Chankya's Chant (25 page)

The press took an instant liking to the fresh young face that was braving the searing heat to sit outside the plant on a hunger strike. ‘Chandini the Champion’ said the
Times of India
; ‘Chandini Changes the Deal’ said the
Dainik
; ‘Chandini Takes a Chance—and Wins!’ screamed the
Lokbharti
.

The reporter, who had stood outside Gulbadan’s kotha and engineered the fall of the previous chief minister, was reading the headlines. He looked at the photographs of the petite young woman, wearing a plain white cotton saree, looking positively radiant as she sat in silent hunger protest with hundreds of farmers. His scoop on the ex-chief minister had made him famous too. He wondered how long Chandini’s honeymoon with the press would last.
A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a girl seem what she ain’t
, he thought to himself. Where was the dirt? He decided to look under the carpet.

‘Your daughter is amazing,’ said Gangasagar to Ikrambhai as they sat in his veranda sipping iced lemonade.

‘Technically speaking, she’s not my daughter. I was unable to adopt her. Muslim Personal Law didn’t recognise it and the courts were unwilling to ratify it, as you well know,’ replied Ikram wryly.

‘It’s the thought that counts. Everyone sees her as your natural successor—your legacy,’ remarked Gangasagar.

‘That’s funny,’ said Ikram.

‘What?’ asked Gangasagar, putting his glass down on the table in front of him.

‘To be succeeded when one hasn’t even succeeded!’ he burst out, as Gangasagar laughed.

‘So what is it that you want me to do?’ asked Ikram as they drained their glasses.

‘I’ll handle the vote-gathering but you handle the counting,’ said Gangasagar.

‘The Election Commission does the counting—not me!’

‘But what if there’s vote-rigging? Electoral malpractices are rampant, Ikram. I need you to handle it.’

‘You want me to go around the state in an SUV capturing polling stations and stuffing ballots favouring the ABNS?’ asked Ikram, relishing the thought of some good old-fashioned muscle power.

‘No. I simply need you to station your lookouts at every polling station. The slightest sign of electoral malpractice and you phone me.’

‘And you’ll come flying in, like Superman, and ensure that the polling station is not captured?’ asked Ikram sarcastically.

‘No. But at least we’ll know if we need to compensate by capturing some other polling station elsewhere!’

‘Who’s the Opposition’s main candidate in Pilibhit con

stituency?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘Ramprasad Trivedi,’ replied Chandini.

‘Find me someone else with the same name. And who is the primary competition in Bisalpur?’

‘Rafiq Ahmed Hussain.’

‘That shouldn’t be hard. Let’s get someone with an identical name to contest in Bisalpur. Any idea who the strongest aspirant in Puranpur is?’

‘Prakash Yadav.’

‘Find me another Prakash Yadav.’

‘You want us to hand out ABNS tickets to people who have no qualifications, no experience, no vote-share, simply because they have names that are identical to those of their strongest opponents?’

‘No. Not ABNS tickets. We’ll fund them but they’ll contest as independents.’

‘And why are we doing this?’

‘Because the votes of the primary Opposition candidates will then get split. From the confusion in the similar-sounding names, some of their rightful votes will get logged as favouring the identically-named independents financed by us.’

‘Is this a worthwhile exercise? Finding hundreds of independents to contest against the Opposition?’

‘Winning is not only about strengthening yourself; it’s also about weakening the enemy. Anything that reduces the Opposition’s vote-share must be done if we’re to win.’

‘But the opposing parties may adopt the same strategy with us,’ argued Chandini.

‘When is the notification of elections expected from the Election Commission?’

‘April twenty-first.’

‘And the last date for filing nominations would be a week thereafter—April twenty-eighth, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the deadline for filing nominations on April twenty-eighth?’

‘6.30 pm.’

‘I want all our independents to file their nominations from various constituencies at six pm on April twenty-eighth. Let’s not give the opposition any time to react.’

The phone bill would be enormous and his editor would be furious. But everything would be accepted once the story was splashed as headlines across their front page. ‘Chandini’s Love Child’ would be sensational. The investigative reporter silently thanked God for giving him a sensitive nose—he could sniff dirt a mile away.

Everyone has a past, he thought. And this beloved idol of the youth, this new sensation, Chandini, was no different. Acting on this assumption, he had made a few phone calls to one of his cousins, a teacher who had emigrated to England a few years previously. The cousin had promised to make a few discreet enquiries in the Oxford area. The cousin’s friend—a doctor—had checked with the National Health Service. A few days later he phoned to say that Chandini’s assigned GP in Oxford had indeed issued her a medical certificate in order to get leave of absence from classes at St Hilda’s. The reason provided on the certificate was ‘intense menstrual cramps’. No one took eight weeks off because of menstrual cramps, reasoned the curious doctor. A quiet word with the local GP had led to the matronly abortive douche lady, and from her to the Mother & Baby home in Grasmere.

He looked at the first draft of the story that lay before him. ‘The sacred goddess being worshipped in temples across Uttar Pradesh, and indeed in many other parts of India, is not Lakshmi, Saraswati or Durga, but a new sensation called Chandini. The refreshingly young and attractive politician has won the hearts and minds of voters and now looks poised to seriously contend for the coveted chief minister’s post. She fasts unto death for farmers, preaches honesty, integrity and lofty values of moral and ethical conduct. But how many are actually aware of the background of this debutante? Not many, as it turns out. All that we seem to know is that she wears off-white sarees and looks good in them. But a little research led this reporter to find the dirt that has stained her pure and pristine snow-white image. He was shocked with what he discovered.’

Perfect start. He looked over the rest of his story that he had typed using his trusted Remington electric typewriter, and walked over to the editor’s desk. ‘You’ll find that my expense log is justified once you read what I’ve just submitted,’ he said as he walked back to his desk and covered his typewriter with a grey plastic dust cover.

‘You need to go to England and verify the facts,’ said the editor as he read the story.

‘Wh—what? Since when does this rag have the budget for a reporter to travel across continents to verify his facts?’ he asked. ‘You crib if I take a cab!’

‘The budget appeared after we decided that we don’t wish to get our asses kicked by her adoptive father— Ikrambhai—or our asses sued by her godfather, Gangasagar.’

‘Gangasagar can’t touch me. He knows that I helped him with the expose on the last chief minister. He wouldn’t be figuring out ways to place his protégé on the throne if it weren’t for my story having destroyed the last poor sucker!’

‘And we can’t be seen as a rag that’s keen to carry out a moral crusade against every chief minister or aspirant. That’s why we need you to go verify the facts for yourself. The story is too explosive to be based on the hearsay of a cousin!’

The flight to London via Cairo and Geneva was to take off from New Delhi two hours later. An economy-class ticket had been provided to him along with a frugal travel allowance. He would need to stay in rat-infested hellholes to survive on that. Having checked in his suitcase, he headed over to passport control where the officer cursorily looked over and stamped his travel papers. He took back his passport and placed it in the leather duffel bag he had slung over his shoulders. He reached the departure area and went through security.

‘What’s this, sir?’ asked the security officer as he unzipped the duffel bag. At the bottom of the bag was a little parcel wrapped in grey plastic and held together by duct tape. ‘That’s not mine,’ said the reporter, wondering how the parcel had gotten into his bag. The security officer, a burly Jat from Haryana, ignored the answer and took out a penknife with which he proceeded to puncture the parcel.