This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach, page 103
Leaving Gill with the bailiff, Puri went to the bazaar to telephone Sood from Sardar Mehar Singh’s office. Sood was equally taken aback by the bailiff’s visit. He asked Mehar Singh to join with Lala Kripa Ram in using their influence to help Puri out, and to stand surety if necessary until Sood could fully investigate the case.
Puri explained to Mehar Singh and Kripa Ram that Rikhiram was not really the manager, but only an employee of the press and, therefore, had no authority to take out a loan. Also there was no record of a loan negotiated with Achharu Ram.
Mehar Singh and Kripa Ram knew a little about the workings of the law courts. Their conjecture was that Rikhiram had perpetrated some kind of fraud. The court had accepted as evidence that Rikhiram was in fact the manager and a representative of the press, and had issued writ in favour of Achharu Ram. Puri now had to file an appeal in the court, but that would have to come later. The press must immediately be saved from being seized.
Out of his regard for Sood, Mehar Singh agreed to be the custodian of Kamaal Press. It took the whole day to compile a list of all the property of the press. One copy was given to Achharu Ram, the other kept by the bailiff.
Puri and Gill went to Adda Hoshiarpur mohalla to search for Rikhiram. It was a while before they found his house in a gali. They could hear the sound of a treadle printing machine some distance away. They were told that Rikhiram had brought in the machine some days previously.
Rikhiram confronted Puri with blatant hostility, ‘Do whatever you want! Did you get the press from your father? I’ve as much right to this press as you. I had to give up a printing business of my own in Jhellum. What did you know about running a press? You got the press by licking the arses of Congress politicians, and now you’ve come to threaten me! The press should be mine, not yours. I’ve earned you a fortune in the last eighteen months and made a rich man out of a beggar. What have you done to show me your gratitude? And you have the gall to accuse me of stealing from you! Pay up thirteen thousand one hundred thirty rupees first, then look me in the face. I’ll see you in court.’
Later that evening Puri, Kanak and Gill went to see Nayyar. He and Kanta listened sympathetically to what had happened, but had many questions: How could the court accept Rikhiram as the manager or an authorized agent of the Kamaal Press? How could Achharu Ram advance him, an employee, such a large sum in the name of the press? Why had the court issued such a decree?
Puri explained that Rikhiram had received a number of summonses to appear before the law court. On several occasions he had asked for a leave of absence for half a day or the whole day to attend court hearings. Rikhiram had pretended that there had been a brawl in his mohalla, and that he had to appear as a witness to the incident.
In September 1947 Rikhiram had gone to Sood to ask his permission to reopen the Kamaal Press apparently abandoned by Isaac Mohammed, and had been told that the press belonged to Sood. In order to earn a living he was forced to take a job at the press.
In May 1948 Isaac Mohammed had returned to Jalandhar from Pakistan under a special travel permit. He had hoped that with Sood’s help, he might be able to get a reasonable price for the property he had entrusted to Sood’s care.
Isaac had a tragic story to tell. He had been resettled in Sakkhar, in the Sindh province of Pakistan. The Sindhi language was incomprehensible to him, and the city was full of Urdu-speaking Muslims who had fled from the United Provinces and Bihar. These Muslims considered refugees from Punjab as uncouth and made fun of Punjabi and Sindhi speakers. They also thought that a person was not a true Muslim if he could not speak Urdu.
The Hindus and Sikhs forced to leave the cities now in Pakistan had been mostly shopkeepers, tradesmen and professionals. Muslims who had gone to Pakistan from India were mainly artisans and office workers. What could such people know about keeping shops or practising trades? As a means of subsistence Isaac had been allotted the shop of a Hindu herbs and spice dealer. But the goods in stock were completely unfamiliar to him. His children ate up some of the almonds, raisins and other dried nuts and fruits; he disposed off the rest at whatever price he could get. The stock might have been worth thousands, but for him it was worthless. What could he know about medicinal herbs, or the difference between dry pomegranate seeds and dry cumin seeds? He had sold half a gunny sack of black peppercorns for three rupees a seer. In Jalandhar he found that the rate was thirty to forty rupees a seer. The poor man tore at his hair in frustration. One customer would ask for banafsha, another for neelofar, and the third for gazawan; for him they were all the same. Sometimes his mother was able to identify some herb used as medicine. Old-timers knew about such things. Any gunny sack he undid or any box he opened brought on a fit of sneezing. And then there was the constant fear of selling something poisonous instead of a medicinal herb. It would have been another matter if he had been selling wheat, lentils or millet. Whenever a customer came, he would say, ‘Listen bhai, if you can find what you’re looking for here, please take it.’
Isaac spoke to his former neighbour, the watchmaker Haji Imamdin of Mai Heeran Gate, who had also been sent to Sakkhar. Imamdin had been allotted a liquor store formerly owned by a Hindu. Haji, as a devout Muslim, could not even handle anything alcoholic. Government officials would drop in and walk out with a bottle without paying. Or some moneyed connoisseurs would pick out a bottle worth fifty rupees, and drop a ten-rupee note at the cash counter on their way out. The store was emptied out and he got little or nothing in return. Imamdin had gone to Lahore to get the tools needed for his profession, but could not afford to buy them. The going price was five times the standard. The poor man was forced to go without eating even though it was not yet the month of Ramazan.
Puri had welcomed Isaac back warmly, had installed him upstairs at the press and had treated him hospitably with paranthas and lassi. Isaac was happy to see that his press was operating well. He was entitled to search for and retrieve any gold or silver or jewellery that might have been buried in the house. But no refugee from India had the right to dispose off their abandoned property. Sood, of course, would not have allowed any illegal transactions.
Rikhiram had told the tale of his own woes to Issac, and said that it was perhaps his fate that he had to abandon his own press in Jhellum. Sood had instructed Puri to buy out Issac by paying him 2000 rupees, and for that purpose, had also arranged for Puri to take out a loan of 1000 rupees from Lala Kripa Ram.
Issac had gone back a disappointed man, but Rikhiram, with a feeling of revenge in his heart, had hatched a plot with Achharu Ram the moneylender. He had a free hand at the press. He surreptitiously used the rubber stamp ‘For Kamaal Press, Manager’ on several sheets of official letterhead, signed as manager promissory notes totalling Rs 12,000 at 6 per cent interest, backdating them at short time intervals, and took for himself Rs 3,000 cash from Achharu Ram.
Nayyar said that Rikhiram probably had told Achharu Ram that the press was being run in partnership between him and Puri, and that he would attest before the court that he had taken out the loans. The court would then issue a decree. He had probably also told the moneylender that Puri would never be able to repay Rs 12,000, and that he and Achharu Ram would become joint owners of the press and earn at least of seven to eight hundred per month. The press machines alone were worth at least Rs 15,000. In case the press was auctioned, Achharu Ram would be able to buy it by paying a maximum of seven to eight thousand extra for a property worth over Rs 15,000. And that Achharu Ram had probably thought that even if Puri managed to prove his 50 per cent ownership, Achharu Ram would still be legally entitled to the other 50 per cent of the press.
Puri, Kanak and Gill were flabbergasted. Kanak said with disbelief, ‘How’s that possible? How could the court issue such an order?’
Nayyar replied, ‘Why couldn’t the court do that! The promissory notes were submitted as documented proof that money was loaned. The borrower admitted to having taken up the loan. It’s a civil right to claim back any money owed to him and the legal system helps him do that.’
‘But shouldn’t the court have verified who the owner of the press really was?’ Puri asked.
‘The court had issued its summons in the name of Rikhiram, the manager of the press, and he had accepted the summons. He had appeared in the court in the name of the press and had declared under oath its legal obligation. No one had raised any objection before the court. The promissory notes had been on the letterhead of the press, rubber-stamped and apparently signed by the manager. What other judgment could the court have given?’ Nayyar replied.
‘The court judgment is miscarriage of justice,’ Kanak began to condemn the legal and the judicial system. ‘Everyone knows Puriji. The judge should have called him to court to explain who Rikhiram really was, what kind of person he was, how long he had been with the press, and in what capacity? The court could have made some inquiries as to who’s the real owner of the press.’
‘Kanni, you sometimes talk like an idiot!’ Nayyar rebuked her. ‘The law courts are objective and impartial to individual identities or allegations. The law says that if the judge personally knows any of the parties involved or has any prior knowledge of the case, he must disbar himself from hearing the case and transfer the case to another court.’
‘But why?’ Kanak said with surprise, ‘How could a judge dispense justice without knowing all the facts?’
‘So that lawyers get the chance to stretch the truth by their arguments!’ Gill spoke up.
Nayyar tried to explain, ‘According to jurisprudence, a bias for or against an individual might occur if the judge knows the persons or has a prior acquaintance with the facts.’
‘Why appoint those as judges who are prone to prejudice?’ Gill asked. ‘The legal system in an industrial–capitalist society operates like an automatic dispenser. Whoever controls the machine controls the system.’
Wishing to put an end to the discussion, Nayyar said to Puri, ‘Well, for the present you can only save your press by having access to the very same legal system. Do you want to save your press or not?’
‘You yourself have said that Achharu Ram probably handed over only around three thousand rupees to Rikhiram,’ Puri reminded Nayyar.
Gill added, ‘If so, wouldn’t the promissory notes be considered invalid or a fraud.’
‘Bhai, Achharu Ram may not have parted with even a half a paisa, but those promissory notes are still valid evidence. The truth is one thing, what’s on the promissory notes is something else. How can the notes be considered invalid when the signatory acknowledges having signed them?’ Nayyar explained.
‘Even if no money actually changed hands?’ Kanak asked angrily.
‘Isn’t it fraud to sign a receipt for money without really receiving it?’ Gill added to Kanak’s question.
‘Rikhiram may not have received any cash.’ Nayyar slapped the tabletop to add emphasis to his answer, ‘But those promissory notes are legally admissible evidence.’
‘That means the law gives one the opportunity to commit fraud.’ Gill said.
‘A promissory note only means that the signatory admits accepting a repayable loan,’ Nayyar interrupted him to explain.
‘Then the wording should have been altered accordingly.’
Puri asked, ‘Why did nobody question whether Rikhiram has the signing power?’
‘Anybody and everybody has the right to sign a promissory note. And the law allows anybody to borrow or to lend money. You may say that your press is not bound by the promissory notes fraudulently signed by Rikhiram.’
‘Let’s say so,’ Kanak agreed.
‘It should have been the concern of Achharu Ram to check that out, but he was conspiring with Rikhiram anyway. The notes are on the official letterhead and with the rubber stamp of the press, and that’s proof enough for the court that Rikhiram was a representative of the press. The task of the court was now to confirm the right of Achharu Ram to issue a loan and to help him recover it.’
‘A capitalist government always takes the side of the loan giver. It doesn’t give a damn for the unfortunate borrower. There’s always a bias in favour of the banias,’ Gill said.
‘What makes you say that, comrade?’ Nayyar said to Gill, ‘When the zemindars had a powerful lobby in Punjab, didn’t they have that law passed for the transfer of farmland? It stipulated that any repossessed farmland seized from a bankrupt could not be bought by a bania or a moneylender, but only by another farmer.’
‘That’s true,’ Gill agreed. ‘The laws always favour those who make them up or are able to influence their application.’
‘Are you dreaming about some perfect law that would be fair at all times and in all cases?’ Nayyar said sarcastically.
‘Well, how would it be if we presented proof that the press never received the loan?’ Puri asked.
‘How would you do that? Are the promissory notes proof enough or not?’ Nayyar cut Puri short, then added, ‘What you’ll have to prove is that Rikhiram had no right to sign the notes as the manager of the press.’
‘But we received no money. Why would we have taken out a loan when the press did not need one? And how did we spend all that money?’
‘Once again you are talking absolute nonsense. The court is not concerned with the fact whether the press got the money or not. There is evidence that the loan was made. The judge cannot know what is true or false, but can only make his decision on the basis of the evidence before him. The judge cannot ignore evidence even if it misrepresented the truth.’
‘Doesn’t common sense count for anything?’ Kanak and Gill spoke together. ‘It would mean that the law can be used to harass somebody by making up false evidence.’
‘Yes, that’s quite possible. The interpretation of the law is not a matter of common sense, but of specialized knowledge. If the only thing necessary in a law court was common sense, why would we need lawyers? Well, the first thing you should do is report to the police that Rikhiram fraudulently used your letterhead and the rubber stamp. The court order can be rescinded on these grounds alone. You will have to prove that Rikhiram in fact was neither the manager of the press nor authorized to represent you.’
There was no end to Puri’s problems at this time. Nayyar acted as his counsel without charging any money, otherwise he would have had to pay several hundred rupees in legal fees alone. But there was still the inconvenience of appearing before the court. Achharu Ram engaged a lawyer in defence of Rikhiram.
Puri presented in the court as evidence the letter from Issac Mohammed entrusting Kamaal Press to Sood. Sood had to testify as to appointing Puri the manager of the press. The stubs from the bank cheque books were presented in support of his testimony. The defence lawyer requested the court to take cognizance of Rikhiram’s signature as the manager on the receipt books and on the attendance register of the press. The hearings continued for a long time.
Puri and Kanak were exasperated to observe the legal wrangling and to see how lawyers, by legal hair-splitting, could make the dispensation of justice such a long and vexatious process. The law could be interpreted, they found, to suit either the plaintiff or the defendant. If both the parties were resourceful and had the funds, they could afford to hire legal aces who were expert in litigious minutiae. Even if they knew the facts, the litigants were bound by the court’s judgment because it had the legal machinery behind it to enforce the decision.
The court finally delivered its verdict in December 1949. The Kamaal Press was cleared of the responsibility for paying back the loan allegedly taken out by Rikhiram, but Puri was still not free of the annoyance of more court appearances. Rikhiram was now being tried for the criminal offence of fraudulent use of the press letterhead and rubber stamp.
Nayyar advised Puri to stay out of the criminal case. His recommendation was to let the police prosecute Rikhiram, and to avoid getting himself involved so as to not to waste time in what could be a further score of court appearances. The defence lawyer would drag Puri’s name through the mud during the cross-examination. And there would be no profit to the police in sending Rikhiram to jail. If anything, the police could only hope to benefit by receiving something under the table, editing the charge sheet favourably and letting Rikhiram off lightly.
Rikhiram was finally acquitted on the grounds of ‘insufficient evidence’. In the end, Puri had something to show for all his troubles. After the court case was over, Sood had the press officially allotted in his name to avoid any future problems.
Chapter 9
THE FEELING OF PANIC AND CONFUSION BEDEVILLING THE EMPLOYEES OF THE Department of Rehabilitation proved to be unfounded. The government support for the refugee camps was officially withdrawn on 31 March 1948, but the department staff continued to work as before. Although free rations were no longer distributed, refugees continued to occupy some of the camps. The majority of the occupants of the Kingsway Camp had been running various kinds of small businesses for some time. Now those who had been inactive so far also somehow scraped together enough resources to make some kind of a living. Long-time residents of Delhi were now seeing trades and professions never previously practised there. Makeshift shops would be set up even on relatively unfrequented roads. Refugees with handcarts offering to iron clothes on the spot appeared in the alleys. One did not even have to leave the house to pay bills for electricity, telephone or water. The refugees would take the bill, make the payment and bring back the receipt. The charge for being saved the trouble was only two annas. Shoppers now received their purchases in home-made paper bags. Those who had fled from Punjab now objected to the label sharanarthi—resourceless. They, instead, wanted to be known as purusharthi—resourceful.
At the Department of Rehabilitation the workload had increased rather than lessened. The minister had refused to allow the hiring of additional staff because, in his opinion, two employees less were better than one too many. The department had now been allotted the task of approving small business loans, and of investigating refugee claims for land and property that had been abandoned in what was now Pakistan. Tara had been given the responsibility of checking the claim applications.
