Chanakya's Chant

  ‘As you know, the tender process can be handled in three ways—percentage rate, item rate or lump sum. Under the first method, we would do the costing and you would bid by quoting a percentage above or below our estimates. In the second alternative, we would give you a schedule of quantities and you would quote individually on each item. Under the third mechanism, you would quote a lump sum for the entire project based upon our specifications,’ explained the principal secretary.

  ‘How can you swing it so that we get it?’ asked the Mumbai man.

  ‘Do you have subsidiaries and affiliate companies?’ asked the principal secretary.

  The man nodded. ‘Lots.’

  ‘Then we'll do it this way. The prequalification bids will ask for your background, technical expertise, and track record. Make sure that all your subsidiaries and associates bid individually.’

  ‘How will that help?’

  ‘We will find qualitative reasons to eliminate other bidders at this stage. But it would look very strange if only one party were left uneliminated. That's why we need you to have at least five to six prequalification bids.’

  ‘So we'll be the only bidders by the time it gets down to commercial bids?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how much will this cost us?’

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

  ‘When can we arrange a meeting?’ smiled the man from Mumbai.

  The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at 5, Kalidas Marg, the official residence of the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh. In one hand he carried a bunch of orchids for the chief minister, and in the other he carried a ten-tola—a hundred-and-sixteen-gramme gold bar—for the personal assistant to the chief minister. The appointment had been fixed a few hours earlier at the behest of the principal secretary.

  ‘I'm told you've already discussed the details with the principal secretary,’ said the chief minister, shaking his hand.

  ‘Yes. I have come here only to seek your blessings.’

  ‘My blessings are expensive.’

  ‘How expensive?’

  ‘Fifteen per cent.’

  ‘Cancel one blessing and give me two.’

  ‘Ten per cent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would not do that under normal circumstances. But then, you brought me orchids,’ laughed the chief minister, getting up to seal the deal with the smiling man from Mumbai.

  The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at the Birhana Road residence of Pandit Gangasagar Mishra. In one hand he carried a roll of photographic film and in the other he carried a small pocket-recording device with the tape still inside it. Menon smiled as he took his reporter friend inside to meet Pandit Gangasagar Mishra.

  ‘With this scoop, you shall graduate from weasel to eagle,’ said Menon to the journalist as they walked towards Gangasagar's living room.

  ‘I would rather remain a weasel,’ said the reporter.

  ‘Why?’ asked Menon.

  ‘Eagles may soar but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines!’

  On the dusty Birhana Road of Kanpur, inside one of its bylanes, in a building that had seen better days, the rickety staircase to the second floor flat occupied by Pandit Gangasagar Mishra was groaning under the weight of hundreds of feet. It was 11 am and Chandini Gupta had arrived at Panditji's residence. Accompanying her were MLAs from the Opposition who were willing to defect.

  The sting operation had forced the chief minister to reconsider whether he should hang on to his chair. Good counsel had prevailed and he had resigned. ‘You're happy that he's gone?’ enquired the weary Menon.

  ‘My dear Menon, some cause happiness wherever they go. Others whenever they go.’

  ‘Pranam, Uncle Ganga,’ said Chandini, as she folded her hands in respectful obeisance to the kingmaker. ‘God bless you, my dear,’ said the old man as she sat down on the chair next to him. He paused for a moment as he placed a hand on her head, closed his eyes and chanted something under his breath. ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’

  ‘Are you ready to go to Governor House to stake your claim to form the state government?’ he asked as he opened his eyes.

  She nodded, smiling. ‘The chief minister's MLAs are outside. They've agreed to support us without any cabinet positions—they didn't have much of a choice,’ she laughed.

  ‘Your first task as chief minister—’ he began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Award the World Bank contract to a nominee of Agrawalji's choosing, but make sure that there are no open microphones! He has pulled out all his remaining hair financing these elections. He needs something to calm him down.’

  The Uttar Pradesh chief minister's office was on the fifth floor of Lal Bahadur Shastri Bhawan in Lucknow. The reception area was extra large—in anticipation of the large number of waiting visitors. Two secretaries were stationed in the reception area, assigned with the single task of managing the crowd.

  The inner office was smaller than the reception but much more imposing. The room was wood-panelled, dominated by an oversized mahogany desk behind which was an imposing swivel chair done up in aged maroon leather—the most powerful chair in the state. On the wall behind the desk was a large portrait of Mahatma Gandhi. The visitors’ chairs, also in maroon, were lower and smaller, instantly putting any guest in a slightly subordinate position. To the right of the desk was a large window with a cabinet below it polished to a mirror. Chandini noticed the vase of pink chrysanthemums on the cabinet as she walked into her new office.

  ‘Good morning, ma'am,’ said her assistant, a pleasant young man. ‘I'm your principal private secretary—your executive assistant. My name's Shankar.’

  ‘Did you organise the pink chrysanthemums, Shankar?’ asked Chandini.

  ‘Yes,’ said the slightly embarrassed young man, ‘I do hope you like them.’

  ‘How did you know pink chrysanthemums were my favourite?’ asked Chandini.

  ‘Ma'am, I'm your secretary—it's my job to know your preferences,’ he quipped. ‘Shall we go through your diary?’

  The stream of visitors, phone calls, letters, meetings and files had been endless. It was past 5 pm and Chandini had not been able to leave her desk, even for lunch.

  ‘Send in the delegation from the builders’ federation,’ she instructed Shankar on the intercom. A minute later, he walked in carrying a tray. ‘Where are they?’ she asked, not looking up from the file before her. Her secretary put the tray down in front of her with a look of concern and said, ‘Ma'am it's been a long day. I asked them to reschedule. I think you should take a break.’ Chandini looked up at him realising he was right—she was famished. She smiled when she noticed her favourite sweet cardamom tea and tangy peanuts in lime juice on the tray.

  ‘Have you begun to gain her confidence?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘With the background information that you gave me, it was rather easy,’ admitted Shankar. ‘She depends on me for almost everything.’

  ‘Good. Keep me informed of her activities. She's a single woman in a male-dominated society. I can't afford to have any malicious gossip about male friends—real or imagined!’ growled Gangasagar.

  ‘It seems that there's trouble brewing already,’ said Menon.

  ‘What? She's been chief minister for barely a few weeks,’ said Gangasagar.

  ‘There's a rebellion in the ranks. Our dear Ram Shankar Dwivedi is spearheading the effort. There have been secret meetings and parleys.’

  ‘Ask Ikrambhai to meet me. This situation needs his brand of assistance,’ said Gangasagar.

  Entire families crowded every available inch of space. A cow sat nonchalantly chewing cud in the centre of the railway platform, as a man, with wife, three children—including a newborn baby—mother-in-law and chickens in tow, attempted to create floor space for their luggage. Fli
es and mosquitoes buzzed around, excited by the abundance of garbage piled up on the tracks. Young boys employed by the prosperous tea stall-owner ran up and down the platform yelling, ‘Chai, garam chai!’ and serving hot, sugary, milky tea in little glasses. Other vendors—selling cheap plastic toys, newspapers, fruit, deep-fried samosas, toothbrushes, herbal remedies, and even baby clothes—harangued those waiting on the platform for the much awaited train. Eventually, the shrieking and puffing iron monster arrived, causing everyone to go into general hysteria as the passengers waged the inevitable battle to board.

  Ikrambhai's man was not waiting to board, though. He was awaiting the arrival of a very special lady who was to be whisked off to the Durbar Club.

  At the Durbar Club opposite the Lucknow railway station, the ambient temperature was almost ten degrees below. The smell of fresh jasmine flowers pervaded the air. The interior décor was of dark wood and deep-red velvet. In the centre of the room was a dance floor where, some fifteen young girls clad in extravagant lehengas gyrated to popular Bollywood songs. Around the perimeter sat lecherous men drinking whisky. Smitten patrons showered notes on girls who caught their fancy, drowning them in a cascade of crisp currency. The cash would be efficiently mopped up from the floor by the waiter on hand. Fifty per cent for the establishment, fifty per cent for the girl being fêted.

  Eesha was lost in her own world—shutting out the leers of the men inside the club—allowing herself to get immersed in the music. Her penchant for jewellery was evident in the glittering bangles, chains, earrings and nose ring that adorned her. Her make-up had been professionally applied but was not overdone. She was just twenty-one and oozing sex appeal. She had been dancing for the past three hours but wasn't tired. The spliff of cannabis had taken care of that. The train journey had been long but drugs had been on hand to remove the fatigue and boredom. Thank God she needed to be here only for this single assignment. The city was a dump!

  One of the men seated near where she was dancing had already sprayed her with cash and winked at her, indicating that he was ready to pay for some one-on-one action outside. She smiled at him, sizing him up. He was obviously loaded. She glanced over at the bar where Ikram's man was standing, sipping a Coke. He nodded at her. The prey had taken the bait.

  As they made their way to one of the seedy little rooms upstairs, Ram Shankar Dwivedi stared at her lustfully, like a dog with his tongue hanging out for a bone. Eesha would give him the bone he wanted, although, judging by the bulge in his trousers he seemed to have one of his own.

  The room was a small windowless twelve-by-twelve-foot number. Towards the centre of the main wall stood a queensize bed, draped in a floral bedspread that bore patches and stains that could not be attributed to the pattern alone. To one corner was a single chair that faced a mirror—an oddity in this crummy room. Mercifully, an air-conditioner installed in lieu of a window was working and the room was cool.

  ‘So shall I tell you what's on the menu?’ Eesha asked as she sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space next to her. He nodded mutely, intoxicated by her blandishments.

  ‘BBBJ, BDSM, Bareback, GFE, DT, HJ—’

  ‘I don't understand any of this—’ he began.

  ‘Hush. You don't need to. I'll show you everything,’ she said as she began to help him off with his clothes.

  The photographer arranged by Ikram's man stood in a dark room behind the two-way mirror on the other side of the bedroom wall. He had set his camera to manual mode and the shutter to thirty seconds. The photographer's finger was firmly frozen on the button of the camera, mounted on a tripod. The shutter kept clicking and whirring over and over again as Ram Shankar Dwivedi chose items from Eesha's extensive menu.

  ‘The road contract we handed over to Agrawalji's nominee—’ began Chandini.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘His nominee turned out to be Rungta & Somany, the conglomerate, you know, the one with whom we negotiated on the farmers’ land.’

  ‘Somany was also the one who supported us by sending that Bollywood bimbo—Anjali—to campaign for you,’ reminded Gangasagar.

  ‘Precisely,’ acknowledged Chandini, ‘but we now have a problem’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The R&S fortune is in dispute. The World Bank project was allotted to a private company belonging to the senior partner, Rungta.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The junior partner—Somany—is now claiming that it should have been allotted in the name of the parent company in which he holds an equal share.’

  ‘How does this concern us? I'm sure you floated an open tender following all the apparent norms of transparency and fairness, right?’ asked her devious mentor.

  ‘Obviously. But now Somany has threatened to go to court. If he does, the resulting attack on Rungta will drag the state government into this mess.’

  ‘We can't afford to antagonise either one of them. Let's schedule a meeting with Somany to talk some sense into him.’

  ‘You don't need to schedule a meeting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He's waiting outside to meet us.’

  ‘I have been cheated of what should have rightfully belonged to both partners fifty-fifty. How can you allow this injustice?’ asked Somany as he strode in dispensing with all formalities.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ said Gangasagar saracastically.

  ‘Madam, I beseech you. Remedy this mistake and I will not drag this issue to court,’ pleaded Somany of Chandini.

  ‘How can we get involved in a squabble between partners?’ asked Chandini.

  ‘You have no alternative. If this dispute goes to court, all the sordid details of how the contract was awarded are bound to spill into the public domain,’ said Somany.

  ‘Are you threatening the state government of Uttar Pradesh and its chief minister?’ asked Chandini angrily.

  ‘I am not, madam, but I shall be left with no option but to wash dirty linen in public if you do nothing,’ said Somany.

  ‘Then be prepared for the entire might of the state government to come down on you! You should not defaecate where you dine, Mr Somany!’ snapped Chandini, her voice rising.

  ‘Now, now, let us not argue with one another. We're all decent folk who are gathered here to arrive at a mutually amicable solution, right?’ asked Gangasagar, gesturing for Chandini to calm down. ‘Changing the topic completely, am I correct in believing that you have a personal stake in Majestic Munitions PLC, Mr Somany?’

  ‘H—how do you know that?’ asked the startled scion of a business house.

  ‘It's my job to know everything,’ said Gangasagar. ‘As I understand it, a large chunk of shares in Majestic Munitions PLC—a company quoted on the London Stock Exchange—was acquired by a Dubai-based investment bank in which—or so my sources tell me—you have a substantial stake.’

  ‘Let's say that you're hypothetically right, so what?’ asked the flustered businessman.

  ‘Talking hypothetically, how would you react if I told you that your hypothetical stake in this hypothetical investment bank that holds a hypothetical share in this hypothetical armaments company could be multiplied six times over in value?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Are we still talking hypothetically?’ sneered Gangasagar. ‘I am given to understand that a large order for semi-automatic rifles is to be released to Majestic Munitions but the file is held up in the prime minister's office. If this proposal were to be cleared, the value of your stake in Majestic would increase in value almost six times.’

  ‘But we've tried everything—’ began Somany.

  ‘Leave it to me. You shall only have to do six things to get your six-fold return.’

  ‘And what are these six things?’

  ‘The first thing you will do is allot two per cent of the shares to a charitable trust. It belongs to a simple sadhvi—a lovely lady.’ Whom I also need to reward for preventing President's Rule.

  ‘Done. What else?’

  ‘Secon
d. Sell the shares of Majestic and book your profit no sooner than the deal is awarded. I cannot guarantee what happens in the future.’

  ‘Fine. And?’

  ‘Third. There's a young boy from a very poor family. He's the son of the purohit of a Hindu shelter. You shall have him admitted to a medical college that you're a trustee of.’ A debt must always be repaid entirely.

  ‘Easily done. Fourth?’

  ‘Your friend in New Delhi—the defence minister who is lobbying for your Majestic Munitions deal—make him available to me as an ally when I need him in the future.’

  ‘I shall talk to him. Fifth?’

  ‘Majestic Munitions has a stake in Strategic Asia Research Defence—SARD—an American think-tank on Asian military matters. I may require a word put in.’

  ‘Fine. And finally?’

  ‘Drop the case against your partner—Rungta—so that we can all fucking get on with the fucking business of running this fucking government! And I'm not speaking hypothetically anymore!’

  ‘Thank you for handling Somany,’ said Chandini.

  ‘You're welcome. I'm happy that you followed my advice and yelled at him,’ said Gangasagar.

  ‘Why did you ask me to be so tough?’

  ‘If there's no bad cop, how's the good cop to get his work done?’ asked Gangasagar.

  The chief minister was on her way to inaugurate a primary school in Nutpurwa, a small village about a hundred kilometres from Lucknow. They were to have left Lucknow at 1 pm but meeting overruns had delayed them by a couple of hours. Shankar had suggested cancelling the visit but Chandini was determined to go even though the state government's helicopter was out of service. Meetings with businessmen and bureaucrats were urgent but not as important as meetings with humble villagers and children for whom a simple school meant the world.

  Winter had arrived and sunset kicked in early. She sat in the rear seat of her official Ambassador car wearing her trademark cream-coloured saree with an elegant beige pashmina shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Shankar sat next to her, helping her clear the backlog of files they carried with them. Ahead of their car were two motorbike-mounted pilot policemen and behind them was a police jeep carrying the chief minister's bodyguards. The road between Lucknow and Nutpurwa was bumpy and dusty and the convoy made progress in fits and starts.