A Suitable Boy(431)

‘Agarwal, I am taking over this problem from you. Kindly issue no further instructions in this matter,’ said the Chief Minister. ‘But do not undo any instructions you have already issued. Let the curfew stand.’

The Chief Minister then looked at his watch, and told his personal assistant to get the Superintendent of the medical college on the telephone. He picked up the day’s newspaper, and ignored Agarwal. When the PA got through to the Superintendent, he said: ‘The Chief Minister would like to speak to you, Sir,’ and handed the phone to the Chief Minister.

‘This is Sharma speaking,’ said the Chief Minister. ‘I wish to come to the medical college immediately… No, no police, no police escort at all. Just one assistant… Yes… I am sorry to hear about the boy… Yes, well, my safety is my concern. I will avoid the students on vigil… What do you mean, impossible? Surely there must be a side gate or something. A private gate to your house? Yes, I’ll use that. If you would kindly meet me there… Good, in fifteen minutes then. Do not mention this to anyone, or I will face the kind of reception committee I can do without… No, he won’t be with me – no, definitely not.’

Not looking at L.N. Agarwal but at a glass paperweight on his desk, the Chief Minister said: ‘I must go to the medical college and see what I can do. I think it best if you don’t come with me. If you remain here in my office, I will be able to get in touch with you immediately if there are developments, and my staff will be at your service.’

L.N. Agarwal passed his hand restlessly through the horseshoe of hair around his head.

‘I would prefer to come with you,’ he said. ‘Or at least to give you a police escort.’

‘I do not think that would be for the best.’

‘You need protection. Those students –’

‘Agarwal, you are not Chief Minister yet,’ said S.S. Sharma quietly, but with a rather unhappy smile. L.N. Agarwal frowned, but did not say another word.





12.24


WHEN he got to the room where the injured boy was lying, the Chief Minister, hardened though he had been by the deaths and injuries caused by British lathi charges and firings, shook his head for a minute in pity and disbelief. He glanced through the window at the students sitting on the lawn and the road and tried to imagine their feelings of shock and anger. It was as well that they did not know he was in the college. The Superintendent was saying something to him, something about the impossibility of resuming classes. The Chief Minister’s attention, however, had wandered to an old man in typical Congress garb, who was sitting quietly in a corner and had not stood up to greet him. He appeared to be lost in his own world, as he himself was.

‘And who are you?’ asked the Chief Minister.

‘I am the father of this unfortunate boy,’ said the man.

The Chief Minister bowed his head. ‘You must come with me,’ he said. ‘We can settle the issues later. But you and I have to sort out the immediate problem immediately. In a private room, not with so many people around.’

‘I cannot leave this room. My son does not have long to live, I understand.’

The Chief Minister looked around the room and asked everyone to leave except for one doctor. Then he said to the old man: ‘I am guilty of letting this happen. I accept the responsibility for it. But I need your help. You see how it is. Only you can save the situation. If you do not, there will be many more unfortunate boys and many more grief-stricken fathers.’

‘What can I do?’ The old man spoke calmly, as if nothing much mattered to him any more.

‘The students are inflamed. When your son dies, they will want to take out a procession. It is bound to be an emotional event, and will get out of hand. If that occurs, and it is almost inevitable, who can answer for what will happen?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to the students. Tell them to condole with you, tell them to attend the funeral. It will take place wherever you wish it to; I will not allow any police to be present. But please advise them not to take out a procession. That will have an uncontainable effect.’

The old man began to weep. After a while he controlled himself and, looking at his son, whose head was covered almost entirely in bandages, he said in the same calm voice as before: ‘I will do as you say.’

Then, to himself, he added: ‘So he will have died for nothing?’

The Chief Minister caught the remark, though it was uttered in a low voice. He said: ‘Indeed, I will make sure that he will not have. I will try to defuse the situation in my own way. But nothing I do can have the chastening effect of a few words from you. Your act will have prevented more grief than most people can prevent in their lives.’