Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

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 noticeboard 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 judgement 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?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘There’s also the fact that he was the Speaker of the U.P. Legislative Assembly during those years. Rules, rules, and very little flexibility. I always thought it was us bureaucrats who were the sticklers for rules. Well, the country’s burning and the politicians are fiddling, not very tunefully at that. It is up to us to keep things going. The iron frame and all that: rusting and buckling, though, I’d have to say. Well, I’m almost at the end of my career, and I can’t say I’m sorry. I hope you enjoy your new job, Lahiri — Mines, isn’t it? Do let me know how you’re getting along.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Sandeep Lahiri, and got up with a serious expression on his face. He was beginning to understand all too well how things worked. Was this his own future self he had been talking to? He could not hide from himself his dismay and, yes, it would not be too much to say, his disgust, at this new and most unwelcome insight.

‘Sharmaji came here to meet you this morning,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor to her husband when he returned to Prem Nivas.

‘He came himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘What would he say to me?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.

Her husband clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see him.’ It was more than civil of the Chief Minister to have come in person to his house, and Mahesh Kapoor had a shrewd idea of what he wanted to discuss. The crisis in the Congress was the talk of the country now, not just of the party. Nehru’s resignation from all his party offices had made certain of that.

Mahesh Kapoor called ahead, then visited Sharma at home. Though he had left the Congress, he continued to wear the white cap that had become a natural part of his attire. Sharma was sitting on a white cane chair in the garden, and stood up to greet him as he approached. He should have looked tired, but he did not. It was a warm day, and he had been fanning himself with a newspaper, the headlines of which spoke of the latest moves to conciliate Nehru. He offered his erstwhile colleague a chair and some tea.

‘I needn’t go around in circles, Kapoor Sahib,’ said the Chief Minister. ‘I want your help in trying to persuade Nehru to return to the Congress.’

‘But he has never left it,’ said Mahesh Kapoor with a smile, seeing that the Chief Minister was already thinking two steps ahead.

‘I meant, to full participation in the Congress.’

‘I sympathize, Sharmaji; these must be troubling times for the Congress Party. But what can I do? I am no longer a member of the party myself. Nor are many of my friends and colleagues.’

‘The Congress is your true home,’ said Sharma, a little sadly, his head beginning to shake. ‘You have given everything for it, you have sacrificed the best years of your life for it. Even now you are sitting in the same position in the Legislative Assembly as before. If that wedge is now labelled the KMPP or something else, I still look upon it with affection. I still consider you my colleagues. There are more idealists there than in those who have remained with me.’

Sharma did not need to state that by this he was referring to the likes of Agarwal. Mahesh Kapoor stirred his tea. He felt great sympathy for the man whose Cabinet he had so recently resigned from. But he hoped that Nehru would leave the Congress and join the party that he himself had joined, and he could not see how Sharma could have imagined that he, of all people, would be keen to dissuade him from doing so. He leaned forward a little and said quietly: ‘Sharmaji, I sacrificed those years for my country more than for any party. If the Congress has betrayed its ideals, and forced so many of its old supporters to leave—’ He stopped. ‘Anyway, I see no immediate danger of Panditji leaving the party.’