A livid Rungta glared at Somany. ‘I'd told you to keep your pants zipped up—that it was essential to play safe,’ he shouted.
‘I agree. You see, one must always be safety-conscious,’ said Gangasagar, nodding his head. ‘It seems over eighty per cent of the people in this world are the result of accidents.’
‘The deal negotiated by us to give ten per cent of revenues to Agrawalji must be terminated,’ said the grumpy Rungta, realising the wind had been taken out of his sails.
‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Let's stop the ten-per-cent payment.’
‘That—that's wonderfully reasonable of you, Gangasagarji,’ said Somany.
‘Now, the ten per cent that I've saved you may please be given to the workers. Please ensure that the credit for the whopping increase is attributed to the ABNKU, the union that controls over seventy-five per cent of your workers,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But that's preposterous! No one shares ten per cent of their revenue with workers!’ exclaimed Rungta, loosening his collar to allow his body heat to escape.
‘Maybe both of you would prefer that Anjali meet the workers instead. I could invite her to the next ABNKU weekly meeting?’
The former finance minister was running late. A lecture engagement had overrun. His secretary assured Gangasagar that he would be back within ten minutes. ‘I'll wait,’ said Gangasagar, seating himself on the comfortable armchair in the study.
A few minutes later the former minister walked in. He cautiously greeted Gangasagar. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Gangasagarji?’ he asked caustically.
‘I just wanted to keep you informed that your friends are now also my friends. I have put aside my differences with Rungta & Somany,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Just because they have become your friends, doesn't make you one of mine,’ said the ex-minister angrily. ‘You destroyed my reputation and my career. I shall now ensure that your star student—Chandini Gupta—shall not survive even a day as prime minister—if she gets that far,’ said the former Cabinet member.
‘I understand completely,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Shall I call the press conference or will you?’ he asked as he slid over a copy of the memo that the CBDT chairman had provided him as an insurance policy.
Hon'ble Finance Minister. Investigations into the activities of R&S have revealed several instances of financial irregularity. Various items on the expense side seem to have been inflated, specifically with the intention of reducing their taxable income. In addition, it seems that private partnerships have been created with a view to parking of profits. Various items on the income side have been deferred, seemingly with a view to deprive the tax authorities of revenue. Certain transactions—particularly sale and purchase of assets—have been carried out at questionable valuations, thus further reducing their tax liability, at least on paper. Given the circumstances, I seek your advice on how the above matter should be handled. Thanking you. Chairman, Central Board of Direct Taxes.
The memo was followed by the finance minister's handwritten reply.
We need to be sympathetic and gentle in our dealings with them. Without their support no government can hope to remain in power. Suggest that adequate flexibility be shown. Regards. Finance Minister.
The purohit of the Hindu shelter was happy to receive an honoured guest. Gangasagar sat down on the mattress offered to him and asked, ‘How's your son's education getting along? Did the admission to the medical school help?’
The purohit smiled. He was perfectly bald, his face was wrinkled like a prune and his mouth bore no teeth. His toothless smile said it all. ‘Yes, Gangasagarji. He shall soon graduate, thanks to your generosity.’
‘Do you have the papers? The ones that you didn't give to that ghastly reporter who was tracking the story?’ asked Gangasagar.
The old man handed over a bundle of yellowed postcards and letters. They were mostly love notes— between a pregnant mother and an absentee father. The evidence was clinching.
‘Thank you,’ said Gangasagar.
The priest grinned a toothless grin.
The former premier and his illegitimate daughter were in Simla. The weather was cold and a wonderful scent of pine was in the air. Gangasagar had made the journey with some difficulty, but he figured that the cold mountain air would do him some good.
The hosts were surprised to receive their guest but were cordial nonetheless. As the servant brought hot apple cider and paneer pakoras, Gangasagar handed over the bundle of papers to them. ‘These belong to both of you. No one has any right to be prying into the personal lives of a family,’ he said.
The former statesman looked at the papers and a faint smile appeared on his lips. He recalled how much in love he'd been with the sadhvi's mother. She was an incredible woman—intelligent and beautiful—like their daughter.
‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, but why are you doing this? You have just lost your leverage on me,’ said the former prime minister as the sadhvi appeared to meditate in silence.
‘I didn't need all of them. I've just kept a few. I've placed them in a safe-deposit vault and the key has been left as per my will to you. You shall receive it once my will is probated,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But why?’ asked the sadhvi, opening her eyes. ‘Getting a will probated in India can take a few years. Even if I die tomorrow, it still gives Chandini enough time to consolidate her position as prime minister.’
The caretaker prime minister's house wore a festive look. Despite having lost the elections, his party had inked an alliance with Chandini. Their MPs would support Chandini's bid for prime minister but would want some Cabinet berths in return. Gangasagar looked depressed. The caretaker prime minister was not fooled by it. He knew that depression was merely anger without the energy.
‘I know that you have signed a deal with Chandini,’ said Gangasagar, ‘and it is my hope that you will not pull down her government prematurely’.
‘Why should that concern you?’ asked the caretaker PM. ‘I'm told you and your protégé are no longer on speaking terms.’
‘Ah. Yes. We do fight occasionally, but only to mislead others,’ said Gangasagar, ‘and it worked. You would never have extended support to her if we had not fought.’ Gangasagar continued observing the face of the caretaker PM as it turned red with rage.
‘I shall now show both you and your puppet what I am capable of,’ thundered the caretaker premier. ‘I have enough explosive material to blow you and your protégé sky-high! A trust fund was established by you in the Channel Islands to meet the education and living expenses of the bastard boy. I have enough documentary proof to back it up. I'm going to use it to withdraw support no sooner than she becomes prime minister. She'll go down in history as the shortest-serving prime minister ever!’
‘It's unfortunate that you choose to behave like that,’ said Gangasagar, almost like a mother admonishing her child.
‘I want her to step aside. She cannot take the oath of office. This country does not need a slut at the helm of affairs!’ shouted the premier.
‘I would suggest that you reconsider your position very carefully, prime minister,’ said Gangasagar softly.
‘Why should I?’ shouted the prime minister.
‘Because I have with me the papers of an account in Liechtenstein. It received payments from North Korea and Libya for designs of sensitive nuclear technology— gas centrifuges—I'm told. The odd thing is that the beneficiary of the account is you. So I would be rather careful about withdrawing support for the entire term of this new administration.’
The ambulance wailed as it sped through the dusty streets of Kanpur. In the back, a medic placed an oxygen mask on Gangasagar's face and administered an IV of sodium chloride. The old Pandit had fallen down after getting up from his morning prayers and Menon had phoned for the ambulance in panic. The doctor from the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in New Delhi had suggested that Gangasagarji be flown down to Delhi but the old man was adamant. He was stay
ing firmly put at home— Kanpur.
Menon sat beside the Pandit who was struggling to take in air through the mask and held his hand tenderly. There were tears in his eyes. Gangasagar was everything in Menon's world. Despite his critical state, the old Pandit observed Menon's anguish and began to say something. ‘Primal—’ he began, but the effort involved in the simple act of breathing prevented him from talking further.
A few hours later, the old man was settled in his room in the hospital and regained a little strength. Menon and Agrawalji sat by his side while Gangasagar continued to recite his prayers.
‘Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.’
The next morning, he lay propped up in bed and asked Menon, ‘I hope you didn't tell her?’
‘I didn't,’ lied Menon. He had phoned Chandini the moment they had arrived in the hospital.
‘I need to meet our friend at the Intelligence Bureau,’ whispered Gangasagar hoarsely, to Menon. He knew that the doctor had banned visitors to Gangasagar—even the slightest exertion was not recommended in his condition. Agrawalji reminded Gangasagar gently of the doctor's orders.
‘He can't kill my ills with pills and instead chooses to kill me with his bills! Screw doctor's orders. Find me the IB director.’
Hameeda walked in to the filthy room and sat down at the man's desk without waiting for an invitation to do so. The room's walls were of exposed brick and concrete. Above the desk, a naked bulb hung eerily. The room had a vaguely musty smell—stale smoke from the man's cheroots. He took one look at her and turned his head away in disgust.
‘Why have you come here, chhakka?’ he asked using the derogatory term for transsexuals.
‘Certainly not to make love to you, sweetie,’ said Hameeda, falling into the usual eunuch banter effortlessly. ‘I've not come to beg. I'm here to buy.’
‘What do you wish to buy, chhakka?’ he asked.
‘A gun,’ said Hameeda.
‘Sorry, I don't sell guns to guys without dicks. A gun is a very male thing, y'know. No shemales.’
‘Listen, ratface, I am willing to pay you fair price for a Stinger .22 Magnum pen gun. If you don't sell it to me I'll get Sachla Devi to come in here and wave her crotch at you everyday. Perhaps you'd prefer that!’
The man grunted. Why did he get all the weirdos of the world as customers? He needed a change of occupation, he thought to himself as he started searching his boxes for the gun the eunuch wanted.
Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he had observed to the director.
Hameeda's next stop was a little less seedy. It was a contraband dealer's store. The owner sighed as Hameeda walked in. ‘You want some money, take it,’ he said handing out a fifty-rupee note, ‘But please get the hell out of here. My customers will disappear.’
‘It's your lucky day,’ said Hameeda. ‘I'm here to pay you. I need a used Asahi Pentax 35mm SLR and am willing to pay a fair price.’
‘Why have you come to me, fifty-fifty?’ he asked, using the street slang for eunuchs, ‘There are other dealers who could get it for you.’
‘But no one has a sweeter expression, assface,’ said Hameeda caustically.
The owner sighed again. Why did he have to deal with the dregs of humanity? He began wistfully thinking of how good a snort of coke would feel as he sifted through the cartons, searching for the camera that the fifty-fifty wanted.
Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he had observed to the director.
Hameeda was bent over the little wooden table in her room. In front of her lay the used Pentax camera disassembled besides the Stinger .22 Magnum pen gun. She gutted the camera, gently lowering the Stinger in place of the camera's innards. She needed to ensure it was properly cocked via the camera's film-advance lever. It would shoot by pressing the shutter release button— breaking the glass lens elements in front.
Towards one corner of her table lay the pass she had stolen from the prime minister's private secretary. She could only hope that the bar code still worked and would get her into Rashtrapati Bhavan. If visitor's passes were allowed access to North Block, South Block and Rashtrapati Bhavan, it seemed unlikely that passes belonging to senior functionaries would not.
On one wall was a nail on which was suspended a coat hanger. The suit, shirt and tie provided by the private secretary had been laundered and pressed and was ready for use. Of what use is your dying to me, Gangasagar? thought Hameeda. It has taken away the opportunity for revenge. Alas, it shall now have to be your beloved Chandini.
The Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapati Bhavan—built to resemble a large jewel box—was actually a simple rectangle, thirty-two metres in length and twenty metres in width. The most striking feature of the hall was that it had a painted ceiling. The central painting—in Persian style— depicted a royal hunting expedition. Originally built as the state ballroom for the British Viceroy, Ashoka Hall also had a wooden dance floor. It was ironic that prime ministers and other ministers took their sacrosanct oath of office and secrecy in this particular hall. After all, prime ministers needed a killer instinct to reach the position first. The rest of their tenure was coloured by the great dance of Indian democracy—defections, rebellions, and general chaos.
The hall was packed to capacity as elected members of the government-in-waiting, as well as the key members of the Opposition, gathered for the historic ceremony symbolising peaceful transfer of power from one civilian government to another. Chandini walked in, dressed in her usual off-white cotton saree, trimmed with a pale gold border, with no jewellery except for a pair of simple solitaire diamond earrings. The assembled crowd instantly gave her a standing ovation. She was the victor arriving to claim the spoils of war. Chandini gratefully acknowledged the ovation and then sat in the front row along with the chief minister of Bihar. The two had proved to be a deadly and unbeatable combination. Together they had swept the Lok Sabha polls in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, the two largest states of India. The remaining seats required for a working majority had been helpfully provided by the caretaker PM under the assumption Chandini and Gangasagar were foes.
The bugles sounded and the presidential guard marched in, escorting the president of India to the hall. The band started playing the Indian national anthem and the entire Indian political leadership stood in respect, ensuring that their faces were appropriately sombre for television cameras that loved close-ups. Almost a third of the hall had been cordoned off for the press corps. Among them was an effeminate young man with a Pentax camera that never seemed to flash.
Gangasagar watched the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The President was administering the oath of office to Chandini. She quite obviously had the text of the oath before her on a single sheet of paper but did not seem to need it. It was almost as if she had spent her entire life preparing for the occasion. In her crisp Oxford accent she was saying ‘I, Chandini Gupta, do swear in the name of God that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India as by law established, that I will uphold the sovereignty and integrity of India, that I will faithfully and conscientiously discharge my duties as prime minister and that I will do right to all manner of people in accordance with the Constitution and the law without fear or favour, affection or illwill.’
The godfather smiled. Without fear, favour, affection or ill will! Ridiculous! The old man continued mumbling his prayers, a laboured effort to get the words out. It said ‘Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.’
He saw his protégé—now sworn in as the eighteenth prime minister of India—fold her hands together in a humble gesture of acknowledgement to the television cameras and then stumble backwards. The red stain that spread on her left shoulder—almost in slow motion— had been fired from a
Stinger .22 Magnum. The tiny case of the .22 and the subsonic velocities made it wellsuited for use with a Ruger 10/22 silencer. It was reliable, deadly, and almost completely silent.
The ornate Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapathi Bhavan exploded into pandemonium as shots were fired and hundreds of India's political leadership ducked for cover. A few minutes later, the director of the Intelligence Bureau had the lifeless body of Hameeda removed as paramedics rushed to the bloody and comatose body of Chandini that lay on the wooden dance floor of Ashoka Hall.
The dance had started.
Pandit Gangasagar Mishra, watching the scene unfold on television, told Agrawalji, ‘I need you to ensure that the note that I've written is sent to the lawyer in Guernsey. That's my final instruction to you, my friend.’
Agrawalji and Menon remained standing by his bed. Gangasagar closed his eyes in prayer, and didn't bother opening them again.
Epilogue
She was clad in her trademark off-white saree. A few exceptions to her usual attire had been made, though. She wore silk instead of cotton, because of the autumn chill. She wore a Burberry's coat over her saree and had replaced her usual summer slippers with stockings and Jimmy Choo shoes. Her face bore no trace of age, but her eyes conveyed another story. They were beautiful emerald-green eyes that had seen too much. There were moments when her eyes wished they could stop observing the dark side of human nature and simply enjoy the beauty of life, like this walk in Hyde Park.
By her side, was a young man of twenty-one. He wore a blue Savile Row suit with a green striped Oxford tie. His green eyes matched his attire perfectly. His wavy hair was neatly groomed, save for the strands that hung over his forehead. He walked by her side, holding her hand in his.