A Burning(59)

The country is not knowing her yet, this new superstar. But me, I am knowing her.





PT SIR


ONE MORNING BEGINS WITH a red sun, light that slips around the curtain and finds his eyes, and it is the same as all other mornings, except it is wholly different. It is PT Sir’s first day as an education secretary in the government.

PT Sir lingers for as long as he can bear it at home, then dashes to his new office. The city is wide awake. Flocks of schoolgirls, some holding hands, cross the street before his car. Their ironed and pleated skirts, their big laughs, tug at who he used to be. A boy scrubs dishes with ash in the gutter before a street-side booth hawking noodles. A stray dog trots along, no longer able to bother the man in his car.

Before the metal-detector gates of the state government building, turbaned guards salute PT Sir. He wonders whether they know who he is, or whether they salute anybody who arrives in a government-issue white Ambassador. One of the guards shows him to an elevator designated for use by VIPs only. In the rising compartment, heart drumming, PT Sir inspects his face in the shined metal doors. He may run into all sorts of VIPs in this building. From lobbyists to industrialists to movie stars, all have been known to discreetly visit this building.

    On the seventh-floor corridor, PT Sir walks by a cleaning lady sitting on the pads of her feet, pushing a wet rag in wide arcs. She does not even glance up as he passes by.

PT Sir unlocks the door to his new office with a brand-new key. Inside, a tiny room, windowless. PT Sir closes the door behind him and sits in a chair with a high leather back. The chair tilts pleasingly under his weight. It rolls too, on wheels that don’t get stuck. PT Sir sits like that for a few minutes, now and then tapping his fingers on the expanse of polished wood before him. Aside from a desktop computer and, puzzlingly, a packet of pencils, there is nothing else on the desk. The newness of it pleases him.



* * *



*

PT SIR KNOWS WHAT he has to do. He has to get his hands on Jivan’s mercy petition, and add to it his recommendation, as a member of the new government, that the petition be denied. This is a criminal who deserves no mercy. The court’s decision, the death penalty, ought to be carried out swiftly and with minimal burden to the taxpayer.

There is only one hitch: The mercy petition is with the girl’s lawyer.

PT Sir picks up the phone and dials.



* * *



*

    “SIR!” SAYS GOBIND INTO his phone, sitting up on one elbow in bed. His voice is thick with sleep. On the other end of the line is PT Sir, calling at an absurdly early hour. He asks after Gobind’s wife, his parents, whether he has followed the cricket on TV lately.

“TV, sir,” groans Gobind. “What are you saying, I have not sat down on my sofa for one minute. This case is taking everything, everything. You saw the disastrous ruling for my client.”

And PT Sir begins his work.

“Bimala Pal was telling me,” he begins smoothly, “well, you know what she was telling me? She was saying, ‘That Gobind is a hardworking man.’ She sees it. I see it. We all see your work. So I am just calling to convey that. You are a man of justice, and you are defending the girl, of course, that is your job.”

Gobind says, “Kind of you to call about it, sir.”

“But we all know,” PT Sir continues, “what happened, I think.”

Gobind is silent on the phone. Then he says, “Do we, sir?”

PT Sir laughs. He looks at his closed door, at the vents in the ceiling which gently pump cool air for his comfort. From somewhere, even he is not sure where, he has acquired a politician’s persona. This big laugh was never his. “A man of principle,” he says. “I like it.

“Gobind, listen,” he continues, taking a deep breath, the laughter leaving his voice. “Justice in this case must be served. You think that. I think that. The public thinks that. So the long trial, the petitions, all of that I admire, believe me. But the court has shown this girl is guilty. Nobody”—his voice softens—“nobody feels more sad about that than me. She was my student. I saw her potential.”

    Gobind breathes noisily into the phone. He remains in his awkward position on the bed, afraid of the rustle of sheets, afraid of his footfall, afraid of missing any of what is being said.

“What I am saying is, it would be a shame if, after all this, the mercy petition hangs, going nowhere, for months and months. Don’t you think so?”

PT Sir leans back in his chair. The chair, subservient, tilts. From Bimala Pal he has learned to withhold words in favor of long seconds of silence. They tick. He feels the man on the other end evaluating his words. Cautiously, Gobind says, “It’s true, these petitions can take time.”

“So,” PT Sir declares, “why don’t you hand the mercy petition to me. I will try to expedite it. Now I am in a position where I can expedite it, add my voice to it. We want swift justice, that is all I’m saying. Whatever outcome will be is not in my hands, but it is not good to keep the public waiting. It makes our new government look—”

He throws up a hand, a gesture of not knowing, though Gobind cannot see him.

“Let me send a messenger for it,” PT Sir continues. “He will pick up the papers from you. And for your trouble, we will of course send you a small gift, just a token of thanks for your hard work on this case. You don’t have to tell me, but I know how this work becomes a sacrifice—of family time, of time with children. Don’t you have a daughter, Gobind? Doesn’t she want more time with her papa, maybe a holiday next year?”