‘I bet he’d rather be doing another kind of wrestling,’ sneered another.
‘But would he be any good at it? They say that’s why he has trouble at home—’
‘What a reject,’ taunted the first man, waving him away with the airy gesture of a trader rejecting a basket on the basis of a single faulty pair.
Their speech was slurred, their eyes contemptuous. The man who had fallen lunged at them, and they set upon him. A couple of people, including the kalari, tried to make peace, but most gathered around to enjoy the fun and shout drunken encouragement. The four rolled around on the floor, fighting.
It ended with the man who had started the fight being beaten unconscious, and all of the others being injured. One was bleeding from the eye and screaming in pain.
That night, when he lost the sight of his eye, an ominous crowd of jatavs gathered at the Govind Shoe Mart, where the trader had his stall. They found the stall closed. The crowd began to shout slogans, then threatened to burn the stall down. One of the other traders tried to reason with the crowd, and they set upon him. A couple of policemen, sensing the crowd’s mood, ran to the local police station for reinforcements. Ten policemen now emerged, armed with short stout bamboo lathis, and they began to beat people up indiscriminately. The crowd scattered.
Surprisingly soon, every relevant authority knew about the matter: from the Superintendent of Police of the district to the Inspector-General of Purva Pradesh, from the Home Secretary to the Home Minister. Everyone received different facts and interpretations, and had different suggestions for action or inaction.
The Chief Minister was out of town. In his absence — and because law and order lay in his domain — the Home Minister ran things. Mahesh Kapoor, though Revenue Minister, and not therefore directly concerned, heard about the unrest because part of Misri Mandi lay in his constituency. He hurried to the spot and talked with the Superintendent of Police and the District Magistrate. The SP and the DM believed that things would blow over if neither side was provoked. However, the Home Minister, L.N. Agarwal, part of whose constituency also lay in Misri Mandi, did not think it necessary to go to the spot. He received a number of phone calls at home and decided that something by way of a salutary example needed to be provided.
These jatavs had disrupted the trade of the city long enough with their frivolous complaints and their mischievous strike. They had doubtless been stirred up by union leaders. Now they were threatening to block the entrance of the Govind Shoe Mart at the point where it joined the main road of Misri Mandi. Many traders there were already in financial straits. The threatened picketing would finish them off. L.N. Agarwal himself came from a shopkeeping family and some of the traders were good friends of his. Others supplied him with election funds. He had received three desperate calls from them. It was a time not for talk but for action. It was not merely a question of law, but of order, the order of society itself. Surely this is what the Iron Man of India, the late Sardar Patel, would have felt in his place.
But what would he have done had he been here? As if in a dream, the Home Minister conjured up the domed and severe head of his political mentor, dead these four months. He sat in thought for a while. Then he told his personal assistant to get him the District Magistrate on the phone.
The District Magistrate, who was in his mid-thirties, was directly in charge of the civil administration of Brahmpur District and, together with the SP — as the Superintendent of Police was referred to by everyone — maintained law and order.
The PA tried to get through, then said: ‘Sorry, Sir, DM is out on the site. He is trying to conciliate—’
‘Give me the phone,’ said the Home Minister in a calm voice. The PA nervously handed him the receiver.
‘Who?. . Where?. . I am Agarwal speaking, that’s who. . yes, direct instructions. . I don’t care. Get Dayal at once. . Yes, ten minutes. . call me back. . The SP is there, that is enough surely, is it a cinema show?’
He put down the phone and grasped the grey curls that curved like a horseshoe around his otherwise bald head.
After a while he made as if to pick up the receiver again, then decided against it, and turned his attention to a file.
Ten minutes later the young District Magistrate, Krishan Dayal, was on the phone. The Home Minister told him to guard the entrance of the Govind Shoe Mart. He was to disperse any pickets forthwith, if necessary by reading out Section 144 of the Criminal Procedure Code — and then firing if the crowd did not disperse.
The line was unclear but the message disturbingly clear. Krishan Dayal said in a strong voice, but one which was fraught with concern: ‘Sir, with respect, may I suggest an alternative course of action? We are talking with the leaders of the crowd—’
‘So there are leaders, are there, it is not spontaneous?’
‘Sir, it is spontaneous, but there are leaders.’
L.N. Agarwal reflected that it was puppies of the ilk of Krishan Dayal who used to lock him up in British jails. He said, calmly:
‘Are you being witty, Mr Dayal?’
‘No, Sir, I—’
‘You have your instructions. This is an emergency. I have discussed things with the Chief Secretary by phone. I understand that the crowd is some three hundred strong. I want the SP to get the police stationed everywhere along the main road of Misri Mandi and to guard all entrances — Govind Shoe Mart, Brahmpur Shoe Mart and so on — you just do the needful.’
There was a pause. The Home Minister was about to put down the phone when the DM said:
‘Sir, we may not be able to spare such a large number of police at short notice. A number of policemen are stationed at the site of the Shiva Temple in case of trouble. Things are very tense, Sir. The Revenue Minister thinks that on Friday—’
‘Are they there at the moment? I did not notice them this morning,’ said L.N. Agarwal in a relaxed but steely tone.
‘No, Sir, but they are in the main police station in the Chowk area, so it is sufficiently close to the temple site. It is best to keep them there for a true emergency.’ Krishan Dayal had been in the army during the war, but he was rattled by the Home Minister’s calm air of almost dismissive interrogation and command.
‘God will take care of the Shiva Temple. I am in close touch with many members of the committee, do you think I do not know the circumstances?’ He had been irked by Dayal’s reference to ‘a true emergency’ as much as by his mention of Mahesh Kapoor, his rival and — as abrasive chance would have it — the MLA from the constituency contiguous to his own.
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Krishan Dayal, his face reddening — which luckily the Home Minister could not see. ‘And may I know how long the police are to remain there?’
‘Until further notice,’ said the Home Minister and put down the phone to pre-empt further backchat. He did not like the way these so-called civil servants answered back to those above them in the chain of command — who were besides, twenty years older than them. It was necessary to have an administrative service, no doubt, but it was equally necessary that it should learn that it no longer ruled this country.
5.2
On Friday at the midday prayer the hereditary Imam of the Alamgiri Mosque gave his sermon. He was a short, plump man with short breath, but this did not stem his jerky crescendos of oratory. If anything, his breathlessness gave the impression that he was choked with emotion. The construction of the Shiva Temple was going ahead. The Imam’s appeals to everyone from the Governor down had fallen on deaf ears. A legal case contesting the Raja of Marh’s title to the land contiguous to the mosque had been instituted and was at present going through the lowest court. A stay order on the construction of the temple, however, could not be immediately obtained — indeed, perhaps could not be obtained at all. Meanwhile the dung-heap was growing before the Imam’s agonized eyes.