Chankya's Chant (49 page)

It said, ‘A man so various he seemed to be, not one but all mankind’s epitome; stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; was everything but starts and nothing long; but in the course of revolving moon, was chemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon!’

‘The leader of the Opposition on a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.

‘Yes, Mr Speaker, sir. Relevance. My question was put to the minister for external affairs regarding the Indo- China détente. The answer by the Hon’ble Prime Minister is not relevant—’ began the leader of the Opposition.

‘The leader of the Opposition shall resume his seat. The prime minister has just begun his speech and he is indeed relevant,’ the Speaker cut him short.

‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The question put forth by the leader of the Opposition is incorrectly framed—’ argued Chandini.

‘The minister for external affairs is debating the issue. Does the hon’ble minister have a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.

‘My point of order is that disorderly points of order are being taken up by the leader of the Opposition,’ said Chandini as the Opposition benches joined her in the joke.

‘The minister will resume her seat, please,’ said the Speaker indulgently. The girl was a star.

‘The girl’s a star,’ said his wife as she watched the recorded debate on
Lok Sabha Television
. ‘You’d better watch out, she may become more popular than you. The diplomatic victory she pulled off in China has made her visibility soar!’ The Prime Minister nodded as he sipped the bubbling antacid from the glass in his hand. Lok Sabha sessions always gave him indigestion and caused his stomach ulcers to act up. His wife was right, as always. Gangasagar’s stunning victory in the Uttar Pradesh elections and Chandini Gupta’s equally stunning coup in China had made them a potent combination. He would have to play his cards carefully.

‘Sir, we seem to have a problem on our hands,’ said Menon uncomfortably.

‘What is it, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, looking up from his morning papers.

‘Hameed—the waiter—you know, the one who gave us access to the magistrate. He wants more money.’

‘But hadn’t we paid him for getting the magistrate to issue an arrest warrant for Ikram?’

‘Yes. He wanted more, though.’

‘Didn’t we pay him some more for having the warrant withdrawn when Ikram renounced the chief minister’s post?’

‘Yes. But the magistrate has tired of him and found himself another pretty boy. Apparently, Hameed’s in financial distress.’

‘What, specifically, does he want more money for?’

‘For keeping quiet.’

Ikram had just finished Friday afternoon prayers at Jami Masjid, Lucknow’s largest mosque. Ikram was a bit of a hero here. He had helped hundreds of people with little things—a job recommendation, a school admission, sorting out a property dispute, advancing cash for a daughter’s dowry. Ikram was no less than a Robin Hood amongst the regular Friday worshippers at Jami Masjid.

Prayers over, Ikram wandered over from one of the fifteen arched domes of the yellow sandstone mosque in the heart of Lucknow into its massive open courtyard, fifty thousand square feet in size. He was instantly surrounded by a gang of adoring fans. He noticed a dark young man gazing at him. In fact, he was pretty darn certain that the boy had followed him into the mosque too. Not one for pleasantries, Ikram beckoned him, ‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Out with it!’ The young man glanced furtively around him, almost like a frightened mouse facing a cat. Ikram asked his acquaintances to leave them alone for a moment.

‘Sir, I’ve heard many wonderful things about you. It’s because of your reputation as a fair and compassionate man that I have plucked up the courage to meet you. I have some information that could be of interest to you,’ said the young man.

‘Information, eh? What sort of information?’ asked Ikram.

‘Sir, please promise me that you won’t hurt me when I reveal it to you—’

‘Why on earth should I want to hurt a pretty boy like you?’ Ikram asked sarcastically.

‘Sir, I needed the money and, in the process, ended up hurting your interests. By Allah, I swear I never meant to—’

He broke down, weeping.

‘Son. Why don’t we start at the beginning, eh? What’s your name and what do you do?’ asked Ikram, putting an arm around the youth’s shoulders.

‘My name’s Hameed and I used to be a waiter at the Golden Gate bar in Kanpur…’

‘And what’s your connection to me?’

‘I used to be the gay lover of the magistrate who issued an arrest warrant against you.’

‘Ah. I see,’ said Ikram scratching his chin.

‘Gangasagarji’s secretary, Menon, approached me to have the warrant for you issued and then subsequently cancelled—I did as he asked.’

‘But if you’re so influential, why are you in this pitiable state? You seem to have fallen on hard times.’

‘I gave up my job as a waiter—it was more lucrative to fix cases. But then Pande—the magistrate—tired of me and dumped me.’

‘And what do you want from me?’ asked Ikram.

‘I am told that you recently got a job for Rashid, a member of your Friday congregation, at R&S Aviation. Could you put in a word for me also?’

‘And why would I want to do that? You helped the Brahmin fox, Gangasagar, trick me out of the chief minister’s post!’

‘But sir, I would be at close proximity to all key politicians—including Chandiniji—because R&S Aviation provides aircraft and helicopter charters to various government departments. I can be your eyes and ears. As you know, in politics the only relevant currency is information,’ pleaded Hameed.

Ikram scratched his chin while he thought about what Hameed had just said. At length, he said, ‘Go meet Rashid. Tell him I sent you.’

The steward wearing a dark grey uniform was on his way to the restaurant. Being a flight attendant for government-chartered aircrafts was a no-win job—one was anonymous if one performed one’s tasks well and handed out ignominious treatment if one didn’t. The fact that he was attached to the aviation company that handled the ministry of external affairs’ choppers and airplanes was an even greater pain. The ministry operated several aircraft for the bigwigs—both visiting and homegrown. The big cheeses could not afford to lose a single moment of their oh so precious time and needed to be ferried on the multi-million dollar machines so that they could be in time for their spoilt children’s birthday parties. The pompous hotshots never even thanked him—he was just a nameless, unacknowledged and overlooked lackey who cleared their used tissues and candy wrappers from the interiors of the craft. But it was still better than being the gay lover of a sub-magistrate.

Thanks to Ikrambhai, Hameed would now be able to rise in his mother’s esteem. She was so difficult to please. She was always humiliating him about his humble position and meagre pay. She would constantly compare him with other members of his family who had been more successful, more enterprising, more achieving. He’d had enough. He needed to move on with his life and R&S Aviation—the private air charter company servicing the ministry of external affairs—had been just the right opportunity at the right time.

‘Good to see you again, my friend,’ said the nice man—Rashid—who had initially interviewed and appointed Hameed upon the instructions of Ikrambhai, as they sat down and ordered some tea. ‘Your confirmation letter is ready and waiting,’ began the man as they sipped their tea. ‘I just need a small favour from you before we can move forward.’

The minister for external affairs was expected at a conclave in a hotel near the Taj Mahal, in Agra, with a visiting delegation of Russian businessmen within a few hours of her arrival, and the Bell 400 Twin Ranger helicopter was ready, awaiting her. Pre-take-off checks had been completed and the pilot had received clearance from Air Traffic Control to take off in five minutes. Several minutes before her Ambassador car with the red cherry light on the roof appeared, a fleet of police cars— lights flashing and sirens blaring—surrounded the chopper. Policemen jumped out of their vehicles and quickly took Hameed, who was standing by, into custody. The baffled pilot abandoned his chopper and climbed down, wondering what the commotion was about.

One of the policemen drew the pilot’s attention to the filler cap. The pilot reached out and opened the cap in order to refit it correctly but still couldn’t understand the reason for the fuss. It was only when the cap came off that he saw the pebbles and gravel in the filler neck. It was debris that could have been fatal. It would have allowed the chopper to take off but would eventually have entered the gearbox and cut power, thus bringing down the machine and its ministerial occupant. Lights still flashing and sirens still blaring, the cops handcuffed Hameed and bundled him into one of the jeeps and sped off. The pilot did not notice that the number plates on the police cars were not government series and the rifles that they held were not standard police issue.