Read the series: Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8 | Episode 9 | Episode 10
It was a depressing afternoon, as late afternoons in early November tend to be now. The air was sticky and the light was grey. “November in Delhi used to be beautiful, and now…” people would say to each other, sniffling and coughing, and shaking their heads.
“It’s just like Gaza,” Jamal said to his companion, as he took one last drag at his cigarette.
“It is nothing like Gaza, Jamal bhai,” said Habib. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be trivialising the tragedy.”
Jamal and Habib were standing in a far corner at the back of the Press Club courtyard, watching the speakers at the Palestine protest. There were many empty chairs, but it was quiet at the back, where Jamal could smoke and have a parallel discussion on the event. They were there more in solidarity, less to actually listen.
“Look at the turn out! Nobody cares anymore, yaar. The same 20 people at every protest!”
“People are scared to come out.”
“That’s why I said it’s becoming like Gaza – surveillance, jail, the average person overjoyed at the thought of Muslims being put in their place.”
“Yes but Gaza is of a different order, Jamal bhai.”
Two men in servers’ white uniforms carried out a rather modest steel urn and some paper cups and placed them on a side table near the entrance, across the breadth of the courtyard from where they had been standing.
“And look at the amount of tea! It becomes less and less each time. Why can’t they ever have enough tea for everyone? It’s not like the place is teeming with people.”
As they observed the steel container at the entrance, a woman slipped into the courtyard and into their line of vision. She surveyed the scene in the manner of a late entrant, and glancing hurriedly in all directions before she found her appropriate mark and started to stare at the podium in feigned focus. She also smiled distractedly at the two men.
“Wakil saheb ma’am is here. We should discuss with her,” said Habib.
Tara vaguely recognised the two men but she couldn’t remember their names. She had always been very bad with names, and with faces. They were journalists probably, or students, or activists. She had seen them at protests before, and they had likely either spoken of disappointing judgments, or of the viability of going to court to fight for more freedoms. Thankfully she wasn’t expected to make conversation while the speeches were still on; perhaps she’d remember who they were by the time the programme ends. Tara was very good at not letting people guess that she had no idea who they were. She only had to be alert to clues during conversation with them.
Tara first focused on the speakers, and then on the steel urn. She poured herself some tea. The paper cup was tiny. ‘Could it be any smaller?’ she thought irritably.
Tara had been delayed in court today. She had gone to Patiala House to oppose extended remand for an accused, and had delivered an impassioned speech on the fundamental right to liberty, and on the idea that custodial interrogations were bad in civil rights jurisprudence. The public prosecutor had smirked, the judge had looked bemused, then bored. He had abruptly asked if the affidavit had been duly signed by the pairvikar. Tara wasn’t sure, so her junior had had to intervene.
“Where is the welfare stamp?” the judge asked next.
Tara had turned to look helplessly at her junior.
Finally, the judge had looked at Tara and said, “Madam have you seen the case law on this question? We are governed by Surendar Gadling! Application rejected. Next case.”
As she left the court, a kindly old advocate stopped her.
“Madam, you are a constitutional lawyer. Here, the focus is on zameeni bahas. Next time you check what the Hon’ble Supreme Court has said on the issue.”
Tara was thinking that she must find out about welfare stamps for the future, but more importantly she should file a comprehensive challenge in the Supreme Court on the practice of easy custodial remand, when she realised the programme had concluded. The two men were now standing next to her and smiling.
“Hullo!” she said cheerily. “How have both of you been?”
“We are well, Ma’am.”
“Good event! Although I was expecting more people.”
“People are scared, Ma’am. I was just saying to Habibi. They impose Section 144 restrictions before protests, disallow permissions, so many arrests. Can we not challenge it, Ma’am?”
“Have you been writing about it, Habibi?” Tara looked at the young man who was apparently Habibi.
Habib looked a little surprised. Only his closest friends and family called him Habibi. “No Ma’am, I haven’t written. Where will I write? But it’s becoming a serious issue Ma’am. We are not allowed any space to do anything. We had student union elections at the University and there was permanent curfew imposed on gatherings. We could do nothing. Jamal bhai is talking of the Jantar Mantar area, but even on campuses there is permanent curfew.”
Not a journalist, a student!
“When are your exams?” Tara asked with more confidence
“I’ll be writing competitive exams in the summer, Ma’am,” Habib said. Jamal shrugged noncommittally.
“Well then, Habibi, let’s think of a petition sooner rather than later.”
They said their goodbyes, and as Tara moved away, Jamal lunged at the urn, tilting it forward till it was level with the table. There was not even the thinnest stream of tea left. “See!”
“Doesn’t matter, Jamal bhai. We are not here to have tea. Come, we’ll go outside to the rerhi in the parking lot. He has the best tea and the best gossip.”
“I am never going there. Students hang around having chai and mathri and the moment someone senior arrives they all conveniently leave. Last time I had to pay 300 rupees.”
Jamal lit another cigarette as they stepped out of the Press Club. Just at the entrance, a posse of policemen sat on plastic chairs, sipping tea, scrolling through their mobile phones.
“The organisers are serving them tea, but not us!” even Habibi was offended.
“Have you taken down all the attendees names?” Jamal called out to the policemen provocatively.
ASI Achche Lal looked up and sighed. The intemperance of youth, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to engage.
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Now this was a bit much. Achche Lal leapt to his feet: “Aren’t you ashamed? Going from one protest to another – not doing a day’s honest work. Andolan jeevi, activist.”
“We are students. I am preparing for my UPSC exams,” Habib said.
“Serious students don’t do all this. You should sit at home and prepare. And as for him, don’t I know? Even he started off claiming he was preparing for competition. Now look at him – all age limits have passed. Wastrel, lives off his poor retired father.”
The light had turned even darker. Jamal felt he couldn’t breathe. “Is Umar Khalid a wastrel? Every day there are injustices meted out. Nobody speaks up. Some of us have to protest. They said just now that we are the real patriots, we are the last line of defence for this country.”
Constable Awdhesh Rana, tall and strapping got up from his chair, and swung his lathi at the two men. “You want to be Umar Khalid? I’ll show you Umar Khalid. Not only is he a wastrel, he is Jihadi. Terrorists, leeches all! I’ll book you under UAPA just now…” As profanities flew from Constable Rana’s mouth, Habib felt a sharp stinging slap on his face. His eyes welled up. Jamal’s face was red.
Achche Lal was shouting in anger, “Get arrested and send your parents crying to me for help.”
The Press Club servers rushed out and intervened. “Secretary saheb is calling both of you inside.”
Jamal and Habib were met with very grim faces inside. The secretary was livid at the organisers: “You know how difficult it is to find places for such events. Gandhi Foundation doesn’t give space; Jantar-Mantar is out of bounds. This is one of the few spaces left, and then these people create a tamasha. Why do you call such people?”
The organisers glowered. Jamal and Habib looked down at their feet.
Tara moved forward: “This was quite unnecessary, Jamal and Habibi. Pointless. You’d get booked under the UAPA for assaulting police officers and then stay inside for months.”
“They hit Habibi. He hadn’t even said anything”
“You must know that that is exactly how it works. They always pick on innocent bystanders. Wasn’t that your point today at the protest about the assault on Gaza?” she said.
“Jamal bhai has sugar. When he doesn’t eat for too long he gets angry, suddenly,” Habib said softly
“Then go and feed him. Take him away from here,” said the organisers disapprovingly, as the more senior lot requested Tara to come out with them to apologise to Achche Lal.
“How did it all start?” asked Tara
“He said students should not be wasting their time on protests. Everyone should just study, or work, and not ask for any accountability.”
“Well in some countries, working unions protest collectively. They refuse to work in the face of gross injustice. Dockworkers in Spain refused to work, to load ships carrying arms to Israel. But when there is no collective responsibility, then the few who refuse to work are considered freeloaders.”
“All that is fine, but there is a time and place for such nuanced discussions,” said the secretary.
“He won’t do anything. He is my uncle,” Jamal said suddenly. “It was a domestic fight.” Everyone turned to look at him in surprise. Tara felt relieved she wouldn’t have to mediate with the police on his behalf. She felt that she had made some wise arguments before these men, and wanted to just go home without once again feeling ineffective and dispirited.
“Leave quickly now,” said the men to Jamal and Habib.
They walked a short distance to the stalls outside the Constitution Club, where they first had tea and bread pakora, and also a vegetable patty each. Then after some debate, Jamal also had two gulab jamuns.
“You should avoid sugar, Jamal bhai.”
“Umar was attacked here only. You couldn’t think of any other place?”
“Jamal bhai, every rerhi in central Delhi has a history for you. If you hadn’t made them so angry, we could have eaten at the Press Club canteen.
“Is Tara Ma’am a senior lawyer, Jamal bhai?”
“Yes, she must be 50 at least,” Jamal said with confidence. “She understood my point.”
At the Press Club in the meantime, an offer of friendship, together with due apologies, had been extended to the policemen. They were now being served tea and samosas in the canteen. Constable Awdhesh had taken a seat next to ASI Achche Lal. “Sir, have you seen this YouTube video? A top Supreme Court advocate is saying that in Israel there is one Gaza patti, whereas in our country, every city has one or two Gaza pattis. Full of jihadi terrorists. We should just shoot at sight.”
Achche Lal frowned at the constable. “Put that phone away.”
To be continued…
Shahrukh Alam has been trying to write a murder mystery for a very long time. She has written versions of this story since 2013 and The Wire has published one such version earlier. She is hopeful that she’ll deliver a complete mystery this time. 🤞🏻
