September 26, 2004

In her political novel, Nayantara Sahgal writes about the intrigues of the chief minister, Somnath, who wants to sideline the governor, Abdul Rahman

SOMNATH had been chief minister of Uttar Pradesh ever since Kailas’ fortuitous removal to Delhi. The chief ministership was more important and more powerful than a cabinet post or a post abroad. At least he preferred it. He felt relaxed and sure of himself. The days when he had clenched his fist or raised his voice to make a point were over. Now there was a respectful silence when he spoke. His state, the largest and most populous in the union, was his empire. It was the size of France with twice as many people in it, and he and Hari Mohan between them ruled it without interference.

Somnath concentrated on its political pulse while Hari had his finger on all key industrial development. He had convinced Somnath long ago that the party’s fortunes must be tied to the state’s industrial advance. He had formed three companies himself and launched them with the government’s backing so that the party need look no further for funds. There had been murmurs in the party from time to time about high-handed methods and wasteful expenditure, particularly on the occasions of elections to the state Congress committee, but they had never gathered momentum.

Few people had the urge or the perseverance to follow through their complaints and meanwhile his supporters grew and the murmurs were scarcely heard above the acclamation. The party had swelled into huge numbers. Numbers meant votes and votes kept him in power.

 

Somnath had during his term in office consigned two governors to oblivion. They had spent their respective terms of office inaugurating appropriate functions, delivering speeches he had approved, entertaining visiting dignitaries, and seeing important documents only when he thought fit to present them. They had been informed only of what he chose to inform them
 

His secretary came in to tell him that the governor wanted to see him at his convenience sometime today or tomorrow. Somnath approved of the wording of the message. It recognized his busy schedule and his leadership. He had not been to see the governor for nearly a month. Part of that time he had been away on tour but he had not called on the governor since his return because he considered the whole procedure farcical. He disliked the suggestion that he should seek advice or consultation even of so innocuous a person as the governor, who was merely a figurehead and no threat to him.

He had, it was true, a certain prestige as the president’s personal representative. He had the president’s ear and could in an emergency be called upon to declare governor’s rule. But the latter was a remote possibility and the former had significance only if the chief minister chose to recognize it. Somnath had during his term in office consigned two governors to oblivion. They had spent their respective terms of office inaugurating appropriate functions, delivering speeches he had approved, entertaining visiting dignitaries, and seeing important documents only when he thought fit to present them. They had been informed only of what he chose to inform them. Both men had been a little in awe of him. This one was not.

Abdul Rahman, now in his middle seventies, small and frail, and never fully restored to health after his last imprisonment, was now governor. It was unusual for a man to occupy this position in his home state, but an exception had been made for Abdul in recognition of his services and as a concession to his advanced age.

Somnath had readily accepted him. He was the oldest of his former colleagues and he would probably die soon. Let the old man have his last few years in a governor’s mansion. It would keep him quiet and out of the way. But this old man would not keep quiet and he refused to die.

Moreover, he took a stubborn interest in every aspect of the state’s progress. Somnath did not encourage his interest in state politics, and gave him only the most summary accounts of events and trends, but information reached him from other sources because he was a veteran leader and people came to him with news and often for a redress of their grievances. He dealt with them correctly, referring each case with his own comments back to the chief minister, and Somnath could not find fault with most of his recommendations but unreasonably they irked him.

Unlike his predecessors, Abdul Rahman did not limit his entertaining to prominent citizens and visiting dignitaries either. He gathered a host of bedraggled artists and writers about him for he had been a poet and playwright of some reputation himself. But ragged people were generally dissatisfied people who poured their woes into his ears, and Somnath felt constrained to warn him that if he gave time to such delegations he would be listening to them for the better part of his tenure.

“I am not suggesting that you stop receiving them,” said Somnath amiably, “only that you do so within limits. You have to think of your health and not exhaust yourself with unnecessary work.”

“I have never found listening an exhausting occupation,” said Abdul Rahman dryly. “And my health has stood far greater strain in its time. I never expected to live to this age. I consider it a reprieve of a kind and perhaps it is fitting I should use it for those few whom I can benefit in some way.”

Somnath’s official relations with him, starting quite cordially, had become more and more perfunctory as time went on, but the myth of cooperation had to be maintained, so he went to see him at deliberately spaced intervals, humouring him when he could.

Abdul looked almost transparent as he sat in the leather-upholstered chair in his study. The room, thought Somnath, looked too sombre and solid a setting for him. They exchanged greetings. “I wanted to see you earlier but I was told you have been very busy since your return from your tour.”

Somnath inclined his head. He had done enough explaining during his years of struggle from the lower rungs of the party. He did not intend to do any now. Since the old man had asked to see him, he let the old man talk.

Abdul said, “I have been wanting to speak to you about the situation at the university.”

The university again. The university had become a perennial situation. Somnath waited in impatience. He already knew what Abdul would say, and he did not like his time wasted.

“Dr Panday has been to see me,” said Abdul. “He has been threatened again by a group of students but he feels that no matter what the opposition from the students the examinations should be held on schedule. They have already been postponed twice and he feels another postponement can only do severe damage both to the university’s reputation and to the cause of education.”

“That is very true,” said Somnath with the drawled nonchalance for which he had become famous. “On the other hand we cannot risk another outbreak of indiscipline as we had last term. It would be more sensible to concede the demand, and close the university for a brief period while we examine the cases of the students he expelled, I must say,” he added with a frown, “Dr Panday was unnecessarily hasty in expelling them.”

“It was within his province to do so,” said Abdul, “and if I may say so, the revival of these expulsion cases can serve no purpose. It is a dangerous precedent to create. The student body must not feel that what it cannot get by threats of violence from one authority it can wheedle from another. The university must remain an autonomous body. If it doesn’t I am afraid you will have the resignation of the vice chancellor on your hands.”

Education was the governor’s favourite target. He was forever carping about how little had been done, about the gap between promise and performance and the fact that quality had been sacrificed to quantity. Somnath had at his request provided him with a detailed survey of the schools in each town and village and the number of children they served, but the old man had on his tours not found them up to his expectations. He never missed an opportunity, public or private, to point out this shortcoming on the part of the state authorities, and indirectly this was a criticism of Somnath.

“I shall have a talk with Dr Panday and I shall keep in mind what you say,” said Somnath. “I am sure some compromise can be arrived at.”

Though what compromise there could be between postponing the examinations and not postponing them he did not know. It was one of the phrases that rose easily to the lips and left the listener feeling mollified. But this one did not look mollified, so he added, “There should be no loss of face to either side.”

“I am not sure that a loss of face is not exactly what a band of hooligans needs,” said Abdul tartly. “I do not understand why Dr Panday should be equated with roughnecks who have threatened him with assault and are quite capable of carrying out the threat.”

Somnath smiled his patient affable smile, the one he reserved for recalcitrant governors. “Perhaps you are right.”

“While you were away,” the old man went on, “there was a demonstration outside my gates by a crowd of students. They demanded an audience and I gave it to them but I could make no sense of what they said and I found their manner of speaking most objectionable. I was also seriously disturbed by the views some of them expressed. I made some inquiries after they had gone and found out that the organizers are the very ones who have been making trouble on the campus.”

“Well we cannot complain of a dull moment,” Somnath rose from his chair. “How is your health? I hope you are not taxing yourself unnecessarily.”

“There is nothing wrong with my health,” said Abdul shortly. I am addressing the Vidya College for Women tomorrow. Have you any objection if I refer to this whole question of student indiscipline?”

Somnath drawled his surprise. “Why should we object? The young ladies will welcome an interesting talk, I am sure.”

After he had gone Abdul sat on in his chair looking out over the stretches of green lawn the British had cultivated for themselves and which he had incongruously inherited. He was thinking of the distasteful fact that he served no purpose, that his august status was a mockery because Somnath and his council of ministers had rendered him superfluous. He would write to the president and recommend the abolition of the office of governor altogether. At least there would be a saving of public funds.

But meanwhile he would have to sit by helpless, watching tensions rise that he could have helped to check. Outside his mansion he could sense the hysteria mounting as the time for the election of the local Congress chief drew near. He heard about it from people who came to see him. He knew about it because he knew his city and because he had been in politics too long himself not to recognize the unhealthy portents from the healthy ones.

The governor had to be above politics, but if Somnath had allowed any normal, natural relationship between them, he would have discussed these developments with him and warned him of their consequences. He would have asked why the fever was rising in this manner, and suggested measures to deal with it. But Somnath did not bring these problems to him.

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