Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘I’ll do so. That’s very friendly of you.’ The Nawab Sahib smiled. Although he had not intended it, perhaps his remark would be interpreted as ironic. He was reassured when his friend continued:

‘Why — he’s like my nephew.’ After a pause, Mahesh Kapoor added: ‘But isn’t Karlekar leading him in the case?’

‘Yes, but his brother is very ill, and he may have to go back to Bombay. If that’s the case, Firoz will have to argue in his place.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pause.

‘What news of Maan?’ asked the Nawab Sahib at last, as they got out at Baitar House. ‘We’ll eat in the library; we won’t be disturbed there.’

Mahesh Kapoor’s face darkened.

‘If I know him, he’s still infatuated with that wretched woman. I wish I’d never asked her to sing at Prem Nivas on Holi. It all came about because of that evening.’

The Nawab Sahib was silent, but he seemed to have stiffened at the words.

‘Keep an eye on your son too,’ said Mahesh Kapoor with a curt laugh. ‘Firoz, I mean.’

The Nawab Sahib looked at his friend, but said nothing. His face had gone white.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes, Kapoor Sahib, I am all right. What were you saying about Firoz?’

‘He visits that house too, I’ve heard. No harm in it if it’s a brief thing, it’s not as if it’s an obsession yet—’

‘No!’ There was such sharp and unaccountable pain, almost horror, in the Nawab Sahib’s voice that Mahesh Kapoor was taken aback. He knew that his friend had turned religious, but he had not imagined he had become such a puritan.

He quickly changed the subject. He talked about a couple of new bills, about how the delimitation of constituencies throughout the country was expected any day now, about the endless troubles in the Congress Party — both at the state level between him and Agarwal, and at the Centre between Nehru and the right wing.

‘Why, I, even I, am thinking that this party is no longer a home for me,’ said the Minister of Revenue. ‘An old teacher — a freedom fighter — came to me the other day and said a number of things that I’ve been thinking over. Perhaps I should leave the Congress. I believe that if Nehru could be persuaded to leave the party and fight the next elections on his own platform and with a new party, he would win. I would follow him, as would many others.’

But even this startling and momentous confidence provoked no response from the Nawab Sahib. He was equally abstracted at lunch. Indeed, he appeared to have difficulty not only in speaking much but in swallowing his food.

Two evenings later, all the lawyers for the zamindars and a couple of the clients themselves met in G.N. Bannerji’s hotel room. He held these conferences from about six to eight each evening in order to prepare for the next day’s arguments. Today, however, there was a dual purpose to the conference. First, the other lawyers were present to help him prepare for the morning session, when he would wind up his opening of the case. Secondly, he too had been requested today to give them advice for their own arguments of the afternoon, when they would be pleading their own particular sections of the case before the bench. G.N. Bannerji was happy to help them, but even more keen to see them go at eight o’clock sharp so that he could enjoy his evening in his standard manner with the person whom the juniors gossiped about as his ‘lady-love’: a Mrs Chakravarti, whom he had installed in great style (and at the expense of his clients) in a railway saloon on a siding at Brahmpur Junction.

Everyone arrived promptly at six. The local seniors and juniors brought the law-books and a waiter brought cups of tea. G.N. Bannerji complained about the fans in the hotel and about the tea. He was looking forward later to a Scotch or three.

‘Sir, I have been waiting to say how fine your argument on public purpose was this afternoon.’ This was a local senior lawyer.

The great G.N. Bannerji smiled. ‘Yes, you saw how the Chief Justice appreciated the point about the connection between public purpose and public benefit.’

‘Justice Maheshwari did not seem to.’ This was guaranteed to provoke a response.

‘Maheshwari!’ The junior member of the bench was dismissed in a single word.

‘But, Sir, his comment about the Land Revenue Commission will have to be answered,’ piped up one enthusiastic junior.

‘What he says is not important. He sits still for two days, then asks two stupid questions, one after another.’

‘Quite right, Sir,’ said Firoz quietly. ‘You addressed the second point at length in yesterday’s argument.’

‘He’s read the whole Ramayana, and still doesn’t know whose father Sita is!’ This twist to the standard witticism provoked laughter, some of it slightly sycophantic.

‘Anyway,’ continued G.N. Bannerji, ‘we should concentrate on the arguments of the Chief Justice and Mr Justice Bailey. They are the best brains on the bench and they will sway the judgement. Is there anything they said that we might deal with?’

Firoz said, a little hesitantly: ‘Sir, if I may. It seems to me from Mr Justice Bailey’s comments that he is not convinced by your imputation of motives to the state in separating the two payments. You made the point, Sir, that the state had by sleight of hand divided the payment into two parts — the compensation proper and a rehabilitation grant. And that their motive in doing so was to get around the conclusions of the judges of the Patna High Court in the Bihar zamindari case. But would it not in fact be to our advantage to accept the government’s contention that the rehabilitation grant and compensation are separate?’

G.N. Bannerji said: ‘No, why? Why should we accept their contention? Anyway, let’s see what the Advocate-General has to say. I can reply to all that later.’ He turned away.

Firoz ventured on, rather earnestly: ‘I mean, Sir, if it could be proved that even an ex-gratia payment like a rehabilitation grant can be thrown out under Article 14.’

G.N. Bannerji’s rather pompous grandson cut Firoz off: ‘Article 14 was fully argued on the second day.’ He was trying to protect his grandfather from what seemed to be a perverse point. To accept the government’s contention on such an important point would surely be to throw away their own case.

But G.N. Bannerji silenced his grandson in Bengali with, ‘Aachha, choop koré thako!’ and turned to Firoz with his finger pointed upwards. ‘Say that again,’ he said. ‘Say that again.’

Firoz repeated his comment, then elaborated it.

G.N. Bannerji considered the point, then wrote something in his red notebook. Turning to Firoz he said, ‘Find me whatever American case-law you can on the point, and bring it here to me at eight tomorrow morning.’

Firoz said, ‘Yes, Sir.’ His eyes were shining with pleasure.

G.N. Bannerji said: ‘This is a dangerous weapon to use. It could go badly wrong. I wonder if at this stage—’ He went off into his thoughts. ‘Bring me the cases anyway, and I will see. Let me see the mood of the court. All right, anything else on Article 14?’

No one spoke.

‘Where is Karlekar?’

‘Sir, his brother has died and he has had to leave for Bombay. He got the telegram just a few hours ago — while you were on your feet.’

‘I see. And who is his junior for the crown grant writs?’

‘I am, Sir,’ said Firoz.

‘You have a momentous day ahead of you, young man. I imagine you will handle it.’ Firoz glowed at this unexpected praise, and it was hard for him not to grin.

‘Sir, if you have any suggestions—’ he said.

‘Not really. Just argue that the crown grants conferred absolute rights in perpetuity, and the grantees are therefore not like other intermediaries. But all this is obvious. If I think of something else I’ll tell you tomorrow morning when you come here. On second thoughts, come ten minutes earlier.’