Chankya's Chant (40 page)

The cabinet meeting was excessively long, the tea lukewarm, the snacks insipid. The agenda was fiery, though. The cabinet room located inside the PMO—the Prime Minister’s Office—at South Block, Raisina Hill, was an ornate room in which cut flowers were changed each day and sniffer dogs were led into corners to check for explosives every few hours. The PMO had an uncomplicated occupancy plan with six joint secretaries housed on the ground floor and the prime minister and his key lieutenants on the first. The only noticeable feature of the PMO was the presence of a paper-shredder in almost every room. This prime minister was obsessive about secrecy, and rightly so. They were sitting for a marathon Cabinet session simply because some nitwit had forgotten to use the damned shredder.

The offending paragraph was read and reread several times. ‘Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution guarantee every Indian citizen freedom as well as equality before the laws of the land. Reservation for those who had been left behind by Indian society was indeed part of the Constitution when it was framed and adopted in 1950. Those who framed the Constitution themselves believed that it was a temporary measure and would last for ten years. But several decades later we still find reservation in place. Doesn’t this tell us that India has made very little progress in bringing the scheduled castes, scheduled tribes and other backward classes into the mainstream of India? Is it time to take another look at the policy and decide whether it has actually worked?’

The prime minister never had any intention of reviewing the policy on reservation. It was a powder keg that would explode irrespective of which way one went. If one came down in favour of ending reservation, the streets would be filled with protestors—those who were the beneficiaries of the reservation policy. If one expressed a view that reservation should be continued, the streets would also be filled with protestors—this time with those whom the policy had discriminated against. It was a no-win situation. This prime minister’s policy was
not
to have a policy on the matter.

The infernal document had been drafted by his policy advisors who had believed that the prime minister might be forced by the Opposition to make a statement on the issue in the Lok Sabha. They wanted to be prepared. But why hadn’t they used the damn shredder thereafter? The offending paragraph had travelled from South Block, to North Block, and further to the editorial offices of the
Hindustan Times
. The next morning the prime minister was fried for the country’s breakfast.

‘The press is asking for our views on the story,’ said the cabinet secretary.

‘Of course they are. I send them stories about foundation stones laid for new hospitals—they don’t care. I send them material on the new education reform policy— they don’t care. I send them photographs of our foreign delegations that are ushering in a new era of peace and stability—they don’t care. But they get one paragraph from that infernal memo that should never have been written up in the first place and they come flocking like vultures smelling blood!’ retorted the premier angrily.

‘Er… ahem… ’ began the finance minister.

‘Yes, what is it? Say what you want, let’s not have you clearing your throat in perpetuity,’ demanded the irritated PM.

‘Er… ah! Yes. I do believe that the only way that we can limit the damage is by giving them an even bigger story—one that would simply overshadow this one,’ said the greying finance minister.

‘And what would that be?’ asked the prime minister.

‘A war with Pakistan perhaps?’ interjected the external afffairs minister.

‘You want me to declare war on Pakistan so we can kill a newspaper story? Has everyone lost their minds?’ shouted the prime minister.

After an interminable pause, the home minister spoke up. ‘We do not have to declare war. Simply convey the impression that there are skirmishes along the Indo-Pakistan border. The press will lap it up.’

‘It takes two to tango,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘What gives you gentlemen the impression that Pakistan will go along with it?’

‘Pakistan will always go along with it. Their own internal politics is a mess. It will be a welcome relief for them to get back to doing what they do best, whipping up war hysteria and dishing it out to unsuspecting suckers—the ordinary citizens of Pakistan,’ said the minister for external affairs.

‘Couldn’t we be hauled up later by the press for dishing out precisely the same sort of drivel to our citizens?’ asked the prime minister.

‘A little inaccuracy sometimes saves a ton of explanation, sir,’ said the cabinet secretary. The finance minister, the home minister and the minister for external affairs nodded their heads sagely. The defence minister was conspicuously silent.

‘If a war-like situation persists, public sentiment will be with the government of the day. It always happens. People who would love to pull down the government’s pants suddenly become patriotic!’ said Agrawalji to Gangasagar as they sat in his garden eating lunch. Chandini and Ikram were the only other invitees.

‘He’s covering his ass! Nothing more,’ exclaimed Ikram, stuffing a
gobi paratha
into his eagerly awaiting mouth.

‘A wise man covers his ass. An even wiser man leaves his pants on,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Huh?’

‘The reservations leak that we arranged from the Prime Minister’s Office did its job. The prime minister has played into our hands by creating war hysteria. Every defence contract will now be under scrutiny—Majestic Munitions in particular.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Majestic Munitions was awarded a very large contract for rifles, and two per cent of the firm now belongs to the sadhvi as per our instructions to Somany. And the sadhvi is the prime minister’s illegitimate daughter. A case of impropriety, wouldn’t you say?’ asked Gangasagar, draining his glass of salted lassi.

‘But we would end up hurting Somany. He holds a stake in Majestic,’ argued Chandini. ‘He’ll come back wanting his losses recouped.’

‘I’d asked him to sell the shares of Majestic no sooner the deal was inked. I’m given to understand that his block of shares was sold three days ago,’ said the Pandit, suppressing a little burp in appreciation of the wonderful food that was served at Agrawalji’s house.

‘So how do we play this?’ asked Ikram, digging into the famous Agrawal rice pudding.

‘We get our weasel reporter back and offer him the opportunity to shake the Prime Minister’s throne. After all, he has been sitting impatiently awaiting our nod to use the sadhvi material, right?’

‘Right.’

‘But no talk about her being an illegitimate daughter,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Why Ganga, I didn’t realise that you had a soft spot for her,’ said Agrawalji in jest.

‘I don’t. I believe that information is like money. Better to retain it like a bank balance than spend it unwisely,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Chandini, I think Lok Sabha elections may happen sooner than we expected!’ Gangasagar laughed. The laugh tickled his throat and he coughed. He gulped some water and laughed again, uncontrollably. Agrawalji, Chandini and Ikram looked at him curiously. It was disconcerting to see the Pandit out of control.

‘What’s the joke?’ asked Ikram.

‘The prime minister. I’m imagining him with no pants on!’

‘It’s said that she visits you every day! Your side of the story, sir.’

‘No comment.’

‘They say you awarded defence contracts to Majestic because she was a shareholder. Is that true?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is it true that she has divine powers and that she used them to make you prime minister?’

‘No comment.’

‘Do both of you practise black magic together when you’re alone?’

‘No comment.’

‘Does she attend cabinet meetings to influence decisions?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is she your mistress?’

‘No comment.’

The prime minister got into the waiting car and sighed. This was not turning out to be a good day.

‘The prime minister will have no alternative but to resign. There shall be a power struggle for the top job with the finance minister, home minister and the minister for external affairs battling it out for the position,’ said Gangasagar.

‘And who shall win?’ asked Chandini.

‘None. When lions fight over a goat, it’s usually the hyena that gets away with the prize.’

‘And who’s the hyena?’

‘The defence minister.’

‘But he’s a fool!’ sputtered Chandini.

‘I don’t care. All that I want is for him to finalise his party’s candidate list for Uttar Pradesh.’

‘And whom do you want on that list?’

‘All his existing MPs.’

‘Why?’

‘Politicians are like diapers—they need to be changed frequently! Anti-incumbency will work beautifully against them.’

‘Shouldn’t the ABNS get into a pre-poll alliance with the ruling party in New Delhi?’ asked Chandini.

‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Gangasagar.

‘Why not? Doesn’t the defence minister want it?’

‘Of course he does. But we’ll decide later.’

‘Why? Haven’t we decided which side we’re on?’

‘Of course we have.’ ‘And which side is that?’

‘The winning side, my girl, the winning side.’