‘Well, then?’
‘Did – well, Sir, if I might ask – did you say anything to dissuade the Chief Minister from getting rid of me?’
‘Lahiri, I do wish you wouldn’t see things in that light. No one has got rid of you, and no one wishes to. You have an excellent career ahead of you. I cannot go into details, but I will tell you that the first thing I did upon receiving the CM’s instructions – which, incidentally, did surprise me – was to call for your file. You have an excellent record, with a number of good marks and only one bad mark against you. The only reason that I could think of that the CM wanted you out of Rudhia was that Mahatma Gandhi’s birth anniversary is coming around in a couple of months. It appears that your decision in that troublesome matter last year rather annoyed him; I assumed that something had jogged his memory of late, and he thought that your presence in Rudhia might be a provocation. Anyway, it will be no bad thing for you to spend sometime in Brahmpur early on in your career,’ he continued in a genial tone. ‘You’ll be`spending at least a third of your working life here, and you may as well see how things run in the labyrinths of the state capital. My only specific advice,’ continued the Chief Secretary, now rather glumly, ‘is that you should not be seen at the bar of the Subzipore Club too often. Sharma, being a true Gandhian, doesn’t like people drinking; he makes rather a point of summoning me for some emergency work late in the evening whenever he hears I’m at the club.’
The incident that the Chief Secretary had referred to a little earlier involved the railway colony at Rudhia where the previous year a number of young Anglo-Indian men – the sons of railway employees – had smashed the glass in front of a notice-board that contained a poster of Mahatma Gandhi, which they had then proceeded to deface. There had been an uproar in response, and the offenders had been arrested, beaten up by the police, and hauled up before Sandeep Lahiri in his magisterial incarnation. Jha had screamed for their trial on the grounds of sedition, or at the very least of having grievously injured the religious sentiments of the population. Sandeep, however, had realized that these were hotheaded but not really ill-meaning young men, who had had no inkling of the possible consequences of their actions. He had waited for them to sober up, and then – after dressing them down and making them apologize in public, had discharged them with a warning. His judgment with respect to the charges sought to be brought against them had been succinct:
This is quite evidently not a case of Sedition: Gandhiji, revere his memory though we do, is not the King-Emperor. Nor is he the head of a religion, so the charge of injuring people’s religious sentiments does not hold either. As for the charge of mischief, the smashed glass and defaced portrait do not cost more than eight annas, and de minimis non curat lex. The defendants are discharged with a warning.
Sandeep had been itching for some time to use this Latin tag, and here was the ideal opportunity: the law did not concern itself with trifles, and here was a trifling matter, at least in monetary terms. But his linguistic pleasure was not without cost. The Chief Minister had not been amused, and had instructed the previous Chief Secretary to enter a black mark against him in his character roll. ‘Government have considered Mr Lahiri’s ill-judged decision in the case of the recent disorder in Rudhia. Government note with regret that he has chosen to make a display of his liberal instincts at the cost of his duty to maintain law and order.’
‘Well, Sir,’ said Sandeep to the Chief Secretary, ‘what would you have done if you had been in my place? Under what provision of the Indian Penal Code could I have chopped off those silly young men’s heads, even if I had wished to?’
‘Well,’ said the Chief Secretary, unwilling to criticize his predecessor. ‘I really can’t go into all that. Anyway, as you say, it is probably some recent contretemps with Jha that has got you transferred, not that earlier incident. I know what you’re thinking: that I should have stood up for you. Well, I have. I made sure that your transfer was not a lateral one, that it involved a promotion. That was the best that I could do. I know when it is useful; and when it is not, to argue with the Chief Minister – who, to give him his due, is an excellent administrator and values good officers. One day, when you are in a position similar to mine – and I don’t see why, given your potential, you shouldn’t be – you will have to make similar, well, adjustments. Now, can I offer you a drink?’
Sandeep accepted a whisky. The Chief Secretary grew boringly expansive and reminiscent: ‘The problem, you see, began in 1937 – once you got politicians running things at the provincial level. Sharma was elected Premier, as it was then called, of the Protected Provinces – as our state then was. It became fairly obvious to me early on that other considerations than merit would apply in promotions and transfers. When the lines of power ran from Viceroy to Governor to Commissioner to District Magistrate, things were clear enough. It was when the legislators crawled into every level except the very top that the rot started. Patronage, power-bases, agitations, politics, toadying to the elected representatives of the people: all that kind of stuff. One had to do one’s own duty of course, but what one saw sometimes dismayed one. Some batsmen could now score a six even if the ball bounced within the boundary. And others were declared out even if they were caught outside the boundary. You see what I mean. Incidentally, Tandon – who’s been trying to declare Nehru out by insisting on the rules by which the Congress plays the game – was a fine cricketer – did you know that? – when he was at Allahabad University. I believe he captained the Muir Central College team. Now he goes around bearded and barefoot like a rishi from the Mahabharata, but he was a cricketer once. Cricket has a lot to answer for. Another?’