Tomorrow

Vernon Gonsalves paints a picture of two courts of law, one that believes in balancing justice and pragmatism, and the other that believes justice itself is the balance.

—

"It is us versus them A, our law versus theirs," B's baritone had been gradually gathering pitch and now hit a startling falsetto. Taken aback, A settled into silence. Once more they circled around. Light panting from the two and the steady tread of the following security men. It was again near the peepal at the eastern end that the lull was broken.

"I agree," squeaked A.

At the gate, they wordlessly nodded their byes— B's self-assured bow to A's nervous twitch, as he got into his car. On the way home, thoughts and emotions were a jumble, as A tried to weigh all that had been said.

It had started calmly enough. Sighting B entering with his entourage, A had known that something was up. His choice of park for a morning walk was way off the beaten track and not the place B chose to frequent. A's pre-breakfast slot was for some brisk solo cardio while mulling over the day ahead. B kept the same time for discreet gossip and networking, sometimes frequenting the place where legal eagles and other politicos made a show of working out. He was careful of what he said where but did not have A's fetish for the separation of the Bench from normal social existence. A morning presence at A's garden was thus usually for some extra-judicial confabulation that was best kept away from court chamber confines.

A's taboo against tête-à-tête on subjudice matters could not extend to B. Besides being a fellow of the Bench, common grandchildren made him family. And B was an honourable man. His dabbling in affairs of State was always with the best interests of the Republic at heart— a reputation clean enough to tip him, post-retirement, for Lokpal or even the Vice-Presidency.

Nevertheless, A's antennas rose high as he allowed B to come abreast. Honourable men are a necessary, but dangerous, breed.

"Heard Radha will be down soon."

"Next month."

"Hope for long enough for me to get a darshan."

B's affection for his ex-daughter-in-law was genuine and had endured the messy divorce. A promised on Radha's behalf. He knew she was not averse to the boisterous debate and quality wine that her meetings with B assured.

A few more formalities and then, "Our chance at the International Court is coming up. We're taking it seriously."

"Heard there'll be a contest."

"External Affairs has done the groundwork. Should be a walk-over. Our present status; can't afford to lose."

"After a long gap."

"Has to be somebody who'll put his stamp."

"LPG has done good work."

"Not as good as you."

"You're joking!" A's slight rise in pitch hinted at excitement.

"Cabinet Committees rarely do, Secretaries' group probably had you both on the shortlist. But things weighed in your favour."

"What could go against him?"

"Lots! But I'd like to think it's basically your work."

"Work?"

"Let's not embarrass ourselves in the details. We've seen how you've led opinion on the larger Benches. Even your pre-Bench writings would suffice."

Sensing silence as an advantage, B pushed ahead, "We need to give our best", "We've got to make an impact"; and "I don't think we can do better".

"Shall I take it as settled?"

"I'll need a couple of days."

B's other task was somewhat more difficult, but it was not his style to beat around the bush. "There's a lot at stake in that encounter hearing."

"Our basic constitutional values."

"Probably the existence of our democracy."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"A lot of good people have stuck their necks out, you know. The encounter boss had insisted on a nod from the top— right from the top. He talked the whole thing over the phone with a secretary at the Centre— may be recorded. Home at least was involved. Somebody had to take the call."

"It's still murder, can the Republic…"

"…be allowed to kill her children. Come on A, don't give me that."

"Isn't it murder? Premeditated, cold-blooded."

"War abhors murder. Hot-blooded or cold, killing in war is no murder. It's a war out there."

"Against our own people."

"In defence of our democracy," some more trudging, "For all you and I hold dear."

"I don't know. And since when did ends start justifying crime?"

"Crime's a big word. We haven't had to take the salute before 75 body boxes, not had to look the martyrs' comrades in the eye."

"But isn't that the point of it all? That the goddess of justice delivers the best in purdah. Or we'd have the law of the jungle. Separation is quite the foundation of the modern civilised State."

"Well put. But if that State itself is pushed to collapse?"

"Stuff of Cassandras! A bit alarmist aren't we?"

"Look A, there's just this much that the State can take. This corruption thing has eaten enough into all our institutions. You may say, 'Let an ex-CJI or Army Chief do time', but where do you draw the line? Hang a Home for murder and that's it."

"Does it reach that high?"

"Could be higher. You're better off without the details. But one thing you and I know for sure. Not an iota of personal gain— not power, not glory, not even a vote piggy bank. Just taking a quiet call from the hot seat on what had got to be done. You may disagree, but you can't question the guy's sincerity in believing it had got to be done. Someone has to make these decisions."

"Review is part of my job description— and yours. Or Raja did the right thing."

"That's if there's anything left to review. You hang Home…"

"Hang Home, hang Home, what's got into you?"

"No hysterics here, A. From what I know, there's enough on record. And, if a force sees its commander thrown to the dogs, don't expect morale to hold. Even a State can take so many knocks and no more. The Indian State is no beautiful thing— reform it all you can, I'm all for it. But let no one forget it's the only real guarantor of our freedoms, a shield against chaos and mob rule."

When B launched off like this it would not be long before he would wander off onto trysts with destiny and pledges to be redeemed. A turned off into a flashback. Two young lawyers were pacing the high security at Tihar and B was lamenting Indira's contempt for Nehruvian adherence to the rule of law. The scene shifted and A pictured himself in Justice Khanna's seat on the ADM Jabalpur Bench. Then pragmatism probably took over. A had never stood for anarchy even in those heady pre-Emergency days. His mind was made up.

B's puerile punchline had not even been necessary and perhaps did not even register. Yet A's assent took one more turn of the park. As always, A thought twice. After all, he was notorious for not stepping back from a stand once taken.

And that is what made him perspire despite the adequate air-conditioning of the car. This he suspected was one of the few times when the logic was somewhere off the mark. But even if he now found the flaw in the argument there was no turning back— you do not retreat from a reputation for cussedness when you are pushing sixty-five.

And there was no denying that he had lots to contribute at the ICJ.

II

It is pitch dark, but three days of camp have beaten out a path of sorts, which the two old pairs of feet pick out with practised familiarity. The pilots are some feet ahead and some more guards bring up the rear, as the tight group in a single file does the morning's mandatory half-hour to the shitting grounds.

Buddhu guessed that Aakash had joined on purpose and waited for him to start.

It was ten minutes out when Aakash asked, "Heard the night news? The Supreme Court says they believe the CBI. There won't be any SIT on Kranti's encounter."

"So what?"

"We must respond. We can't let them get away with this."

"Did we expect better?"

"That judge had made some comments. But that's not the point. We now have their Collector."

Buddhu stopped so suddenly in his tracks that Aakash— AK, water bag and all— almost crashed into him. They continued on their way but no more words crossed till they reached the allotted spot. As the guards stood watch, Buddhu and Aakash quickly completed their job in the darkness.

Long sitting sessions had Buddhu's piles acting up and he was sure he had left a bloody mess in the dark. But that was not the worry that showed on his face as he carefully folded his plastic water bag into his pocket.

The climb back was towards the eastern sky, as it started lighting up through the gaps in the trees. As more birds added their voices, Buddhu and Aakash kept a moody silence. Perhaps a single file was too inconvenient for such a conversation, perhaps both sensed they were not in agreement and needed time to gather their thoughts. It was only after washing up and after Aakash had checked that the Aaropi Guard were taking care of their ward that the two could move, chai-nashta in hands, to a somewhat private corner.

Time being short, Aakash was brisk and somewhat brusque. His mental checklist was long and the arguments came staccato and stilted.

"Justice in class society is always class justice. A collector is of the ruling class and a class enemy. And the class enemy is a legitimate target of toilers' justice and worthy of punishment.

"This State is the prime exploiter and oppressor of our people and must be destroyed. A collector is the head of the district administration and the prime representative of the oppressor State. The prime state representative must take the blame for its acts and deserves to bear the consequences.

"The armed hordes of the State have raped, killed and mutilated hundreds of innocent and helpless ones in our area. Their law prescribes death for such brutalities. A District Magistrate, who has remained silent, is no less a perpetrator and conspirator than the killers and rapists themselves and warrants no less a punishment."

As Buddhu's old jaws slogged painfully over dry poha, he could not help feeling that Aakash had allowed his heart to first decide and was now searching out the formulae that could prove himself right. Not that Buddhu had a problem per se with a heart-led methodology. He had enough experience to know the extent to which intuition and gut feeling were critical to high-quality decision-making— as long as you were open and objective enough to oppugn your intuitive judgments against established principles.

The slogan-sounding formulation of the Aakash argument also did not trouble Buddhu. Jargon between professionals of all sorts was normal and professional revolutionaries did not need to be an exception.

What worried Buddhu was that he himself had not yet quite figured out what, if anything, was wrong with Aakash's rationale. Aakash pressed on with a litany of wrongs, injustices and tyrannies. Buddhu knew well the truth of these facts. But he also knew the need to properly marshal facts in order to arrive at the truth.

Aakash's logic was simple and straightforward enough. But Buddhu knew the pitfalls of simple logic and how slippery and misleading it could be.

He asked, "What does the Party Committee think?"

"You know the Committee won't state its opinion. Not on a case handed over to the Nyay Samithi. But I know that many Committee members think like me. Besides, all the PLGA guerillas are furious. Everyone wants revenge."

"Everyone wants justice."

"Call it what you may. But unless we give effective replies to the enemy it won't be long before we lose the power and strength to deliver any form of justice."

Aakash would have said more, but stopped sullenly, as he sensed that the Nyay Samithi Secretary was not buying into his impassioned line of reasoning. Buddhu also needed some thinking time before committing to anything.

Big sips of tea made Buddhu's munching less laborious, but did nothing to alleviate the uncomfortableness of their silence. Even the sounds of joking and tomfoolery from the nearby kitchen fireplace could not pierce the pall of their disconcert.

It seemed an age before Buddhu decided, "I'll talk to the Nyay Samithi and the Collector's defender. If there's an agreement, the PLGA can state its viewpoint in open court. A representative can be appointed and the Samithi will give sufficient time."

Aakash's fluttering eyelids and wan smile said it all. If age and circumstances had permitted, he would have preferred a victory jig and a couple of cartwheels. He stayed content with a warm handshake. As he hurried off to arrange the PLGA meeting that would select their spokesperson, there was more spring in his step. He knew what emotional turmoil it must cost Buddhu to make a concession like this.

From the time of the formation of the first Nyay Vibhaags and Nyay Samithis, Buddhu had fought for their independence. A party traditionalist and stern democratic centralist, he welcomed party leadership and intervention in all spheres of the revolution. With no uncertainty, he acknowledged and accepted the PLGA's crucial role. But when the first embryonic organs of the revolutionary government were being set up, he had been the most stubborn in fighting for their independence.

He would argue that the role of the party was of a teacher and guide. It should provide the theory and give direction, and explain through policy guidelines and a framework for the law. But, once this had been done, it was up to the people and their Janatana Sarkar representatives to make the decisions that would give them good governance and justice. Mistakes may occur but, as long as there was no betrayal, independent functioning of these organs was the only way. The masses could not afford to have things done for them. They would have to change their circumstances and themselves by their own activity.

His arguments had found support and were embodied in the laws and rules of procedure that governed the Janatana Sarkar bodies. He had crisscrossed the length and breadth of the guerilla bases to build the Nyay Samithis into an independently functioning multi-tiered judiciary of sorts.

Its main functions so far had been to weigh in strongly against patriarchy and caste and to fairly resolve conflicts between warring village factions. But, as the Samithis' reputation grew, they had had to deal with complaints against Janatana Sarkar leaders, PLGA personnel, Party organisers and even some Nyay Samithi members. While most complainants were local villagers, there were now also pleas by traders and the employees who served in the area. Two or three of the big tendu leaf contractors too had come with grievances of inconsistent and unfair taxation.

As Buddhu walked slowly to the Nyay Samithi tent, he knew that what he had conceded would significantly change the nature of today's court proceedings. The PLGA had a prestige which could well swing opinion to their viewpoint. The other side too, needed to be pleaded with adequate persuasiveness.

The Nyay Samithi discussions were brief. All the members already knew the sentiment among the PLGA fighters. This was the higher level Nyay Samithi, where each was a veteran of many a case at the lower levels. They thus knew, well enough, that retribution had no relevance in Janatana jurisprudence. But, could you therefore refuse to listen to the voice of a body so one with the masses? The People's Liberation Guerilla Army was of, by and for the people. It would have to be heard and, if possible, convinced, before taking any decision.

While all the Samithi members readily agreed to hear out the PLGA, not everyone was in favour of giving the defence an opportunity to object. But Buddhu was persuasive and adamant that they protect the rights of the accused. Many of the members had themselves had their rights trampled upon in the enemy courts. That helped the Samithi to quickly come around to Buddhu's viewpoint.

Since the Collector could have no friend or acquaintance willing to plead his case, the Nyay Samithi had appointed Chaithu as his defender. Chaithu was an experienced practitioner, canny and combative. He had saved more undertrials from severe punishment than many a senior criminal lawyer. Adult-educated in the party's first academic schools, he had, quite early, developed a voracious reading appetite and shown a distinct intellectual bent. As the Janatana judiciary grew, he had acquired expertise in the law and grown into the role of defender and adviser-guide of those accused who had none to support them. Besides his ingenious use of the law, he had also formed a reputation for straightforwardness that helped to convince the people's courts, when he vouched for those who had been wrongly accused. And, where the defendant was guilty, his passionate arguments for reformative action, rather than so-called deterrent punishment, often managed to make the court give the offender another chance.

When Buddhu told Chaithu of the Nyay Samithi proposal, he was dismayed. Standing up against the PLGA was not something to be looked forward to, least of all when two of your daughters were among its better-known commanders. He could not however think of an honest and valid reason to object.

The two walked over to where the Aaropi Guard were engaging the Collector in intense discussion. Chaithu did the talking. He had already spent many hours with the Collector explaining the procedure and prospects of the coming trial and the charges against him. He had taken details of the Collector's background, life and work and had tried to assure him that he would do his best and that justice would be done. This had won him the confidence of his client.

Now, Chaithu told him of the new development and the reasons for the Nyay Samithi proposal to allow the PLGA to intervene. He explained that the accused had the right to object and, if a strong enough argument could be given, the PLGA would be barred from speaking.

When asked for his opinion, the accused was more than a bit bemused. His short stint as Collector had given him enough first-hand experience of the coercive apparatus of the State. When he had tried to rein in the police, paramilitary and goonda vigilantes in his district, one IPS official had gently reminded him in private that power flows through the barrel of the gun and none of the higher-ups would support his impractical 'orders'. He now wondered where these two wizened grey men found the audacity to believe that they could preclude a powerful armed guerilla force.

"Any genuine objection you can raise?" he asked.

"Not really," replied Chaithu.

"Then I'd like to hear their views."

III

As villagers and activists from near and far started streaming in to attend the People's Court, Aakash was caught up in a flurry of activity. He increased the sentries at each sentry post and personally went around seeing that all were on alert. Small teams were sent out on patrol. Arrangements for drinking water were made. The numbers would be large and central cooking was not feasible, but the vessels would be continuously replenished with water boiled over large fires set up near the stream. An FM mike with all the squad radios tuned into the same frequency would be the sound system.

Others too were busy. Among them was Chaithu who had settled into a corner making the notes for his defence. A PLGA team was similarly occupied listing out the points their representative would make.

Buddhu, who would be presiding over the court, too needed to prepare. He had even opened his laptop, but just could not concentrate. His train of thought kept taking him long years back to sittings with Kranti and to their intense study circle exchanges on New Democracy. He was recalling all those discussions then on what New Democracy concretely meant and how it would be implemented.

That was in those times; when Buddhu was much the stuff of urban myth. His trajectory from jungle ashram schoolboy to top-notch city lawyer easily spawned the type of tales that are typically traded in bar rooms and Bars. The flourishing, though unconventional, practice he then commanded had a range extending from big paying major crime, through a large pro bono and near cost price indigent clientele, to the not inconsiderable number of political activists he had plucked out of police clutches. It was this last group that had probably prevented the higher judiciary from grabbing him during their sporadic forays for Scheduled Caste men to adorn their Benches. Or they had perhaps anticipated that he would decline.

Such speculation was anyway rendered irrelevant when Buddhu opted one day to throw it all up and take up the challenge of returning to his village to help build and consolidate the organs of the New Democracy that were emerging in the area. Though many advocates and activists had then considered the decision foolish, he himself could not recall any regrets.

With a softening expression, Buddhu kept looking at the screen before him— not that he saw anything. He remembered how Kranti had struggled to respond to the barrage from him and some of the others, as to what would be the shape and substance of the judiciary of the revolutionary State. They had all spent days together and the unruly proceedings had not been short on ideas. Conclusions had however been few. If there had been agreement on the formula, it would have been the consensus to abjure formulas. The democratic core and essence of the judiciary that the Indian Revolution would build would no doubt be derived from earlier revolutions. But to intend or imagine that its form should or could be fashioned in some predetermined image and likeness would be fallacious. Those were the days when the people's organs were too embryonic for a people's judiciary to be anything but an abstraction. But it was during those passionate polemics that Buddhu had seen where he had wanted to be when tomorrow was taking birth.

It had been a long hard road since then and progress had been erratic. Whatever the media propaganda, even today's guerilla bases were far from being liberated areas and too fragile to provide the underpinnings requisite for laying claim to even the basic attributes of a State. Yet the daily practice of the Janatana Sarkar was laying the contours of New Democratic State organs.

Buddhu often thought, "Are we racing ahead of reality? Will these organs survive?" And now there was this new first— a trial of a ranking official of the opponent State. As he gazed in the general direction where the Collector lay, a restless-ing realisation dawned. It was not the captive who would be on trial today, but the captor. It was Code Janatana that stood in the box. He hurried to put down what he would have to say.

The prisoner meanwhile was absorbed in his own daydreams. The scenes reminded him of his grandma's stories of hiding out in forests and planning attacks on the British. Right to her deathbed, the redoubtable lady had treasured the hope of another freedom struggle that would usher in some India of her dreams. She had been a major inspiration for the Collector's school years. Looking at the spirited young girls and boys hopping around, he could not help but wonder what their dreams were. Were their dreams the same as her dreams?

It was the bright-eyed girl guarding him who rocked him out of his reverie, "Bhaiya, what are you thinking and smiling?" His expression was wry as he shook his head jerkily. Advance symptoms of Stockholm syndrome, he thought.

IV

Calmly, yet compellingly, Sheila was listing what the PLGA soldiers felt and why they felt so. No drama, no spectacle— such stuff would not be worthy of this stage. Not that Sheila was a stranger to the stage— she had been one of Chetana Natya Manch's earliest actors. In the protracted war, she was second generation guerilla– an exemplar blend of pedigree and performance that movements not infrequently anchor on. As her voice echoed tinnily through the radios scattered in the gathering, no one could miss remembering who she was. Father had been among those in the advance party who died while storming the fortifications during an armoury raid. Little sister had recently held out alone for a whole day in a cornfield, with just a .303, against eight hundred helicopter-assisted COBRAS— she had taken six of them with her. Not that Sheila's own record was much less spectacular. As she stood slight in olive, an AK slung over her shoulder, speaking quietly into mike in her hand, her uniform carried no insignia, but all already knew that she was the company commander who had led many of the successful and not-so-successful skirmishes in their area.

The economy of emotion in her tone was more than made up by what she was saying— and to whom. Here words like atrocities and brutalities were not figures extracted cold from newsprint or hard disk memory. When she spoke of a village in ashes, her listeners remembered the joy and merry-making of a feast or festival; rapes mentioned meant mental pictures of bright smiles that beamed no more. Sheila did not, and did not need to, recount details. Memories were raw and recent, warm and bitterly vivid. Tears trickled, one or two sniffed, most avoided eyes and stared stoically into the distance. The Collector's eyes ferally flitted from faces to the body language of the congregation. When he later reminisced, he thought his feelings then were less of fear and more of empathy.

In the meantime, there had been an almost imperceptible rise in Sheila's voice. "We have fought the killers, rapists and torturers with all devices at our disposal. We have managed to repel their attacks and demoralise them. But, as long as our Janatana Sarkar continues to exist and grow, there will be those sitting in Delhi and the state capitals and their lieutenants in the district headquarters who will know no peace. These are the perpetrators and conspirators who have sent the armed hordes and will continue sending them."

Then proceeding to link the accused to the crime she said, "The robber barons of Mumbai and their imperialist overlords who want to plunder our land have the district administration as their main local representative. The district administration legalises their loot and tries to give it legitimacy. They try to grab the land of our ancestors and, when we resist, they send their goondas and armed forces to crush us and drive us from our homes into barbed wire prisons that they call relief camps.

"The accused may claim that he did not give any such Orders and that the police acted on their own. But that's just humbug. Their law says he is the head of the district administration, who can Order the police to do something, or to stop doing something.

"He may say that we have to believe him, as we have no proof that he gave such Orders. We say that we need no proof. We ask him, 'Even if you did not give the Order to kill and rape, why did you not give the Order to put a stop to it all?' All of us know, and he knows too, that the law— our law as well as his law— says that omitting to do something is also a crime— a crime of omission. So, even if we lack proof of his crimes of commission, we can be sure of his crime of omission. Silence here is no minor misdeed. Sitting quiet, while his police go on a murderous rampage, is crime enough. It deserves appropriate punishment. Let him be punished as per law— our law."

She made as if to conclude, then added some more, "Let our law not show weakness, let our court not lack courage of conviction. By acting now we will also be preventing and pre-empting the crimes that this accused is bound to commit in the future. He is a member of the IAS, who are the accomplices in almost every major act of oppression and exploitation of the ruling class. This Collector can only add to those crimes. He is not worthy of indulgence. Let him be punished."

As Sheila stepped back, whispers rustling through the assembly seemed to suggest a mood of agreement. Samithi members struggled to stay deadpan. Some, sitting adjacent, exchanged glances. Buddhu remained sphinx-like. The practice of this court was to intervene only to help those who could not express what they wanted or to ask questions to get greater clarity if something was ambiguous or unclear. No one, least of all the Samithi, seemed to need any explanation.

Buddhu proceeded ahead. He had a tight schedule to stick to as the security situation could change at any moment. Since convening the court in the morning, the early formalities and proceedings had gone smoothly, and it seemed that even the defender's arguments could be completed before breaking for the midday meal.

He looked towards Chaithu with a gesture offering time. Chaithu opted to forgo it. The case against him was along expected lines and he had prepared accordingly. He felt he had a winning line of argument that could carry the majority if not all. He rose.

Chaithu's presentation was simple and to the point. He made clear that he was not contesting any of the earlier presented facts. But he pointed out that no proof had been brought that the accused had anywhere been responsible for drawing up plans, giving Orders, or even according consent for any of the attacks on non-combatants anywhere in the district.

The Collector had only been a month in his post and he did not have the power to cancel what his predecessors had done. There had been a rape by a CRPF man during his period and he had ordered an inquiry. The inquiry officer had concluded that the rape report was actually a love affair, objected to by the family. The Collector had been told that the woman had no complaints. In fact, it was because he doubted such reports that he had started visiting the villages. He had wanted to directly meet the people to know the truth.

From this background, Chaithu moved to the law, "As all of you well know, there is no crime and no criminal without a guilty mind. The Janatana law does not allow for giving punishment to a person who did not have any criminal intent. An act, or an omission to act, does not by itself become a crime without a criminal mind being associated with it. All of you have conducted, or at least attended, trials where you have closely examined the behaviour of the accused before, during and after the alleged crime. You have carefully tried to see whether his behaviour and actions showed a guilty mind or not. That has been one of the main bases for holding a person guilty and for giving punishment."

Then came a somewhat awkward attempt by Chaithu at theatrics. He dramatically donned the persona of the Collector and declaimed, "I stand before you today and proclaim that my mind has no guilt. If I had any guilt would I have come visiting your land on a motorcycle, without any arms and without any escort? Does any Minister or MLA, police officer or constable or SPO visit your villages in the way I have done? Do I not know that you are waging a war against my government? Did I not know that you could easily capture and even kill me if you pleased? Would I come in this manner, if I believed that I had done you any wrong? I came this way because I knew I had done you no harm and I believed that you would do me no harm. I do not, to this moment, believe that my belief has been misplaced. As I stand as accused before this court, I ask for justice and I expect to be given justice. I ask this court to judge me by my conduct, to judge me by the manner and mode in which I came to your land. I ask this court to evaluate and appreciate the facts before us all and to recognise that I have no guilty mind. I plead not guilty. I request this court to declare me not guilty."

Lastly, Chaithu turned to deal with Sheila's concluding argument concerning the future criminality and culpability of the accused. He first fastidiously explained that Janatana jurisprudence had no place whatsoever for theories of prospective crime and anticipatory punishment. Such formulations did not belong to New Democratic law but were resorted to by the bourgeois–feudal dictatorship. It was they who had preventive detention laws like NSA and MISA, and it was their black laws, like TADA and MCOCA, that refused to even give bail unless the court was convinced that the accused would not commit similar crimes in the future. Janatana law and Janatana courts judge a person on his past deeds and not on any projection of what he may do in the days and years to come.

Chaithu declared, "No one, not me, not any of you seated here, can give a certificate that this accused will not do what Sheila says he will do. I, personally, am of the opinion that, if the accused continues to remain in the IAS, the chances that he will not become a criminal are very very slim. I know that almost all of you, including the members of the Nyay Samithi, will have this opinion. But even if all of us seated here share the same opinion, our law will not allow this court to sentence the accused on that basis. Our logic may seem simple and plain for all to see. But our law operates according to logic and truths of a higher plane. No person may be condemned for a crime yet to be committed. No person may be denied the opportunity to show by his actions a sincere commitment to stay away from crimes against the people.

"All these precepts and principles are universal and applicable to all accused arraigned in a Janatana court. The accused before the court today is not a resident of the Janatana areas and does not subscribe to Janatana law, but that in no way disentitles him from protection according to its basic principles. I place all this before this gathering and before the Nyay Samithi so that it may be well considered while giving the verdict."

Many in the audience were more than a little confused at Chaithu's closing submissions. Sparing an unarmed visitor came easy, particularly when he, quite apparently, had placed a naïve faith in them all. What they found difficult to swallow was a logic that, on the one hand, knew the accused would be oppressor and criminal, but yet, did not deign to take preemptive action against him. The Samithi however did not share such doubts. They and most others who had any experience and knowledge of Nyay Samithi and court functioning could clearly see that Chaithu's arguments were sound and in accordance with Janatana law.

Even the Collector seemed to have been able to read the dominant mood of those on the dais. When Buddhu approached him to ask whether he wanted to say anything, he thought it better not to meddle in Chaithu's business and at first said no. But before Buddhu regained his place he had changed his mind and came stumbling forward towards the mike.

The speech was brief but halting, with darting glances towards an annoyed and apprehensive Chaithu. He had only come to say that he trusted this court and believed it would give him justice. More than the few words he said, it was the way he said them that won him a few more supporters. Even Chaithu looked satisfied.

That was the note on which Buddhu announced the adjournment for lunch, after which the court would convene for conclusions.

V

The Samithi searched out a suitably shady shelter and scrambled into session. Time was short and food would have to wait.

The members knew their view was unanimous, but People's Court procedure demanded that it be approved by a House majority before being pronounced as a verdict. It was not often that Samithi findings were returned for reconsideration, but Samithis dreaded being disagreed with. Though there was a second round procedure that allowed for it, no Samithi appreciated the option of pushing an unpopular judgment down the throat of a recalcitrant House.

So most Samithi consultations concluded quite quickly regarding guilt and punishment but spent more time pondering on how to convince and carry the House. Then, each pronouncement of judgment became a mini-course on justice and the law. This procedure could get prolonged and quite easily slide into discussion and argument. But there was no denying the role it played in enriching the jurisprudential understanding of the people and their infant State.

Buddhu, ever the perfectionist, had his unreal standards in this too. Where others were content with a comfortable majority in Samithi and House, he regarded anything short of unanimity as a failure. Such a quirk ran grossly counter to his otherwise ardent devotion to democracy. He knew that the development of democratic thinking and culture demanded discord. Differences and dissent were indispensable for, and in, the better tomorrow. Many a party meeting had him self-criticising and promising to let a hundred flowers bloom. In practice, he remained a prisoner of a punctilious past.

Not that he visibly imposed himself on others or cowed them down into submission. He just managed to prepare so well and anticipate all doubts in such a way that his majestic presentations left scant scope for the voicing of other viewpoints. They would seem so inferior and infantile in comparison. Today too was destined to see Buddhu at his best— or perhaps his worst.

The Nyay Samithi meeting was brief and businesslike. Buddhu, quickly and with quiet precision, presented a summarisation of the charges, the evidence, the arguments for and against, and the obvious verdict of acquittal. With everyone's mind made up, it was passed unanimously. He next put forward what he thought were the doubts in people's minds and how they could be dealt with. He paid particular attention to the PLGA and to what explanations they would need. Again his enumeration seemed to deal with all points so logically that everyone was in agreement. Quickly, one of the members proposed that Buddhu present the Samithi view to the house. All hands rose in approval. It was only when the Samithi was dispersing that Buddhu realised that he had gone and done it once again.

He pressed them all to sit once more and miserably apologised for dominating the proceedings. He now called for their views, but the damage had already been done. With amiable smiles, they assured him that they really did not have any more to add or oppose. But no amount of convincing could erase the doleful look from his face. The compromise struck was that another member would do the explaining to the House of how they had come to conclude that the Collector deserved acquittal. The more complex task of clearing the doubts and placing them in their broader context remained with Buddhu.

VI

By the time Buddhu took the mike in hand, the trees were beginning to throw long shadows across the crowd. Though meals had been taken hurriedly, the presenting of the case conclusions had taken some time. But it had been time well spent. The Samithi representative had quite proficiently shown, with simple illustrations from precedent decisions of Janatana courts, that the law only allowed acquittal and release of the prisoner. His manner and matter had been convincing and very few could remain unconvinced.

But the convinced lacked conviction. Hundreds had come hoping to hit hard at the ruling class and its representative. The more it became clear how wrong it would be to convict the undertrial, the greater the feeling of being let down. An overwhelming sense of melancholy prevailed. Most serious was the disquiet born of the doubt that they were somewhere dishonouring the memory of their martyrs. Did Kranti, Somji and all those thousands tortured to death in cold blood deserve nothing in return? When those High and Supreme courts readily gave sly sanction to the worst outrages, why did the Janatana courts have to be overcome by scruples?

As always, Buddhu's trademark dry cough was the signal that he was ready to speak. He began. Decades of open-air oration had lent his voice a recognisable rasp. It carried clearly through the radios in the assembly. While some had been recording the full proceedings, many more took out their recorders just for Buddhu.

"We meet in times of war, we meet in the midst of war. Just some kilometres north of where we sit, thousands of government troops are massed, awaiting their orders. Helicopter gunships hover overhead rumbling a reminder of the attack that may be. Not one of us seated here is a stranger to this war. Each one of us has her and his own personal first-hand experiences of its horrors and its heroism. But that is not what we need to discuss here today. What we look at today is the relation between war and justice; we look at the juridical implications of war, at the bearing it has on our system of law and on our courts."

Buddhu had earlier intended this to be a detailed exposition. But the time now available did not allow for elaboration, so he skimmed over the initial parts. They were after all basic curriculum at the Janatana schools.

All knew that theirs was a just war. It was just, not only because they were defending their land against an invading army. It was just, because it was meant to extinguish the oppression and exploitation, the poverty and needless death of the present system; it was meant to build a free and better tomorrow. It was just, because it was to overthrow and eliminate feudalism and imperialism, the biggest barriers to the emancipation and advancement of the Indian people. It was just, simply because it was progressive.

It was this justness of the war that justified all its killings and maimings. It was its just ends that justified its violent and often cruel means.

"Yes, we believe," said Buddhu, "That our ends justify our means. Yet, we also believe that ends cannot justify all means. Some so-called means cannot be means, because they would vitiate the very vision and consume the very ends they set out to achieve."

"Violence, we know, is necessary; but not random violence and meaningless destruction. That is why we stand opposed to terrorism. Kill we will because kill we must; but killing can never be indiscriminate and arbitrary. That is why we will not kill any enemy combatants who surrender and throw down their arms before us. If we cannot keep them we will set them free. If we can, and it is necessary, we will keep them as prisoners of war and deal with them with honour and humanism. If feasible, we will exchange prisoners for our comrades seized by the enemy. If we have any specific allegations on them, they will be given a fair hearing and trial in a court of law.

"You have in our Janatana school books read about the ancient Roman Empire. Those Romans had a leader named Cicero, who wrote many renowned philosophical texts On Laws, On Ends, On Duties and such other things. He propounded something like this, 'When the war conches blow, the laws remain silent'. By this principle, he meant to justify all the brutal atrocities then being committed, for crushing the civil wars against the dictatorial regime of the then Emperor Julius Caesar.

"Today the Prime Minister is our Julius Caesar waging his unjust war on us. He proclaims civil war by announcing that we are 'the single biggest internal security threat'. His Home Minister sends lakhs of troops and arms criminal hordes to crush us. They commit the worst barbarities without the slightest concern for the 'rule of law' that they solemnly claim to uphold. And their courts, faithful to the formula of Cicero, remain silent.

"Many among you contend that we too should be like them. They rape, torture and kill, pillage and ravage in the name of war and their laws be damned. Why do our laws and our courts have to be so fussy and finicky?

"The answer is simple. Their mercenary army and their State and law machinery are answerable only to a handful of exploiters and oppressors— the Tatas and the Vedantas, the Obamas and the Bushes of this world. They may face the rare awkward question from a courageous journalist or a rebellious judge. But, in their support, they have the massive establishment media, bureaucracy and judiciary that will silence any dissenters in the ranks. In their war they need know no laws.

"We however are utmostly accountable and responsible to a vast mass of the most severe taskmasters. Our PLGA, our Janatana State is subject to not only you and me sitting here, not only to the several lakhs inhabiting our guerilla bases; it is responsible to the crores of oppressed and toiling people throughout our country, who are part of the revolution and are its allies; it is even responsible to the toilers throughout the world who are friends of our revolution. Our friends yearn for a new and true democracy and long to join the battle. Let no friend of the revolution have cause for misgiving in any of our actions. Let them be proud that we proceed on the right and just path. For we know that, that alone is the guarantee of growth in our movement; that growth alone can give us the assurance that we will reach our goal.

"Rule of law for us is no dispensable decoration to be flaunted when favourable and discarded when disagreeable. If any of us or our institutions deliberately breaks the law, he will be tried and accordingly punished. If it's an error, without a guilty mind, we will make due self-criticism and take all steps to avoid such repetition.

"We will ensure that justice is done and is seen to be done. We do not have to hide behind obscurantist feudal laws of court-contempt or contemptuous contemporary diktats to control media reporting and internet leaks. Our courts are transparent and free to the participation and criticism of all. If we had the opportunity and if we could ensure safety, we would happily broadcast live the proceedings of this court. Openness and criticism only enriches our laws and our system of justice and our democracy.

"I know that up in your minds is yesterday's news of their Supreme Court in Comrade Kranti's murder case. Many have felt that our court should respond in the same coin, and not to do so is an insult to our martyrs.

"I say that Comrade Kranti, Comrade Somji and the thousands of others who were tortured to death in cold blood did not die so that our State could become like their State, so that our judiciary should become like their judiciary. They did not lay down their lives to drag us back to the dark ages where their courts belong; they sacrificed that we may see the new tomorrow and march bravely towards it.

"Their highest Benches are infested by mini-Manus and little Hitlers who detest democracy and all it stands for. The determined democrats of our village Nyay Vibhaags stand higher and could easily teach them a lesson or two. Let us not look towards them, let us not compare with them. They are the darkness of night, we are the first fingers of dawn. We are tomorrow!"

Buddhu stopped, fumbled with his bifocals, and then, just stayed still— as if lost in thought or overcome by emotion. A few moments of awkward silence followed, as Nyay Samithi members looked towards each other in askance, waiting for Buddhu to call the House vote. Then, before that happened, there was a scraping of shoes in the front rows as a single olive green uniform rose to its feet and raised high a hand of assent. It was Sheila. Hands and figures started popping through the dusk from all corners of the congregation and it was suddenly a dense forest of hands all up together. There was no question of a count.

Fists and slogans excitedly rent the air. 'Nav Janvaadi Kranti Zindabad!', 'Comrade Kranti, Comrade Somji, Amar Rahe!' 'Janatana Sarkar Zindabad!' The CNM team started up the Janatana anthem and hundreds of voices sang fervently in unison. As the song died down, a fresh round of slogans started up. This time there was a new refrain, 'Hum Hai, Hum Hai, Hum Aane Waale Kal Hai!', 'Woh Ham Hai, Woh Ham Hai, Ham Woh Aane Waale Kal Hai!'

VII

Papa and his girl doing the dishes went way back in the A household. It was early in marriage that A took to the kitchen sink to relieve his bride of some of the domestic burden. Even in later years the rising retinue of the house helps could not deny him this share of menial chores. Particularly, on days when they received an unexpected load of visitors, he would single-handedly take over after the last guest had gone.

On the day she turned ten, Radha had, sleepily but stubbornly, joined the post-party clearing and cleaning up. It had been fun and from then on had become a routine both richly relished. University, marriage and migration to the States had not chastened the charm of this father–daughter bonding ritual. Whenever Radha was home there were those who had come calling and, when they left, Mrs A would bundle off grandchildren, servants and self and leave the two to their devices. Radha, after all, had always been her daddy's daughter.

Kitchen sinks, with their corner cosinesses, where you stood shoulder to shoulder, one washing the other drying, had been sites of many a confession and a profession. First crush, first kiss, first proposal, last proposal, divorce drama, had all been played out before running taps, crockery and cutlery. It was where Radha had professed her love for the law and hatred of its courts' injustices. It was also where she had discussed many of the rights campaigns around which much of her later life revolved.

A too had allowed the dishes stand witness to sundry disclosures— personal, political and judicial. He had been able to share there about his college dreams and passions, his prison nightmares and depressions. It was also where he had decided to refuse an election ticket and to accept a High Court seat. On rare occasions, he had even deviated from his otherwise cast-iron code of silence and had confessed to being confused about some impending judgement. One such particularly intense episode was probably to blame for an abrupt about-turn in his Bench record of death sentence confirmations.

The dishes thus had had their days. Today, however, was doomed to be different.

Last night's prime time had carried the news of A being taken on the International Court. The result of the well-lobbied election had been a foregone conclusion. The only real challenge had been from within the country. A petition before the Supreme Court had questioned the propriety of the government of India appointing itself election campaign manager for a sitting judge, who was hearing numerous matters where the Union was in the dock. How could justice be done? Also, how could justice be seen to be done? B had led the Bench that took just minutes to trash the plea, with even a threat of exemplary costs. Media, then, had even hinted of the AG contemplating contempt proceedings. Now everything seemed to be forgiven and forgotten amidst anchor ecstasy and expert commentary on A's legal acumen. He, it seems, was among those ordained to attain for us our rightful place in the sun.

Morning had brought the announcement from the US of Radha being given a much respected international human rights award. It had come in recognition of the courtroom successes now being achieved by her painstaking work against the death sentence. The Indian media had not found it newsworthy until a commentator at the Hague noticed the A connection and posted it on his blog. Radha had then had to spend most of the afternoon fighting off the frenzy. They only cooled down when it became clear that she was adamant about not saying anything public until she left her father's house and reached back home.

With both father and daughter keeping out of the public eye, it was only a select few who felt close enough to invite themselves to the A residence that evening. Among them were A's brother and some friends from Radha's Delhi days. Shri and Shrimati B represented the judiciary. Mrs B's two-week Europe tour last summer had included the Netherlands, which made her authority enough to dispense advice on the Hague. She spent most of the evening relating her experiences and instructing Mrs A on how to deal with the Dutch. The children hopping happily from one grandparent to another kept up a mood of general joviality. As the congratulatory calls and SMSes kept flooding in, A and B engaged in genial banter with the younger lot.

The jarring note came when B tried to pontificate on Indian superiority vis-à-vis the US record on death sentence, "America, I've always said, is a great democracy. But the death sentence is one area where we are way, way ahead. Radha, if you'd stayed back in India, you would have needed another issue. Our last execution was in 2004."

The reply was curt and cutting. "Dead wrong, Dad! America is terrible and executes a horribly large number every year. But there's at least a semblance of due process. Here we execute many many times more— dressed up as encounters, disappearances, custodial suicides and whatnot. And the courts criminally look the other way."

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, B and A exchanged a troubled glance. Neither was up to the challenge of her blazing eyes. Mrs B deftly leapt into the breach, "Time for dinner, darlings."

The conversation had again flowed, but with an uncomfortable undercurrent that surfaced as soon as the dishwashers were left alone. They had been distant and lost in thought. Exchanges remained utilitarian and mostly in monosyllables.

It was not until the last dish was dried and they made for their rooms that A tried to initiate an explanation. Standing at his bedroom door he asked, "Radha, you haven't congratulated me?"

As their eyes managed to meet, he felt a light shiver down his spine. Reproach he had expected and tears he was prepared for; what he had no answer for was the coldness and contempt he had not seen before.

"What congratulations, what celebrations? It's all your fault Papa. It was you who told me that some stains can never be washed away."

Then, before the teardrops fell, she turned abruptly on her heel and walked stiffly down the corridor to her room.

As he watched, his shoulders hunched, suddenly heavy and weighed down. He felt so old. He felt so small, so alone; so unable to confront tomorrow.

This story was written in Nagpur jail in 2012 during Vernon's first incarceration.