She then signalled to the cash-for-votes-stung premier. With each chant by the sadhvi of ‘Om lingalingalinalinga, kilikili…’ the caretaker prime minister would pick up a nail from the pile next to him and thrust it into the torso of the headless dough idol. The sadhvi laughed and the three men smiled in satisfaction. The black magic curse was final. That machinator, Gangasagar, was to learn a lesson.
The meeting was held in the seclusion of the sadhvi's cottage. The reporter could not believe he was sitting with the man whose reputation he had helped destroy. The sadhvi-tainted ex-prime minister offered him a cup of tea and then settled into his own armchair. ‘I requested you here to tell you that I have nothing against you. You were simply doing your job. The fourth estate must remain independent and fearless if democracy is to flourish in India,’ said the seasoned politician. The reporter shrugged his shoulders but kept quiet.
‘I'm given to understand that before you were offered the juicy tidbit about the sadhvi—the blessed mother— being my illegitimate daughter, you were out sniffing another story. A story about Chandini,’ said the former statesman, smiling at the reporter.
‘What if I was?’ asked the reporter, trying his best to appear uninterested even though his ears had perked up.
‘What if I told you that a trust fund was established by Gangasagar in Guernsey—in the Channel Islands— in order to meet the education and living expenses of a mother and her son in Grasmere in the Lake District?’
‘So? The old man's not a brahmacharya after all. Big deal if he banged up a woman—so did you!’ said the reporter winking at the previous premier.
‘You've not understood the story, my friend. Gangasagar has nothing to do with the mother or child. That child belongs to Chandini—the beloved primeministerial candidate of the masses of India!’
‘And how did you get this information?’ asked the reporter, knowing full well that if someone else were to have asked him that question he would have said he was not at liberty to reveal his sources.
‘The former finance minister obtained the information for me from the director of the Guernsey Financial Services Commission. A special favour,’ explained the wrinkled and forgotten prime minister.
‘My sources have indicated that a child was born to Chandini but that it was stillborn,’ said the reporter, carefully choosing his words. ‘She had tried to abort it earlier, but had a change of heart.’
‘Your sources are wrong,’ smiled the politician.
‘I shall need to verify the facts for myself.’
‘That's why I've arranged a ticket and foreign exchange. How quickly can you get going?’
‘There is a eunuch called Hameeda who lives near Tundey's Kebabs in Lucknow. I need to meet her,’ said the caretaker prime minister. The bedlam in Parliament had forced another round of general elections on India and the country was under President's Rule. His government was a lame duck.
‘I didn't realise the First Lady had given birth, I shall immediately—’ started his private secretary.
‘It isn't the fucking First Lady,’ snapped the premier, realising a tad too late that he had created a title of sorts for his wife. ‘I don't need blessings for a newborn. I need this particular eunuch. That's all—get it done!’
Hameeda had been asked to dress well for the occasion. She couldn't be taken inside the prime minister's bungalow looking like a eunuch. What would the security guards think? The prime minister's private secretary had arranged for a haircut and a business suit. ‘Will I be able to keep the clothes?’ asked Hameeda.
The private secretary had nodded. No one would want the clothes after they'd been used by her, anyway. The security detail at the gate issued Hameeda a visitor's pass. It was laminated and suspended from a blue neck cord. The private secretary handed it over to her. ‘It works for most of South Block, North Block and Rashtrapati Bhavan for the next sixty minutes. Return it to the guard on your way out,’ he said as Hameeda hung the barcoded pass around her neck.
As they walked into the office, the PM looked at Hameeda and asked slyly, ‘What would you do if I told you that there's an opportunity to get back at Gangasagar?’
‘I spend each waking moment plotting ways to kill him. I even see myself murdering him in my dreams. He didn't just have my balls chopped off, he castrated my life!’ spat out Hameeda.
‘There's a way you can destroy him, honey. Tell Chandini that Gangasagar arranged for Ikram to be bumped off during the hijack encounter.’
‘But that isn't true. Ikrambhai was killed by Rashid.’
‘But she'll believe you. You lost your family jewels trying to protect her!’
The meeting with Hameeda lasted less than twenty minutes. On her way out Hameeda stumbled and, much to the embarrassment of the hapless private secretary, fell on him with her arms around his neck. ‘Seems like we're destined for one another,’ she whispered lecherously into his ear. He shuddered.
As Hameeda left, she dropped her visitor's pass into the slot for used passes. She didn't need it anymore. She had the private secretary's instead. Training under Sachla Devi had its advantages.
The former finance minister was seated in a comfortable armchair, flanked by Rungta and Somany. ‘You sacrificed me to resurrect your deals. I can understand that. All's fair in business. But why did you agree to let ten per cent of your revenues go to Agrawalji? All you're doing is making them financially stronger,’ he urged.
‘I agree that we overpaid,’ said Rungta, ‘but now we're stuck. It's impossible to back out.’
‘There is one way,’ said the politician softly. ‘Drive a wedge between Gangasagar and Chandini. She's the one who now has a national stature. She could quite easily be the next prime minister. Make her hate Gangasagar and she'll happily go along with revoking any arrangements Gangasagar may have made.’
‘But how do we drive that wedge between them?’ asked Somany.
‘If the rumour mills are true, she had an affair with her secretary—a chap called Shankar. Gangasagar was so upset that he had him killed in a hit-and-run.’
‘How does one prove it?’ asked Somany.
‘When it comes to matters of the heart, it won't be your job to prove anything, my friends. It'll be for Gangasagar to disprove it.’
The caretaker prime minister called in his private secretary. ‘This election is going to be different,’ he said, sipping his iced tea.
‘How so, sir?’ asked his respectful private secretary, his confidant of many years.
‘Ikram's not around. Who's going to make sure that no dirty tricks are employed in Uttar Pradesh? Ikram's goons would man all the polling stations and would ensure that no ballot-stuffing could happen. Gangasagar has lost a valuable asset.’
‘So is that an opportunity?’ enquired the private secretary, smiling at his boss.
‘How much of Sentiosys do we now own?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Fifty-one per cent,’ replied Agrawalji, shaking his head. It had been one of the worst investments that he'd ever made.
‘Excellent,’ said Gangasagar, ‘we can now call the shots in management.’
‘I am unable to understand you most times, Ganga. You're so damned obstinate. Are you going to tell me why this company is so important to you?’
‘I'm told their CEO is just twenty-four. I like supporting youngsters,’ said Gangasagar, chuckling.
Gangasagar was busy catching up on the previous day's neglected newspapers. He folded the paper he was reading and dropped it on the floor in a pile of other discarded papers. Gangasagar, Chandini, Agrawalji, Menon and Major Bedi were having their session on strategy in Gangasagar's cubby-hole flat in Kanpur.
‘Have you considered moving out of this dump?’ Chandini had asked him after they had joined the government in New Delhi. ‘You're one of the most powerful men in the country and yet you persist with a life of penury.’
‘Never forget my lesson about the power of renunciation, dear girl,’ he had replied.
‘Isn't
this meant to be a meeting with Major Bedi on election strategy? We still need to finalise candidates for the upcoming Lok Sabha elections and you continue to read your newspapers,’ said Chandini irritably.
‘There are four of you to decide election strategy. I'd rather keep myself posted on what's going on in the country,’ replied Gangasagar.
‘But you never used to read the Economic Times and Financial Express. Why have you started getting interested in financial matters rather than political?’ asked Chandini.
‘It's all the bloody same! Political power hopes to control the economic resources of the country. Economic power hopes to control the politicians,’ he replied jovially. He resumed scanning the company reports, particularly those of Sentiosys.
‘So, if I may have your attention for a moment, our candidates for the eighty-five Uttar Pradesh seats will be a mix of incumbents and freshers—’ began Major Bedi.
Gangasagar looked up from his crumpled Financial Express and asked, ‘What was our share of the vote in the last elections?’
‘Thirty per cent,’ replied Major Bedi.
‘And yet we won seventy-six per cent of the seats. What does that tell you?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘That we won not because we had a high share of the vote but because the remaining votes were adequately divided,’ said Bedi, adjusting his turban and attempting to make himself comfortable in Gangasagar's untidy surroundings.
‘Don't worry about identifying strong candidates who can increase our vote-share. Vote-share is meaningless. Instead, concentrate on causing divisions and fractures in everyone else's share,’ said Gangasagar triumphantly.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ asked Chandini.
‘I'm working on it,’ said Gangasagar, absentmindedly looking at the Sentiosys financials in the newspaper lying before him.
‘Ikrambhai's missing this time around. There'll be no one to handle the polling booths if they're captured by the Opposition,’ said Menon to Gangasagar once all the others had left.
‘You know what makes a humble sandwich taste great?’ asked Gangasagar, ignoring the observation regarding Ikram's absence.
‘What?’ asked Menon.
‘Chips on the side,’ said Gangasagar.
‘EVM!’ said Gangasagar loudly.
‘Excuse me sir?’ said Menon.
‘Electronic Voting Machines. They're being used in these elections. No more paper ballots.’
‘Ah, yes. They're saying it's more efficient and accurate,’ said Menon.
‘Do you know what's at the heart of these EVMs, Menon?’
‘What?’
‘Chips,’ said Gangasagar. ‘The EVM is like a sandwich. It's of no use without the chips!’
‘Did you know that it's a complex algorithm that powers the chips inside these EVMs?’ asked Gangasagar.
Agrawalji stopped pouring the tea from his cup into his saucer. ‘No, I didn't,’ he said. ‘Any reason I should know this?’
‘Well, the EVMs are made by different companies but they all use the same central chip. It's the one that contains the software to make the machine register a vote and to tally the results.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Agrawalji, slurping his tea nosily from the saucer.
‘Ever learnt any Latin?’ asked Gangasagar suddenly.
‘No. I studied English, Hindi and Sanskrit. Never Latin.’
‘That explains it.’
‘What?’ ‘Why you didn't realise that the word vote in English translates to sentio in Latin. You now own the company that makes the chips—Sentiosys.’
‘But—but—that's cheating, Ganga. We can't rig these machines to give ourselves more votes,’ sputtered Agrawalji. There was seemingly no limit to Gangasagar's schemes.
‘I agree. If the machines were rigged to give us more votes, it would be cheating. But what if they were rigged to give others more votes?’ he asked innocently.
‘Are you a raving lunatic?’ asked Agrawalji, ‘You want to rig the machines so that they give more votes to others?’
‘Only to those who need them,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Just what are you going on about, Ganga?’ asked the exasperated Agrawalji.
‘Let's take the example of a hypothetical ABNS candidate fighting in a given constituency. Supposing our candidate has fifty-one per cent of the vote share, it's obvious that he's the winner. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘But what if he has fifty per cent—not fifty-one— instead? What determines whether he wins or loses?’
‘How the other fifty per cent is distributed?’
‘Correct. If the other fifty per cent is consolidated with one candidate, we have a tie. But if it's divided across two or more candidates, our candidate wins. Now, what happens if our candidate has only forty per cent of the vote-share?’
‘Well, his winning or losing depends on how the remaining sixty per cent is distributed.’
‘Correct. The remaining sixty per cent could be with one candidate, in which case our man loses. If the sixty per cent is divided across two candidates, our man still loses if the sixty per cent is divided fifty-ten, but if the sixty per cent is divided thirty-thirty our man wins.’
‘So what is it that you plan to do?’
‘The algorithm will determine dynamically what our candidate's vote-share is. It won't add fictitious votes to our tally but simply reallocate residual votes. I've always maintained that winning isn't only about increasing our strength but also about reducing the enemy's. And let me tell you, we're surrounded by our enemies—people who won't hesitate to use every dirty trick in the book!’
Harry Richardson was excited. The two hundred and fifty seats of the Eton College Concert Hall were packed to capacity. It had been his first ever solo performance and he had been accompanied by the Eton College Symphony Orchestra. The concert had been arranged after the violin virtuoso Itzhak Perlman had heard Harry perform while on a visit to Eton. He then wrote his observations to the school. ‘Let's begin with Harry Richardson. He's an extraordinary violinist with a virtuoso technique fused to a musical mind that won't take the slightest detail for granted. Harry seems to find answers where others often don't see questions...’
Tonight's performance had been of Chaconne in D minor from Partita No. 2 in D minor, Bach's most famous piece of experimental music. The Chaconne was considered the pinnacle of the solo violin repertoire in Bach's time because it covered almost every aspect of violin-playing. Harry had chosen one of the most difficult pieces ever played and executed it flawlessly. He could see his mother—Josephine—in the front row, enthusiastically applauding with the rest of the audience. They were giving him a standing ovation. She was so proud of her precious boy.
The endorsement by Perlman had also ensured that there were members of the press in the audience. Not just from Britain. Flashes lit up the room as photographs were snapped of the child prodigy. In the distance, Harry could even see an Indian reporter clicking away.
‘You killed Geoffrey!’ she screamed.
‘Chandini, listen to me—’ began Gangasagar.
‘You even had Shankar murdered!’ she wailed.
‘There were reasons—’ he started. ‘And what about Ikrambhai. Did you have him killed too?’
‘As God's my witness, I loved that rogue. I'm willing to accept all your accusations but not that!’ thundered Gangasagar.
‘Uncle Ganga. I always knew that you were a ruthless man—that you'd do anything and everything to achieve your ends—but I never thought of you as heartless. Today, my opinion's changed,’ she said, dabbing at her tears with the edge of her saree.
‘The election results have already come out. It's certain that you're going to be the next prime minister! Chandini, this is not the time to be losing focus. We still have miles to cover.’
‘There's no we—only you and I. And I think we both need to go our separate ways. If I ditch you I'll get the support of our caretaker prime minister who hates you anyway. He c
ontrols exactly the number of MPs that I need besides those of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.’
‘But he'll prop you up only to pull you down, Chandini. Don't make a pact with the devil,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Why not?’ she shouted. ‘I made one with you, didn't I?’
The microphone received the sound waves and vibrated the thin diaphragm, which produced an electrical signal. The electric signals were then beamed out by a transmitter to the receiver several houses away. In an air-conditioned room sat the caretaker prime minister. He laughed as he heard the conversation.
Chandini stormed out of Gangasagar's flat as Gangasagar shouted after her, ‘Chandini, come back, I did it for you—’ but he was unable to complete the sentence. His words were interrupted by a violent spasm of coughing. He ignored it until he noticed the red specks of blood on his kerchief.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
About 2300 years ago
The dacoits stood on a massive rock ledge and observed Dhanananda's entourage make its way across the woods. Their leader, a thug called Bibhatsaka, was famed to have killed over a thousand people. His dirty hair was wiry and unkempt. He was clean-shaven except for his moustache which was curled into circles on his cheeks. He wore a stained white dhoti, thick leather sandals and had a dark grey blanket thrown around him like a cloak. His skin was dark and leathery— the result of inadequate bathing over many years—and his teeth were stained with betel nut.
He spat out a thick pellet of phlegm as he watched his prey. His eyes, bloodshot from excessive drink, matched the dark red tilak that was prominent on his forehead. This particular tilak, however, had not been made using vermillion pigment. It was a blood mark from his latest victim. In his hand he held a cutlass, his lucky charm, not so lucky for the thousand throats it had slit open. In his other hand was a sword that had been gifted to him the previous night. It was worth it, thought Bibhatsaka. Each victim had not only yielded loot but had also provided sacrifice to the Goddess Kali. He had built a temple for her by the riverbank and always ensured that the blood of a fresh victim was offered to her each day. The spot where his temple stood was avoided by all and sundry. It was called Kali Ghat.