Chanakya's Chant

  Chanakya was back in Sage Dandayan's hermitage. The acharya had requested the sage to let him stay at the ashram, and the venerable rishi had been delighted to have some company. A few days later, Ambhi dropped in to see him. ‘Ambhi, my son, the great fire that enveloped the official residence reserved for me a few days ago is a divine message that I should not be your rajguru. My stars are not in favour and I would not like Gandhar's future to be dragged down with my own. I'm quite sure that you'll be able to find someone much more capable than me,’ said Chanakya smoothly.

  He waited for a reaction. He could sense the inner rage within Ambhi but he did a fairly good job of keeping it bottled in. ‘O acharya, it's my loss. I hope that you'll continue to stay in Takshila so that I may take your advice from time to time,’ said Ambhi.

  And eventually kill me, thought Chanakya. ‘Absolutely. I shall always be available to assist you, O King. Please do not hesitate to call for me,’ lied Chanakya.

  As Ambhi left, Chandragupta asked ‘What now, acharya? Alexander's forces are in retreat. Do we plan for making war?’ Chanakya thought for a moment and answered with a roguish expression, ‘Leave the task of making war to me, Chandragupta. I need you to focus on making love!’

  She was always dressed simply but elegantly—a creamcoloured sleeveless linen chiton that reached her feet, light thong sandals, her long blonde hair tied back with filet mesh, and a delicate gold and diamond tiara perched atop. She wore no jewellery other than the tiara and simple earrings. The absence of royal trappings only served to accentuate her classic beauty and her unpretentious charm. Her skin was fair with a light golden hue and the sleeveless chiton was perfect to show off her delicate arms and graceful shoulders. Her eyes were the colour of clear blue oceans, and like those waters, ran deep. Her slender face, full lips, aquiline nose and high cheekbones were the perfect combination of allure and innocence. Her name was Cornelia, and she was the daughter of the second-most powerful man in Bharat—Seleucus.

  The most powerful man, Alexander, was planning to return home, leaving his trusted general—Seleucus—in charge of his Asian dominions. Born in northern Macedonia, Seleucus had been told by his mother that his real father was actually the god, Apollo. Apollo had left with her an anchor insignia ring to be given to his son when he grew up to be a man. The same anchor was also present as a birthmark on Seleucus’ thigh. ‘Go fight the Persians along with Alexander and may you be called Nicator—the Victorious One!’ she had said as she gave him the ring.

  He had not only been victorious in war but also in love. Having helped Alexander conquer Persia, Seleucus had married Apama, the ravishing daughter of a Persian nobleman, in a grand marriage ceremony at Susa, during which Alexander had also married the daughter of the Persian king Darius III. Seleucus and Apama's passionate affair earlier had produced a bastard son. Their marriage a year later produced a legitimate daughter. Cornelia was grateful that she was born on the right side of her parents’ marriage ceremony.

  Cornelia was staying in Takshila as a state guest of Ambhi. The girl was an Indophile and found herself more comfortable in Gandhar than in Greece. She would visit Sage Dandayan's ashram each morning to learn yoga. A retinue of nervous Macedonian guards, who knew that Seleucus would have their testicles ripped off if anything untoward happened to her, would follow.

  Seeing the great yogi leading an austere life she would ask Chanakya—who was also living with Dandayan—‘Learned acharya, why is renunciation so important in Bharat? Sage Dandayan lives here in the forest with no protection from heat, cold or rain. He still seems at peace, having renounced the very things that we Macedonians value—power and wealth.’

  Chanakya laughed heartily, frightening the poor confused Cornelia as he bared his crooked teeth. As his laughter subsided, he spoke. ‘Lord Rama renounced his kingdom and became the most powerful king in the land. Buddha renounced the world and the world fell at his feet. Cornelia, my innocent girl, please do not believe that renunciation is to forsake power. Rather, it's the very means to power!’

  Chandragupta was walking briskly towards Dandayan's hut when he saw her conversing with Chanakya. She looks like a goddess, he thought to himself. He had been quite angry when his teacher had told him that he wanted him to woo the girl. What was he, a gigolo? Why had he spent his life training for kingship? Just to chase a Macedonian girl in a gown? But now he was smitten. There could be no one lovelier than this princess, he thought.

  ‘Ah! Chandragupta, I see that you have arrived,’ called out Chanakya, deftly pulling Chandragupta into the conversation. ‘This is Cornelia, the daughter of the honourable Seleucus. She's here to study yoga from Sage Dandayan. Unfortunately, her lessons keep getting interrupted by our profound deliberations on the renunciation of power!’

  Chandragupta strode confidently over to them. ‘Cornelia, my guru is not one who can teach you about the renunciation of power, but he can certainly teach you about the power of renunciation!’ Chanakya had helpfully prepared the witty one-liner for him in advance so that Chandragupta could make the right first impression.

  Chandragupta was accoutred in his finest ensemble, some of it hastily borrowed from Sinharan. A royal purple dhoti flowed from his waist, and he had thrown a blue silk wrap casually around his shoulders. Around his neck he wore a heavy necklace of pearls. His gold earrings accentuated his sidelocks, defining his kind and gentle face, clean-shaven except for his warrior moustache. Long black hair curled down to broad shoulders that led to rippling muscular upper arms adorned with gold armlets. He looked every inch a prince even though he had no kingdom.

  Cornelia smiled. Chandragupta beamed. Chanakya chuckled. He knew that the wheels were in motion. Love conquered all. He thought of Suvasini, his childhood flame, and decided that the time had come.

  Chanakya wandered over to the elevated bamboo latticed lofts constructed by his disciples in a clearing just outside Sage Dandayan's hermitage. As he approached the raised enclosure, the soft chirping and cooing of his winged charges greeted him. Their trainer ran up to the acharya and greeted him. ‘Are the pigeons in good form today, Siddharthaka?’ asked Chanakya casually.

  ‘Absolutely, my lord. They have been fed and watered and are eagerly awaiting some exercise,’ replied Siddharthaka, as he took from the acharya a little capsule with a light but firm string attached to it. He opened one of the enormous coops using a rope that hung down from the gate and his call was immediately answered by a beautiful white Rock Pigeon that flew over and perched itself on Siddharthaka's outstretched leather-encased arm. The bird had made journeys of more than a hundred and eleven yojanas at speeds exceeding five yojanas per muhurta and could remain in sustained flight for several muhurtas without resting.

  The critical element was training, and Siddharthaka was an accomplished master in the science. Each bird would be transported in a bamboo cage some distance from home each day and released. The birds would immediately fly back to their remembered home using the earth's magnetic field as an inbuilt compass for navigation. These birds were called ‘homing pigeons’ for a very precise reason—their ability to fly back the way they'd been transported, no matter what the distance. With each training trip, the distance would be increased using a network of trainers along the route, and each bird's experience, strength and ability to navigate longer and longer distances would increase. Siddharthaka's pigeons were extremely strong on the wing, able to fly even against powerful countercurrents of air. Each of his birds had keen eyesight, being able to see much further than any normal human. Despite their gentle demeanour, his birds possessed incredible endurance and were trained to withstand prolonged aerial voyages.

  Siddharthaka expertly tied the capsule proffered by Chanakya to the bird's left leg and whistled. With a strong flutter of its wings, the bird rose straight up in the air, gained altitude and then, circling around a few times to get its bearings, headed off directly in a straight line towards its destination—in this case Pataliputra, where Jeevasiddhi awaited.

/>   CHAPTER TEN

  Present Day

  The reporter had spent over a month in the malodorous cell. His bail applications kept coming up before the sub-judicial district magistrate but were equal times denied without even the courtesy of a hearing.

  His hair was full of lice. His skin was red and blotchy from the insect bites that plagued him every night. On his left ear was a surgical bandage applied by the prison doctor to a wound caused by a rat that had nibbled on his ear. He had lost several pounds and his cheeks had sunken in. His face looked gaunt and tired, his eyes lifeless. He was dehydrated due to the diarrhoea caused by the terrible jail food. On several occasions he found cockroaches in the lentils. When he complained, the warden had joked, ‘Sshh! Not so loud. If your cellmates hear you they'll want non-vegetarian food too.’

  The visit by a dark, oily-haired Keralite was curious. His mere presence seemed to open doors and command respect. They sat across from each other in the warden's office. Sugary tea had been arranged for them. The tea boy left two glasses of the syrupy mixture before them and disappeared.

  ‘I can make all your problems disappear,’ said Menon.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the prisoner.

  ‘It isn't important. You're a very intelligent man. You know why you've landed up here—you've been very naughty!’ he admonished, wagging his finger like a headmaster at an errant schoolboy.

  ‘That son of a whore—Gangasagar—wants me to back off, is it? Leave his pure little Barbie doll untouched? Well, it seems that she isn't all that virginal!’ he shouted, his red eyes blazing with indignation.

  Menon stayed cool. ‘My friend, if you behave decently with me, I shall deal even more generously with you. Yes, you do need to back off from the media hunt, but what if I point you in the direction of an even juicier story, eh?’

  ‘Go on. I'm listening,’ said the reporter disinterestedly but Menon knew that he had his attention.

  ‘Did you know that the prime minister of this country has a very close advisor?’

  ‘You mean the general secretary of his party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The finance minister of India?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The home minister of India?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘She apparently visits his residence every month. Her visits are kept off the record—no notations are made either in the visitors’ log or in the prime minister's diary.’

  ‘He has a mistress?’

  ‘Use your grey cells, my intelligent friend. If he had a mistress, would he bonk her at his official residence?’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘She's simply known as the sadhvi. He apparently consults her on all major decisions.’

  ‘And what is it that you want me to do?’

  ‘Get me leverage on her.’

  ‘My nose is like a bloodhound's—it can sniff out anything anywhere. But why should I help you?’

  ‘You could be a free man in the next ten minutes. Think about how good a long bath, a decent meal, a stiff drink and a warm woman in your bed would feel.’

  ‘Not good enough. You'll have to do better,’ growled the reporter, negotiating but ready to lap up the offer as long as another bone was thrown his way.

  ‘How about if I arrange the biggest sting operation of your life?’ suggested Menon calmly.

  ‘She has ambitions—’ he began.

  ‘Not interested in the future,’ said Menon.

  ‘The sadhvi visits him almost weekly—’ he said.

  ‘Not interested in the present,’ said Menon.

  ‘Then what the fuck are you interested in?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘Her past.’

  ‘We've hit the mother lode,’ the reporter said excitedly.

  ‘Do tell,’ said Menon coolly.

  ‘When our prime minister was chief minister, a lady used to visit him. Often late at night.’

  ‘Big deal. If I laid end to end the women who screw around with businessmen or politicians, we'd circle the fucking globe.’

  ‘If you laid them end to end you'd be very tired,’ joked the reporter.

  Menon ignored the joke. The reporter cleared his throat and continued. ‘Well, it seems that this lady—very pretty she was apparently—used to visit him, but one fine day she disappeared. Poof! Gone.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The same lady appeared at a Hindu shelter two months later, pregnant.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘The orphanage accepted the pregnant lady on the formal recommendation of the chief minister—our present prime minister.’

  ‘And did this lady deliver?’

  ‘Sure. A little girl.’

  ‘Whatever happened to the mother and daughter?’ asked Menon, suddenly very interested.

  ‘The mother packed up and left. The daughter was brought up by the Hindu nunnery attached to the shelter.’

  ‘What's to say that the girl's got anything to do with the prime minister?’

  ‘In her hurry, the mother left behind a postcard. It was from the father enquiring about the mother and child. The purohit was happy to share it with me when I told him that I could arrange for his son's admission to a medical college.’

  Menon made a note. A favour promised was always to be honoured. ‘And?’

  ‘It was the prime minister. He's the father.’

  ‘So the sadhvi is his illegitimate daughter?’ asked Gangasagar incredulously.

  ‘He was already married, with three kids in tow and a rosy political career ahead of him—he couldn't accept her,’ replied Menon.

  ‘But where's the proof?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘That weasel reporter has a postcard in which the prime minister writes to her asking after her and the child.’

  ‘But that's hardly clinching evidence,’ said Gangasagar, then reflected before thoughtfully resuming. ‘It could be enough for a sensation though. And this child—she grew up to become a nun herself?’

  ‘Yes. Father and daughter never refer to one another as being related. Apparently, she calls him child. A joke.’

  ‘And what the fuck does he call her—mother?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’

  ‘It's time I met her,’ said Gangasagar as he put down his newspaper.

  ‘What will you tell her?’ asked Menon.

  ‘I'll tell her that if she wants Mother's Rule in Delhi, she must make sure that there's no damn President's Rule in Uttar Pradesh.’

  ‘Your instructions have arrived, child,’ she said as she placed her hand on his head and began chanting some more prayers with her eyes closed. A minute later, she opened her eyes and directed, ‘Do not impose President's Rule on Uttar Pradesh.’

  ‘But blessed mother—’ began the prime minister.

  ‘Sshh!’ she admonished him, placing her palm in front of her in a gesture for him to halt. ‘Have my divine messages ever gone wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he acknowledged quietly.

  ‘Then do as I say!’ she instructed.

  ‘Fine. So you've managed to bring things to a halt and prevented President's Rule. But now what?’ asked Agrawalji.

  ‘We tell the chief minister to step down and let Chandini take over,’ said Gangasagar.

  ‘But their party would want portfolios for supporting our chief minister in the same way that we demanded portfolios for supporting theirs. Why would their chief minister step down without a deal?’ asked Menon.

  ‘Changing the topic completely, Menon, weren't you supposed to organise a sting for that press worm?’ asked Gangasagar.

  Menon smiled. ‘You want the chief minister to take a walk, don't you?’ he asked. ‘So that you don't have to offer any Cabinet berths to him?’

  ‘I like long walks—especially when they're taken by people who annoy me,’ said Gangasagar.

  The gentleman from Mumbai was well-dressed, immaculate, suave and soft-spoken. He arrived in a black Mercedes-Benz at t
he residence of the chief engineer of the PWD—the Public Works Department. In one hand he carried a bunch of lilies for the chief engineer's wife, and in the other he held a box of Swiss chocolates for his kids and an expensive Mont Blanc pen for the man himself. The appointment had been fixed a week earlier at the behest of the chief engineer's nephew.

  Preliminary introductions over, the man from Mumbai said, ‘This is a massive project—upgrading and widening priority state highways, constructing four new bypasses, and three major bridges. Who's picking up the tab?’

  The chief engineer answered. ‘Civil work, supervision, project management support, consulting contracts, land acquisition and cash compensation shall be funded entirely by the government of Uttar Pradesh, while other costs of resettlement and rehabilitation will be eligible for World Bank financing.’

  ‘So the entire cost is borne either by the state government or the World Bank, right?’

  ‘That is correct.’ replied the chief engineer.

  ‘We have carried out our own internal budgeting and believe that the actual cost should be around one point five billion,’ said the man from Mumbai.

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘But we could inflate or deflate it, as required,’ added the Mumbai man smoothly, ‘that's why I'm here. We want to be sure that our bids are submitted in the manner that you want.’

  ‘You'll have to meet the principal secretary for that,’ said the chief engineer.

  ‘When can we arrange a meeting?’ asked the man from Mumbai, smiling.

  The well-dressed, immaculate, suave and soft-spoken man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at the Nirman Bhawan office of the principal secretary in Lucknow. In one hand he carried a bunch of tulips for the principal secretary, and in the other he held a plain vanilla Mont Blanc pen for the executive assistant to the principal secretary. The appointment had been fixed two days earlier at the behest of the chief engineer.