Inscrutable Justice

INSCRUTABLE JUSTICE
(SHORT STORY)

This happened about seven years ago. I remember it as if it occurred yesterday. It was the quest of an old lady pining for justice. I was then posted to Cuttack City in the law enforcing department.

It was a summer evening .... perhaps late May. The sky was overcast due to a sudden gust of wind along with heavy dust. Coin-sized rain drops lashed with the wind from the north. Cattle grazing near the river-bank ran helter-skelter with their tails up. Blaring of car horns pierced the air on the lonely road leading from Barahati Hill Port to Cantonment, by the side of the mote. I was returning from office to residence at Tulsipur Colony in my jeep, when I saw an old, frail lady in a tattered white sari struggling to cover her body from the onslaught of the north wind and rain, standing under the old Debadaru tree, twice her age. Patri, my driver, who under­stands my sentiments, stopped the jeep before being asked to, and I extended a helping hand to the old lady. Reluctant, she was, as others are, when they see a Policeman rendering help; for, in the eyes of many, the Police are yet regarded as the instrument of oppression.

She was in two minds but she had no option. I took her to my residence. The storm was continuing. My wife, who was anxiously waiting for me at the door-step showing half her face between the two flanks of the door, was surprised to see the old lady who she presumed was my relative she had never seen before. She, perhaps, took it for granted that in Cuttack such visits by relatives and relatives’ relatives are common. Without asking for her identity, my wife helped her get down from the jeep and escorted her to the drawing room.

After a few minutes break, I came to the drawing room after changing my attire. The old lady wag sitting cross-legged on my sofa; she was speechless, with crystals of tears rolling down her cheeks through her wizened face. For the first time, I asked her about her address, her worries and how I could help her. Silence was the answer but I could feel the searing agony inside her. My wife came with two cups of tea, and more or less compelled her to have some tips. I marked her “Argus” eyes focussing on my wife, her sunken sockets, quivering lips and withered body. There was a change in her face and her attention was totally diverted from me to my wife, flowing from a feeling of kindness, a womanly feeling, a motherly feeling. Instead of taking the cup of tea from my wife, the old lady caught hold of her hand and gesticulated that she should sit beside her. Before the batting of an eyelid, she suddenly burst into tears. It took some time for me and my life to console her and cajole her to take tea.

Kuni Bewn, aged about 66 years, was the widow of Bisu Pradhan of village Patali under Gobindapur P. S. of Cuttack District. She lost her husband at the age of 40 and since then she was living with her son Gopal, daughter-in-law and grandson. The landed property, her husband had left, was sufficient for bread and butter. Being irrigated land all-through the years, her son used to raise seasonal cash crops and was honoured on many occasions as the best farmer of the Block. She and her daughter-in-law had shared many sweet occasions, when Gopal won different trophies for being the best farmer, and he told them stories of how the Collector or Minister shook hands with him, praised him in public as the true son of the soil and shouted “Jai-Kisan; Jai-Jawan”. Pratima used to tease her husband for spending most of his time in the field, neglecting his young wife. Everybody in village was happy with Gopal for his simplicity, truthfulness and honesty.

About seven years ago, on a moonlit night, when the entire village was engrossed with the Spring Festival in the month of Fagun, a gang of armed robbers entered her house. Her son and daughter-in-law with the grandchild were sleeping in their bed-room while she lay on a mat in the inner courtyard, perhaps remembering the bygone days of her youth. The stillness of the night was broken by a knock on the door. She opened, thinking that village children might have come to invite her son to take part in village opera which they were organizing  for their village Melana (gathering of deities in Biman) to be observed on Purnima day. But to her surprise, she found four persons with marked faces, armed with guns and knives. One of them gave her a lathi blow on her head. Two of them entered the room where her son and daughter-in-law were sleeping and assaulted Gopal mercilessly in front of his wife and child. Pratima beseeched the criminals with folded hands to save her husband and offered all her ornaments and cash, which she had saved from her household expenditure.

The miscreants did not seem placated. They took Gopal out of the house and gunned him and raped Pratima in front of her bewildered child. Plunder followed the rape. Hearing the cry of the old lady, village youth who had gathered for rehearsing the opera, chased the criminals and caught one of them with some properties. The matter was reported to the police who investigated the case and arrested all the accused. Some stolen items were recovered, which the old lady identified in a T. I. parade as her daughter-in-law’s who, alas, turned out to be a psychotic patient from the night of the incident. The case was sent to court for trial.

An ominous, storm had blown over the family of a simple farmer. To Gopal’s mother, it was a traumatic experience, much more than her husband’s death. She outlived this calamity because she thought it her mission to bring the culprits to book. The trial of this case came up four years after the incident. The old lady waited with a broken heart. At long last she was summoned as one of the witnesses in the court at Cuttack. Irrelevant questions were shot at her by the defence counsel. But she put up a brave front with the unflinching faith that truth will triumph.

Her daughter-in-law was examined, but she broke down. After the bizarre court scenes the Judge acquitted the criminals giving them the benefit of doubt.

When the news reached the old lady in her village, she was completely baffled. Her mind was blank for some days and she forgot to take even her food. Her thoughts went to the days when as a newly-married wife with a handwoven, sari, she was told by her husband that the country was not free and Mahatma Gandhi (whose name she had only heard) was fighting against injustice meted out to the countrymen by the Gora Sahebs who were the rulers then. Her husband partook in some meetings organised by the local freedom-fighters on the banks of river Kandala (a branch of river Kathajodi). On his return he used to tell her about the message of Gandhiji, the heroism of Subash Bose and others who crusaded against the foreign rulers.

As a rustic village maiden, she used to hear from her husband, the heroic stories of freedom-fighters. Sometimes she had a feeling of empathy for their self-sacrifice. In the light of her wisdom, she thought that after independence, her country would be a land of milk and honey; there would be equity and fairplay and all would have a voice in the administration.

But this verdict rankled in her mind. The incident, in its sequence, passed through her mild, he had witnessed it with her own eyes. How then could the Judge acquit them? What had befallen the system of justice?

She was reminded of an incident in her childhood days. Dama Sahu, a neighbour, had committed the theft of a coconut from somebody’s garden. He was apprehended by the village Chowkidar, who used to patrol in the night shouting “Hosiar - ­Hosiar”. Her mother had told her not to cry in the night or else the village Chowkidar would take her away. This was enough for her to curl on to her mother’s lap. Dama Sahu, who was apprehended, was sent to village Pancha the next day. It sat inside the village temple premises. The village headman, after hearing the incident from the Chowkidar, asked Dama Sahu, who pleaded guilty, to pay a fine of R. 2. He was also ostracized from society for a month. She pondered as to which system was better, prompt and inexpensive.

Thought after thought flashed through her mind. It was maddening. She remembered some people talking about Chief Justice, the highest among the Judges who presides over the judicial system in the State. Why not place the facts before him?

With great hopes of getting justice from the highest judicial authority, she left her village by a private bus from Aduspur to Cuttack. She asked many persons about the address of the Chief Justice. Many thought her to be a mad woman but at last some school boys showed her the way to the residence of the Chief Justice. When she approached the gate, armed police­men stopped her. Though her entreaty had no effect on the hard­hearted guards, she did not lose heart. She sat under the banyan tree close to the main gate of Chief Justice’s residence. At about 5-30 p.m. the Chief Justice came out holding the chain of a big dog. The guard saluted him and she was sure that he must be the Chief Justice, the supreme law-administrator. She rushed towards him and prostrated herself before-him. The white-haired Chief Justice asked her to get up. By then, police guards rushed to drag the lady away, thinking her to be a security hazard. But the Chief Justice asked the guards to retreat. He then asked her about her grievance.

Kuni Bewa narrated the incident in detail and the outcome of the prolonged trial. The Chief Justice was visibly moved and assured her that he would look into the case after going through the records and asked her to come after 20 days. From the tone of the Chief Justice she was convinced that her efforts might fructify. After 20 days, she went to the Chief Justice and waited for an audience. While returning from court, the Chief Justice saw the lady and stopped his car. She approached him with folded hands, anxiously and hopefully. The Chief Justice told her that he had called for the records and had gone through it. The case had ended in acquittal because material witnesses like her daughter-in-law could not stick to their statements during cross-examination, other witnesses were declared hostile and there was no evidence for conviction.

A wry smile appeared on her face. With folded hands and tearful eyes, she took leave of the Chief Justice. He sympathised with her plight and put Rs. 20 in her folded hands. She ran from the gate aimlessly and came to her senses when my jeep stopped before her during the storm.

The storm was not in her deep-set eyes as she said: “Daughter-in-law, I will go. I am happy to see my daughter-­in-law in you, but I have pity for the Chief Justice – the supreme law-administrator of this country.”