Several voices now rose. One, dominating the others, boomed out: ‘Since the honourable Chief Minister is present in the House after his travels in other parts, perhaps he would care to oblige us with an answer even though he is not compelled by the Standing Orders to do so? I believe the House would appreciate it.’
The Chief Minister, Shri S.S. Sharma, stood up without his stick, leaned with his left hand on his dark wooden desk and looked to his left and right. He was positioned along the curve of the central well, almost exactly between L.N. Agarwal and Mahesh Kapoor. He addressed the Speaker in his nasal, rather paternal, voice, nodding his head gently as he did so: ‘I have no objection to speaking, Mr Speaker, but I have nothing to add. The action taken — call it by what name the honourable members will — was taken under the aegis of the responsible Cabinet Minister.’ There was a pause, during which it was not clear what the Chief Minister was going to add, if anything. ‘Whom I naturally support,’ he said.
He had not even sat down when the inexorable Ram Dhan came back into the fray. ‘I am much obliged to the honourable Chief Minister,’ he said, ‘but I would like to seek a clarification. By saying that he supports the Home Minister, does the Chief Minister mean to imply that he approves of the policy of the district authorities?’
Before the Chief Minister could reply, the Home Minister quickly rose again to say: ‘I hope that we have made ourselves clear on this point. It was not a case of prior approval. An inquiry was held immediately after the incident. The District Magistrate went into the matter fully and found that the very minimum force which was absolutely unavoidable was used. The Government regret that such an occasion should have arisen, but are satisfied that the finding of the District Magistrate is correct. It was accepted by practically all concerned that the authorities faced a serious situation with tact and due restraint.’
A member of the Socialist Party stood up. ‘Is it true,’ he asked, ‘that it was on the prodding of members of the bania trading community to which he belongs that the honourable Home Minister’—angry murmurs rose from the Government benches—‘let me finish — that the Minister subsequently posted troops — I mean police — throughout the length and breadth of Misri Mandi?’
‘I disallow that question,’ said the Speaker.
‘Well,’ continued the member, ‘would the honourable Minister kindly inform us on whose advice he decided on the placing of this threatening body of police?’
The Home Minister grasped the curve of hair under his cap and said: ‘Government made its own decision, bearing the totality of the situation in mind. And in the event it has proved to be effective. There is peace at last in Misri Mandi.’
A babble of indignant shouts, earnest chatter and ostentatious laughter arose on all sides. There were shouts of ‘What peace?’ ‘Shame!’ ‘Who is the DM to judge the matter?’ ‘What about the mosque?’ and so on.
‘Order! Order!’ cried the Speaker, looking flustered as another member rose to his feet and said:
‘Will the Government consider the advisability of creating machineries other than the interested district authorities for making inquiries in such cases?’
‘I do not allow this question,’ said the Speaker, shaking his head like a sparrow. ‘Under Standing Orders questions making suggestions for action are not permissible and I am not prepared to allow them during Question Time.’
It was the end of the Home Minister’s grilling on the Misri Mandi incident. Though there had been only five questions on the printed sheet, the supplementary questions had given the exchange the character almost of a cross-examination. The intervention of the Chief Minister had been more disturbing than reassuring to L.N. Agarwal. Was S.S. Sharma, in his wily, indirect way, trying to palm off full responsibility for the action on to his second-in-command? L.N. Agarwal sat down, sweating slightly, but he knew that he would have to be on his feet immediately again. And, though he prided himself on maintaining his calm in difficult circumstances, he did not relish what he would now have to face.
5.7
Begum Abida Khan slowly stood up. She was dressed in a dark blue, almost black, sari, and her pale and furious face riveted the house even before she began to speak. She was the wife of the Nawab of Baitar’s younger brother, and one of the leaders of the Democratic Party, the party that sought to protect the interests of the landowners in the face of the impending passage of the Zamindari Abolition Bill. Although a Shia, she had the reputation of being an aggressive protector of the rights of all Muslims in the new, truncated Independent India. Her husband, like his father, had been a member of the Muslim League before Independence and had left for Pakistan shortly afterwards. Despite the powerful persuasion and reproach of many relatives, she, however, had chosen not to go. ‘I’ll be useless there, sitting and gossiping. Here in Brahmpur at least I know where I am and what I can do,’ she had said. And this morning she knew exactly what she wanted to do. Looking straight at the man whom she considered to be one of the less savoury manifestations of humankind, she began her questioning from her list of starred questions.
‘Is the honourable Minister for Home Affairs aware that at least five people were killed by the police in the firing near Chowk last Friday?’
The Home Minister, who at the best of times could not stand the Begum, replied: ‘Indeed, I was not.’
It was somewhat obstructive of him not to elaborate, but he did not feel like being forthcoming before this pale harridan.
Begum Abida Khan veered from her script. ‘Will the honourable Minister inform us exactly what he is aware of?’ she inquired acidly.
‘I disallow that question,’ murmured the Speaker.
‘What would the honourable Minister say was the death toll in the firing in Chowk?’ demanded Begum Abida Khan.
‘One,’ said L.N. Agarwal.
Begum Abida Khan’s voice was incredulous: ‘One?’ she cried. ‘One?’
‘One,’ replied the Home Minister, holding up the index finger of his right hand, as if to an idiot child who had difficulty with numbers or hearing or both.
Begum Abida Khan cried out angrily: ‘If I may inform the honourable Minister, it was at least five, and I have good proof of this fact. Here are copies of the death certificates of four of the deceased. Indeed, it is likely that two more men will shortly—’
‘I rise on a point of order, Sir,’ said L.N. Agarwal, ignoring her and addressing the Speaker directly. ‘I understand that Question Time is used for getting information from and not for giving information to Ministers.’
Begum Abida Khan’s voice continued regardless: ‘—two more men will shortly be receiving such certificates of honour thanks to the henchmen of the honourable Minister. I would like to table these death certificates — these copies of death certificates.’
‘I am afraid that that is not possible under the Standing Orders. . ’ protested the Speaker.
Begum Abida Khan waved the documents around, and raised her voice higher: ‘The newspapers have copies of them, why is the House not entitled to see them? When the blood of innocent men, of mere boys, is being callously shed—’
‘The honourable member will not use Question Time to make speeches,’ said the Speaker, and banged his gavel.
Begum Abida Khan suddenly pulled herself together, and once again addressed L.N. Agarwal.
‘Will the honourable Minister kindly inform the House on what basis he came to the total figure of one?’