The Home Minister drew in his breath. Everyone is looking at me, he thought. I must control my expression.
‘Is this supplementary question addressed to the honourable Minister?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, it is, Sir,’ said Abdus Salaam, suddenly determined. ‘I will not withdraw this question. Would the honourable Minister inform us why there was not a sufficient and deterrent police force maintained either at the kotwali or at the site of the temple itself? Why were there only a dozen men left to maintain law and order in this grievously disturbed area, especially after the contents of the Friday sermon at the Alamgiri Mosque became known to the authorities?’
This was the question that L.N. Agarwal had been dreading, and he was appalled and enraged that it had been asked by an MLA from his own party, and a Parliamentary Secretary at that. He felt defenceless. Was this a plot by Mahesh Kapoor to undermine him? He looked at the Chief Minister, who was waiting for his response with an unreadable expression. L.N. Agarwal suddenly realized that he had been on his feet for a long time, and wanted very badly to urinate. And he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. He began to take refuge in the kind of stonewalling that the Chief Minister himself often used, but to much shabbier effect than that master of parliamentary evasion. By now, however, he hardly cared. He was convinced that this was indeed a plot by Muslims and so-called secular Hindus to attack him — and that his own party had been infected with treason.
Looking with calm hatred first at Abdus Salaam, then at Begum Abida Khan, he said: ‘I can merely reiterate — wait for the report.’
A member asked: ‘Why were so many police diverted to Misri Mandi for a totally unnecessary show of force when they were really needed in Chowk?’
‘Wait for the report,’ said the Home Minister, glaring around the House, as if challenging the members to goad him further.
Begum Abida Khan stood up. ‘Has the Government taken any action against the District Magistrate responsible for this unprovoked firing?’ she demanded.
‘The question does not arise.’
‘If the much-anticipated report shows that the firing was uncalled for and irregular, does Government plan to take any steps in this regard?’
‘That will be seen in due course. I should think it might.’
‘What steps does Government intend to take?’
‘Proper and adequate steps.’
‘Has Government taken any such steps in similar situations in the past?’
‘It has.’
‘What are those steps that have been taken?’
‘Such steps as were considered reasonable and proper.’
Begum Abida Khan looked at him as she would at a snake, wounded but still evading the final blow by twisting its head from side to side. Well, she was not done with him yet.
‘Will the honourable Minister name the wards or neighbourhoods in which restrictions have now been placed with regard to the possession of cold steel? Have these restrictions been placed as a result of the recent firing? If so, why were they not placed earlier?’
The Home Minister looked at the pipal tree in the great seal, and said:
‘Government presumes that the honourable member means by the phrase “cold steel” objects such as swords, daggers, axes, and similar weapons.’
‘Household knives have also been wrested by the police from housewives,’ said Begum Abida Khan in more of a jeer than a statement. ‘Well, what are the neighbourhoods?’
‘Chowk, Hazrat Mahal, and Captainganj,’ said L.N. Agarwal.
‘Not Misri Mandi?’
‘No.’
‘Although that was the site of the heaviest police presence?’ persisted Begum Abida Khan.
‘Police had to be shifted in large numbers to the real trouble spots—’ began L.N. Agarwal.
He stopped abruptly, realizing too late how he had exposed himself by what he had started to say.
‘So the honourable Minister admits—’ began Begum Abida Khan, her eyes gleaming triumphantly.
‘The Government admits nothing. The report will detail everything,’ said the Home Minister, appalled by the confession she had elicited from him.
Begum Abida Khan smiled contemptuously, and decided that the reactionary, trigger-happy, anti-Muslim bully had just condemned himself out of his own mouth sufficiently for much further skewering to be productive. She let her questions taper away.
‘Why were these restrictions on cold steel imposed?’
‘In order to prevent crimes and incidents of violence.’
‘Incidents?’
‘Such as riots by inflamed mobs,’ he cried out in weary rage.
‘How long will these restrictions continue?’ asked Begum Abida Khan, almost laughing.
‘Till they are withdrawn.’
‘And when does the Government propose to withdraw these restrictions?’
‘As soon as the situation permits.’
Begum Abida Khan gently sat down.
There followed a notice for adjournment of the House in order to discuss the issue of the firing, but the Speaker disposed of this quickly enough. Adjournment motions were only granted in the most exceptional cases of crisis or emergency, where discussion could brook no delay; to grant them or not was in the Speaker’s absolute discretion. The subject of the police firing, even had it been such a subject — which, to his mind, it was not — had been sufficiently aired already. The questions of that remarkable, almost unreinable woman had virtually become a debate.
The Speaker went on to the next items on the day’s business: first, the announcement of bills passed by the state legislature that had received the assent of the Governor of the state or the President of India; next, the most important matter on the agenda for the entire session: the continuing debate on the Zamindari Abolition Bill.
But L.N. Agarwal did not stay to listen to discussions on the bill. As soon as the notice for an adjournment motion had been rejected by the Speaker, he fled — not directly across the well to the exit but along an aisle to the perimeter gallery, and then along the dark, wood-panelled wall. His tension and animus were palpable in the way he walked. He was unconsciously crushing his order papers in his hand. Several members tried to talk to him, to sympathize with him. He brushed them off. He walked unseeingly to the exit, and made straight for the bathroom.
5.8
L.N. Agarwal undid the drawstring of his pyjamas and stood at the urinal. But he was so angry that he was unable to urinate for a while.
He stared at the long, white-tiled wall and saw in it an image of the packed chamber, the taunting face of Begum Abida Khan, the furrowed academic expression of Abdus Salaam, Mahesh Kapoor’s uninterpretable frown, the patient but condescending look on the face of the Chief Minister as he had fumbled pathetically through the poisonous swamp of Question Time.
There was no one in the lavatory except a couple of sweepers, and they were talking to each other. A few words of their conversation broke in upon L.N. Agarwal’s fury. They were complaining about the difficulties of obtaining grain even at the government ration shops. They talked casually, not paying any attention to the powerful Home Minister and very little attention to their own work. As they continued to talk, a feeling of unreality descended upon L.N. Agarwal. He was taken out of his own world, his own passions, ambitions, hatreds and ideals into a realization of the continuing and urgent lives of people other than himself. He even felt a little ashamed of himself.
The sweepers were now discussing a movie that one of them had seen. It happened to be Deedar.