‘Would the protection from judicial challenge that Article 32 Clause 4 provides to compensation extend to ex-gratia payments as well? Could the unequal terms — the sliding scale — of this ex-gratia payment not still be challenged under Article 14, which provides for the protection of equal laws?’
Firoz, who had been listening to the argument with the utmost attentiveness, looked at G.N. Bannerji. This was precisely the point he had been veering towards in the conference that evening. The distinguished lawyer had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them very slowly. Finally, he stopped polishing them altogether, and stood completely still, looking — like everyone else in court — at the Advocate-General.
There was silence for a good fifteen seconds.
‘Challenge to ex-gratia payment, my Lord?’ said Mr Shastri, appearing genially shocked.
‘Well,’ continued the Chief Justice, frowning, ‘it works on a sliding scale to the detriment of the larger zamindars. The smallest ones get ten times the computation based on rent and the largest ones get only one and a half times the computation. Different multiples, ergo unequal treatment, ergo unfair discrimination.’
‘My Lords,’ protested Mr Shastri, ‘ex-gratia payment confers no legal rights. It is pri-vi-lege conferred by the state. Therefore, it is not open to question on ground of un-fair dis-cri-mi-na-tion.’ But the Advocate-General was not smiling quite as broadly. This had become almost a one-to-one cross-examination. The other judges did not interpose any questions.
‘Now, Mr Advocate-General, in America it has been held by their Supreme Court that their fourteenth amendment — to which our Article 14 happens to correspond in language and spirit — applies not only to liabilities imposed but to privileges conferred as well. So would that not apply to ex-gratia payments?’
‘My Lords, American Constitution is short, so gaps are filled by in-ter-pre-ta-tion. Ours is long, so the need is less here.’
The Chief Justice smiled. He looked rather wily now: an old, wise, bald tortoise. The Advocate-General paused. But this time he knew he would have to put forth a less unconvincing and general argument. The two fourteens were too alike. He said:
‘My Lords, in India Article 31 Clause 4 protects the act from any challenge whatsoever under the Constitution.’
‘Mr Advocate-General, I heard your answer to the query of Mr Justice Bailey on that point. But if this bench does not find that argument convincing and at the same time comes to the conclusion that ex-gratia payments must satisfy the guarantees of Article 14, where does the state stand?’
The Advocate-General said nothing for a while. If self-defeating candour were enjoined on lawyers, his answer would have had to be: ‘State does not stand, my Lord, it falls.’ Instead he said: ‘State would have to consider its position, my Lord.’
‘I think the state would do well to consider its position in the light of this possible line of reasoning.’
The tension in court had become so palpable that some of it must have communicated itself into the dreams of the Raja of Marh. He woke up violently. He was in the grip of a paroxysm of anxiety. He stood up and stepped forward into the aisle. He had behaved well during the argument of his own writ petition. Now, when things seemed to be going dangerously for the state on a point that did not refer specifically to him but would have covered him safely as well, he grew desperately agitated.
‘It is not right,’ he said.
The Chief Justice leaned forward.
‘It is not right. We too love our country. Who are they? Who are they? The land—’ he expostulated.
The courtroom reacted with shock and amazement. The Rajkumar stood up and took a tentative step towards his father. His father shoved him aside.
The Chief Justice said, rather slowly: ‘Your Highness, I cannot hear you.’
The Raja of Marh did not believe this for one instant. ‘I will speak louder, Sir,’ he announced.
The Chief Justice repeated: ‘I cannot hear you, Your Highness. If you have something to say, kindly say it through your counsel. And please be seated in the third row. The first two rows are reserved for the Bar.’
‘No, Sir! My land is at stake! My life is at stake!’ He glared belligerently upwards, as if he were about to charge the bench.
The Chief Justice looked at his colleagues to either side of him and said to the Court Reader and the ushers in Hindi:
‘Remove that man.’
The ushers looked stunned. They had not imagined they would ever have to lay hands on Majesty.
In English, the Chief Justice said to the Reader: ‘Call the watch and ward staff.’ To the counsel of the Raja of Marh, he said: ‘Control your client. Tell him not to test the forbearance of this court. If your client does not leave the court immediately I will commit him for contempt.’
The five magnificent ushers, the Court Reader, and several counsel for the applicants apologetically but bodily moved the Raja of Marh, still spluttering, from Courtroom Number One before he could do further damage to himself, his case, or the dignity of the court. The Rajkumar of Marh, red with shame, followed slowly. He turned around at the door. Every eye in court was following the spasmodic progress of his father. Firoz too was looking at him in contemptuous disbelief. The Rajkumar lowered his eyes and followed his father into the corridor.
11.7
A few days after he had suffered this indignity, the Raja of Marh, feather-turbaned and diamond-buttoned, together with a glittering retinue of retainers, performed a progress to the Pul Mela.
His Highness started out in the morning from the site of the Shiva Temple at Chowk (where he offered obeisance), advanced through the old town of Brahmpur, and arrived at the top of the great earthen ramp which led gently down from the mud cliffs to the sands on the south bank of the Ganga. Every few steps a crier announced the Raja’s presence, and rose petals were flung into the air to his greater glory. It was idiotic.
However, it was of a piece with the Raja’s conception of himself and his place in the world. He was cross with the world, and especially with the Brahmpur Chronicle, which had dwelt lovingly on his ejaculations in and his ejection from the Chief Justice’s court. The case had continued for four or five more days before being closed (the judgement was reserved for a later date), and on each day the Brahmpur Chronicle had found some occasion to hearken back to the Raja of Marh’s unseemly exit.
The procession halted at the top of the ramp under the shade of the great pipal tree, and the Raja looked down. Below him, as far as the eye could see, lay an ocean of tents — khaki, haze-enveloped — spread out along the sands. Instead of the single pontoon bridge across the Ganga there were at present five bridges of boats, effectively cutting off all downriver traffic. But large flotillas of little boats were still plying across the river in order to ferry pilgrims to particularly auspicious bathing spots along sand spits on either side — or simply to provide a swifter and more enjoyable means of crossing the river than facing the crush of people on the improvised and grossly overcrowded bridges.
The grand ramp too was crowded with pilgrims from all over India, many of whom had just arrived by special trains that had been laid on for the Pul Mela traffic. For a few minutes, however, the Raja’s retainers forced the crowd back sufficiently to give their master a regal and leisurely view of the scene.
The Raja gazed with reverence at the great brown river, the beautiful and placid Ganga. Its level was still low, and the sands broad. It was mid-June. The monsoons had not yet broken in Brahmpur, and the snow-melt had not yet swollen the river much. In two days it would be the grand bathing day of Ganga Dussehra (when, by popular tradition, the Ganga rose one step along the bathing ghats of Banaras), and four days after that would come the second grand bathing day of the full moon. It was thanks to the grace of Lord Shiva, who had broken the river’s fall from heaven by allowing it to flow through his hair that the Ganga had not flooded the earth. It was to Lord Shiva that the Raja was raising the Chandrachur Temple. Tears came to the Raja’s eyes as he looked at the holy river and contemplated the virtue of his actions.