Free The Easy Day Was Yesterday by Paul Jordan Page B

police jeep that was used to take me back to the hotel last night pulled up, driven by the same old police sergeant. The Inspector motioned for me to get into the jeep. I grabbed my plastic bag of worldly possessions, including my new tongue scraper, and slipped into the back seat. The jeep was pure vintage and looked to be straight out of an old World War II movie. It had no doors, a canvas roof and bugger all room in the back seat. The Inspector jumped in the front seat and turned, handing me a lunch box full of sandwiches. Ujwal sat next to me looking very glum as I started munching on a sandwich.
    The small compass on my G Shock (watch) told me we were heading south and, while we crossed the railway line several times, we generally followed it the whole way to the courthouse in Araria. I wanted to know where I was going in case I needed to make my way back to the border. I just had a feeling that this wasn’t going to work out too well, so I needed that back-up plan. Always have an escape plan … I could still hear myself telling my students that yesterday. The railway line ran conveniently north–south. If the opportunity presented, all I had to do was to parallel the line north and I’d get to the Nepali border.
    We only drove about 40 kilometres, but the roads were absolute shit. The potholes were so big that it sometimes took a few minutes to drive out of them. I was absolutely knackered, but even if I could have slept, the seats were uncomfortable and the continuous bouncing would have had me pissing blood by the end of the day.
    We arrived at Araria courthouse at 10.30. The place looked terrible. It was very poor, crowded, run down and filthy. Everyone stared and pointed at the white man in the police vehicle. The Inspector led me into an overcrowded administration room and pushed me into the corner telling me not to move. One policeman stood outside the crowded room to ensure I wouldn’t escape. The clerks all looked at me with disdain from behind their desks which they clearly assumed gave them some sort of power. I suppose in this case it did. I noticed folders and papers being placed in front of them and also noticed the only folders and papers receiving any attention had money discreetly attached to them.
    The Inspector brought an old bloke to me and introduced him as my court-appointed lawyer. God help me. This guy had to be 50 years old. His teeth were badly stained with red betel nut juice. His white collar was severely sweat stained and his breath made me feel faint. But apparently he was the best, so I was grateful to the Inspector. My new lawyer, Mr Debu-San, told me I’d meet the Magistrate then have a bail hearing tomorrow. At that time it didn’t occur to me that I’d spend the night in gaol.
    ‘What?’ I said, ‘No, no, no, this can’t be right. I’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours and work to do tomorrow.’
    ‘This is not possible,’ said Debu-San. ‘This is the system.’
    Ujwal just looked at me with blank eyes and I sensed he already knew this but had kept it from me — probably not a bad idea.
    My lawyer disappeared just as the Inspector took me to front the Magistrate. I expected to walk into a courtroom and see the magistrate at the bench, but instead I was taken to the Magistrate’s office. The Magistrate’s office was unbelievably small — about 1.5 x 1.5 metres and made even smaller by a bookshelf on one wall supporting old, tattered law manuals that appeared to be holding more mould than law. It was dark and miserable and I could see by the scowl on the Magistrate’s face that the office had a pretty ordinary effect on him too. Well, I hoped it was the office that gave him the shits and not my presence. The Inspector spoke to the Magistrate in Hindi for a minute or so and, when he finished, Ujwal came into the already overcrowded room only to be told to get out by the Magistrate. The Magistrate was Mr Triparthy and he was the senior man in the Araria court.