Read Online The Great Indian Novel by Shashi Tharoor - Free Book Online
Authors: Shashi Tharoor
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inquiry?’
‘My inquiry into the social and economic conditions of the people of Motihari,’ replies Ganga, ‘which you have so inconveniently interrupted this morning.’
Ah, Ganapathi, the glorious cheek of it! Ganga is committed to trial, and you cannot imagine the crowds outside the courthouse as he appears, bowing and smiling and waving folded hands at his public. He is a star - hairless, bony, enema-taking, toilet-cleaning Ganga, with his terrible vow of celibacy and his habit of arranging other people’s marriages, is a star!
The trial opens, the crowd shouting slogans outside, the heat even more oppressive inside the courtroom than under the midday sun. The police, standing restlessly to attention outside the courthouse gate, some helmeted in the heat and mounted on riot-control horses, cannot take it any longer. Their commander, a red-faced young officer from the Cotswolds, orders them to charge the peaceful but noisy protestors. They wade in, iron-shod hooves and steel-tipped staves flailing. The crowd does not resist, does not stampede, does not flee. Ganga has told us how to behave, and there are volunteers amidst the crowd to ensure we maintain the discipline that he has taught us. So we stand, and the blows rain down upon us, on our shoulders, our bodies, our heads, but we take them unflinchingly; blood flows but we stand there; bones break but we stand there; lathis make the dull sound of wood pulping flesh and still we stand there, till the policemen and their young red-faced officer, red now on his hands and in his eyes as well, red flowing in his heart and down his conscience, realize that something is happening they have never faced before . . .
You think I’m simply exaggerating, don’t you, Ganapathi? The hyperbole of the old, the heroism of the nostalgic, that’s what you think it is. You can’t know, you with your ration-cards and your black markets and the cynical materialism of your generation, what it was like in those days, what it felt like to discover a cause, to belong to a crusade, to
believe.
But I can, don’t you see. I can lean here on these damned lumpy bolsters and look at your disbelieving porcine eyes and
be
there, outside the courtroom at Motihari as the lathis fall and the men stand proud and upright for their dignity, while inside - surprise, surprise - the prosecution asks for an adjournment. Yes, the prosecution, Ganapathi, it is the government pleader, sweating all over his brief, who stumbles towards the bench and asks for the trial to be postponed . . .
But, hello - what’s this? The accused will have none of it! The magistrate is on the verge of acquiescing in the request when Gangaji calls out from the dock: ‘There is no need to postpone the hearing, my Lord. I wish to plead guilty.’
Consternation in the court! There is a hubbub of voices, the magistrate bangs his ineffectual gavel. Gangaji is speaking again; a silence descends as people strain to hear his reedy voice. ‘My Lord, I have, indeed, disobeyed the order to leave Motihari. I wish simply to read a brief statement on my own behalf, and then I am willing to accept whatever sentence you may wish to impose on me.’
The magistrate looks wildly around him for a minute, as if hoping for guidance, either divine or official; but none is forthcoming. ‘You may proceed,’ he says at last to the defendant, for he does not know what else to say.
Gangaji smiles beatifically, pushes his glasses further back up his nose, and withdraws from the folds of his loincloth a crumpled piece of paper covered in spiky cramped writing, which he proceeds to smooth out against the railing of the dock. ‘My statement,’ he says simply to the magistrate, then holds it closely up to his face and proceeds to read aloud.
‘I have entered the district,’ he says, and the silence is absolute as every ear strains to catch his words, ‘in order to perform a humanitarian service in response to a request from the peasants of
‘My inquiry into the social and economic conditions of the people of Motihari,’ replies Ganga, ‘which you have so inconveniently interrupted this morning.’
Ah, Ganapathi, the glorious cheek of it! Ganga is committed to trial, and you cannot imagine the crowds outside the courthouse as he appears, bowing and smiling and waving folded hands at his public. He is a star - hairless, bony, enema-taking, toilet-cleaning Ganga, with his terrible vow of celibacy and his habit of arranging other people’s marriages, is a star!
The trial opens, the crowd shouting slogans outside, the heat even more oppressive inside the courtroom than under the midday sun. The police, standing restlessly to attention outside the courthouse gate, some helmeted in the heat and mounted on riot-control horses, cannot take it any longer. Their commander, a red-faced young officer from the Cotswolds, orders them to charge the peaceful but noisy protestors. They wade in, iron-shod hooves and steel-tipped staves flailing. The crowd does not resist, does not stampede, does not flee. Ganga has told us how to behave, and there are volunteers amidst the crowd to ensure we maintain the discipline that he has taught us. So we stand, and the blows rain down upon us, on our shoulders, our bodies, our heads, but we take them unflinchingly; blood flows but we stand there; bones break but we stand there; lathis make the dull sound of wood pulping flesh and still we stand there, till the policemen and their young red-faced officer, red now on his hands and in his eyes as well, red flowing in his heart and down his conscience, realize that something is happening they have never faced before . . .
You think I’m simply exaggerating, don’t you, Ganapathi? The hyperbole of the old, the heroism of the nostalgic, that’s what you think it is. You can’t know, you with your ration-cards and your black markets and the cynical materialism of your generation, what it was like in those days, what it felt like to discover a cause, to belong to a crusade, to
believe.
But I can, don’t you see. I can lean here on these damned lumpy bolsters and look at your disbelieving porcine eyes and
be
there, outside the courtroom at Motihari as the lathis fall and the men stand proud and upright for their dignity, while inside - surprise, surprise - the prosecution asks for an adjournment. Yes, the prosecution, Ganapathi, it is the government pleader, sweating all over his brief, who stumbles towards the bench and asks for the trial to be postponed . . .
But, hello - what’s this? The accused will have none of it! The magistrate is on the verge of acquiescing in the request when Gangaji calls out from the dock: ‘There is no need to postpone the hearing, my Lord. I wish to plead guilty.’
Consternation in the court! There is a hubbub of voices, the magistrate bangs his ineffectual gavel. Gangaji is speaking again; a silence descends as people strain to hear his reedy voice. ‘My Lord, I have, indeed, disobeyed the order to leave Motihari. I wish simply to read a brief statement on my own behalf, and then I am willing to accept whatever sentence you may wish to impose on me.’
The magistrate looks wildly around him for a minute, as if hoping for guidance, either divine or official; but none is forthcoming. ‘You may proceed,’ he says at last to the defendant, for he does not know what else to say.
Gangaji smiles beatifically, pushes his glasses further back up his nose, and withdraws from the folds of his loincloth a crumpled piece of paper covered in spiky cramped writing, which he proceeds to smooth out against the railing of the dock. ‘My statement,’ he says simply to the magistrate, then holds it closely up to his face and proceeds to read aloud.
‘I have entered the district,’ he says, and the silence is absolute as every ear strains to catch his words, ‘in order to perform a humanitarian service in response to a request from the peasants of
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