Falak knocks and lays a tray on my desk. I can’t eat with my colleagues. They whisper behind their hands, wondering if I’ll lose my position over this travesty of a trial. I deduce God tests my resolve with this farce and fear I may fail. Every part of my body aches, and the infernal heat and rain bring me to despair. I drink my coffee, but the thought of food makes me ill.
I leaf through The Statesman to the section covering my trial. The account of my testimony is accurate without any hint of despair on my part. The clock chimes. It’s time to leave for court. I check my appearance. If I look anything less than my position, it will be in the newspapers. My beard is trimmed and my suit pressed, though the heat will wilt the fabric.
The driver guides my gharry through sheets of rain to the High Court. Mr. Geddes greets me at the steps and offers me his arm. I want to wave it away but have no choice but to take it if I’m going to climb the stairs.
“How much longer will these questions continue?” I ask as we walk inside.
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