Chankya's Chant (66 page)

‘Ikrambhai’s missing this time around. There’ll be no one to handle the polling booths if they’re captured by the Opposition,’ said Menon to Gangasagar once all the others had left.

‘You know what makes a humble sandwich taste great?’ asked Gangasagar, ignoring the observation regarding Ikram’s absence.

‘What?’ asked Menon.

‘Chips on the side,’ said Gangasagar.

‘EVM!’ said Gangasagar loudly.

‘Excuse me sir?’ said Menon.

‘Electronic Voting Machines. They’re being used in these elections. No more paper ballots.’

‘Ah, yes. They’re saying it’s more efficient and accurate,’ said Menon.

‘Do you know what’s at the heart of these EVMs, Menon?’

‘What?’

‘Chips,’ said Gangasagar. ‘The EVM is like a sandwich. It’s of no use without the chips!’

‘Did you know that it’s a complex algorithm that powers the chips inside these EVMs?’ asked Gangasagar.

Agrawalji stopped pouring the tea from his cup into his saucer. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘Any reason I should know this?’

‘Well, the EVMs are made by different companies but they all use the same central chip. It’s the one that contains the software to make the machine register a vote and to tally the results.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Agrawalji, slurping his tea nosily from the saucer.

‘Ever learnt any Latin?’ asked Gangasagar suddenly.

‘No. I studied English, Hindi and Sanskrit. Never Latin.’

‘That explains it.’

‘What?’

‘Why you didn’t realise that the word
vote
in English translates to
sentio
in Latin. You now own the company that makes the chips—Sentiosys.’

‘But—but—that’s cheating, Ganga. We can’t rig these machines to give ourselves more votes,’ sputtered Agrawalji. There was seemingly no limit to Gangasagar’s schemes.

‘I agree. If the machines were rigged to give us more votes, it would be cheating. But what if they were rigged to give others more votes?’ he asked innocently.

‘Are you a raving lunatic?’ asked Agrawalji, ‘You want to rig the machines so that they give more votes to others?’

‘Only to those who need them,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Just what are you going on about, Ganga?’ asked the exasperated Agrawalji.

‘Let’s take the example of a hypothetical ABNS candidate fighting in a given constituency. Supposing our candidate has fifty-one per cent of the vote share, it’s obvious that he’s the winner. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘But what if he has fifty per cent—not fifty-one— instead? What determines whether he wins or loses?’

‘How the other fifty per cent is distributed?’

‘Correct. If the other fifty per cent is consolidated with one candidate, we have a tie. But if it’s divided across two or more candidates, our candidate wins. Now, what happens if our candidate has only forty per cent of the vote-share?’

‘Well, his winning or losing depends on how the remaining sixty per cent is distributed.’

‘Correct. The remaining sixty per cent could be with one candidate, in which case our man loses. If the sixty per cent is divided across two candidates, our man still loses if the sixty per cent is divided fifty-ten, but if the sixty per cent is divided thirty-thirty our man wins.’

‘So what is it that you plan to do?’

‘The algorithm will determine dynamically what our candidate’s vote-share is. It won’t add fictitious votes to our tally but simply reallocate residual votes. I’ve always maintained that winning isn’t only about increasing our strength but also about reducing the enemy’s. And let me tell you, we’re surrounded by our enemies—people who won’t hesitate to use every dirty trick in the book!’

Harry Richardson was excited. The two hundred and fifty seats of the Eton College Concert Hall were packed to capacity. It had been his first ever solo performance and he had been accompanied by the Eton College Symphony Orchestra. The concert had been arranged after the violin virtuoso Itzhak Perlman had heard Harry perform while on a visit to Eton. He then wrote his observations to the school. ‘Let’s begin with Harry Richardson. He’s an extraordinary violinist with a virtuoso technique fused to a musical mind that won’t take the slightest detail for granted. Harry seems to find answers where others often don’t see questions...’

Tonight’s performance had been of
Chaconne in D minor from Partita No. 2 in D minor
, Bach’s most famous piece of experimental music. The
Chaconne
was considered the pinnacle of the solo violin repertoire in Bach’s time because it covered almost every aspect of violin-playing. Harry had chosen one of the most difficult pieces ever played and executed it flawlessly. He could see his mother—Josephine—in the front row, enthusiastically applauding with the rest of the audience. They were giving him a standing ovation. She was so proud of her precious boy.

The endorsement by Perlman had also ensured that there were members of the press in the audience. Not just from Britain. Flashes lit up the room as photographs were snapped of the child prodigy. In the distance, Harry could even see an Indian reporter clicking away.

‘You killed Geoffrey!’ she screamed.

‘Chandini, listen to me—’ began Gangasagar.

‘You even had Shankar murdered!’ she wailed.

‘There were reasons—’ he started.

‘And what about Ikrambhai. Did you have him killed too?’

‘As God’s my witness, I loved that rogue. I’m willing to accept all your accusations but not that!’ thundered Gangasagar.

‘Uncle Ganga. I always knew that you were a ruthless man—that you’d do anything and everything to achieve your ends—but I never thought of you as heartless. Today, my opinion’s changed,’ she said, dabbing at her tears with the edge of her saree.

‘The election results have already come out. It’s certain that you’re going to be the next prime minister! Chandini, this is not the time to be losing focus. We still have miles to cover.’

‘There’s no
we
—only
you
and
I
. And I think we both need to go our separate ways. If I ditch you I’ll get the support of our caretaker prime minister who hates you anyway. He controls exactly the number of MPs that I need besides those of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.’

‘But he’ll prop you up only to pull you down, Chandini. Don’t make a pact with the devil,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Why not?’ she shouted. ‘I made one with you, didn’t I?’

The microphone received the sound waves and vibrated the thin diaphragm, which produced an electrical signal. The electric signals were then beamed out by a transmitter to the receiver several houses away. In an air-conditioned room sat the caretaker prime minister. He laughed as he heard the conversation.

Chandini stormed out of Gangasagar’s flat as Gangasagar shouted after her, ‘Chandini, come back, I did it for you—’ but he was unable to complete the sentence. His words were interrupted by a violent spasm of coughing. He ignored it until he noticed the red specks of blood on his kerchief.

T
he dacoits stood on a massive rock ledge and observed Dhanananda’s entourage make its way across the woods. Their leader, a thug called Bibhatsaka, was famed to have killed over a thousand people. His dirty hair was wiry and unkempt. He was clean-shaven except for his moustache which was curled into circles on his cheeks. He wore a stained white dhoti, thick leather sandals and had a dark grey blanket thrown around him like a cloak. His skin was dark and leathery— the result of inadequate bathing over many years—and his teeth were stained with betel nut.