‘But my dear Mr Kasim, no one would blame you for defending your son, for defending the INA. I least of all.’
‘I have imagined you would not. It is what you were delicately hinting when we had lunch a couple of weeks ago. On earlier occasions I detected from Government rather less delicate hints that it was hoped I might lead an attack on these fellows.’
‘Is it your intention to lead an attack?’
‘No. I do not have a suicidal turn of mind.’
‘Well that’s one good piece of news at least. On the other hand, if you don’t publicly defend the INA and your son, how can you survive, politically?’
‘I do not know whether I can survive. But I am an old enough professional to know that when you do not know how, you bide your time. I will do nothing to help nourish this idea that the INA are heroes. Eventually other people may agree with me. A free and independent India may not want to employ such officers. But personally I should not like to feel that at one time I defended them, and then refused to employ them. So for me it is simply a question of refusing now. Many of them had perhaps understandable and excusable reasons. But how can you judge which man had what reason? Let into your army one man of the suspect kind I have in mind and you plant the seed of a military dictatorship, you nurture a man who will throw away his commission again and challenge and even overthrow a properly constituted civil authority. I do not want a government of generals. I do not want to see such an India. I do not believe there will be such an India. But too much adulation of INA seems to me the best way of getting such an India. So, for the moment, I must be what you call hors de combat because I am out of rhythm with my country’s temporary emotional feelings, and the country’s temporary emotional feelings are out of rhythm with my own. I should be, as you also say, rusticated, for everybody’s sake. So, Kasim, I tell myself. Go and cultivate your garden for a while.’ He smiled. ‘At Premanagar I had plenty of practice.’
Malcolm smiled too. He said, ‘Not everyone has the taste for martyrdom, Mr Kasim. It rather surprises me to sense it in you.’
‘Martyrdom? Oh, no, you’ve got me all wrong! A martyr is the last thing I’m cut out for. I am a very practical man, even a pragmatist. The equal of any Englishman in that respect. But I have trained myself to take the long view also and taking the long view has taught me that you have to live for ever with a single moment of short-sightedness.’
‘Well let’s not say martyrdom. Just let’s say you’re putting a very high price on your conscience, your moral sense. Does it follow you’ve put a low one on the ultimate good of this province?’
‘Governor, you know that this is a Congress majority province. Whoever you invite to form a government will be a Congressman. The price I exact for my moral sense is one Muslim seat, one minority seat in the assembly. So. My temporary rustication is bought very cheaply. I could not possibly win it in all the circumstances.’
‘Temporary rustication? What have you in mind?’
‘At the moment only cultivating my garden. Doing everything I can to promote the claims of Fazal Huq Rahman and disputing the claims of Jinnah and his League for partition. Oh, they will soon see that I am not in his camp. And, if I am asked my views about INA, I shall take – forgive me – the line of the English gentleman. I shall say, “How can I comment on such matters when I, my son, my whole family are involved? It is for others to speak.” Also I shall fall back on the time-honoured excuse that certain family misfortunes and personal health do not make me a suitable candidate for elections in the coming cold weather. Now, what do you give me for my moral sense? You see what a Machiavellian viper you have been harbouring in your bosom?’
Malcolm put his head back, closed his eyes and laughed.
‘So, Governor. May we have just another word about Fazal Huq Rahman?’
Malcolm put his spectacles on and looked at Kasim. He said, ‘What more of Fazal Huq Rahman?’
‘Should he defeat Nawaz Shah in the elections, which is very unlikely, and a misfortune for India which we can attribute to the late Lord Minto. . . .’
‘Why Lord Minto?’
‘It was during his viceroyalty that the decision to provide separate electorates for Muslims was taken –’
‘Entirely as a result of Muslim pressure –’
‘That is technically so, but Minto need not have agreed. He and the British wanted to agree, he was unconsciously dividing and ruling. Lady Minto was dividing and ruling quite consciously. You never should have allowed your memsahibs into the country. It was she who greeted the arrangement for separate electorates with cries of amazon joy, because what she called Indian national subversion had been effectively blocked. It is to people like the Mintos we owe Jinnah.’
Malcolm was smiling. ‘Go, back to Fazal Huq Rahman,’ he said.
‘I was about to. I was merely reminding you, Sir George, of the political background to these constitutional absurdities. It is as though, Sir George, at home you had separate electorates for Protestants, Catholics, non-conformists, evangelists and Christian-Scientists. Communalism has been written into our political structure by the raj. The cold weather elections will be fought on a religious not a political issue. However, should Fazal Huq Rahman persuade his Muslim majority constituency that unity and not separation is the answer, which is doubtful, let me first of all say that he is not yet of ministerial calibre, and then reassure you that he is neither relative nor friend nor the friend of a cousin to whom I owe some favour –’
Again Malcolm put his head back. He took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. He said, ‘What should I do about Fazal Huq Rahman?’
‘When you discuss portfolios with your new chief-minister designate, he will suggest a man for Education and no doubt like all good Governors you will raise no objection. But having raised no objection it would be useful if you could introduce Fazal Huq Rahman’s name into the conversation and indicate some interest in seeing him in that department with a brief of some kind.’
‘I’ll keep my eye open, Mr Kasim. Perhaps nearer the time you’ll help to guide it finally in the right direction?’
‘I don’t think that would be very wise. I don’t think, you know, that we ought to see each other again except in public, socially.’
The Governor gazed at him steadily. He said, ‘I should be sorry for that. But I must leave it to you. Are you going back to practise the law?’
‘No, no. I am a fortunate man. I don’t have to earn a living, as you know.’
‘I really meant, interest yourself in legal matters?’
‘One never loses one’s interest.’
‘No, quite. What I meant was identify yourself with what I might call quasi-legal committees set up to look into matters involving possible legal processes or inquiries?’
‘You are referring to matters that might arise from the civil disturbances that followed Government’s arrests of Congressmen like myself?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the way they were put down?’
‘And the way they were put down.’
‘No, I am not interested in anything like that. To me it is all water under the bridge. Turbulent water at the time but to me it is foolish to re-disturb it. Now I think I must go.’ He got up. Malcolm got up too. Kasim said, ‘Thank you for what you arranged, and hoped to arrange. Next year you can forget all these things. I hope Lady Malcolm will soon be fully recovered.’
‘Thank you.’
They began to walk slowly towards the doors that led to the ante-room. Then Malcolm stopped. He said, ‘Mr Kasim, do you remember the last thing I said to you in this room, just before you went off to the Premanagar Fort?’
‘Yes, I remember it very well. You said you would leave a thought in my mind, that one day this room might be mine.’
‘Is it what you’d like? If so, I think I might almost guarantee it. It’s not the same as heading a Ministry, but it has its compensations. Ranpur hasn’t had an Indian Governor before but you wouldn’t be the first
Indian Governor appointed in the country.’
‘You mean sworn in, not appointed.’
‘Well, yes.’
Kasim felt the tremor beginning again in his right arm and hand. Almost unconsciously he steadied it by clasping the right wrist. For a moment the temptations of the peak – that splendid heady upper air, that immensity of landscape – made his head sing.
He heard himself saying, ‘Well you see how difficult that would be, unless the Viceroy had been succeeded by a Governor-General of a self-governing dominion, and unless his executive council had been superseded by an Indian cabinet responsible to a freely elected central Indian assembly. And in that context a provincial governorship, if such a thing survives which I suppose it will, will be a job for an old man. Please don’t misunderstand me.’
‘I don’t misunderstand.’
‘Furthermore, for me to be sworn in, when you retire, would necessitate severing my active party political connections.’
‘I understand that too. I suppose I was looking for a way of ensuring that your rustication isn’t too permanent.’
‘Well that is my problem but it is kind of you to involve yourself in it.’
‘Not kind, Mr Kasim. I am involved whether I like it or not. But I prefer to like it. How serious were you when you said we oughtn’t to see each other again in private?’
‘Oh, very serious. I try not to say things lightly.’
‘In that case is there anything I can do apart from saying goodbye and wishing you good luck?’
‘Oh yes, one small thing. I am almost ashamed to mention it.’
‘But please –’
‘I know that any letters Sayed writes to members of his family and any letters members of his family write to Sayed must be opened and censored. That is quite correct in all the circumstances. But it has become onerous to feel that one can neither write nor receive letters from whomsoever on whatsoever subject that have not been looked at by strangers – no doubt perfectly disinterested fellows just doing their jobs. But it tends to limit one’s sense of one’s right to proper self-expression, and is so ridiculous when by contrast I know I can come here and frankly and freely speak my mind.’
‘I attended to that a couple of days ago when a particular point was brought to my notice and I realized it was still going on. But give it a day or two –’ Malcolm smiled – ‘you know how slowly any administration works.’
‘Oh yes. I know, only too well. Thank you. Good-night, Governor.’
‘Good-night, Mr Kasim.’
*
The crowds were still there in the Kandipat road, in the dark, patient, waiting to welcome him back from whatever great occasion he had gone out on. At the entrance to the house the progress of the car was interrupted. Thackeray was not in the car and there was nothing to identify it as one from Government House, but tomorrow it would be all round Ranpur where he had been. By then it would not matter and tonight it did not matter, to the patient crowds, where he had been or what he had done. It was enough for them that he had been out and done something in this sort of style, challenging the raj. With such crowds Booby was a different man. He beamed, he smiled, he rolled the window down and said cheerfully, ‘Okay, okay, what is all this, what are you waiting for, he is tired can’t you see, please let us pass. Tomorrow is another day. He will have something to say then. Hán, hán! Jai Hind. Jai Hind. All people go home now. Everything is okay.’
And rolled the window up as the crowd divided like a Red Sea and the car swept in through the iron gates. ‘You see, Minister,’ Booby said enthusiastically, ‘here we are finally at home.’
*
Booby had even arranged that the fountain should play in the shallow pool in the miniature inner courtyard. Kasim leant on the railing that protected the second floor balcony and watched the dimly lit aquarium-effect for a while. Then he went back to the room he had asked should be set aside for him – the room his father had studied and meditated in during his own widowerhood – a room without ornament, with cream-washed walls, fretted windows, a simple bed, a desk, a chair, two lamps (oil-lit in his father’s day, now electric). He sat at the desk and again opened Bapu’s letter.
‘Minister?’
‘What is it, Booby?’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, no, but come in, sit down.’
There was nowhere for Booby to sit so Kasim vacated the chair and sat on the bed. Still Booby did not sit.
‘You must sleep,’ he said, ‘you did not sleep all night again.’
‘I am not tired. I must draft a letter to Bapu.’
‘Please, dictate it. I have my pad and pencil.’
‘No. I shall draft it. Then we can discuss it. Then it can be typed.’ Booby’s shorthand left a lot to be desired. Old Mahsood had had no shorthand. Somehow this had not seemed to matter.
‘Very well,’ Booby said. ‘Then there is for the moment only the question of the letter from Pandit Baba.’
Kasim shut his eyes and flicked his hand, negatively. ‘Oh, throw it away, Booby. It is all water under the bridge. We have never answered him before. Why should we answer now? We do not even know, only guess, what he is bothering me personally for. He is a tiresome man and of no account.’
‘Yes, Minister. I will throw it away then. Mr Chakravarti has rung. Inviting you to dinner next week.’
‘I cannot go to dinner with Chakravarti next week.’
‘I will tell him so.’
‘No, do not tell him. Accept and then decline later. The day before. It is so much less complicated. What else?’
‘Mrs Nawaz Shah also rang.’
‘So she can ring.’
Kasim looked up. Booby nodded. Expressionless. But somehow approving. Perhaps Booby would do after all.
‘And?’
‘Ahmed rang from Mirat this afternoon while we were out.’
‘Saying what?’
‘I couldn’t get hang of it. We need more intelligent staff, Minister.’
‘Perhaps. Tomorrow we’ll discuss this, but primarily I shall leave it to you. What did the message say?’
‘It is completely without meaning.’ Booby referred to a note. ‘Three words only. “Expected and wanted.” ’
‘That is all?’
‘That is all, Minister.’
Kasim smiled. ‘It is enough. Thank you, Booby. That is all for tonight.’
*
After a while he got up from the bed and sat at the desk and began drafting the letter to Bapu. He inscribed the heading: To Mr Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.
Dear Bapu, (he wrote)
Thank you for your letter and your kind expression of sympathy in the loss of my old friend Mahsood. As you know he was with me for many years and now all that is over. One feels such a loss. I am grateful for your letter because it helps me knowing the loss is shared.
It has, however, been a particular blow, coming on top of others and frankly I am in low spirits and prey to all kinds of doubts and uncertainties. Please do not misunderstand. I have no doubts whatsoever about our commitment to the cause of freedom and unity and non-violence to which you have given not only your life’s work but also inspiration to the rest of us. This cause I shall never abandon. The uncertainties I spoke of arise from many different sources. For instance –
Momentarily Kasim’s inspiration failed. Then he continued: For instance, I find myself uncertain which of two recent events – the election of a socialist government in London and the destruction of Hiroshima by a single atomic bomb – will have the profounder effect on India’s future. It is this pressure from the world outside India that perhaps creates these uncertainties in my mind, although I am sure these outside pressures are reflected in pressures from within. On the one hand, there is the element that one might call purely political, and on the other an element one cannot but see as rooted in or flowing from a power that goes beyond the norm of what we morally understand by power –
Kasim broke off. He stared at t
he paper for a while. The words meant so little. What was in his mind seemed to mean so little too. It was the world outside his mind, the world he felt he couldn’t encompass that meant much. Tonight, it couldn’t be reached.
Coda for Operation Zipper
Early that September, coming into the harbour of Georgetown on the island of Penang, where the tide was presumably low, the first detachment of re-occupying British troops observed what looked like an uncomfortably large number of Japanese soldiers assembled along the harbour wall, so that for a moment it wasn’t clear to them whether they faced a reception committee or something less welcoming, whether Zipper which had begun life as an offensive operation and then been rescaled as an expedition of liberation of the people of Malaya wouldn’t now become an operation again.
The matter was cleared up satisfactorily when a young Marine officer, attempting to mount the perpendicular iron ladder on the harbour wall from the light assault vessel that rocked up and down in the low-lying water, got into difficulties and the Japanese soldier nearest above him got down on his knees, stretched out an arm, and said, ‘I help you, Johnnie?’ Subsequently, most of the men, mounting at other points, found themselves momentarily relieved of their rifles, which certainly made the climb easier for them, but rather nullified the impression they’d had that the Nips were among the least accommodating people you’d be likely to find East of Suez (which was saying something). And Penang looked much more promising than Kalyan. Behind the line of Japanese soldiers were groups of pretty Chinese girls, grinning and waving.
Further down the coast, on one of what Leonard Purvis once heard fellow guests of the Maharanee’s call the beaches around Port Swettenham, there was no harbour wall to scale, instead, an idyllic scene, an immense stretch of golden sand backed by elegantly disposed palm-trees. The senior officer riding in on a swift shallow-draughted landing craft was sardonically amused by the sight of three diminutive Japanese officers waiting for him on the sand, holding their swords in a manner that indicated submission. Beautifully uniformed and shod, the Englishman had himself carried ashore through a few inches of water by two stalwart marines who placed him gently on dry land in front of the Japanese commander. After an exchange of polite formalities, the English officer said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to see how we would have come in in less peaceful circumstances?’