Chankya's Chant (14 page)

She walked towards her shanty, satchel slung over her shoulder. Her pocket money for the day had been spent on a bag of spiced peanuts—tangy lemon-and-red chilli-flavoured peanuts were her favourite snack. As the teenage girl hummed a tune from the latest Bollywood flick that her father had splurged on the previous week, she thought about flying away to a new world—one in which there was no poverty, disease, decay, and squalor. Chandini did not notice the inebriated goon who had been following her.

She was a few minutes away from home and took a right turn that led her into a windowless alley between two tenements. She was nearing the bend of the isolated stretch when he reached out and grabbed her by her shoulders from behind. She spun around and faced him, the peanuts falling to the ground, scattering around her.

He lunged forward in an attempt to grab her breasts. His stinking breath repelled her and she screamed, but something prevented her voice from carrying. It was his hand. He had managed to spin her around, clamp down a hand on her mouth from behind, leaving his other hand free to molest her. He pressed his hardness into her from behind and she struggled, desperate to free herself from his lecherous clutch.

She opened her mouth and bit down hard, capturing some of the flesh of his fingers. He screamed in anguish and instinctively let go of her. She swung around, looked him in the eyes, smiled at him, took aim and kicked him right between his legs. He doubled over in agony, holding his balls, muttering curses at her.

Chandini smiled. The weak little girl had vanished for that solitary moment. She said, ‘The next time you try to touch me, I shall be so powerful, I shall simply order your castration.’

She then ran home sobbing.

‘I want her,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I need her badly.’

‘But Gangasagarji, little Chandini is already sixteen. I must now get her married. How can I leave her with you?’ asked Gupta.

‘Haven’t I delivered on all the promises I made?’ asked Gangasagar, pointing to the new school and hospital in the distance. ‘Moreover, she will become immensely powerful one day. You shall be proud of her. I promise!’

‘What work will she do within the party?’

‘At this moment I want her to complete her education abroad. When she returns she’ll be an ordinary party worker. She’ll visit constituencies where natural calamities—floods, famine, drought or earthquakes— have displaced populations. She will work along with the party workers to endear herself to them. She must build a political and social platform she can stand on.’

‘What else do you want from me, Gangasagarji?’

‘I need you to allow her to be adopted.’

‘Are you out of your mind, Gangasagarji? She has living parents and you want her to find new ones? What’s wrong with the ones that she has?’ shouted Gupta, paanstreaked spittle spewing from his mouth.

‘I want Ikrambhai to adopt her.’

‘You
are
mad! Allow my darling daughter to be adopted by a Muslim? No! A thousand times no!’

‘She shall be adopted in name only. She shall continue to be your daughter.’

‘But why this outrageous plan?’

‘If Ikrambhai adopts her, I shall achieve three significant things. Firstly, the cost of her education abroad shall be borne by Ikrambhai. Second, Ikram will see her as a daughter and natural political successor. And third, it will give her universal acceptability in India—a Hindu girl with Muslim parents. Wonderful political combination,’ he mused.

‘But if he adopts her, then she will cease to be my daughter!’ wailed Gupta.

‘
Shariat
—Muslim Personal Law—does not recognise adoption.’

‘So how would he adopt her if his own law does not validate it?’

‘He must prove in civil court that the adoption is a custom allowed by his specific regional community.’

‘And is it allowed?’

‘No. Adoption is prevalent amongst many classes of Muslims in Punjab, Sindh, Kashmir, Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh. But it isn’t common among Muslims of Uttar Pradesh. Ikram won’t be able to prove anything in court.’

‘I don’t get it. You want him to adopt her so that his own religious law as well as the civil court can overrule the adoption?’

‘Absolutely. The adoption cannot be legalised, so she stays your daughter. But the sentiment is there and politics is all about sentiment and symbolism. She will symbolically represent a union of two great faiths— Hinduism and Islam.’

‘Why would Ikrambhai adopt her in the first place?’

‘Because she would get him Hindu votes just as he gets her Muslim ones! It shall be a symbiotic relationship.’

‘No, no, and no. A thousand times—no! I refuse to be adopted by Ikrambhai.’

‘Chandini. Listen to—’

‘No. Uncle Ganga, I know he’s your political ally, but I have a decent father and a caring mother. I will not be adopted by Ikrambhai.’

‘I am not asking you to renounce your parents. Your parents will remain your parents. No one can ever change that. I am simply building up your political resumè, my girl—’

‘But how can I give up my parents? It’s too high a price to pay!’

‘You were lucky that you did not get raped, Chandini,’ said Gangasagar quietly.

‘Luck had nothing to do with it.’

‘But what if it had been someone else? Do you know that a woman gets raped every half an hour in India?’

‘No. I never—’

‘Do you know that a woman gets killed every two hours—usually for not bringing in a large enough dowry?’

‘Yes—I mean—no—I don’t know—’

‘Do you want to be one of those statistics, Chandini?’

‘No, Uncle Ganga.’

‘Don’t you want to rule the country? Be powerful? Never have to be at any man’s mercy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want to get away from this filth and poverty that surrounds you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want the very best international education that could propel your career? Make your life?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do what I say! Let Ikram adopt you!’

The girl nodded silently in acquiescence and Gangasagar smiled. He would need to ensure that Ikram’s goon, who had been given the assignment of following and terrorising the girl, kept his mouth shut.

‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah
,’ he muttered softly to himself.

T
he smell of human excrement was overpowering. The harsh stone floor was slick with a thick slime of blood, sweat, urine and faecal matter. The fetid bowels of Dhanananda’s prison complex heralded the arrival of the new visitor with the bloodcurdling screams of tortured inmates. The dim light provided by a few flaming torches revealed little of the roughly-hewn rock walls with an assortment of chains and restraints bolted to them.

As the gate to the filthy cell slammed shut, Chanakya felt something slither over his foot, probably a snake. He instinctively slammed down his other foot on the slippery creature and held his foot down until he felt the reptile lying motionless. He stood glued to the spot for quite some time, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. As his pupils dilated, he was able to discern a couple of rats fighting over a piece of flesh, quite possibly human.

‘One may wash one’s anus a hundred times and it will still be vile,’ thought Chanakya, ‘and Dhanananda may hand out a thousand endowments to Brahmins but he will still remain corrupt!’ Chanakya set about finding himself a corner that was least polluted and eventually sat himself down with his back against a damp wall. The cell did not have any windows. There was a complete absence of ventilation. He closed his eyes and began his
pranayama
—the yogic breathing exercises taught by the venerable sage Dandayan—to help him cope with the unhealthy conditions.

Unexpectedly he heard a click and saw a thin dancing sliver of light emerge through the gate. It was a dwarf holding an oil lamp in his hand. He quietly raised his finger to his lips, signalling to Chanakya for complete silence. With a quick jerk of his head he motioned Chanakya to get up and follow him.

The little man led him to an extremely constricted cavity along one of the walls. The midget did not seem to mind the narrow space as he efficiently tied a rope firmly around Chanakya’s waist. Chanakya did not know where the other end of the rope was located. Suddenly he felt a tug and found himself being lifted off his feet. He was in some sort of chute that was extremely tight and claustrophobic. During the upward ascent, Chanakya’s face, thighs and hands grazed the duct surfaces and either burned from friction or bled from gashes. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt cool air and heard the sound of running water. He was back along the banks of the Ganges.

He was startled to see an entire band of dwarves pulling the rope that held him. Their leader stepped forward and explained. ‘Do not be alarmed, acharya. Katyayanji asked us to help. He needed us gnomes to access the ancient escape duct leading from the prison. As you’ve observed, the passage is very narrow—and that’s after we’ve widened it for you.’

‘I am grateful to you and to Katyayanji, but who are you? What is it that you do for a living?’ asked Chanakya, intuitively inquisitive even in distress.

‘Dwarves have always had a very important function in Magadha, acharya. We’ve usually been guarders of the royal
kosh
—the treasury. As you know, most royal treasuries are established in concealed spots and have secret corridors not accessible to thieves and bandits. We small people are ideal guards.’

‘But you’re servants of the king. Why would you help me?’

‘Our greater wish was to help our beloved former prime minister, Shaktarji, who created the royal kosh in the first place, and the system of dwarves guarding it. He has remained a prisoner here for many years. We have quietly and determinedly been working on extending this passage for several months now and were able to get him out just moments before you. Getting you out was our next move. Katyayanji and Senapati Maurya assembled us for this mission.’

‘Senapati Maurya—the commander-in-chief of Magadha’s army? He’s working against Dhanananda?’

‘It’s better that he tells you himself, sir.’