CHAPTER 26
A week had passed since Bains’ death and Cartwright had been officiating as Collector all this while. The government of CP & Berar had trouble finding a replacement for Bains, for offers of the right seniority were hard to come by at that particular time and Cartwright feared that he would have to carry the tag of officiating Collector for a long while. Before going to the Collectorate, it was his practice to look at his dak – all the official and personal papers that had arrived in the post the previous night – and Cartwright was sitting in his bungalow office when his peon brought in his dak pad. Among the reams of official papers was an envelope, still unopened, that bore his name in a neat, obviously feminine handwriting. The enveloped contained a single sheet of paper and Cartwright ran his eyes down the sheet to see who his correspondent was. It was signed Sunanda Dube, a name that did not ring a bell immediately, but once he started reading the letter, Cartwright realized at once who the writer was. The letter had been dispatched at Uttarkashi, a faraway town in distant United Provinces, and this was what it said:
Dear Mr Cartwright,
I have been meaning to write to you, but did not find the time until now. After the events that have taken place recently, my resignation as oracle, then grandfather’s death, not to mention the death of Mr. bains, who was a good and kindly man, I have felt impelled travel and to get away from the familiar surroundings of Ratangarh for a while.
You were present during grandfather’s last moments and your kindness touched me. I could not adequately thank you then, and will not be able do so now, so I will not attempt it. Let me rather seek one more favour from you. You would know that Maan Singh who is now in custody in Hoshanagabad Jail, is my cousin. I have never had a real brother of my own, but even if I had one, I could not have loved him more. My cousin is an idealist, not a common criminal as some people in the administration might be disposed to think. I do not wish to interfere with the course of justice in any way. I have faith in British justice. But I do think the government has been unduly harsh with the revolutionaries I hope you will use your good offices to see that my cousin is treated fairly and justly. Should you find this request improper, treat it as an indiscretion born of a sister’s love for her brother and ignore it.
This town is on the banks of the Bhagirathi and its constant murmur lulls me to sleep at night. I hope to go further north after spending some time here in the company of many learned sadhus who gather here. There are discourses everyday, but I don’t suppose that sort of thing would interest you.
With best wishes
Yours sincerely
Sunanda Dube
Cartwright read the letter twice before folding it and putting back into the folder. Then, on second thoughts, he took it out of the folder and put it into his pocket. It was his intention to write a polite but non-commital reply. Now that the matter was in the court, it was beyond his power to do anything to help the accused, eve had he wanted to. But of course such a thought never crossed his mind. Sometimes, thought Cartwright, Indians could make the most embarrassing requests in the most disarming manner. But perhaps it wasn’t embarrassing for them, only natural. To him, the question of interfering in a judicial matter was simply unthinkable. Even the prospect of discussing a court matter with a third party made him nervous. He toyed briefly with the idea of not answering the letter at all, but decided that he must reply. If only because he was intrigued by the lady and wished to know her better.
The trail finally began on a grey, overcast day. The court-own was packed well before the judge entered. On one side was the prisoner in the dock, still manacled. On the other side of the dais, whose banisters were draped in the regulation red calico, was the witness boxes, with the prosecution lawyer standing by it. Below the dais were benches which were placed in neat rows like pews in a church, and ran the length of the room. The men who sat on these benches were a mixed lot. There was a fair sprinkling of politicians, many of them sporting the white homespun caps worn by congressmen, sporting the white homespun caps won by congressmen. There were also many journalists, including the legal correspondents of some famous Delhi and Bombay papers. Many others were simply curious onlookers who had been attracted by the publicity surrounding the trail. No British officials were present, but this was not unusual. As a rule officials did not attend criminal trails and no one saw any need for a departure from this precedent. A murmur went up as the tall, slightly stooped form of Maitland appeared in the doorway behind the dais. The judge took his seat on the high backed chair, banged his gavel and the proceedings were on.
The judge then read out the charges. The prisoner was accused of criminal conspiracy to overthrow the establishment government – a serious charge that carried the death penalty. There were other ancillary charges like inciting other citizens to rebellion and so forth, but there was not much evidence for them. There was nothing unexpected in the charges, but a slight hush fell on the court when the prisoner did not make a plea in answer to the judge’s recital.
“I ask you if have understood the charges. Would you like them to be read out in the vernacular.”
The prisoner signified by a slight nod that he had understood the charges and did not require a translation.
“Well in that case do you plead guilty or not guilty.”
“Not guilty, your honour,” said the defence counsel in his slightly ready voice.
“I am not asking you Mr Dube. Let the prisoner answer for himself.”
The prisoner however said nothing. His silence alarmed the judge. It wouldn’t do to consider this as an admission of guilt, although technically the judge would have been well within his rights in doing so. That would have meant effectively the end of the trail, with nothing more to be done but the sentencing. But that was the last thing the authorities wanted. It was British justice that was on trial here, as much as the prisoner. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done, and that was possible only when there was a proper trail. The defence counsel could be seen whispering frantically to the prisoner. There was however still no response from him.
“Well, what is your plea, speak up man.” Maitland’s impatience was obvious. “What was that, Ah!I take it that you are saying not guilty.’ All right, enter the plea of not guilty.” Maitland commanded the court reader.
No one had heard anything said by the prisoner. Perhaps he hadn’t really said anything but only made a gesture – an almost imperceptible nod of the head, or a signal with the eyes, which was interpreted by the judge. But then if he had made a gesture, most observers hadn’t seen it. There were some sceptics in the audience who maintained that it was only a subterfuge on part of the judge and the government wanted to go through the formality of a trail to establish its bona fides, but these were in a minority. By and large everyone was happy that there was going to be a trial.
“All right then, the case is adjourned. The prosecution will present its evidence on the next hearing.”
The list of witnesses furnished by the prosecution was a subject of much discussion in the bar-room and elsewhere in the town. This case was peculiar in the sense all the main witnesses were Britishers. The only Indians in the list were the waiters, who were expected to corroborate the prosecution’s story. The star witness for the prosecution was undoubtedly Mr Donald Crump the Financial Commissioner. It was thought that the testimony of so important a person would carry due weight and more or less clinch the issue, as it were. Another key witness was the SP Macgregor and he was expected to depose before Crump.
Macgregor’s testimony laid the ground work for the prosecution’s case. He started with a description of the events that preceded the fateful night of May the 27”, dwelling at some length on the activities of Maan Singh and the threat posed by him to the government. To this an objection was immediately raised.
“I think these details are quite irrelevant to the case your honour. And the fact remains there is not a single criminal case against the defendant, except the one registered on the complaint of Mr Rumbold. Mr Macgregor makes out that my client was a dangerous outlaw, but all this is based on hearsay and rumour. The fact of the matter is that my client is an idealist, who acted in pursuit of his convictions.”
But the judge was unconvinced. “Let the prosecution unfold its case Mr Dube. Your objections are premature.”
Macgregor went on again. “Now, on the night of the 27” there was ball given by the Governor at the conclusion of Pachmarhi Week. This was well known to the defendant. In fact he has admitted during interrogation that he disguised himself as a sadhu to make a reconnaissance of the site.”
But the defence counsel was having none of this. “ I object your honour. Information obtained during interrogation cannot be used as evidence unless corroborated by independent witnesses or circumstantial evidence.”
“Objection sustained. The witness should confine himself to what actually transpired before him on the night of the27”.
Macgregor went on to give a more or less accurate version of the events that took place that night. He was however at pains to assert that Maan Singh had held his fire only because his nerves had failed him at the crucial moment. “Your witness Mr Dube!” said the judge, inviting the defence counsel to cross-examine the witness, as Macgregor came to the end of his testimony.
Dube was an old hand at cross-examining witness. He knew that Macgregor, who as the Superintendent of Police was used to a certain measure of deference from Indians, would not relish the prospect of being cross- examined by native lawyer. Once he lost his self – possession it would be easy for the defence to pick holes in his testimony.
“Now Mr. Macgregor, you are the Superintendent of Police in this district, I take it.” Pratap Dube was at most unctuous as he said this, with a supercilious smile.
“Of course. I should have thought you were well aware of the fact.” Mecgregor knew the question was meant to provoke him and he made an effort to restrain himself.
“Please confine your replies to matters of fact. Extraneous remarks of this nature are not germane to the issue.” It was clear that Dube was enjoying the SP’s discomfiture and it was only a matter of time before the SP’s patience gave way. “Now Mr. Macgregor is it not a fact that during your tenure as SP of Hoshangabad serious crime in the district has gone up?”
Strictly speaking this was quite true, as cases of theft had gone up. Mino thefts – cattle lifting, stealing from a unguarded field – are notoriously difficult to trace out but Macgregor was competent police officer and had been successful in checking incidents of dacoity and other serious organized crime.
This was enough to raise Macgregor’s hackles. “Not true. There has not been a single dacoity during the last one year and the ones committed before them have been sorted out.”
“But there has been a twofold increase in cases of theft and housebreaking and not a single case has been chargesheeted as yet. It is true that dacoity has declined, but it was rare enough in any case. On the other hand this increase in number of thefts shows that crime as a whole has increased.”
“What rot!. This is the kind of argument you lawyers would use to prove anything. What are you getting at anyway?”
This earned Macgregor a stern reprimand from the bench. “These remarks are most uncalled for. Please restrain yourself Mr Macgregor and try to answer the defence counsel’s questions in a calm and reasonable manner.”
“I am not getting at any thing, only stating a point of fact that is not every well known to the public. I put it to you Mr Macgregor, that the district police has been using Maan Singh as convenient scapegoat. They have not been successful in controlling crime so they have created a bugbear to divert public anger. This is the real reason behind my client’s so called police record.”
“Mr Dube you ought to know that the Government does not needed to resort to these dirty tricks. Our work is an open book, no duplicity or doublespeak there, though that is something that one can’t always say for some members of your ilk.”
“I was speaking of the district police, not of the British Empire or the Government of India Mr. Macgregor but you obviously make no distinction between the two. Nonetheless, I will not respond to your racial slur, apart from drawing the attention of the bench to it. Let me rather pass on to the events of night of the 27”. You admit that the defendant did not fire his revolver, though he could easily have done so and thereby caused much bloodshed. Yet you say that is was cowardice that made him hold back. May I ask how you came by this conclusion.”
“It stands out a mile, does it not. The accused had hatched a careful conspiracy. He wanted to hold the entire government to ransom, and he has admitted as much. With so much at stake, why would a man suddenly let all his schemes come to nothing, unless he had a sudden attack of nerves. And this, let me tell you often happens to people, when they are called upon to kill other people in cold blood. I have known several cases of the kind.”
“Ah so you admit that the defendant was not a cold-blooded killer, though you have been saying that he was a hardened outlaw.”
Macgregor did not expect this sudden thrust. He was in some confusion as he replied, “no, no I was only talking in general. As far as the accused is concerned, there is his record and you can’t brush it away.’
“I see. Let me put it to you Mr Macgregor that the accused did not fir because he did not want to cause bloodshed. He is a man who believes in non-violence just as Mahatama Gandhi does.”
Macgregor was sceptical. “You can tell to the Congress members or other Gandhians, they may believe you tale. But as a policeman I know that a man who has committed several violent crimes does not suddenly become a saint. It was just a case of nerves, I tell you.”
“Your honour, I would like to put this question to the prisoner, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
Pratap Dube walked up to the dock and addressed the prisoner. “May I ask why you did not fire at Mr Cartwright as he approached you.”
There was no answer from the prisoner.
“Was it because he was a young man and you did not wish to kill him in cold blood?”
“That’s a leading question Mr Dube. I cannot allow it.” Said the judge.
There was in any case no reply from prisoner.
“That will be all your honour!”
“That was the end of Macgregor’s evidence. That evening at the club the conversation was naturally about the case and the SP was fretting and funning.
“Impertinent fellow. He’s typical of the new tribe of natives who think they can talk to us on an equal footing just because they can speak a bit of English. But he does not represent native opinion, any more than Congress represents it. It is the peasants and the farmers who do and they will always be with us.”
“Still, he did a good job today. Got you all worked up didn’t he. Clever fellow.” This came from Cooper who was playing his customary rubber of bridge.
“I still think he is cheeky bastard. The fellow should realize that there is only thus far that he can go. It will only take one complaint to haul him in.”
“Tut, tut, you lose your composure too readily my dear chap. Mr Dube was only doing what he is paid to do, and doing it rather well.” Said the District Judge.
“You seem a little too impressed with his damned legal impudence. Yet you did vote against his application for club membership, didn’t you.”
‘Of course I did not would do so again. I can’t have a damned nigger as my bridge partner.”
“And yet you praise the man.”
“That, my dear chap, is another matter. When I am on the bench I don’t look at the colour of a fellow’s skin. But you wouldn’t understand that. Your call Cooper.”
The judge excused himself after that game and the party soon broke up, leaving Macgregor alone with a tumbler full of rum.
