Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The power to whose judgment, wisdom and patriotism this high prerogative has been entrusted cannot relieve itself of the responsibility by choosing other agencies upon which the power shall be devolved, nor can it substitute the judgment, wisdom and patriotism of any other body for those to which alone the people have seen fit to confide this sovereign trust.

‘It is this sovereign trust, this sovereign trust, my Lords, that the legislature of Purva Pradesh has delegated to the executive in the Zamindari Abolition Act. Its date of activation; the sequence of the taking over of the estates of the zamindars, these decisions (quite possibly arbitrary, whimsical, even malicious) to be taken in many cases by very junior officials of the administration; the terms of the bonds sought to be offered by way of compensation, and the mix of cash and bonds; and many other points not merely of detail but of substance. My Lords, this is no mere filling in of details, this is improper delegation of authority, and the act, even if there were no other grounds, would be invalid on these grounds alone.’

Small, cheerful Mr Shastri, the Advocate-General, rose smilingly to his feet. His stiff white collar had gone limp with sweat. ‘Your Lordships please. A slight cor-rec-tion to my learned friend. Date of vesting is au-to-ma-tic with President’s assent. So act is ac-ti-va-ted at once.’ Although this was his first interruption, it was offered with undramatic and amiable courtesy. Mr Shastri’s English was not elegant (he pronounced ‘carte blanche’, for instance, as ‘ka-thee bi-lan-chee’), nor his manner of advocacy fluent. But he argued superbly if simply from first principles (or, as his irreverent juniors might say, prin-ci-ples), and there were few lawyers in the state, perhaps in the country, who were a match for him.

‘I am obliged to my learned friend for his clarification,’ said G.N. Bannerji, leaning forward on the lectern once more. ‘I was referring, my Lords, not so much to the date of vesting, which, as my learned friend points out, is immediate, but to the dates of the taking over of the estates.’

‘Surely, Mr Bannerji,’ said the large judge to the right of the Chief Justice, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, ‘you cannot expect the government to take over all the estates simultaneously? That would be administratively unworkable.’

‘My Lord,’ said G.N. Bannerji, ‘it is not a question of simultaneity but equity. That is what worries me, my Lord. Guidelines could have been laid down in several ways — on the basis of income, for instance, or geography. The present act, however, enables the administration to pick and choose. If, for instance, they decide tomorrow that they do not like some particular zamindar, say the Raja of Marh, because he is too vocal on some issue that goes against the policy or even the interests of the government, they may under the impugned act issue an immediate notification that his estates in Purva Pradesh will be taken over. This is a gateway to tyranny, my Lords, a gateway to nothing less than tyranny.’

The Raja of Marh, who, owing to both heat and sloth, had been drowsing off while leaning further and further forward in his chair, suddenly came back to life on hearing his name. He floundered around in confusion for some time, unable to place himself in his surroundings after his fleshly dreams.

He tugged the gown of a junior lawyer who was seated in front of him.

‘What did he say? What is he saying about me?’ he demanded.

The lawyer turned around, his hand raised slightly upwards in a gesture of placation. He whispered an explanation. The Raja of Marh stared blankly and uncomprehendingly at him, then, sensing that nothing had been said that harmed his interests, became somnolent once again.

Thus the argument progressed. Those outsiders who had come with the expectation of high or low drama were deeply disappointed. Many of the litigants themselves were mystified by what was going on. They did not know that Bannerji would be on his feet for five days on behalf of the applicants, that this would be followed by five days of Shastri for the state and two final days for Bannerji’s rebuttal. They had expected skirmishes and fireworks, the clang of sword on shield. What they were getting instead was an ecumenical but soporific fricassee of Hodge v. The Queen, Jatindra Nath Gupta v. Province of Bihar, and Schechter Poultry Corp. v. United States.

But the lawyers — especially those at the back of the court, who were not involved in the case — loved every minute of it. This, for them, was indeed the clang of sword on shield. They were aware that G.N. Bannerji’s manner of constitutional argument, very different in this case from the statute-and-precedent traditions of British and therefore Indian advocacy, had come to be of increasing importance ever since the Government of India Act of 1935 set the frame which the Constitution of India itself would follow fifteen years later. But they had never heard a case argued in such wide-ranging form before, and that too by so distinguished a barrister at such length.

When the court adjourned at one o’clock for lunch, these lawyers streamed out, gowns flapping like bats’ wings, and joined the smaller streams of lawyers from other courtrooms. They moved towards the part of the High Court building which was occupied by the Advocates’ Association, and headed straight for the urinals, which stank frighteningly in the heat. Then they wandered off in groups to their own chambers, or to the library of the Advocates’ Association or to the coffee shop or canteen. Here they sat and discussed with avidity the merits of the case and the mannerisms of eminent senior counsel.

At the adjournment, the Nawab Sahib walked over to talk to Mahesh Kapoor. Upon discovering that he did not mean to attend the afternoon sitting, he asked him to join him for lunch at Baitar House, and Mahesh Kapoor agreed. Firoz too went over to talk for a few minutes to his father’s friend — or his friend’s father — before returning to his law-books. This was the most important case he had been associated with in his life, and he was working day and night on the small part of it that he might have to argue — or at least brief his senior in.

The Nawab Sahib looked at him with pride and affection and told him that he would be taking the afternoon off.

‘But Abba, G.N. Bannerji will begin his argument on Article 14 today.’

‘Now remind me—’

Firoz smiled at his father, but forbore from explaining Article 14.

‘But you will be here tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes, perhaps. In any case, I’ll be here when your part comes up,’ said the Nawab Sahib, stroking his beard with a look of affectionate amusement in his eyes.

‘It’s your part too, Abba — lands granted by crown grant.’

‘Yes.’ The Nawab Sahib sighed. ‘Anyway, both I and the man who wants to wrest them away from me have been wearied by all this brilliance, and we’re going off for lunch. But tell me, Firoz, why don’t they close the courts at this time of year? The heat is dreadful. Doesn’t the Patna High Court take its vacation in May and June?’

‘Well, I suppose we follow the Calcutta model,’ said Firoz. ‘But don’t ask me why. Well, Abba, I’ll be off.’

The two old friends wandered into the corridor, where the heat hit them like a blast, and from there to the Nawab Sahib’s car. Mahesh Kapoor instructed his driver to follow them to Baitar House. In the car both studiously avoided discussing the case or its implications, which, in a sense, was a pity because it would have been interesting to know what they would have said. Mahesh Kapoor could not, however, refrain from saying:

‘Tell me when Firoz is going to argue. I’ll come and listen.’