Free Train to Delhi by Shiv Kumar Kumar

ugliness was responsible for his uppishness.
    â€˜And what are the police officers supposed to do?’ Gautam flashed out. ‘Go careering about in their vans?’
    â€˜Shut up!’ the officer barked. ‘Telling us what to do? Who are you, anyway?’
    â€˜Gautam Mehta, assistant editor of The Challenge,’ Gautam snapped back. ‘And may I have your name, please? … Perhaps I should report to Thornton sahib …’
    At the mention of the police commissioner’s name, the officer went pale.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, sheepishly. ‘We’re trying to do our best.’
    â€˜Are you?’ Gautam quipped. ‘Always arriving a little too late, and then shouting away at everyone.’
    â€˜I apologize.’
    But Gautam pressed on: ‘This place has been through hell during the past two hours: a cow slaughtered, a woman nearly raped, her brother stabbed. And no sign of the police anywhere around.’ Then, pointing to the woman who’d by now wrapped herself in the tablecloth, and to her brother who stood drenched in blood, he added: ‘There, look at them!’
    â€˜I’ll personally escort the lady to her house and arrange for immediate medical aid for her brother,’ said the officer.
    â€˜That would be very nice of you, indeed,’ Gautam said, now mellowed.
    Both Gautam and Berry waited till the woman and her brother were helped into the van by the officer’s aides. As the vehicle snorted into motion, the woman’s eyes turned towards Gautam and Berry—a pair of eyes, deep and moist. Her lips quivered as though she wanted to say something. But it was her brother who spoke: ‘I don’t know how to thank you both.’
    â€˜That’s all right,’ said Gautam. ‘I hope the wound isn’t too deep.’
    â€˜No, sir … I’ll be okay.’
    As the van zoomed away, Gautam turned to Gopinath.
    â€˜And how shall we thank you, Mr Trivedi?’
    â€˜Well, I did nothing. It was a pleasure to have you both with me for a short while. In fact, I’ll now feel frightened to be alone here for the rest of the day.’
    â€˜It’ll be all right,’ said Berry.
    It was about two o’clock. The broiling sun stood, almost immobilized, in the bare sky, pouring down its heat relentlessly. Through the trees on either side of the street, the white-hot rays cast shadows that looked like a grotesque jumble of spears, knives, and headless bodies of animals and human beings. The sun’s blaze fell on the cow’s carcass, on the blood drops near the tea-stall …
    â€˜ I feel as though I’ve been through a baptism of fire,’ Gautam said.
    Berry merely nodded.
    They now walked past the spot where, a few days ago, Gautam had seen a young woman vendor feeding her infant, while her customer leered at her nipples.

8
    I n 1946, a year before independence, the British rulers moved the Civil and Sessions Courts from their modest premises near the Kashmiri Gate to the new mammoth structure near the Azad Market to meet the mounting pressure of daily cases of civil disobedience against the government.
    This complex of closely knit buildings looks like a giant beehive with a multitude of cells, each representing a different section of the law. The open compound that encircles the courts is cluttered with tea-stalls, stamp-vendors, typists—and touts who prowl about for gullible litigants, claiming direct access to the judiciary. Although the British christened the new courts Tis Hazari—the Mughal name for the halls of justice—the custodians of law always handed out their verdict in favour of the rulers.
    Gautam came to the divorce court of Justice J.P. Appaswamy, with his lawyer, precisely at ten. Berry preferred to wait outside near a tea-stall in the backyard so that his presence inside the court wouldn’t provoke Sarita.
    A few minutes later, she arrived, accompanied