Chapter 134: Reconciliation?

South Block

20 May 1950

The revised proposal went to the Cabinet on the twentieth, and it was not the document Ram had first written. It was something more careful. Choosing to fight the battle another day, Ram put the amended document forward with the hope that with this, at least the dams would go forward.

"Jawaharlal has done his work," he said, at the head of the table. "I have taken his advice on most of it. The Supreme Court retains its appellate jurisdiction, subject to leave: a litigant must persuade the Court that his case raises a substantial question of law. The Court’s role as interpreter of the Constitution is explicitly protected. Regional Courts of Appeal are established, with judges appointed by a joint commission of the Law Ministry and the Supreme Court.

"Administrative tribunals will have security of tenure and an appeal to the High Court on any point of law. The limits on second appeals stand. Every civil case in every court is to be decided within three years of filing, extendable only on written reasons. And a standing committee of the Cabinet will report annually to Parliament on the backlog."

"That is Sir Iqbal’s plan," Nehru said.

"With two additions, and with every other concession you have asked for."

"It is no reform at all," Patel said. He had put down his pen and sat back, and for once his manner was almost cheerful. "It gives the judges leave to decide what is substantial. They will become the masters of their own docket."

"They will, Vallabhbhai. And the docket will fall by nine-tenths."

"It will fall by whatever they choose." Patel shook his head. "I told you in April the thing was too gentle. I tell you now, it is nearly toothless. But I will not stand in your way, because the alternative is to fight the whole Bench, and I have just seen what that costs."

"What it costs is time."

"Time is what a dam is made of, Ram."

"I know." Ram turned a page. "I do not propose that this go through as a Government Bill. I shall constitute a Law Commission under Chagla, with Ambedkar and Sir Alladi on it, and let them argue it out. I shall abide by their finding, within reason. If they come back with something worse, I shall return to this."

"And Hirakud?" Shroff asked.

"The Court will hear the appeal on the sixth of June. We will make our case. If the Court rules against us, we shall comply."

"And the survivors of Sarapali?"

"Panda is released on bail. I have asked the magistrate. He is not a conspirator, Jawaharlal. He is a schoolteacher who was used. I believe he is regretting the whole thing, but also that his convictions were in the right place. Should we find evidence, he shall be prosecuted."

"You would prosecute him?" Nehru said, with some surprise.

"I would; the fact of the matter is, he led a protest without permission from the authorities, the protests turned violent leading to the loss of life, and injuries," Ram said. "Ignorance does not mean one can break the law; you, as a lawyer, should know that better than me."

Hirakud

6 June 1950

The Supreme Court delivered judgment on the sixth of June, after four days of argument, in a small, packed chamber crowded to the doors. The Chief Justice read the decision himself, in a thin, steady voice, without looking up.

The appeal was dismissed. The Land Acquisition Act, the Court held, was a valid exercise of legislative power. The compensation provisions were adequate. The petitioners had no right to a stay of public works of this character. The Court expressed "grave concern" at the circumstances of the police action on the twenty-sixth of March, and directed that the inquiry into the death of Dhruba Behera be conducted by a High Court judge, with a report within three months.

"It added, in a passage the Chief Justice read with unusual emphasis, that "the constitutional scheme, in so far as it deprives a citizen of the right to challenge the very fact of acquisition before it occurs, is one which this Court may, in a proper case, be required to examine with the closest attention."

Ghosh, in the front row, sat with his head bowed. A young reporter from the Hindu wrote down the last sentence and underlined it twice.

Ram, who had not been in court, received the news by telephone. He listened, thanked Setalvad, and put down the receiver.

"We have won," Shaktidas said from the doorway.

"We have won the appeal. We have not won the argument." Ram rose and went to the window. Below, in the Secretariat courtyard, clerks hurried between the wings in the white noon glare. "He has told us what he will do the next time. The Court will be waiting for the next case, and the next case will be chosen with care. Every future acquisition, every dam, every road, will be tried in advance before a Bench that has announced its hostility." He turned. "I shall have to be right every time."

"You usually are."

"No," Ram said, with a faint, tired smile. "I am usually early."

Hirakud Nagar

20 June 1950

The first houses of the first resettlement colony were ready on the twentieth. They stood on a rise of red laterite twelve miles from the river, in neat rows, with tiled roofs and whitewashed walls and a well in every courtyard. A school had been built at the centre, with a bell on a wooden frame, and a small dispensary beside it with a nurse in a white sari, and the foundations of a temple were being dug at the north end.

Bhattacharya met the first party of villagers at the gate. There were thirty-one, from Remed, led by an old woman in a faded sari who had refused for three months to leave her house and had at last been persuaded by her granddaughter.

"This is yours, mataji," Bhattacharya said. He held out a key. "The third on the left. Two rooms and a verandah. The land is behind it. The canal comes past it. There is a school at the end of the row."

She took the key, turned it over in her hand, and looked at the house for a long time.

"It has no river," she said.

"No."

"My husband is in the river."

"I know."

"The engineer said I could take a pot of the ashes." She spoke without anger, in a small, exact voice. "I have it. I would like to put it somewhere."

"There is a place by the temple, mataji. A small shrine. We have built it for such things."

She looked at him sharply. "You built it for ashes?"

"Many people asked."

The old woman said nothing. She walked up the path to the door of the house, put the key in the lock, and turned it. The door swung open on a cool, empty room with a swept floor. She stood on the threshold without moving.

"It is a good house," she said at last, to no one in particular.

Bhattacharya took off his hat. Behind him, one by one, the other villagers came forward, and he did not hurry them.

South Block

28 June 1950

The three tin trunks of the Law Ministry’s records still stood in the corner of the Prime Minister’s study, where they had stood for two months. Beside them was a fourth, brought in that morning, containing the preliminary draft of the Law Commission’s report. Chagla had sent it with a note: We have disagreed on everything. We have agreed on this.

Ram read it in the evening, alone, by lamplight. It ran to a hundred and forty pages and was, in places, remarkably good. The Regional Courts of Appeal were recommended, with a few amendments. The tribunals were recommended, with several safeguards. The limits on appeal were recommended, with a proviso for cases of public importance. The Supreme Court’s jurisdiction was preserved, subject to leave. The time limit was adopted, with exceptions.

At the end, in a short minute of dissent, Ambedkar had written:

I concur in the proposals with the following reservations. First, that the Administrative Tribunals shall in no case be composed of persons who have served in the executive branch within the preceding five years. Second, that the right of a citizen to approach the Supreme Court under Article 32 shall not be abridged by any provision of this or any other law. Third, and I wish this recorded, that the reforms proposed, whatever their merits, are being undertaken in a spirit which concerns me.

I have seen a Constitution drafted to meet the needs of a particular moment, a particular man, and a particular crisis. I have seen the courts told that their authority is a convenience to be revised when it becomes inconvenient. I should be failing in my duty if I did not say that a Republic which builds its dams first and consults its judges afterwards has not yet understood what a Republic is.

Ram read the minute twice. He took off his spectacles and sat for a long time without moving.

Shaktidas came in at ten with the evening dispatches and found him there.

"Ambedkar," Ram said, without turning.

"I have read it."

"He is not wrong."

"No?"

"He is not wrong that I have built the dams first." Ram rubbed the bridge of his nose. "He is not wrong that the Constitution was written for a moment. He is wrong in one thing only: that I do not understand it. I understand it perfectly. I have chosen."

"He will fight you."

"He will. It is his right." Ram rose slowly. "It is the right of everyone. That is the whole point. And one day, Shaktidas, when I am no longer here, I should like to think there will be a man in this room who has the right to say no to someone, and that someone will have the courage to listen."

"You will be here for a long time."

"I will be here for as long as it takes." Ram went to the window. Below, Rajpath lay dark and still beneath a low moon. "But I am not at all certain that it is long enough."

Shaktidas set the dispatches on the desk. There were four. The first was from Cariappa: Lahore had surrendered at dawn. The second was from Savarkar: the foundations of the Hirakud main dam would be poured in September. The third was from Kao, in two lines: the Hong Kong company’s former secretary had been found in Macao and was willing to talk, and Mullick’s Calcutta office had, without being asked, sent him two officers and the Whitcomb file.

The fourth was from the Soviet Embassy, an invitation to a reception in honour of the new Chinese Ambassador.

Ram read all four and laid them in order on the blotter. He took up a pencil, hesitated, and wrote in the margin of Kao’s note a single line: Go to Macao yourself. Take Sengupta.

Then he turned out the lamp and stood for a while in the dark, listening to the night, and to the sound, very far off, of a train going north.

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