CHAPTER XV.
TRIAL OF BARADA BABU.
THE court of the magistrate of Hooghly was crowded. The defendants in the different suits pending, the complainants, witnesses, prisoners, pleaders and officers were all present. The majority were restless and impatient, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the magistrate, but he was not yet even in sight. Barada Babu, taking Beni Babu and Ramlall with him, spread a blanket underneath a tree, and sat down. Some of the clerks of the court who were near, came up to him and began to talk significantly about coming to an arrangement, but Barada Babu refused to pay any heed to them. Then, with the view of exciting his fears, they observed: “The magistrate’s orders are very severe; but everything is left to us, and we can do exactly what we think fit: it is our business to draw up the depositions, so we can upset everything by a mere stroke of the pen; but we must have money. An investigation will have to be made, and this is the time it should be done: our best efforts, will be useless when the orders in the case have once been passed.” Ramlall on hearing all this was a little alarmed, but Barada Babu replied quite fearlessly: “Gentlemen, you must do whatever is your duty. I will never consent to give a bribe. I am perfectly innocent and have no fears.” The clerks of the court went off to their places in high wrath.
Presently some pleaders came up and said to him: “We perceive, sir, that you are a very respectable man, and have evidently fallen into some trouble; but you must take care that your case is not lost for want of proper investigation. If you wish to have witnesses prepared, we can supply you with some on the spot: we have every facility for doing so at a trifling expense. The magistrate will be here directly, so seize this opportunity to do what is necessary.” Barada Babu answered: “Gentlemen, you are extremely kind; but even should I have to wear fetters, I will wear them. I shall not be much troubled in mind at that: it will be a disgrace, I know,— I am ready to acknowledge it as such; but I will not walk in the way of falsehood even to save my life.” “Good heavens!” they exclaimed ironically, “here is a man belonging to the Golden Age. Surely King Yudhishthira come to life again!” and they went away laughing quietly to themselves.
It was now past two o’clock and still there was no sign of the magistrate: all were looking out for him as intently as crows on a sacred ghât. Some among them said to a Brahman astrologer who was present: “Pray sir, calculate for us whether the magistrate will come to-day or not.” The astrologer at once replied: “Come, tell me the name of some flower.” Somebody mentioned an hibiscus. The astrologer, calculating on his fingers, said, “No, the magistrate will not come to-day: he has business at home.” Believing the charlatan’s words implicitly, they all made preparations to tie up their bundles of records, and got up, saying to each other: “Ah, Ram, Ram! now we breathe freely again, let us go home and sleep.”
Thakchacha had been sitting with four others within the court enclosure, with a bundle of papers under his arm and a cloth over his face: he was now walking about, his eyes blinking restlessly, his beard waving in the breeze and his head bent low. Just then Ramlall’s gaze fell on him and he remarked to Barada Babu and Beni Babu: “See, see! Thakchacha is here! I fancy he is at the bottom of all this, otherwise why should he turn away his head when he saw me?” Barada Babu, raising his head, saw him and said, “I think so too; he is looking sideways in our direction, and moreover whenever his gaze falls on my face he turns and says something to his companions: it seems to me that Thakchacha is our evil genius; as the proverb has it, ‘he is the spirit in the sirish seed[31].’”
Beni Babu was never seen without a smile on his face: his pleasantry was of great service to him in his search for information. He could not refrain from shouting out the name of Thakchacha, but none of his shouts were attended to. Thakchacha had drawn a paper from under his arm and was to all appearance busily examining it: he pretended not to hear and did not even raise his head. Thereupon Beni Babu went up to him, and with his characteristic gesture said to him: “Hallo, what is the matter? What has brought you here?” Thakchacha said nothing, only examined his paper minutely; indeed he seemed to be seized with a sudden fit of modesty. But as he must, he thought, put Beni Babu off somehow or other without answering his question, he replied: “Ha, Babu! The river has risen a good deal to-day, how will you get back? I might as well ask you too why you are here, and why you keep on asking me the same thing. I have a good deal of business on hand just now and my time is short: I will speak with you later on: I will return directly.” With these words, Thakchacha slipped away, and was soon apparently engrossed in some trifling conversation with his companions.
Three o’clock struck: everybody was walking about impatiently. There is no chance of getting business promptly attended to in the Mofussil, and people get utterly weary of hanging about the courts. They were just breaking up when suddenly the magistrate’s carriage was heard approaching. Shouts were at once raised: “The Saheb is coming! The Saheb is coming!” The astrologer looked utterly crestfallen, and people began to say to him: “Your honour’s calculations are somewhat amazing.” “Ah!” replied he, “it must be owing to something pungent that I have eaten to-day that my calculations have been so upset.” The clerks of the court were all standing in their places, and directly the magistrate entered they all bent their heads low to the ground and salaamed to him.
The magistrate took his seat on the bench whistling casually. His hooka bearer brought him his hooka: he put his feet up on the table, and lying back in his chair, pulled away contentedly, now and then drawing out his handkerchief, which was scented with lavender-water, to mop his face. The office of the court interpreter was crowded. Men were hard at work writing out depositions, but as the old proverb has it: “He wins who pays.” The head clerk of the court, the sheristadar, with a shawl over his shoulders and a fine turban on his head, took a number of records of cases and read them out in a sing-song before the magistrate, who all the while was glancing at a newspaper, or writing some of his own private letters: as each case was read out he asked: “Well, what is all this about?” The sheristadar gave him the information that suited his own wishes on the subject, and the opinion of the sheristadar was practically the opinion of the magistrate.