Chankya's Chant (26 page)

A white, crystal-like powder spilled out. The security officer touched the powder with his forefinger and dabbed it lightly on his tongue. It was odourless but bitter. It was definitely heroin. ‘Are you aware of the provisions of the Dangerous Drugs Act, 1930, read with the relevant provisions of the Opium Act, 1878, sir?’ asked the security officer as he signalled one of his colleagues to cuff the offender.

‘That’s not mine! I’m telling you that I don’t know how it got there—’ he protested but it was of no avail. The muscular Jat already had him bent him over the security check counter, with his arms pulled tightly behind his back, and with a pair of cuffs on his wrists. ‘If this is not your parcel, how are your fingerprints on the plastic, eh?’ he shouted. The officer pulled him by the scruff of his neck, pushed him against a wall and asked him to spread his legs. He quickly patted him down and also gave him a sly pinch on his ass. ‘Just checking to see whether your ass can take the treatment that it’s gonna get in prison,’ he growled.

As the reporter was loaded into the police jeep outside the airport en route to custodial lockup, he wondered, ‘How the fuck did the security chap know that my fingerprints were on the plastic without having it dusted or examined?’ He then remembered the grey plastic dust cover on his Remington electric typewriter in the newspaper office.

He cursed Gangasagar, his editor, and his luck—in that order.

Anjali arrived in her chauffeured silver Jaguar XJS, wearing a chic lemon cotton saree. The Bollywood sex symbol had tied back her long auburn hair with a white Hermès scarf and her eyes were hidden behind an extremely expensive pair of Versace sunglasses. She gently dabbed her kerchief under the sunglasses and the paparazzi contingent immediately burnt up their flash bulbs taking photos of the sultry goddess, looking positively delicious in her designer election ensemble—excellent breakfast material for the pathetic, inquisitive masses.

The streets leading up to the rally site were festooned with bunting and flags and a hundred thousand people lined up waiting for a glimpse of two female deities— one political and the other filmic. The rally ground was an expanse of saffron, green and red—the three colours of the ABNS flag. Saffron for Hindus, green for Muslims and red for the Dalits. Towards one corner was a massive stage adorned like the rest of the rally grounds with banners and flowers. Anjali walked up to the stage where Chandini awaited her. The women hugged each other as though they were the best of friends. They were actually meeting each other for the very first time. Behind them were massive rose-pink cut-outs of their images, almost fifteen feet high—Bollywood movie poster-style. The image of Chandini showed her with an angelic expression on her face, holding the scales of justice in one hand and a sword in the other. The poster of Anjali showed her holding a Statue of Liberty-inspired flaming torch.

Both women stood on stage as party workers brought out massive six-inch-thick garlands fashioned from marigolds and red-green ribbons—another reminder of the party colours—and garlanded them as though they were indeed manifestations of deities. Both women continued to remain standing, waving to the adoring crowds.

‘I promise you that I shall deliver pure, unadulterated justice to you, my beloved people. And if this hand ever needs to hold a sword to deliver justice, it shall rise for one reason alone—to defend the poor and downtrodden of this state!’ shouted Chandini emotionally into the microphone as echoes of her words bounced off massive speakers located all over the rally ground. Thousands of her supporters roared in glee and chanted, ‘Till the sun and moon shall be, Chandini’s name immortal be!’

‘I am humbled by your love. I am honoured by your respect. I am blessed by your support. I am energised by your enthusiasm. I am motivated by your confidence in me. I shall not let you down—ever!’ she thundered as the crowd burst into deafening applause. Police had cordoned off the stage where the two women were standing. Hundreds of baton-wielding khaki-clad cops wearing riot helmets were preventing the surge of humanity from clambering up the platform.

Chandini sat down and Anjali arose to speak. She was nervous. It was one thing to utter the lines of a screenplay in front of a movie camera, and quite another to deliver a speech to hundreds of thousands of screaming political activists. She was only here because her special nocturnal friend—Somany—had insisted that her endorsement of Chandini was vital.

‘In a state that has remained enveloped by the darkness of poverty, disease, illiteracy and feudalism, there is a single light that shines bright! I see the light! Do you?’ she yelled, and the grounds reverberated with approval. ‘The light is intense, it’s incandescent, it’s the brightest light I’ve ever seen. This light can illuminate, this light is pure, this light is unadulterated energy, this light is the light that shall envelope Uttar Pradesh— Chandini!’

As the multitude went berserk and howled their approval, a shot rang out. It would not have been heard if it were not for the fact that the gun had been fired near an open microphone. Chandini fell to the ground clutching her right shoulder. Blood was trickling through her fingers and a large red stain had developed on her off-white blouse and saree. Anjali threw herself to the ground and cradled Chandini’s head in her lap as the security officers rushed to prevent the frenzied crowds from reaching them. The Doordarshan television camera and the hundred press photographers beautifully captured the sentiment of the moment.

‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah
,’ whispered Gangasagar as he watched the proceedings from a distance.

They were standing in the hospital corridor outside her room. Members of the press had been barred from entering the premises. They had created a makeshift camp outside the hospital gates and were snapping photos of everyone—including startled patients—as they came and went.

‘How is she,’ asked Gangasagar.

‘Fine,’ said Menon, ‘the bullet grazed her right shoulder. A few stitches, some dressing and antibiotics— and she should be ready to go.’

‘Did you meet the former police commissioner?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘Yes. He’s a crack shot—I’d told him that it should be her right side, not left. Too much risk of her heart being in the vicinity,’ explained Menon.

‘Sometimes I wonder whether the girl has a heart,’ murmured Gangasagar, ‘she reminds me so much of myself. Did you also tell him that you didn’t want the bullet to actually pierce her but only graze her?’

‘I did. He told me that there were no guarantees on that one, though. We’d asked him to shoot near an open microphone so that the shot would be heard. He performed well—he’s waiting for you to put in a word so that he gets a fresh assignment in New Delhi.’

‘Yes, I promised him. She doesn’t know anything, does she?’

‘No.’

‘How many times has the scene been replayed on Doordarshan?’

‘Around fifty times.’

‘Get the press photos of Chandini’s head being cradled in Anjali’s lap. Put it on posters with the slogan—
I am willing to shed every drop of my blood in the service of my people
. Have thousands of posters printed and plastered over the city. I want her to be a martyr without having died!’

‘But the doctor will be letting her leave pretty soon. She doesn’t require hospitalisation—it’s a surface wound only,’ argued Menon.

‘Get the doctor over here. I want him to announce that she’s being kept overnight for observation.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing else. Never tell a lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Should he reveal that she’s in no danger?’

‘He should say that she’s out of danger, but only tomorrow morning. There’s a significant difference between lying and delaying the truth!’

‘Uncle Ganga, stop fussing over me. I need to get up, leave this miserable hospital and get back to my election rallies,’ she protested.

‘Chandini. You’re not going back to any election rally. Battles are won or lost before they are ever fought. This one has already been won.’

‘So I do nothing till polling day?’

‘Ah! You shall be busy. I have arranged an aircraft that will take you from here to Tirumala. From Tirumala you shall proceed to Goa, and onwards to Ajmer. The same aircraft will then take you to Amritsar and you’ll be back here in three days.’

‘But why am I going to all these places? There are no elections being held in any of them!’ she argued.

‘In Tirumala you shall bow down before Lord Venkateshwara and make the Hindus happy. In Goa you shall light a candle at Bom Jesus and make the Christians happy. You shall next go place a chador of flowers at the Dargah of Moinuddin Chisti in Ajmer, making the Muslims happy. Finally, you shall offer prayers at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, making the Sikhs happy. After you have made everyone happy, they will make you happy—by electing your party to government.’

In Mumbai’s hip Bandra suburb sat the homes of Bollywood’s rich and famous. Bollywood siren Anajali’s home was a beautiful palatial sea-facing house, guarded by a massive iron gate and tight security. She needed the last. Not because she faced a threat, but because of the very special friend—Somany—who visited her most nights.

After her emotional speech in support of Chandini at the rally, Gangasagar had taken her aside. ‘You are endowed with special gifts,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘many people have told me that both are spectacular.’

Nothing flustered the old man. ‘Yes, I understand that. But I was talking about your ability to express yourself—to influence people and their emotions. Have you ever considered joining politics?’

‘I would love to sit in Parliament, but I don’t have the patience for elections. Alas, I’m resigned to my fate as a Bollywood sex symbol.’

‘Not necessarily. Because of the public support you brought us, we shall soon be in government in Uttar Pradesh. We shall be happy to nominate you to the Rajya Sabha—the Upper House. You get to sit in Parliament, and that too without undergoing elections!’

‘And what’s the catch? You’re not one of those dirty old men, are you?’ she smiled.

‘My dear Anjali. I’m a dirty man—but not in the field of love. Only politics. And all politics is dirty. Clean politics is an oxymoron.’