A Burning

by Megha Majumdar

“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?” “Okay, sir,” Gobind agrees. He is unsure if he chooses this.