Chankya's Chant (32 page)

The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at 5, Kalidas Marg, the official residence of the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh. In one hand he carried a bunch of orchids for the chief minister, and in the other he carried a ten-
tola
—a hundred-and-sixteengramme gold bar—for the personal assistant to the chief minister. The appointment had been fixed a few hours earlier at the behest of the principal secretary.

‘I’m told you’ve already discussed the details with the principal secretary,’ said the chief minister, shaking his hand.

‘Yes. I have come here only to seek your blessings.’

‘My blessings are expensive.’

‘How expensive?’

‘Fifteen per cent.’

‘Cancel one blessing and give me two.’

‘Ten per cent?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would not do that under normal circumstances. But then, you brought me orchids,’ laughed the chief minister, getting up to seal the deal with the smiling man from Mumbai.

The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at the Birhana Road residence of Pandit Gangasagar Mishra. In one hand he carried a roll of photographic film and in the other he carried a small pocket-recording device with the tape still inside it. Menon smiled as he took his reporter friend inside to meet Pandit Gangasagar Mishra.

‘With this scoop, you shall graduate from weasel to eagle,’ said Menon to the journalist as they walked towards Gangasagar’s living room.

‘I would rather remain a weasel,’ said the reporter.

‘Why?’ asked Menon.

‘Eagles may soar but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines!’

On the dusty Birhana Road of Kanpur, inside one of its bylanes, in a building that had seen better days, the rickety staircase to the second floor flat occupied by Pandit Gangasagar Mishra was groaning under the weight of hundreds of feet. It was 11 am and Chandini Gupta had arrived at Panditji’s residence. Accompanying her were MLAs from the Opposition who were willing to defect.

The sting operation had forced the chief minister to reconsider whether he should hang on to his chair. Good counsel had prevailed and he had resigned. ‘You’re happy that he’s gone?’ enquired the weary Menon.

‘My dear Menon, some cause happiness wherever they go. Others whenever they go.’

‘
Pranam
, Uncle Ganga,’ said Chandini, as she folded her hands in respectful obeisance to the kingmaker. ‘God bless you, my dear,’ said the old man as she sat down on the chair next to him. He paused for a moment as he placed a hand on her head, closed his eyes and chanted something under his breath. ‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.
’

‘Are you ready to go to Governor House to stake your claim to form the state government?’ he asked as he opened his eyes.

She nodded, smiling. ‘The chief minister’s MLAs are outside. They’ve agreed to support us without any cabinet positions—they didn’t have much of a choice,’ she laughed.

‘Your first task as chief minister—’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘Award the World Bank contract to a nominee of Agrawalji’s choosing, but make sure that there are no open microphones! He has pulled out all his remaining hair financing these elections. He needs something to calm him down.’

The Uttar Pradesh chief minister’s office was on the fifth floor of Lal Bahadur Shastri Bhawan in Lucknow. The

reception area was extra large—in anticipation of the large number of waiting visitors. Two secretaries were stationed in the reception area, assigned with the single task of managing the crowd.

The inner office was smaller than the reception but much more imposing. The room was wood-panelled, dominated by an oversized mahogany desk behind which was an imposing swivel chair done up in aged maroon leather—the most powerful chair in the state. On the wall behind the desk was a large portrait of Mahatma Gandhi. The visitors’ chairs, also in maroon, were lower and smaller, instantly putting any guest in a slightly subordinate position. To the right of the desk was a large window with a cabinet below it polished to a mirror. Chandini noticed the vase of pink chrysanthemums on the cabinet as she walked into her new office.

‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said her assistant, a pleasant young man. ‘I’m your principal private secretary—your executive assistant. My name’s Shankar.’

‘Did you organise the pink chrysanthemums, Shankar?’ asked Chandini.

‘Yes,’ said the slightly embarrassed young man, ‘I do hope you like them.’

‘How did you know pink chrysanthemums were my favourite?’ asked Chandini.

‘Ma’am, I’m your secretary—it’s my job to know your preferences,’ he quipped. ‘Shall we go through your diary?’

The stream of visitors, phone calls, letters, meetings and files had been endless. It was past 5 pm and Chandini had not been able to leave her desk, even for lunch.

‘Send in the delegation from the builders’ federation,’ she instructed Shankar on the intercom. A minute later, he walked in carrying a tray. ‘Where are they?’ she asked, not looking up from the file before her. Her secretary put the tray down in front of her with a look of concern and said, ‘Ma’am it’s been a long day. I asked them to reschedule. I think you should take a break.’ Chandini looked up at him realising he was right—she was famished. She smiled when she noticed her favourite sweet cardamom tea and tangy peanuts in lime juice on the tray.

‘Have you begun to gain her confidence?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘With the background information that you gave me, it was rather easy,’ admitted Shankar. ‘She depends on me for almost everything.’

‘Good. Keep me informed of her activities. She’s a single woman in a male-dominated society. I can’t afford to have any malicious gossip about male friends—real or imagined!’ growled Gangasagar.

‘It seems that there’s trouble brewing already,’ said Menon.

‘What? She’s been chief minister for barely a few weeks,’ said Gangasagar.

‘There’s a rebellion in the ranks. Our dear Ram Shankar Dwivedi is spearheading the effort. There have been secret meetings and parleys.’

‘Ask Ikrambhai to meet me. This situation needs his brand of assistance,’ said Gangasagar.

Entire families crowded every available inch of space. A cow sat nonchalantly chewing cud in the centre of the

railway platform, as a man, with wife, three children— including a newborn baby—mother-in-law and chickens in tow, attempted to create floor space for their luggage. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around, excited by the abundance of garbage piled up on the tracks. Young boys employed by the prosperous tea stall-owner ran up and down the platform yelling, ‘
Chai, garam chai
!’ and serving hot, sugary, milky tea in little glasses. Other vendors—selling cheap plastic toys, newspapers, fruit, deep-fried samosas, toothbrushes, herbal remedies, and even baby clothes—harangued those waiting on the platform for the much awaited train. Eventually, the shrieking and puffing iron monster arrived, causing everyone to go into general hysteria as the passengers waged the inevitable battle to board.

Ikrambhai’s man was not waiting to board, though. He was awaiting the arrival of a very special lady who was to be whisked off to the Durbar Club.