Chankya's Chant (24 page)

‘The lowly bastard had the balls to issue an arrest warrant for me,’ said Ikram angrily.

‘Ikram—Ikram—calm down! What happened?’ asked Gangasagar, feigning complete ignorance of the situation.

‘As you know, the police commissioner was booted out by the state home minister. With his departure, I was no longer a VIP. They started investigating me and my businesses, even though I’m the mayor of this goddamn town!’

‘But what’s the problem with that? You’ve dealt with enough investigations, I imagine. All investigators have their price,’ suggested Gangasagar.

‘But this time it’s different. They beat up Ahmed— my extortion racket-fixer—and got him to admit a pack of lies against me!’ sputtered Ikrambhai, visibly shaken.

‘Even then—when the matter comes before the magistrate, I’m sure that matters can be handled, right?’ asked Gangasagar shrewdly.

‘I’ve tried everything with this sonofabitch. He just won’t budge. There’s nothing that I haven’t offered the asshole but he refuses to let me off. I can’t even get him kicked in the face because all my men are being watched by a hostile police force!’ complained Ikram, bemoaning the injustice of it all.

‘You know, Ikram, you’re my closest friend. And as your friend, I advise that you must maintain a low profile. As mayor—and chief ministerial aspirant—everyone has it in for you,’ recommended Gangasagar quietly, omitting to mention himself in the list of ‘everyone’.

‘But state elections are around the corner,’ said Ikram. ‘Who will represent the party if not myself? We have worked so hard to make the ABNS relevant. It isn’t about my personal glory—heaven forbid—it’s about a sense of duty towards you and the ABNS,’ pleaded Ikram.

‘I shall hate losing you, Ikram,’ said Gangasagar, ‘but I value our friendship too much to risk losing you entirely. I think you should drop out of the chief ministerial race and put your weight behind someone else.’

‘What’s your suggestion?’ asked Ikram.

‘I know someone who can get the magistrate to do what we want him to. But you’ll have to lie low so that the government machinery stops working against you. Chandini’s returned. Why not anoint her your political successor? She’s just a poor helpless girl—she’ll still be in your control,’ counselled Gangasagar.

‘He’s decided not to contest,’ said Gangasagar to Agrawalji. ‘Ikram’s decided to throw his weight behind his adopted daughter instead.’

‘What convinced him?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘When you’re holding a man by the balls, his heart and mind will follow,’ said Gangasagar, laughing as he silently thanked his secretary, Menon, for bringing him Hameed.

‘Chandini, I would like you to meet some extremely good students. This is Upendra Kashyap from Lucknow University; this is Brijmohan Rai from Allahabad University; Iqbal Azmi from Aligarh Muslim University; Girish Bajpai from Banaras Hindu University—’

Chandini looked at the thirty men from various universities around the state of Uttar Pradesh. They didn’t look like students. Most of them seemed to be in their thirties and forties. The first one, Upendra Kashyap from Lucknow University, stepped up and greeted Chandini, his palms pressed together in front of him in a gesture of respect. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Chandiniji.

We seem too old to be students! But under the tutelage of Pandit Gangasagarji we have all devoted our entire lives to earning degrees.’

‘So which field are you studying?’ asked Chandini curiously.

‘Oh, I joined the university fifteen years ago. I first obtained a BA in philosophy and then decided to complete a double degree, a BA (Honours) in English. Having taken two basic degrees at the bachelor’s level, I then worked towards an MA in anthropology. I am now completing my PhD in linguistics.’

‘Why are so many young men staying on in universities earning multiple degrees—and that, too, in liberal arts?’ whispered Chandini to Gangasagar.

‘So that they continue to remain as students on the campus,’ explained Gangasagar.

‘But why do you need them there?’ asked Chandini.

‘So that they can contest the elections,’ explained Gangasagar.

‘Which elections?’

‘Students’ Union elections.’

‘Why does the ABNS need to involve itself in Students’ Union activities across the thirty-odd universities of Uttar Pradesh?’

‘Because if our young men control the Students’ Unions of the universities, we—the ABNS—control the youth, a key constituency in the state’s power balance.’

‘And then what will they do?’

‘A liberal arts education is general enough for the IAS—the Indian Administrative Service or the IRS— the Indian Revenue Service.’

‘So they’ll enter the bureaucracy?’ asked Chandini.

‘Some of them will become trade union leaders, others income-tax commissioners, secretaries within the Reserve Bank of India—there are so many jobs that need us to have our own people!’

Some paces away, thirty policemen, armed with rifles, stood near jeeps and police vans. ‘Why are there so many policemen around our Students’ Union presidents?’ asked Chandini.

‘Protection,’ answered her mentor.

‘Protection?’ asked Chandini, confused.

‘Half of our Students’ Union leaders have to be protected from candidates of other parties who are keen to dislodge them.’

‘And the other half?’

‘Others need to be protected from them,’ he guffawed.

‘You need a major victory,’ said Gangasagar, as Chandini walked in.

‘But I don’t know the first thing about fighting elections,’ she said.

‘I don’t mean an electoral victory, dear girl. I mean that you need a huge public relations coup. It should propel you into instant fame so that you’re seen as the true inheritor of Ikram’s legacy!’

‘You obviously have something planned, Uncle Ganga,’ she said astutely.

He smiled. He knew he had made the right choice.

‘Did you know that Rungta & Somany are putting up a huge steel plant on the outskirts of the city?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I read about it. It’s good for the state. More than twenty-five thousand jobs will be created upstream and downstream. The project is being put up in collaboration with a Japanese multinational and will be India’s largest integrated steel plant, surpassing all that have been built till date,’ said Chandini.

‘Any idea how much land they need?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘I’m told that it will be spread over a thousand acres. The Uttar Pradesh government has offered it free. Various state governments across the country have been falling over themselves to woo R&S. An instant GDP booster shot,’ said Chandini, gesturing.

‘And who owns the land on which the plant is being built?’

‘It’s mostly agricultural land. Owned by subsistence farmers. They’re delighted to surrender their land because they’ve all been guaranteed jobs by R&S.’

‘What if the farmers were to revolt? What if they were to announce that they were being cheated out of their meagre holdings?’

‘The press would have a field day,’ she responded, ‘but it wouldn’t be good for the state’s economy if R&S pulled out.’

‘I want you to meet a few of the farmers. Get them to make you their spokesperson. Then I want you to sit outside the gates of that proposed plant and announce that you’re going on an indefinite hunger strike—a fast unto death—until the plight of these poor unfortunate farmers isn’t remedied!’

‘But I’ll be hungry!’ she exclaimed.

‘The power of renunciation, Chandini. Remember our history lessons and Mahatma Gandhi?’

‘But I’m not used to starving myself. My sugar level falls within twenty-four hours,’ she whined as she gratefully accepted the sweet cardamom tea offered to her. There was no beverage better than sweet cardamom tea in Chandini’s world.

‘Trust me. You’ll have your victory within a day!’

‘How? We haven’t even negotiated with the management as yet.’

‘Ah! I forgot to tell you that I had a meeting with Mr Somany—the vice-chairman of R&S—and...’

‘What?’

‘—he agreed to increase the compensation to farmers.’

‘Firm commitment?’

‘Unfortunately, his partner, the chairman—Mr Rungta —backed out. He said they couldn’t afford to pay more.’

‘So what have you told them?’

‘I’ve said that we would be willing to give R&S a complete sales-tax holiday for twenty years—an offer that they’re delighted with—if the ABNS came to power in Uttar Pradesh.’

‘And how much is the sales-tax holiday worth?’ she asked shrewdly.

‘Several billions,’ he replied.

‘So you’ve negotiated to
increase
what the state government has
already
offered them?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Yes. But they’ve agreed to channel this money back to the farmers as compensation for the land.’

‘So they don’t have to spend a dime more but can still show that they’ve bowed down to your wishes and paid a hefty settlement for the land?’

‘Precisely. Everyone’s happy and we have an election victory!’

‘But—but—why am I going on hunger strike? If we’ve got their agreement we could simply make an announcement to the press,’ proposed Chandini.

‘My precious girl. The press is not interested in problems that are already solved! They first need a dramatic problem with insurmountable odds. That’s what they want to talk about. They’ll lap it up! After we’ve given them an unsolvable problem, we then give them a miraculous solution. You’ll be an instant heroine!’

Chandini looked at her Uncle Ganga, dazed. She realised that she had a lot to learn. ‘Go eat a hearty meal.

You’re not getting any food tomorrow,’ said Gangasagar as she got up to leave.

The former police commissioner was seated with Gangasagar in his little Birhana Road flat. ‘I helped Ikram widen the rift between the home minister and Rajjo Bhaiya— on your instructions. I’ve now been booted out. You owe me,’ he said.

‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I’ll arrange an even better post—I’ll use my influence in New Delhi. But before that you need to do something more for me.’

‘What?’ asked the police commissioner curiously.

‘Shoot Chandini,’ said Gangasagar simply.