“What is clerk in Latin?”
“Clericus is Latin itself.”
“Ha, Ha,” said Govindan Nair. Seeing the whole office around him, and the boss silent – it was a hot morning – he added: “Define the cat, Mr. John.”
“Mr. Govindan Nair, a cat is a feline being.”
“What are its characteristics?” Govindan Nair started making a firm and rapid movement with his knife (back and forth), as if he were sharpening the pencil on the beautiful skin of the cat.
“Its characteristics are – its characteristics are,” mumbled John, and as somebody said, he had cleared his bladder audibly. It poured an acrid smell in to the room. Bhoothalinga Iyer had a bad cold, and one could hear him snuff in snuff. There was such silence in the office (but for the burring sound of Govindan Nair who always burred anyway) that Bhoothalinga Iyer was sure everybody was at work. There was suddenly silence even in the ration shop. And this was the sort of silence which sometimes rises like a temple pillar from earth to heaven; all creation seems still, as if the universe pondered: What next?
“First of all, it’s of the same family as the lion,” said Rama Krishna, a young clerk. He had joined them only three months ago, fresh from college.
“Then?” asked Govindan Nair.
“Then,” said Abraham, getting very anxious, ‘it goes in and out of one’s house as not even a man can.”
“What very intelligent colleagues I have,” remarked Govindan Nair, smiling. “Then?”
“At cat is the purest animal in the world.”
“Why so? Hey, there, Syed, what does your Muslim theology say about it?
“In Muslim theology only the chameleon is evil. It betrayed Muhammed. And the hog. But the cat, it is sacred.”
“No, man, I know your theology better. The cat is not sacred in Islam. It is sacred in Egypt. It was called Bastet.”
“And it wore a crown?” said John, a little reassured that all this was a joke.
Govindan Nair quickly made a paper crown; he cut the three sides of a triangle and gave it a point, and placed it on the head of the cat and said: “Hey, Bastet, you are sacred, don’t you understand?”
“And, Syed, what is it your people do when what is sacred is treated as what is sacred?”
“We kneel and touch the ground and ask for Allah’s blessing.”
“Now, Mr. John, you understand. Here is Bastet. You have brought a very God to our poor ration office. You be the priest.”
“Oh, no,” said John. He knew Govindan Nair had something up his sleeve.
“Kneel!” shouted Govindan Nair, “Kneel, man!” And he brandished his knife, holding the cat firmly with his left hand. “Or say: No sir, I am a low-born, I am a coward. Kneel!” he shouted. Bhoothalinga Iyer’s chair creaked. “You don’t insult a cat like this, stuffing a cat in to a rat cage.”
John knelt devoutly.
“There, once again,” shouted Govindan Nair.
John knelt again, crossing himself. Syed had his hands brought together. All the office was one noumenal silence.
“Kiss it,” shouted Govindan Nair again.
John kissed the cat. Bhoothalinga Iyer came and stood behind the crowd. He thought some file was being tampered with.
“Govindan Nair!” he shouted.
“Yes, sir,” And Govindan Nair went toward his boss. The cat jumped down the table and everybody gave way to the cat. By now she’s lost her crown. Rubbing against his legs it cried “meow, meow” and Govindan Nair lifted her up and placed her on his shoulder with his right hand. His knife was still in the left.
“What is this?” asked Bhoothalinga Iyer.
“We’ve being discussing the Latin formation for Persian cat.
Do you know it, sir?”
“In Sanskrit it is called marjoram,” he said as if he were saying it with only the tip of his tongue. “And for Persian cat there’s no word in ancient Sanskrit.”
“In Malayalam it is called poochi-poochi,” said Govindan Nair, as he went back with the boss to the inner office.
The boss sat down in his chair.
The cat jumped on to Bhoothalinga Iyer’s table. It saw another tassel of a file and started playing with it. Bhoothalinga Iyer, seeing all the eyes of the office (for everybody, as it were, came to see what was happening), wanted to shout: Get out! Get away! But his tongue would not say it. How can you say with what is not what is? How can you shape words that cannot come from yourself? What do you do you do if you find yourself a prisoner? You want to escape. Govindan Nair laid the knife on the table and said Bhoothalinga Iyer. “Sir, tell me a story.”
“What story?”
“Any story.”
“I know no story.”
“I’ll tell you a story,” said Govindan Nair, and lifted the cat and placed her on his shoulder.
“Once upon a time,” he began, and before he could go on, the cat jumped onto Bhoothalinga Iyer’s head. Bhoothalinga Iyer opened his eyes wide and said, “Shiva, Shiva” and he was dead. He actually sat in his chair as if he could not be moved.
Govindan Nair rushed back home with the beautiful Persian cat in the cage and let it loose in the house. Then it was he went to Bhoothalinga Iyer’s funeral. Bhoothalinga Iyer’s wife, Lakshamma was moved, deeply moved, by all the consoling words Govindan Nair spoke to her. He spoke of death and birth and such things. He too was weeping. His boss had died. Bhoothalinga Iyer had asthma. And asthmatics have weak hearts. And the snuff did not help, did it – said the Brahmins at the door of the temple.
For some strange reason, everybody came to console Govindan Nair at his office as if he had lost something. Kunni Krishna Menon from the next house came and spoke as though Govindan Nair needed condolence. Perhaps he would be promoted to his boss’s place – there was such a rumour. Then he could not run down and play with the children, remarked Abraham. An officer could not do it. “Then you be boss, Abraham,” said Govindan Nair, hugging him.
The excerpt on the following page is the famous climactic Court Scene from The Cat and Shakespeare.
The white-clad judge, Mr. Gopala Menon, said in the palace like court by the railway line which every advocate knows so well – the name boards of the advocates look like coconuts on a tree, there are so many in the building across: Vishwanatha Iyer, BSc., LLB; Ramanujan Iyengar, MA ML Advocate High Court; Mr. Syed Mohammed Sahib, Advocate; P. Gangadharan Pillai, High Court advocate; Sr. Rajaram Iyer, Advocate; etc., etc – the judge said: “I cannot follow your argument, sir. Will you repeat?”
“Mr. Bhoothalinga Iyer, of blessed memory,” Govindan Nair started, “used to visit certain places whose names are not mentioned in respectable places.” (“Ho, ho!” shouted one or two persons in the gallery.) “If I do not mention the name, it is because many persons whose faces I see before me now, if I may say so, betake themselves there.”
“My Lord, such insinuations are not to be permitted in open court,” shouted a member of the bar.
“The sun shines on the good and on the wicked equally, like justice. Please go and close the sunshine before you say: this should not be discussed in open court.”
“Court: The Accused is free to do what it likes.”
“I was only saying: Whether you close the door and sit like photographers in the dark room or you come out, the sun is always open. The Maharaja of Travancore, sir –”
“Say His Highness.”
“Yes, His Highness the Maharaja of Travanocore is there, whether his subjects – say some fellow in the hill tribes – knows his name or not.”
“So?”
“So what is real ever is.”
‘That is so, cried the Government Advocate.
“Yes, but we never want to see it. For example that a worthy man like Bhoothalinga Iyer (of blessed memory) used to visit places of little respectability.”
“So?”
“So, he met there, one day, a lady of great respectability.”
“Your statements are so contradictory.”
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br /> “Your Lordship, could I say Your Lordship without the idea of an Accused? Could I say respectable without the ideas of unrespectable coming into it? Without saying, I am not a woman, what does the word man mean?
“Yes, let us get back to Bhoothalinga Iyer.”
“Mr. Iyer used to visit such a place.”
“And then?”
“One day after visiting such a place, he met me at the door.”
“Yes, go on. Did he?”
“Of course. I went there regularly. My wife will tell you.”
“Oho,” exclaimed Advocate Tirumalachar from the bar table.
“And, at the door he said: Every time I commit a sin, I place a rupee in the treasure pitcher of the sanctuary. I tell my wife this is for me to go to Benares one day. But the treasure pitcher is tightly fixed with scaling wax. There is here in this place a respectable woman. I like her and she likes me. When I went in, as usual, this time, however, a new woman, a Brahmin women, I think an Iyengar woman, came. She said her husband was dead. I knew I was going to die soon, being old. But I was in a hurry. So I told her: Do not worry, lady. I will go and tell your husband everything. He will understand. She became naked and fell on the bed. Her breasts were so lovely.”
“This is sheer pornography,” said an elderly advocate with a big nose.
“I am quoting evidence, sir,” continued Govindan Nair.
“And she played with her necklace that lay coyly on her bosom.”
“And what did he do?” asked a counsel for the Government
“He did nothing.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed many of the advocates.
“The dignity of the Court demands better behaviour,” said the Government Advocate. He had never had to argue against so strange a man. He got terrifically interested in his opponent.
“He not only did nothing, sir. Mr. Bhoothalinga Iyer was a man of generous heart –”
“To propose immorality as a generous thing!” mumbled Advocate Tirumalachar. Tirumalachar, who looked fiftyish and fair, was known for his deep religious sympathies. He was president of the Radha Sami Sangh, Trivandrum.
“What do advocates defend?” asked the judge.
“Morality,” said Tirumalachar, rising and adjusting his turban.
“You defend man,” said the Government Advocate. “But law says we defend the Truth. The law is right.”
“The Government Advocate has said the right thing. Now, Accused, continue.”
“My Lord, I was saying: One day after the whole office was empty and Bhoothalinga Iyer was alone, he said: Govindan Nair, stay there, I have a job for you. And he produced the Benares pot that he had hidden deeply in the sample rice sack. There was one sack always in the office. Who would look into it? So he produced the Benares pot and said: Go to Mutthalinga Nayak Street and in the third house right by the temple mandap there must be a widow called Meenakshiamma. Please hand over this one hundred and nine rupees. That is all there is in it. I told my wife yesterday to go to the cinema with my son-in-law. She went. I stole this and came here. I opened the office. I had the key. Today I have sent her to the zoo with my son-in-law. Then there is Pattamal’s music at the Victoria Jubilee Hall. Therefore they will come late, but I must return home quietly. I know you are a man with a big heart, so please do this service for me. She will wait for you.”
“In English you call this a cock-and-bull story,” said Tirumalachar.
“You could, if you so want, call it a hen-and heifer story,” said Govindan Nair, and laughed.
“Who then was the witness?”
“As one should except in such a cock-and bull story, a cat, sir, a cat,” said Govindan Nair seriously.
The judge rose and dismissed the court, He called the accused, and said: “Please speak the Truth.”
And Govindan Nair, with tears running down from his big black eyes answered: “Your Lordship, I speak only the Truth. If the world of man does not conform to Truth, should Truth suffer for that reason? If only you knew how I pray every night and say: Mother, keep me at the lotus feet of Truth. The judge can give a judgement. The Government Advocate can accuse. Police Inspector Rama Iyer can muster evidence. But the accused alone knows the Truth.”
“How right you are,” said the judge, flabbergasted. He had never thought of this before. “Tell me then, Mr. Govindan Nair, how can a judge know the Truth?”
“By being it,” said Govindan Nair as if it were such a simple matter. After all, he had cut a passage in the wall where Shridhar used to talk to Usha. After all, who could say Bhoothalinga Iyer had not gone to Coimbatore? For example, Abraham could not, as he would lose his job (and with it his green BSA bicycle) if the boss returned. Suppose Shantha’s child were really Bhoothalinga Iyer reborn? Who could know? The cat could, was Govindan Nair’s conviction.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring the cat to court,” he said, as if asking the judge’s permission. Of course what wrong could Govindan Nair have done? Could you ever see a man so innocent? Anybody could see he played with children and the scale. And when one side was heavy, he put two kids on the other side to make the balance go up. Then he brought the needle to a standstill, holding it tight. Thus the balance was created among men. When two things depend on each other for their very existence, neither exists. That is the Law of law.
“The cat, sir, will do it,” he said. The judge consented.
Next day I sent Usha with Shantha (the baby was left at home with Tangamma to look after him). The cat was carried in a big cage.
When the court opened its deliberations, the Government Advocate said: “My Lord, we are facing judgment against judgment. We must be careful. We have, as witness, a cat.”
“Why not? We are in Travancore.”
“I thought so too, Your Lordship. Why should we follow the proceedings of any other court of the world, were it His Majesty’s Privy Council in London? If a cat could be proved to prove any evidence we might set a precedent.”
“My Lord,” said Govindan Nair, rising. Crowds had gathered at the courthouse. Such a thing had never happened before. It was not even a political case. (There was no Gandhi in it.) Women were somehow convinced Govindan Nair was an innocent man. Some of them had seen him in the ration shop. Others had gone to have ration cards issued. Some had noticed him give way to ladies when the bus was overcrowded. Such things are never forgotten by women. They always feed the child in their womb whether the child be there or not. Who knows, someday …
“My Lord, I am not sure this copy of my signature is correct. Could I have the original?”
“The original is in the files,” said the court clerk.
“How could it be wrong?”
The cat escaped from Shantha’s hand and ran all over the court. Nobody wanted to stop the proceedings or to laugh. Either would be acknowledging that the cat was there. It went right over the Government advocate and sat in front of him as if it were going toward itself. The silence was so clear, one could see the movement of the cat’s whiskers. One had no doubt the cat was there. And it knew everything, Each movement was preceded by a withdrawal, recognition, and then the jump. The cat jumped straight onto the judge’s table. And before the attendants could brush it away, it leaped down and fell over one of those huge clay office inkpots kept under tables, and turning through the back door, went into the record room. The court clerk was looking at the file. The cat did nothing. It stood there. The attendants came and stood watching the cat. Then the cat lay on the floor and started licking its fur. Govindan Nair was burring something in the court. The attendants, seeing the cat doing nothing, went back to the court.
The cat suddenly jumped onto the shoulder of the clerk and started licking his neck. He felt such sweetness in this, he opened file after file. The cat now jumped over to the table and sat. Usha came from the back, led by an attendant, and took the cat in her arms. The clerk had indeed found the paper.
“May I see it, Your Lordship?” asked Govindan Nair.
“Yes, here it is,�
�� said the judge, but at the last moment he held it back. For just as he was handing the paper over, the light from the ceiling – a sunbeam, in fact – pierced through the paper, or maybe it was just electric light. Underneath the signature was another signature. When the judge had read it, he handed it over to the Government Advocate. He read it and said: “Bhoothalinga Iyer himself signed this. How did this happen?”
“Yes, sir. That is how it was. Rama Iyer made a slight mistake. After all Bhoothalinga Iyer and he are both Brahmins. He wanted to save Bhoothalinga Iyer. It is plain as could be.”
“Then why did you admit all that you have admitted?”
“I have in all honesty admitted nothing.”
“Oho,” shouted Tirumalachar.
“Go on,” said the judge.
“Sir, why do we admit then that a chair is a chair?”
“Why, have you not seen a chair?”
“Ho, ho!” shouted the crown.
“Has anyone seen a chair?” asked the judge.
“Nobody has,” said the Government Advocate. He was plainly taking sides with the accused.
The judge said: “I sit on a chair.”
“Who?” asked Govindan Nair.
The judge in fact rose up to see who sat on the chair. He went round and round the table looking at who? There was such silence, the women wept. The cat jumped onto the dais. The attendants said nothing. The Government Advocate was chatting happily with Govindan Nair. Who said there was a case? The clerk was looking for the file to put back the paper. Usha put a garland around the neck of Govindan Nair.
That was the fact. Govindan Nair was not set free. He was free. Nobody is a criminal who has not been proven criminal. The judge had to find himself, and in so doing, he lost his seat. Who sits on the judge’s seat became an important subject of discussion in Travancore High Court. Since then many learned treatises have been written on the subject.
It was all due to Govindan Nair. He had, while in prison, written out a whole story to himself. Bhoothalinga Iyer had signed the paper. It had nothing to do with ration permits. It had to do with Bhoothalinga Iyer’s extramarital propensities. In this business he came across virtue. So instead of going to Benares he gave the money to the widow of a Brahmin, an Iyengar woman in fact. (The breasts and other things were added to make the story comply with film stories.) The story came true as he wrote it. He was sure that it was a fact. He told himself again and again and told it in the court again and again. At Night the prison wardens were surprised to see him talking to himself. Actually he thought he was addressing the court. He even made and remade the necessary gestures. Wardens could think he was practicing acting. He recited his prose precisely till he knew every situation by heart. That is why he was so cocksure in the open court. After all, only a story that you write yourself from nowhere can be perfect. You can do with it what you want to do with it. (Abraham wrote romantic poetry and he said it did with him what it wanted. So, eventually he married Myriam, etc.) But Govindan Nair had the liberty the judge did not have. Only the Government Advocate knew everything. A fact is a prisoner. You are free, or you become the prisoner, and the fact is free, etc. etc. So the Government Advocate knew the Accused was no Accused. He was one with the Accused. That showed why the cat went to the Government Advocate first. The cat also kissed the clerk on the neck.
5 Indian Masters Page 5
