‘So you want us to ally ourselves with Hindus and Muslims, Brahmins and Dalits, Yadavs and Thakurs, landlords and farmers, rich and poor, men and women, old and young… don't we run the risk of becoming a khichdi with no single dominant flavour?’ asked Chandini.
‘The other parties already have candidates who have represented these constituencies for years. You have the advantage of a clean slate. You can cherry-pick your own candidates, accurately tailored to the specific requirements of the constituency in question,’ said Major Bedi, ‘and that's where I come into the picture’.
‘What will you do?’ asked Chandini.
‘Have done,’ corrected Bedi. ‘I was assigned by Gangasagarji the job of determining the ideal profile of a candidate for each of the eighty-five Uttar Pradesh constituencies a year ago. I am here to apprise you of my findings.’
‘You have eighty-five constituencies—Kheri, Dhaurahra, Bijnor, Amroha, Moradabad, Rampur, Sambhal, Budaun—’
He continued rattling off all the names methodically from his list. Along with each name he described its population, the literacy rate, age demographics, gender split, percentage composition of castes, religions and ethnicities, and the primary occupations of the population. Facts and figures poured forth effortlessly from Major Bedi. He was the human equivalent of a computer.
As he reached the last constituency he said, ‘In Uttar Pradesh the electoral contest is still about settling the primary questions of social dominance. I have analysed each of the eighty-five constituencies on this parameter.’
‘Social dominance? You mean caste!’ exclaimed Ikram.
‘Not merely caste. Social dominance is influenced by caste, gender, religion, age and economic strength. Please understand that there is no single constituency where a single dominant group can win an election! For example, in western Uttar Pradesh—Meerut—you have a concentration of Jats, the region often being called Jatland. How many Jats are there in Meerut? Ten per cent! Can you win an election with ten per cent?’ asked Bedi.
‘So how does one win, for example, Meerut?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Look beyond the caste equations, Gangasagarji,’ suggested Bedi. ‘Meerut has a population of half a million. The city is sixty-two per cent Hindu, thirty-five per cent Muslim, three per cent Sikh, half per cent Christian and half per cent Jain; fifty-three per cent of the population is male, and the average literacy rate is seventy-two per cent, quite high for Uttar Pradesh.’
‘So our ideal candidate is an educated Hindu male?’ asked Chandini.
‘On the contrary, Hindus tend not to vote en bloc. Their votes get split along caste lines or on other considerations. Instead, if one was to try to forge an alliance of Jats and Muslims one could, theoretically, capture forty-five per cent of the votes,’ answered Bedi.
‘But why would Jats and Muslims vote for the same candidate?’ asked Chandini.
‘Good question. You assume that these two groups have been opposed to one another historically and hence correctly figure that the possibility of finding someone who appeals to both groups is remote. But I have succeeded in identifying potential candidates from the Chhachhar community,’ said Major Bedi proudly.
‘Why Chhachhar?’ asked a confused Menon.
‘Chhachars are a tribe of Jats who converted to Islam many years ago. Their descendants are Muslim Jats. A Muslim Jat is your perfect combination to win this constituency,’ declared the dapper sardar.
‘What would further strengthen his chances of winning?’ asked Gangasagar quietly.
‘Meerut is an important industrial town. It has eleven sugar-processing mills and more than seventy per cent of the population is engaged in sugarcane cultivation. If our Chhachhar candidate were to be a sugarcane farmer, he would be much more acceptable—even to other castes and communities—because of economic considerations.’
‘But you said that by doing all of this we would have forty-five per cent of the votes. That would still leave fifty-five per cent!’ said Menon.
‘The fifty-five per cent is only dangerous if it is left concentrated in the hands of a single opposition candidate. That brings me to the next part of my strategy,’ said Bedi, flipping through his notes.
‘And what is that?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘The second part of the strategy is to ensure that the remaining fifty-five per cent votes get split.’
‘And how would you achieve this?’ asked Ikram.
‘Simple. Map the profile of the existing sitting MP and find a replica to put up as an additional independent candidate in each contest. The job of this candidate is simply to play spoiler and split the competition's vote bank.’
‘So we need to find ourselves a Muslim Jat sugarcane farmer? We then need to find ourselves a spoiler who closely matches the profile of the present MP from Meerut constituency?’ spluttered Ikram.
‘I have already found the former for you. His name is Daula Hassan Bhatti. He's fifty-three years old, a Muslim Jat—his family migrated to Meerut three generations ago—and owns a five-acre sugarcane farm along with a crushing facility. He's a natural choice,’ explained Bedi.
‘But—but are we expected to go around begging such people to contest elections on our ticket? We already have party workers queuing up for Lok Sabha tickets, why not make it easier by choosing from amongst them?’ asked Ikram.
‘Do you want to win or not? Never make the mistake of choosing from a suboptimal pool. Identify the perfect candidate according to the constituency. Now, shall I tell you about the remaining eighty-four ideal candidates from the other constituencies?’ asked Bedi, as Gangasagar sat quietly through the exchange, smiling.
‘The traders of Uttar Pradesh are going on strike,’ said Chandini.
‘Why?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘They say that the sales-tax rate in Uttar Pradesh is too high. They want it reduced.’
‘You don't simply go around giving away tax revenue because someone wants it! Do you give whisky to an alcoholic because he just happens to want it?’
‘I agree. But what should I do? The strike will bring all economic activity to a halt. Prices of essential commodities will skyrocket. Our constituents will be angry.’
‘Hike sales tax by another five per cent!’
‘We can't do that! They're already in a combative mood—’
‘They have already taken the ultimate step of going on strike, right? What more can they do?’
‘And how will we ever get them to call it off?’
‘Give them a three-per-cent cut as concession to halt the strike. You still gain two,’ the Pandit chuckled.
‘The bus drivers of the state transport corporation continue to drive rashly under the influence of alcohol— this has been the fourth road accident in a fortnight,’ complained Chandini, pointing out the newspaper report to Gangasagar.
‘Why don't we sack the drivers if they are found guilty?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘They have to be convicted first. The court cases drag on for years.’
‘There's a perfect solution to solve the problem.’
‘And that is?’
‘Pay drivers’ salaries directly to their wives. They'll never part with a penny for tipple! Tell the transport commissioner to ensure that all salary payments are made out to the wives. You'll halve the drunk-driving rate!’
‘Loan defaults plague our regional banks,’ said Chandini as she pushed across the financial statements compiled by the state comptroller.
‘Who are the defaulters?’
‘Farmers, businessmen, traders, home-owners, as well as people who run up hefty bills on their credit cards. If we don't recover these amounts, Uttar Pradesh's banks may collapse one day.’
‘Leave the farmers. Scant rains have resulted in poor harvests this year. Give them more time to pay up and write off the interest on their loans.’
‘And the others?’
‘They should have no difficulty paying. They are simply taking advantage of the sloppy debt-rec
overy mechanism of our state-owned banks.’
‘But the only action that we can take is to go to court. That's expensive and time-consuming. It could be years before one sees results.’
‘Tell Sachla Devi to recover your loans.’
‘Who?’
‘Sachla Devi. She's a famous eunuch in Lucknow. I can ask her to help you.’
‘Why on earth should I take help from a eunuch?’
‘Because she has bands of wandering eunuchs who do absolutely nothing productive all day, besides standing outside homes and shops and clapping and shouting loudly.’
‘They only do that on happy occasions—marriages, births, inaugurations. Donating to eunuchs is supposed to bring good luck!’
‘But people don't cough up cash to eunuchs because they want good luck. They simply want good riddance.’
‘So?’
‘Sachla Devi will organise her gangs to stand outside defaulters’ homes and offices. They will clap loudly and embarrass them before their friends and neighbours. They'll get fed up and pay up. Tell Sachla Devi that she will get ten per cent of the loans recovered by her team!’
The cabinet meeting was excessively long, the tea lukewarm, the snacks insipid. The agenda was fiery, though. The cabinet room located inside the PMO—the Prime Minister's Office—at South Block, Raisina Hill, was an ornate room in which cut flowers were changed each day and sniffer dogs were led into corners to check for explosives every few hours. The PMO had an uncomplicated occupancy plan with six joint secretaries housed on the ground floor and the prime minister and his key lieutenants on the first. The only noticeable feature of the PMO was the presence of a paper-shredder in almost every room. This prime minister was obsessive about secrecy, and rightly so. They were sitting for a marathon Cabinet session simply because some nitwit had forgotten to use the damned shredder.
The offending paragraph was read and reread several times. ‘Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution guarantee every Indian citizen freedom as well as equality before the laws of the land. Reservation for those who had been left behind by Indian society was indeed part of the Constitution when it was framed and adopted in 1950. Those who framed the Constitution themselves believed that it was a temporary measure and would last for ten years. But several decades later we still find reservation in place. Doesn't this tell us that India has made very little progress in bringing the scheduled castes, scheduled tribes and other backward classes into the mainstream of India? Is it time to take another look at the policy and decide whether it has actually worked?’
The prime minister never had any intention of reviewing the policy on reservation. It was a powder keg that would explode irrespective of which way one went. If one came down in favour of ending reservation, the streets would be filled with protestors—those who were the beneficiaries of the reservation policy. If one expressed a view that reservation should be continued, the streets would also be filled with protestors—this time with those whom the policy had discriminated against. It was a no-win situation. This prime minister's policy was not to have a policy on the matter.
The infernal document had been drafted by his policy advisors who had believed that the prime minister might be forced by the Opposition to make a statement on the issue in the Lok Sabha. They wanted to be prepared. But why hadn't they used the damn shredder thereafter? The offending paragraph had travelled from South Block, to North Block, and further to the editorial offices of the Hindustan Times. The next morning the prime minister was fried for the country's breakfast.
‘The press is asking for our views on the story,’ said the cabinet secretary.
‘Of course they are. I send them stories about foundation stones laid for new hospitals—they don't care. I send them material on the new education reform policy— they don't care. I send them photographs of our foreign delegations that are ushering in a new era of peace and stability—they don't care. But they get one paragraph from that infernal memo that should never have been written up in the first place and they come flocking like vultures smelling blood!’ retorted the premier angrily.
‘Er… ahem… ’ began the finance minister.
‘Yes, what is it? Say what you want, let's not have you clearing your throat in perpetuity,’ demanded the irritated PM.
‘Er… ah! Yes. I do believe that the only way that we can limit the damage is by giving them an even bigger story—one that would simply overshadow this one,’ said the greying finance minister.
‘And what would that be?’ asked the prime minister.
‘A war with Pakistan perhaps?’ interjected the external afffairs minister.
‘You want me to declare war on Pakistan so we can kill a newspaper story? Has everyone lost their minds?’ shouted the prime minister.
After an interminable pause, the home minister spoke up. ‘We do not have to declare war. Simply convey the impression that there are skirmishes along the IndoPakistan border. The press will lap it up.’
‘It takes two to tango,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘What gives you gentlemen the impression that Pakistan will go along with it?’
‘Pakistan will always go along with it. Their own internal politics is a mess. It will be a welcome relief for them to get back to doing what they do best, whipping up war hysteria and dishing it out to unsuspecting suckers—the ordinary citizens of Pakistan,’ said the minister for external affairs.
‘Couldn't we be hauled up later by the press for dishing out precisely the same sort of drivel to our citizens?’ asked the prime minister.
‘A little inaccuracy sometimes saves a ton of explanation, sir,’ said the cabinet secretary. The finance minister, the home minister and the minister for external affairs nodded their heads sagely. The defence minister was conspicuously silent.
‘If a war-like situation persists, public sentiment will be with the government of the day. It always happens. People who would love to pull down the government's pants suddenly become patriotic!’ said Agrawalji to Gangasagar as they sat in his garden eating lunch. Chandini and Ikram were the only other invitees.
‘He's covering his ass! Nothing more,’ exclaimed Ikram, stuffing a gobi paratha into his eagerly awaiting mouth.
‘A wise man covers his ass. An even wiser man leaves his pants on,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Huh?’
‘The reservations leak that we arranged from the Prime Minister's Office did its job. The prime minister has played into our hands by creating war hysteria. Every defence contract will now be under scrutiny—Majestic Munitions in particular.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Majestic Munitions was awarded a very large contract for rifles, and two per cent of the firm now belongs to the sadhvi as per our instructions to Somany. And the sadhvi is the prime minister's illegitimate daughter. A case of impropriety, wouldn't you say?’ asked Gangasagar, draining his glass of salted lassi.
‘But we would end up hurting Somany. He holds a stake in Majestic,’ argued Chandini. ‘He'll come back wanting his losses recouped.’
‘I'd asked him to sell the shares of Majestic no sooner the deal was inked. I'm given to understand that his block of shares was sold three days ago,’ said the Pandit, suppressing a little burp in appreciation of the wonderful food that was served at Agrawalji's house.
‘So how do we play this?’ asked Ikram, digging into the famous Agrawal rice pudding.
‘We get our weasel reporter back and offer him the opportunity to shake the Prime Minister's throne. After all, he has been sitting impatiently awaiting our nod to use the sadhvi material, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But no talk about her being an illegitimate daughter,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Why Ganga, I didn't realise that you had a soft spot for her,’ said Agrawalji in jest.
‘I don't. I believe that information is like money. Better to retain it like a bank balance than spend it unwisely,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Chandini, I think Lok Sabha elections may happen sooner than we expec
ted!’ Gangasagar laughed. The laugh tickled his throat and he coughed. He gulped some water and laughed again, uncontrollably. Agrawalji, Chandini and Ikram looked at him curiously. It was disconcerting to see the Pandit out of control.
‘What's the joke?’ asked Ikram.
‘The prime minister. I'm imagining him with no pants on!’
‘It's said that she visits you every day! Your side of the story, sir.’
‘No comment.’
‘They say you awarded defence contracts to Majestic because she was a shareholder. Is that true?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is it true that she has divine powers and that she used them to make you prime minister?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do both of you practise black magic together when you're alone?’
‘No comment.’
‘Does she attend cabinet meetings to influence decisions?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is she your mistress?’
‘No comment.’
The prime minister got into the waiting car and sighed. This was not turning out to be a good day.
‘The prime minister will have no alternative but to resign. There shall be a power struggle for the top job with the finance minister, home minister and the minister for external affairs battling it out for the position,’ said Gangasagar.
‘And who shall win?’ asked Chandini.
‘None. When lions fight over a goat, it's usually the hyena that gets away with the prize.’
‘And who's the hyena?’
‘The defence minister.’
‘But he's a fool!’ sputtered Chandini.
‘I don't care. All that I want is for him to finalise his party's candidate list for Uttar Pradesh.’
‘And whom do you want on that list?’
‘All his existing MPs.’
‘Why?’
‘Politicians are like diapers—they need to be changed frequently! Anti-incumbency will work beautifully against them.’