The story that came close to being published

By Durgadattc - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,

 After I posted this, I hope that it made at least a few want to read the story that came close to getting published in a paying literary magazine. I'm sharing the story below. I hope you read it and enjoy it!

NB- The story is set in colonial India. Although it is a work of fiction, it is inspired by the real life story of Rama Kamath (also sometimes spelled Kamathi or Komathi). The actual story is coming up in the next blog post.

  

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

The steady whirring of the ceiling fan was the only noise in the jam-packed courtroom. The wooden benches were of course reserved for the firangis, but the brown-skinned, dhoti-clad natives occupied every available inch of space behind the benches and along the sides; some squatted whilst others stood. Faces peered in through the iron-grilled windows with hands clutching the vertical rods for support as they stood on the shoulders of their friends to reach the high windows. Most of the faces were fearful, some were curious, and only a very small minority displayed malicious glee.

Under different circumstances, the officers of the Imperial Police would have cleared the courtroom of the natives, but today, it was important that as many of them as possible witness the proceedings. It would be a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

The accused: a rich merchant, a philanthropist, and until yesterday, an altogether upright citizen of British India, stood ramrod straight with chains shackling his hands and feet, in his silk dhoti, tunic, and turban, all crumpled and soiled on account of spending the night as a guest of Her Majesty in the regional Central Jail.

The chief witness of the case, a servant of the said merchant, tried to make himself inconspicuous, cowering under his master’s accusatory gaze, by slowly edging closer to the audiences’ side of the courtroom: an endeavour in which he failed miserably when one of the burly policemen accompanying him dragged him by the arm and whacked his nether regions with a stout lathi.

When the bailiff announced the entry of the judge, those seated stood up respectfully. The court was called to order, and the proceedings began.

The merchant had been accused of consorting with and helping ‘terrorists’ who dared to defy the authority of the British Government. The judge sat impassively as the prosecutor presented the details of the case. If his large powdered wig and the heavy black robes caused him any discomfort in the stifling tropical heat, he gave no indication of it.

Letters purportedly exchanged between the merchant and the supposed criminals were produced as evidence, though their authenticity could not be established. Objections of the defendant’s lawyer, which were not very many to begin with, were summarily overruled. When it was time for the chief witness’s testimony, there was a collective in-drawing of breath from the natives in the audience.

What would he say?

He hobbled over to the witness enclosure, resolutely avoiding his master’s gaze. After he placed his violently trembling hand on the Bhagwat Geeta, the holy book of Hindus, and haltingly swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, the prosecutor began questioning him.

His name and other demographic details were recounted for the record.

“On the night of the Government House bombings, did your master provide shelter to the terrorists who had carried out the heinous act?”

The servant replied with a “ji huzoor”, which meant “yes sir”, even before the translator had finished translating the firangi lawyer’s question.

‘Did you witness any clandestine meetings between your master and the terrorists?’

‘Ji huzoor.’

‘How long has your master been consorting with these criminals?’

‘Ji huzoor.’

A titter broke out amongst those who understood both English and the local language, and the judge was forced to call for order. The witness was sternly instructed to wait for the translator to finish translating before answering the questions.

More questions on those lines were asked, which were answered, predictably, with “ji huzoor”.

It was clear from the testimony, the prosecutor said after concluding his examination of the witness that the merchant was indeed guilty of all the charges pressed against him. He was a traitor and a threat to the sovereignty of the British Government.

The witness doggedly stuck to his story under the feeble and half-hearted cross-examination of the court-appointed defence lawyer. After all, the lashings in police custody had only stopped when he had given in.

Freedom came with a high price.

THE END