Chankya's Chant (59 page)

‘What the fuck are you rascals up to? Rashid was involved in an attempt to sabotage the helicopter of the minister for external affairs. He then hijacked an aircraft with a hundred and seventy-seven passengers on board. Why would a RAW agent be plotting against Indian ministers and hijacking civilian aircraft?’ asked the director of the Intelligence Bureau.

‘Rashid is an alias. His real name is Makhmud. He’s a Pakistani double agent. We had used him in a Chinese operation. Unfortunately, the last part of the operation involved him being arrested by the MSS—the Chinese ministry of state security, and we omitted sharing that part of the plan with him in advance,’ explained the RAW veteran.

‘But what was the purpose of the plan?’

‘Our minister for external affairs was able to negotiate from a position of strength in China due to this successful operation in which Makhmud was used to cause a rift between the Chinese and the Pakistanis.’

‘If he was arrested by the MSS, how was he here in India?’ asked the director.

‘His Uyghur comrades launched an attack on the prison where he was being held in Xinjiang and he was able to flee. He entered India with the help of Nepalese smugglers and reached Lucknow where he sought the assistance of Ikrambhai on humanitarian grounds. Ikrambhai helped him out of his sense of duty towards a Muslim brother but unaware of his background.’

That explains Ikram’s anger when he saw that the very Muslim brother he had taken pity on had not only attempted to sabotage Chandini’s helicopter but also hijack a civilian aircraft
, reasoned the director.

The executive boardroom on the twenty-third floor had a panoramic view of the city. Plush leather swivel chairs surrounded a shining maplewood conference table. Giant portraits of the founders hung on the walls. The room was infused with the heady aroma of Cuban cigars. Mr Rungta and Mr Somany, partners, sat at opposite ends of the table, sipping warm camomile tea.

‘The game we played with Gangasagar has boomeranged,’ said Rungta as he absentmindedly stirred his tea. ‘Your man—the previous defence minister—has been ignominiously booted out from his prime ministerial berth. My man—the finance minister—has to content himself with lecturing at universities!’

‘All the deals are falling apart—telecom, oil, fodder, land. The government is too scared to let any of them move forward,’ said Somany. ‘Even the stock sales and purchases that we timed with our quarrels and reconciliations are under the regulator’s scrutiny. The trade union dispute brought all business to a standstill for almost a week!’

The knock on the heavy oak door was soft. ‘Come in,’ announced Rungta. A smartly dressed secretary walked in. ‘Sorry to bother you, sirs, but there’s a gentleman outside. He doesn’t have an appointment but he says that if I tell you his name, both of you would definitely wish to meet him.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Somany curiously.

‘He says his name is Pandit Gangasagar Mishra.’

‘Both you gentlemen have seen what I’m capable of. Even though I have the upper hand, I’m willing to declare a truce,’ announced Gangasagar. Rungta and Somany looked at each other, wondering where the catch lay.

‘There’s no catch,’ said Gangasagar, reading their minds. ‘I’m too much of a pragmatist to ignore the value of friendships with influential businessmen.’

‘And what would such a friendship get us?’ asked Rungta.

‘For starters, I shall avoid getting both of you prosecuted for sheltering a known terrorist—Rashid—in your aviation firm. The very same Rashid tried to sabotage the helicopter of the Honourable minister of external affairs. He then went on to hijack an aircraft in which the honourable home minister tragically lost his life!’ thundered Gangasagar.

Both partners were visibly shaken and remained quiet. ‘But I’m not here to teach you a lesson,’ softened the history teacher. ‘I’m here to be friends,’ he joked.

‘God defend me from my friends, from my enemies I can defend myself,’ mumbled Rungta under his breath as Gangasagar began outlining his proposal.

‘The ABNS expects to be the ruling party in New Delhi after the next general elections. To achieve that, we’re going to need money. Lots of it,’ explained Gangasagar.

‘You already have Agrawalji,’ said Somany. ‘He’s been a great benefactor of the ABNS.’

‘That’s my problem,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Agrawalji is our benefactor, but our benefactor needs benefaction.’

‘In what way?’ asked Rungta.

‘Four of your deals are in jeopardy. The fate of all four proposals lies in the hands of ABNS ministers. If we’re friends, I’ll tell our ministers to also be friendly,’ offered the Pandit.

‘How?’ wondered Rungta.

‘The commerce ministry will find that of the several thousand acres allotted to R&S Realty, a few hundred were undervalued. The balance will still remain with you. The minister of telecommunications will discover that telecom licences were issued at low levels and shall double the fee. R&S Telecom will still make a killing, given that they paid only a tenth of the fair market price. The petroleum ministry will observe that oil exploration rights were handed out to R&S Petroleum because no other private player was willing to take on the huge contingent liability of environmental insurance. And finally, the minister for agriculture shall discover an error in their cattle census and arrive at the conclusion that the orders for fodder and fertiliser placed on R&S Agro are correct, after all. See how much I’m willing to do when we’re friends?’ said Gangasagar.

‘What about the union dispute you caused?’ asked Rungta. ‘You lit the match. Now how does one put out the fire?’

‘Don’t worry. Our union—the ABNKU—has used the past few weeks to woo the members of your two main rival unions. The ABNKU now makes up more than fifty per cent of the workers. We’re willing to sign a new wage and productivity agreement immediately.’

‘And what will this cost us?’ asked Somany dryly.

‘Agrawalji’s firm shall be entitled to ten per cent commissions on all revenues arising from the four deals that are resurrected,’ said Gangasagar.

‘And why are you being so generous with him?’ asked Somany.

‘Rice pudding is quite expensive these days,’ said Gangasagar cryptically.

T
he modest and austere hut in the woods adjoining the palace grounds of Takshila was dimly lit. Chanakya, much against the wishes of Chandragupta, had decided that he would not reside in the palace but would continue to live in spartan surroundings. Chanakya sat on the ground at his desk, with two lamps before him—one lit and the other not.

The Greek noble who sat before him also on the ground was short, curly-haired and clean-shaven. He wore an ornately patterned chiton—a tunic of light linen, which left a shoulder bare. Except for his belt, which bore a few semiprecious stones, he wore no jewellery at all. His name was Megasthenes and he was the new Macedonian ambassador sent by Seleucus to Chandragupta’s court. ‘Please be clear with me,’ requested Chanakya. ‘Is your meeting with me today personal or official?’

Megasthenes smiled. He had been forewarned of the outspoken Brahmin whose machinations had installed Chandragupta on the throne. ‘I’m here in Takshila to officially represent my lord Seleucus in the court of His Highness, Chandragupta, but I’m here today in my personal capacity to meet you, sire. Fame for your abilities, words and deeds has spread far and wide and I needed to see for myself this Brahmin who has acquired the persona of a demigod!’

‘Ah! Then you must wait for a moment,’ said Chanakya as he efficiently lit the second oil lamp and extinguished the first.

Megasthenes was puzzled. What purpose did it serve to snuff out one lamp while lighting another that was exactly the same? He hesitantly asked, ‘Sire, why did you do that? Both lamps shed the same light.’

‘They are indeed identical, my friend, but the first one contains oil that has been supplied from the government treasury while the second is supplied with oil bought by me personally. Since your visit is not official, why should I expend state resources?’ said Chanakya. The bewildered Megasthenes understood the reason for Chandragupta’s success thus far.

‘My master, Seleucus, has asked me to informally tell you that while he hopes to have mutually beneficial diplomatic relations with Emperor Chandragupta, he will not compromise on Macedonian control over the territory between Phyrgia and the Indus,’ said the ambassador.

‘I thought this was a personal visit—you’re making me spend from my personal tab quite unnecessarily,’ joked Chanakya. ‘Let’s not talk of war between friends, good sir, let’s talk instead about love, marriage and happiness.’

The befuddled ambassador was wondering how to deal with this new tactic, when Chanakya spoke again. ‘Our king, Chandragupta, has already married the lovely Lady Cornelia, the noble daughter of your mighty master, Seleucus. Their secret marriage—a Gandharva Vivah— happened a few months ago. You see, Megasthenes, you and I could well be considered in-laws!’

‘Bu—but wh—what is a secret marriage? How did this happen?’ spluttered Megasthenes nervously.

Chanakya laughed. ‘In an ordinary arranged marriage, the groom gets to screw his wife
after
he gets married, in a Gandharva Vivah he gets to screw her
in order to
get married!’ he quipped crudely. Megasthenes shifted uncomfortably—he was overcome by a persistent desire to scratch his crotch but the presence of this powerful thinker prevented him from doing anything so downright physical.

‘But Seleucus has not given his permission to the match,’ said Megasthenes.

‘It seems that Cornelia doesn’t need it. Our king seems quite besotted with her. It seems that Lady Cornelia has all the four aspects—mother, sister, daughter and whore—of a perfect woman. Did I tell you that four is a lucky number for us?’ said Chanakya.

Megasthenes was struck speechless. Before he could recover, Chanakya said, ‘So you see, ambassador, your visit is indeed a personal one. Shall we now discuss the bride’s dowry?’ Megasthenes’ crotch was itching even more fierecely as he stammered, ‘D—d—dowry?’

‘Yes. After all, the dowry that accompanies the daughter of a monarch such as Seleucus must quite obviously reflect his power and glory. I suggest that Seleucus give Arachosia, Gedrosia, Paropamisadae and Aria to our able monarch. Didn’t I tell you that four is a lucky number for us here in Bharat?’