The Day of the Scorpion (3 page)

‘Perhaps none,’ Kasim said.

‘Exactly. And so, my dear Kasim, don’t go into the wilderness with the rest of them this morning. However long it is, and my guess is it’s for the duration, what a waste of your talent, what misplaced loyalty. Get out now. Write to Maulana Azad. Write this morning, write here and now. Send in your resignation. What more suitable moment? And the moment you write your resignation I tear up this stupid document authorizing your arrest. There’s not a single act committed by you since you resigned office in 1939, not a speech, not a letter, not a pamphlet, not a thing said in public
or overheard in private that warrants your being locked up. All that warrants it now is your continued allegiance to the Congress, your continued standing as a leading member of an organization we’re outlawing.’

‘I quite understand, Sir George.’

The Governor studied the expression on Kasim’s face. Then he got up, walked to one of the long windows, looked out, and came back again, pacing slowly. Kasim waited, his hands still folded on his lap.

‘I want you on my executive council,’ the Governor said. ‘If it were constitutionally possible for me to re-establish autonomy in this province I know whom I’d invite to head the administration. Short of that I want you
in
, I want to use your talents, Mr Kasim.’

‘It is very kind of you, Sir George. I am immensely flattered.’

‘But you refuse, don’t you? You refuse to resign. You insist on going to jail. Forgive me, then. I hope you don’t feel insulted. That wasn’t my intention.’

Kasim made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Please. I know this.’

The Governor sat down, took off his spectacles and played with them as before, but with both hands, leaning forward, with his elbows on the desk. ‘Waste!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Waste! Why, Mr Kasim? You agree with everything I’ve said, but you don’t even ask for time to consider my suggestion. You reject it out of hand. Why?’

‘Because you only offer me a job. I am looking for a country and I am not looking for it alone.’

‘A country?’

‘To disagree about the ways of looking for it is as natural as you say it is to squabble about how power will be divided when it is found. And as you say, I have disagreed many times about these ways, and people have many times expected me to resign and change my political allegiance. And if ways and means were all that mattered I expect Congress would have seen the back of me long ago. But these are not what matter, I believe. What matters is the idea to which the ways and means are directed. I have pursued this idea for a quarter of a century, and it is an idea which for all my party’s faults I still find embodied in that party and only in that party, Governor-ji,
nowhere else. Incidentally, I do not agree with you when you speak of Indian independence having become a foregone conclusion. Independence is not something you can divide into phases. It exists or does not exist. Certain steps might be taken to help bring it into existence, others can be taken that will hinder it doing so. But independence alone is not the idea I pursue, nor the idea which the party I belong to tries to pursue, no doubt making many errors and misjudgements in the process. The idea, you know, isn’t simply to get rid of the British. It is to create a nation capable of getting rid of them and capable simultaneously of taking its place in the world as a nation, and we know that every internal division of our interests hinders the creation of such a nation. That is why we go on insisting that the Congress is an All India Congress. It is an All India Congress first, because you cannot detach from it the idea that it is right that it should be. Only second is it a political party, although one day that is what it must become. Meanwhile, Governor-ji, we try to do the job that your Government has always found it beneficial to leave undone, the job of unifying India, of making all Indians feel that they are, above all else, Indians. You think perhaps we do this to put up a strong front against the British. Partly only you would be right. Principally we do it for the sake of India when you are gone. And we are working mostly in the dark with only a small glimmer of light ahead, because we have never had that kind of India, we do not know what kind of India that will be. This is why I say we are looking for a country. I can look for it better in prison, I’m afraid, than from a seat on your Excellency’s executive council.’

While Kasim was talking the Governor had searched for and found a folder from which he now took a paper. He handed it across the desk. Kasim unfolded his hands, took the paper, felt in his pocket for his spectacles.

‘As you will see, Mr Kasim, that is a very short note which, if signed, will be your undertaking not to commit or cause to be committed any act whose effect is to disturb the peace or to hinder the defence of the realm. The undertaking would be valid for a period of six months from the date of signature. As you’ll also see there’s a rider to the effect that the signatory would, if called upon, use his best endeavours to inhibit the
effects of any such acts committed within the province by others. You’ll notice the paper says nothing about resigning from Congress. But sign the paper and I’ll still tear this other paper up.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Mr Kasim said. He put the note back on the Governor’s desk and replaced his spectacles in their case. ‘You are expecting trouble, then. You have realized the disadvantages of having to lock us up to stop us rousing what you call the mob. But the mob perhaps rouses itself. And it is uncontrolled. It wants to know what you’ve done with us. All kinds of undesirable elements emerge. You want me therefore to become a sort of
ex-officio
peacemaker, armed with soothing words and no integrity. As you say, the paper says nothing about resigning from Congress, but it need not do so, of course. If I signed it I would be expelled. To sign it is tantamount to resignation. I could not sign it. You didn’t expect me to, but I suppose you thought it was worth a try. I’m afraid you must cope with the mob without me.’

‘Well we can do that and will.’ For a while the Governor was silent, watching Kasim. Then he said, ‘You are in a curious position.’

‘I do not see it as curious.’

‘I was thinking of your private position. Of your elder son, for instance, who holds the King-Emperor’s commission. He fought in Malaya, and now he’s a prisoner of war of the Japanese. It has always puzzled me why you allowed him to join the army.’

‘Allow? He was under no obligation to seek my approval. It was his wish. India must have an army as well as a government. He became an officer. I became a minister.’

‘And you both served under the crown. Quite. But you no longer do. He does. No doubt you have heard rumours of the pressures being put on Indian prisoners, officers and men, to secure their release from prison camp by joining units that will fight side by side with the Japanese. News of your imprisonment might well be used by the enemy to add to those pressures in your son’s case. He was an excellent officer, I believe. He would be useful to them. His loyalty as an officer might be subjected to severe strain if he hears that we have put his father in jail. In his present circumstances he
cannot simply resign his commission as you resigned your ministerial appointment. That is the difference, isn’t it?’

‘I think it is a difference he will appreciate. Just as he will appreciate that I cannot let personal considerations affect my political judgement.’

‘Yes,’ the Governor said, ‘I expect it is,’ and stood up in a way that conveyed to Kasim that the interview was at an end. He stood up too. In the pit of his stomach he felt the old familiar hollowness. He did not want to go to prison.

The Governor held out his hand. Kasim took it.

‘I’m afraid that for the time being at any rate your whereabouts aren’t to be made known, and this restriction must unfortunately apply in the case of your family. They will write to you care of Government House, and your own letters will automatically come here. I hope, Mr Kasim, that occasionally you will think of writing personally to me.’

‘Thank you. Am I to be allowed newspapers?’

‘I shall give the necessary instructions.’

‘Then I’ll say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Kasim.’

Kasim bowed his head, hesitated, and then walked towards the double doors behind which, he knew, the young police officer to whom the senior man had handed him over, and two British military policemen, would be waiting. But just before he reached the doors he heard the Governor call his name, and turned. The Governor was still standing behind the desk. He made a gesture with both hands, indicating the desk, the papers on it.

‘May I send you away with an interesting thought that has suddenly struck me?’

‘What is that, your Excellency?’

‘That one day this desk will probably be yours.’

Kasim smiled, looked round the room. The thought, just at that moment, was almost sickening. He said, ‘Yes. You are probably right,’ and, still smiling, turned and took the last few paces to his more immediate prison.

At dusk Mr Kasim was taken from the upstairs room where
he had been kept all day and driven to the sidings of the railway station at Ranpur cantonment. Here he was transferred to a carriage of the kind used to transport troops, most of whose windows had been blocked by steel shutters. The young officer in charge of him was joined by another. An armed sentry stood guard at the only door of the carriage that was still in use. When approaching the carriage Kasim saw that it was uncoupled. There were other soldiers and police in the vicinity. When he entered the carriage he expected to find other occupants, friends, ex-colleagues; but he was alone. The two young officers talked to each other in low voices and mostly in monosyllables. He made up his bed on one of the wooden benches. A tray was brought in with his dinner: soup, chicken and vegetables, and rice pudding with jam – obviously chosen from the European style menu at the station restaurant. While he ate it one of the officers went for his own dinner. Half an hour later he returned and his companion went for his. Kasim’s tray was taken by a British MP. Another armed sentry joined the first. At about nine o’clock the carriage was coupled to others, and the other officer returned from the restaurant. The two officers settled in the middle of the carriage leaving the guards at one end and Mr Kasim at the other. The train started. Kasim read. The officers continued to talk in low voices. They smoked cigarettes. Occasionally they shared a joke. A ten o’clock while the train was still moving slowly, uncertainly, picking its way across points and iron bridges, Mr Kasim gave the officers a start by rising suddenly and opening his suitcase. He sensed that they touched their holsters to make sure their revolvers were still there. From the suitcase he took out his prayer mat, then turned to them.

‘I suppose neither of you can tell me which direction west is?’ He smiled, was rewarded with vague, uncomprehending but not totally unfriendly negative replies, and then unrolled the mat on the floor, stood for a moment and composed himself in order to begin saying his Isha prayers in a peaceable frame of mind. He then performed in full the four Rak’ahs prescribed.

During the night he woke several times. The officers and the guards were taking it in turns to doze. He observed their
faces: slack, remote in the dim pools of light from the overhead bulbs that had been left on. The light scarcely reached the end of the carriage where he lay and once, because he had moved and attracted the attention of the officer whose turn it was to keep watch, he returned the man’s incurious, dispassionate, half-dreaming gaze for what seemed like an age before the man suddenly realized that Kasim’s eyes were also open and looked away, stared down at his folded arms. When Kasim next awoke this man was asleep, his companion sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, contemplating his clasped hands in one of which a cigarette was burning. Kasim raised his arm and looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Nearly five o’clock. The train was not moving but presumably wasn’t at its destination. Distantly, through the silence, he heard the cry of jackals. He rose, aware of the sharp movement of the wakeful officer keeping a check on him. From his suitcase he took the waterproof bag, leather case, soap-box, towel and shaving kit that he had packed the night before last, and went into the cubicle. There was no lock on the door. A single bulb illuminated dirty green tiles and old, cracked porcelain. Iron bars were set in the window. Behind them was a pane of frosted glass. He showered and shaved, put back on the clothes he had travelled in. The train had begun to move again. The motion set the door swinging open and shut. When he came out both officers were awake. He nodded good-morning to them, returned his things to the suitcase, got out his prayer mat and performed the two Rak’ahs of the Fajr prayers. Making the last prostration he repeated to himself a passage from the Koran. Oh God, glory be to You who made Your servant go by night from the Sacred Mosque to the farther Mosque. Praise be to Allah who has never begotten a son, who has no partner in his Kingdom, who needs none to defend him from humiliation.

Kneeling he rolled the mat up again, returned it to the case and snapped the locks shut. He made up his bedroll and secured the straps. Then he sat on the hard slatted bench. The officers went in turn to the cubicle at the other end of the carriage. The sentry who squatted at the door rose and woke the sleeping sentry, and then lowered the window and looked
out. The train came to a halt. Rain was drumming on the roof. Kasim wondered whether his wife was yet awake. He thought of his married daughter in the Punjab, of his son Ahmed in Mirat, and of his elder son Sayed who was God knew in what hell-hole of a prison camp.

The train was, almost imperceptibly, once more in motion. Both officers had completed their ablutions. Now the sentries took it in turns to go into the farther cubicle. The officers mumbled at each other. One of them looked at his watch and stretched, went to the open window. The first light must be beginning to show, Kasim thought. The officer stayed at the window for some time. The overhead bulbs went out. The carriage was permeated with a grey mistiness that brought with it the notion of early morning chill, and the faces of his guards were suddenly like those of strangers. The officer left the window and joined his companion. He must have made some sign. They began to adjust their belts. One reached for his cap. Kasim looked away, feeling the hollowness again. A few minutes later the train came to a halt. For a moment, because of the quietness, Kasim imagined they were held up by signals, but the silence was then broken by a voice speaking outside. Turning to look Kasim saw one of the officers at the window. He spoke to someone well below the level of the carriage. A moment later he opened the door and got down. His companion stayed in the carriage but stood at the open door. He lit a cigarette. One of the soldiers slung his rifle over his shoulder and studied the palm of his left hand as if he’d got a cut or a splinter. The carriage echoed metallically. It was being uncoupled. The rain had stopped falling. There was a whistle from up ahead. Kasim stood. The sentry stopped looking at his hand and the officer in the doorway glanced round, then back through the doorway again. He answered a voice from below and came away from the door. An officer with an armband round his sleeve hauled himself up into the carriage.