‘And who owns the land on which the plant is being built?’
‘It's mostly agricultural land. Owned by subsistence farmers. They're delighted to surrender their land because they've all been guaranteed jobs by R&S.’
‘What if the farmers were to revolt? What if they were to announce that they were being cheated out of their meagre holdings?’
‘The press would have a field day,’ she responded, ‘but it wouldn't be good for the state's economy if R&S pulled out.’
‘I want you to meet a few of the farmers. Get them to make you their spokesperson. Then I want you to sit outside the gates of that proposed plant and announce that you're going on an indefinite hunger strike—a fast unto death—until the plight of these poor unfortunate farmers isn't remedied!’
‘But I'll be hungry!’ she exclaimed.
‘The power of renunciation, Chandini. Remember our history lessons and Mahatma Gandhi?’
‘But I'm not used to starving myself. My sugar level falls within twenty-four hours,’ she whined as she gratefully accepted the sweet cardamom tea offered to her. There was no beverage better than sweet cardamom tea in Chandini's world.
‘Trust me. You'll have your victory within a day!’
‘How? We haven't even negotiated with the management as yet.’
‘Ah! I forgot to tell you that I had a meeting with Mr Somany—the vice-chairman of R&S—and...’
‘What?’
‘—he agreed to increase the compensation to farmers.’
‘Firm commitment?’
‘Unfortunately, his partner, the chairman—Mr Rungta—backed out. He said they couldn't afford to pay more.’
‘So what have you told them?’
‘I've said that we would be willing to give R&S a complete sales-tax holiday for twenty years—an offer that they're delighted with—if the ABNS came to power in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘And how much is the sales-tax holiday worth?’ she asked shrewdly.
‘Several billions,’ he replied.
‘So you've negotiated to increase what the state government has already offered them?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Yes. But they've agreed to channel this money back to the farmers as compensation for the land.’
‘So they don't have to spend a dime more but can still show that they've bowed down to your wishes and paid a hefty settlement for the land?’
‘Precisely. Everyone's happy and we have an election victory!’
‘But—but—why am I going on hunger strike? If we've got their agreement we could simply make an announcement to the press,’ proposed Chandini.
‘My precious girl. The press is not interested in problems that are already solved! They first need a dramatic problem with insurmountable odds. That's what they want to talk about. They'll lap it up! After we've given them an unsolvable problem, we then give them a miraculous solution. You'll be an instant heroine!’
Chandini looked at her Uncle Ganga, dazed. She realised that she had a lot to learn. ‘Go eat a hearty meal. You're not getting any food tomorrow,’ said Gangasagar as she got up to leave.
The former police commissioner was seated with Gangasagar in his little Birhana Road flat. ‘I helped Ikram widen the rift between the home minister and Rajjo Bhaiya—on your instructions. I've now been booted out. You owe me,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I'll arrange an even better post—I'll use my influence in New Delhi. But before that you need to do something more for me.’
‘What?’ asked the police commissioner curiously.
‘Shoot Chandini,’ said Gangasagar simply.
The press took an instant liking to the fresh young face that was braving the searing heat to sit outside the plant on a hunger strike. ‘Chandini the Champion’ said the Times of India; ‘Chandini Changes the Deal’ said the Dainik; ‘Chandini Takes a Chance—and Wins!’ screamed the Lokbharti.
The reporter, who had stood outside Gulbadan's kotha and engineered the fall of the previous chief minister, was reading the headlines. He looked at the photographs of the petite young woman, wearing a plain white cotton saree, looking positively radiant as she sat in silent hunger protest with hundreds of farmers. His scoop on the ex-chief minister had made him famous too. He wondered how long Chandini's honeymoon with the press would last. A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a girl seem what she ain't, he thought to himself. Where was the dirt? He decided to look under the carpet.
‘Your daughter is amazing,’ said Gangasagar to Ikrambhai as they sat in his veranda sipping iced lemonade.
‘Technically speaking, she's not my daughter. I was unable to adopt her. Muslim Personal Law didn't recognise it and the courts were unwilling to ratify it, as you well know,’ replied Ikram wryly.
‘It's the thought that counts. Everyone sees her as your natural successor—your legacy,’ remarked Gangasagar.
‘That's funny,’ said Ikram.
‘What?’ asked Gangasagar, putting his glass down on the table in front of him.
‘To be succeeded when one hasn't even succeeded!’ he burst out, as Gangasagar laughed.
‘So what is it that you want me to do?’ asked Ikram as they drained their glasses.
‘I'll handle the vote-gathering but you handle the counting,’ said Gangasagar.
‘The Election Commission does the counting—not me!’
‘But what if there's vote-rigging? Electoral malpractices are rampant, Ikram. I need you to handle it.’
‘You want me to go around the state in an SUV capturing polling stations and stuffing ballots favouring the ABNS?’ asked Ikram, relishing the thought of some good old-fashioned muscle power.
‘No. I simply need you to station your lookouts at every polling station. The slightest sign of electoral malpractice and you phone me.’
‘And you'll come flying in, like Superman, and ensure that the polling station is not captured?’ asked Ikram sarcastically.
‘No. But at least we'll know if we need to compensate by capturing some other polling station elsewhere!’
‘Who's the Opposition's main candidate in Pilibhit constituency?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Ramprasad Trivedi,’ replied Chandini.
‘Find me someone else with the same name. And who is the primary competition in Bisalpur?’
‘Rafiq Ahmed Hussain.’
‘That shouldn't be hard. Let's get someone with an identical name to contest in Bisalpur. Any idea who the strongest aspirant in Puranpur is?’
‘Prakash Yadav.’
‘Find me another Prakash Yadav.’
‘You want us to hand out ABNS tickets to people who have no qualifications, no experience, no vote-share, simply because they have names that are identical to those of their strongest opponents?’
‘No. Not ABNS tickets. We'll fund them but they'll contest as independents.’
‘And why are we doing this?’
‘Because the votes of the primary Opposition candidates will then get split. From the confusion in the similar-sounding names, some of their rightful votes will get logged as favouring the identically-named independents financed by us.’
‘Is this a worthwhile exercise? Finding hundreds of independents to contest against the Opposition?’
‘Winning is not only about strengthening yourself; it's also about weakening the enemy. Anything that reduces the Opposition's vote-share must be done if we're to win.’
‘But the opposing parties may adopt the same strategy with us,’ argued Chandini.
‘When is the notification of elections expected from the Election Commission?’
‘April twenty-first.’
‘And the last date for filing nominations would be a week thereafter—April twenty-eighth, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What's the deadline for filing nominations on April twenty-eighth?’
‘6.30 pm.’
‘I want all our independents to file their nominations from various constituencies at s
ix pm on April twentyeighth. Let's not give the opposition any time to react.’
The phone bill would be enormous and his editor would be furious. But everything would be accepted once the story was splashed as headlines across their front page. ‘Chandini's Love Child’ would be sensational. The investigative reporter silently thanked God for giving him a sensitive nose—he could sniff dirt a mile away.
Everyone has a past, he thought. And this beloved idol of the youth, this new sensation, Chandini, was no different. Acting on this assumption, he had made a few phone calls to one of his cousins, a teacher who had emigrated to England a few years previously. The cousin had promised to make a few discreet enquiries in the Oxford area. The cousin's friend—a doctor—had checked with the National Health Service. A few days later he phoned to say that Chandini's assigned GP in Oxford had indeed issued her a medical certificate in order to get leave of absence from classes at St Hilda's. The reason provided on the certificate was ‘intense menstrual cramps’. No one took eight weeks off because of menstrual cramps, reasoned the curious doctor. A quiet word with the local GP had led to the matronly abortive douche lady, and from her to the Mother & Baby home in Grasmere.
He looked at the first draft of the story that lay before him. ‘The sacred goddess being worshipped in temples across Uttar Pradesh, and indeed in many other parts of India, is not Lakshmi, Saraswati or Durga, but a new sensation called Chandini. The refreshingly young and attractive politician has won the hearts and minds of voters and now looks poised to seriously contend for the coveted chief minister's post. She fasts unto death for farmers, preaches honesty, integrity and lofty values of moral and ethical conduct. But how many are actually aware of the background of this debutante? Not many, as it turns out. All that we seem to know is that she wears off-white sarees and looks good in them. But a little research led this reporter to find the dirt that has stained her pure and pristine snow-white image. He was shocked with what he discovered.’
Perfect start. He looked over the rest of his story that he had typed using his trusted Remington electric typewriter, and walked over to the editor's desk. ‘You'll find that my expense log is justified once you read what I've just submitted,’ he said as he walked back to his desk and covered his typewriter with a grey plastic dust cover.
‘You need to go to England and verify the facts,’ said the editor as he read the story.
‘Wh—what? Since when does this rag have the budget for a reporter to travel across continents to verify his facts?’ he asked. ‘You crib if I take a cab!’
‘The budget appeared after we decided that we don't wish to get our asses kicked by her adoptive father—Ikrambhai—or our asses sued by her godfather, Gangasagar.’
‘Gangasagar can't touch me. He knows that I helped him with the expose on the last chief minister. He wouldn't be figuring out ways to place his protégé on the throne if it weren't for my story having destroyed the last poor sucker!’
‘And we can't be seen as a rag that's keen to carry out a moral crusade against every chief minister or aspirant. That's why we need you to go verify the facts for yourself. The story is too explosive to be based on the hearsay of a cousin!’
The flight to London via Cairo and Geneva was to take off from New Delhi two hours later. An economy-class ticket had been provided to him along with a frugal travel allowance. He would need to stay in rat-infested hellholes to survive on that. Having checked in his suitcase, he headed over to passport control where the officer cursorily looked over and stamped his travel papers. He took back his passport and placed it in the leather duffel bag he had slung over his shoulders. He reached the departure area and went through security.
‘What's this, sir?’ asked the security officer as he unzipped the duffel bag. At the bottom of the bag was a little parcel wrapped in grey plastic and held together by duct tape. ‘That's not mine,’ said the reporter, wondering how the parcel had gotten into his bag. The security officer, a burly Jat from Haryana, ignored the answer and took out a penknife with which he proceeded to puncture the parcel.
A white, crystal-like powder spilled out. The security officer touched the powder with his forefinger and dabbed it lightly on his tongue. It was odourless but bitter. It was definitely heroin. ‘Are you aware of the provisions of the Dangerous Drugs Act, 1930, read with the relevant provisions of the Opium Act, 1878, sir?’ asked the security officer as he signalled one of his colleagues to cuff the offender.
‘That's not mine! I'm telling you that I don't know how it got there—’ he protested but it was of no avail. The muscular Jat already had him bent him over the security check counter, with his arms pulled tightly behind his back, and with a pair of cuffs on his wrists. ‘If this is not your parcel, how are your fingerprints on the plastic, eh?’ he shouted. The officer pulled him by the scruff of his neck, pushed him against a wall and asked him to spread his legs. He quickly patted him down and also gave him a sly pinch on his ass. ‘Just checking to see whether your ass can take the treatment that it's gonna get in prison,’ he growled.
As the reporter was loaded into the police jeep outside the airport en route to custodial lockup, he wondered, ‘How the fuck did the security chap know that my fingerprints were on the plastic without having it dusted or examined?’ He then remembered the grey plastic dust cover on his Remington electric typewriter in the newspaper office.
He cursed Gangasagar, his editor, and his luck—in that order.
Anjali arrived in her chauffeured silver Jaguar XJS, wearing a chic lemon cotton saree. The Bollywood sex symbol had tied back her long auburn hair with a white Hermès scarf and her eyes were hidden behind an extremely expensive pair of Versace sunglasses. She gently dabbed her kerchief under the sunglasses and the paparazzi contingent immediately burnt up their flash bulbs taking photos of the sultry goddess, looking positively delicious in her designer election ensemble—excellent breakfast material for the pathetic, inquisitive masses.
The streets leading up to the rally site were festooned with bunting and flags and a hundred thousand people lined up waiting for a glimpse of two female deities—one political and the other filmic. The rally ground was an expanse of saffron, green and red—the three colours of the ABNS flag. Saffron for Hindus, green for Muslims and red for the Dalits. Towards one corner was a massive stage adorned like the rest of the rally grounds with banners and flowers. Anjali walked up to the stage where Chandini awaited her. The women hugged each other as though they were the best of friends. They were actually meeting each other for the very first time. Behind them were massive rose-pink cut-outs of their images, almost fifteen feet high—Bollywood movie poster-style. The image of Chandini showed her with an angelic expression on her face, holding the scales of justice in one hand and a sword in the other. The poster of Anjali showed her holding a Statue of Liberty-inspired flaming torch.
Both women stood on stage as party workers brought out massive six-inch-thick garlands fashioned from marigolds and red-green ribbons—another reminder of the party colours—and garlanded them as though they were indeed manifestations of deities. Both women continued to remain standing, waving to the adoring crowds.
‘I promise you that I shall deliver pure, unadulterated justice to you, my beloved people. And if this hand ever needs to hold a sword to deliver justice, it shall rise for one reason alone—to defend the poor and downtrodden of this state!’ shouted Chandini emotionally into the microphone as echoes of her words bounced off massive speakers located all over the rally ground. Thousands of her supporters roared in glee and chanted, ‘Till the sun and moon shall be, Chandini's name immortal be!’
‘I am humbled by your love. I am honoured by your respect. I am blessed by your support. I am energised by your enthusiasm. I am motivated by your confidence in me. I shall not let you down—ever!’ she thundered as the crowd burst into deafening applause. Police had cordoned off the stage where the two women were standing. Hundreds of baton-wielding khaki-clad cops wearing riot helmets were
preventing the surge of humanity from clambering up the platform.
Chandini sat down and Anjali arose to speak. She was nervous. It was one thing to utter the lines of a screenplay in front of a movie camera, and quite another to deliver a speech to hundreds of thousands of screaming political activists. She was only here because her special nocturnal friend—Somany—had insisted that her endorsement of Chandini was vital.
‘In a state that has remained enveloped by the darkness of poverty, disease, illiteracy and feudalism, there is a single light that shines bright! I see the light! Do you?’ she yelled, and the grounds reverberated with approval. ‘The light is intense, it's incandescent, it's the brightest light I've ever seen. This light can illuminate, this light is pure, this light is unadulterated energy, this light is the light that shall envelope Uttar Pradesh—Chandini!’
As the multitude went berserk and howled their approval, a shot rang out. It would not have been heard if it were not for the fact that the gun had been fired near an open microphone. Chandini fell to the ground clutching her right shoulder. Blood was trickling through her fingers and a large red stain had developed on her off-white blouse and saree. Anjali threw herself to the ground and cradled Chandini's head in her lap as the security officers rushed to prevent the frenzied crowds from reaching them. The Doordarshan television camera and the hundred press photographers beautifully captured the sentiment of the moment.
‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ whispered Gangasagar as he watched the proceedings from a distance.
They were standing in the hospital corridor outside her room. Members of the press had been barred from entering the premises. They had created a makeshift camp outside the hospital gates and were snapping photos of everyone—including startled patients—as they came and went.
‘How is she,’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Fine,’ said Menon, ‘the bullet grazed her right shoulder. A few stitches, some dressing and antibiotics—and she should be ready to go.’