was only small groups that concentrated on the worst kind of unwitty taunt. But these taunts began to antagonize most of the girls and some others in the crowd, including many teachers. They began to leave. L.N. Agarwal, who had been looking down from his office in the Secretariat, noticed with satisfaction that the protective cordon was becoming thinner, and sent a message down that the remaining students should be dispersed. ‘Teach them that lessons can be taught outside the classroom as well as inside,’ were his words to the DSP who came to him for instructions.