Chankya's Chant (58 page)

He continued, ‘Ikram Shaikh, who died at the hands of a hijacker’s bullet on Wednesday, was laid to rest at Bagmari Muslim Burial Ground in Kanpur, by the side of his parents. The home minister’s funeral cortège snaked its way through surging crowds from his home in Kanpur’s largest slum to Green Park stadium where thousands, including his griefstricken adopted daughter —Chandini Gupta, minister for external affairs—and hundreds of state and national leaders lined up to pay homage to one of India’s finest home ministers. Later, an Indian Army carriage transported the coffin of the deceased to the burial grounds as thousands of supporters paid their last tributes. Police failed to control the surging mourners, who broke barricades at several points to rush towards the coffin. Accompanied by several central ministers, the prime minister laid wreaths on the body placed in the carriage. He also met Chandini Gupta, Ikram’s political heir and adopted daughter, and the late leader’s political ally and mentor—ABNS chief Gangasagar Mishra. The prime minister issued an appeal asking people not to commit suicide out of grief for the departed soul.’

Gangasagar coughed. Menon stopped reading and looked up. He could see that Gangasagar’s eyes were moist. Uncomfortably, Menon rambled on, ‘The roads between the stadium and the burial ground were teeming with mourners lined up along the road itself, on rooftops and packed into the stadium to bid adieu to the man who died a sudden, tragic death that they were still coming to terms with. The funeral procession slowly made its way to the stadium where leaders from across the political spectrum paid tribute. Hundreds of vehicles followed the flower-bedecked truck in which the body, draped in the national flag, was kept. Standing by the side of her adoptive father’s body was Chandini Gupta, who was appealing to people to allow the vehicle to move. Holding national flags, some ran towards the truck to have a closer look at the casket and console her. In the rest of Uttar Pradesh, a silence fell, with normal life coming to a crippling halt. Schools, colleges, offices, shops and businesses closed as a mark of respect to the leader. The usual morning bustle was missing as the government declared a two-day holiday. The state government declared a seven-day mourning period and cable TV-operators took all entertainment channels off the air.’

Menon reached the end of the article. Gangasagar looked him in the eye and said, ‘I must be cruel, only to be kind. Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.’ Menon had never studied Shakespeare otherwise he would have realised that his master had quoted from
Hamlet
. ‘Call the director of the Intelligence Bureau. I need to speak with him,’ said Gangasagar as he walked towards his bedroom.

He was softly muttering, ‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.
’

‘I cannot speak, for every word that emerges is one that causes me pain. I cannot sleep, because I have nightmares of losing him again and again. I cannot think, because memories haunt me. I cannot eat, because I feel no hunger. I cannot cry, because I seem to have no more tears left. I cannot see, because my eyes are frozen on one image alone—that of my adoptive father. I cannot mourn, because he lives on in my heart,’ said Chandini as she delivered her speech to the gathered mourners.

‘I stand before you today and beseech you to remember the sacrifice made by this noble soul—a man whom I am proud to call my father. Even though he’s no more with us, his political and social legacy lives on. I dedicate the rest of my life to doing what he did best— wiping away tears, filling empty bellies, and making people smile.’ Chandini omitted to mention that Ikram was also a mafia don with a trigger-happy finger.

‘The great religions of our country merged together to create this wonderful unity in the diversity that we call India. I am born Hindu but am the adopted daughter of a Muslim. This was the greatest gift that the Almighty could bestow upon me—it was His way of saying that I belong to no single group—I am the daughter of India and I belong to all of you!’ she said, tears running down her artistic face.

‘Death is so beautiful—it’s a great enhancer,’ whispered Gangasagar, seated in the last row with Menon. ‘Ikram achieved more for Chandini by dying than he could ever have achieved by living.’

Hameeda—previously known as Hameed—stood outside the shop clicking her tongue. ‘Don’t you want us to bless the shop?’ she shouted, swinging her false braid coyly. The shopkeeper avoided looking at her or her companions of Sachla Devi’s gang. They looked positively hideous with their garish make-up and muscular bodies encased in saris. Realising that her implied threat had failed to produce the desired result, the remaining eunuchs starting clapping and shouting loudly, creating enough of a ruckus to deter customers from walking in. The shopkeeper quickly reconsidered his position and sought their blessings, for a price of course. Hameeda mentally cursed her fate and thought back to the eventful day when she had—while she was still Hameed—approached Ikram at the mosque. ‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Out with it!’ Ikram had beckoned. A few weeks after that initial meeting, Hameed had met Ikram once again at the mosque.

‘I met Rashid, at R&S Aviation, who gave me the job. But he wants me to do something… I’m scared,’ began Hameed.

‘Why are you scared?’ asked Ikram, curiosity piqued.

‘He wants me to fill pebbles in the fuel tank of a helicopter. It’s to sabotage the machine of your adopted daughter—Chandiniji. Please sir, help!’

‘Calm down, son. Do what Rashid tells you to. I’ll handle the rest of it.’

‘But—but—I don’t want to get into any trouble…’

After Hameed left, Ikram picked up the phone and spoke to the director of the Intelligence Bureau.

‘He’s been asked to sabotage Chandini’s chopper,’ said Ikram.

‘Let’s arrest this Rashid immediately,’ suggested the director.

‘That may not be his real name. Furthermore, he may have accomplices,’ said Ikram. ‘No. Let Hameed follow Rashid’s instructions. Have your men ready to pick him up and make a show of it. I do not want Hameed in police custody, but in yours. Keep an eye on Rashid so that we can get not only him but also his entire network.’

‘How the fuck did you allow Hameed to be handed over to Sachla Devi?’ yelled Ikram at the director of the Intelligence Bureau.

‘What was I supposed to do? Tell Gangasagar that I wouldn’t?’ asked the director.

‘You could have let him get away!’ roared Ikram.

‘Gangasagar would have come after me and it would have been my balls instead of Hameed’s!’ explained the exasperated director.

‘You could have told Gangasagar the truth—that Hameed was innocent and that we were trying to get Rashid instead.’

‘That would have meant also telling him you helped get Rashid as well as Hameed those jobs at R&S Aviation in the first place.’

‘There was no need for Ikram to take aim at the hijack leader. Had he left it to the NSG he might be alive,’ said the director of the Intelligence Bureau.

‘I know, I know,’ said Gangasagar. ‘But he’d seen the hijacker’s face on television. He now knew that the hijacker was Rashid. The fact that Rashid had tried to kill Chandini must have made his blood boil and he must’ve decided to finish off the man once and for all.’

‘The NSG ended up shooting at Rashid in a hopeless effort to protect Ikram,’ said the director.

‘Ikram was like that—shoot first, ask questions later. Ikram may have been a hotheaded thug, but he had a heart of gold. Yes, he was quick to pull a trigger—but only if he knew that it was meant to deliver justice. And yes, he may have felt cheated when Hameed told him that I had tricked him into renouncing the chief minister’s post, but he would never take his revenge on Chandini,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Since when did you start getting soft, sir?’ asked the director.

‘Since the time you were unceremoniously booted out as police commissioner, and I felt sorry for you and arranged your posting at the Intelligence Bureau. You used to be Ikram’s friend too, you know!’

‘Alas, in my line of work there are no permanent friends—only permanent interests.’

The Red Fort—the largest monument in Old Delhi— wasn’t merely a site from which the prime minister of India addressed his countrymen on Independence Day. It was also a labyrinth of cells and tunnels. During Mughal times, more than three thousand people lived inside the fort. Located deep within its bowels were ten specially guarded cells. They were interrogation cells belonging to the Intelligence Bureau of India.

Inside one of these cells, Rashid lay on a hospital bed that had been specially brought here along with sophisticated medical equipment. The only people who knew that Rashid had survived were the director of the Intelligence Bureau and Gangasagar.

‘You’ll need to release this man into my custody!’

The command was delivered authoritatively. The director swung around in his swivel chair to find out who was impudent enough to interfere. He was shocked to see that it was the chief of RAW.

‘You’ll need to release him,’ said the Secretary (Research) simply.

‘Do I get a reason?’ asked the director of the Intelligence Bureau.

‘He’s a RAW agent. Good enough?’