Chankya's Chant (69 page)

‘The deal negotiated by us to give ten per cent of revenues to Agrawalji must be terminated,’ said the grumpy Rungta, realising the wind had been taken out of his sails.

‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Let’s stop the ten-per-cent payment.’

‘That—that’s wonderfully reasonable of you, Gangasagarji,’ said Somany.

‘Now, the ten per cent that I’ve saved you may please be given to the workers. Please ensure that the credit for the whopping increase is attributed to the ABNKU, the union that controls over seventy-five per cent of your workers,’ said Gangasagar.

‘But that’s preposterous! No one shares ten per cent of their revenue with workers!’ exclaimed Rungta, loosening his collar to allow his body heat to escape.

‘Maybe both of you would prefer that Anjali meet the workers instead. I could invite her to the next ABNKU weekly meeting?’

The former finance minister was running late. A lecture engagement had overrun. His secretary assured Gangasagar that he would be back within ten minutes. ‘I’ll wait,’ said Gangasagar, seating himself on the comfortable armchair in the study.

A few minutes later the former minister walked in. He cautiously greeted Gangasagar. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Gangasagarji?’ he asked caustically.

‘I just wanted to keep you informed that your friends are now also my friends. I have put aside my differences with Rungta & Somany,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Just because they have become your friends, doesn’t make you one of mine,’ said the ex-minister angrily. ‘You destroyed my reputation and my career. I shall now ensure that your star student—Chandini Gupta—shall not survive even a day as prime minister—if she gets that far,’ said the former Cabinet member.

‘I understand completely,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Shall I call the press conference or will you?’ he asked as he slid over a copy of the memo that the CBDT chairman had provided him as an insurance policy.

Hon’ble Finance Minister. Investigations into the activities of R&S have revealed several instances of financial irregularity. Various items on the expense side seem to have been inflated, specifically with the intention of reducing their taxable income. In addition, it seems that private partnerships have been created with a view to parking of profits. Various items on the income side have been deferred, seemingly with a view to deprive the tax authorities of revenue. Certain transactions—particularly sale and purchase of assets—have been carried out at questionable valuations, thus further reducing their tax liability, at least on paper. Given the circumstances, I seek your advice on how the above matter should be handled. Thanking you. Chairman, Central Board of Direct Taxes.

The memo was followed by the finance minister’s handwritten reply.

We need to be sympathetic and gentle in our dealings with them. Without their support no government can hope to remain in power. Suggest that adequate flexibility be shown. Regards. Finance Minister.

The purohit of the Hindu shelter was happy to receive an honoured guest. Gangasagar sat down on the mattress offered to him and asked, ‘How’s your son’s education getting along? Did the admission to the medical school help?’

The purohit smiled. He was perfectly bald, his face was wrinkled like a prune and his mouth bore no teeth. His toothless smile said it all. ‘Yes, Gangasagarji. He shall soon graduate, thanks to your generosity.’

‘Do you have the papers? The ones that you
didn’t
give to that ghastly reporter who was tracking the story?’ asked Gangasagar.

The old man handed over a bundle of yellowed postcards and letters. They were mostly love notes— between a pregnant mother and an absentee father. The evidence was clinching.

‘Thank you,’ said Gangasagar.

The priest grinned a toothless grin.

The former premier and his illegitimate daughter were in Simla. The weather was cold and a wonderful scent of pine was in the air. Gangasagar had made the journey with some difficulty, but he figured that the cold mountain air would do him some good.

The hosts were surprised to receive their guest but were cordial nonetheless. As the servant brought hot apple cider and paneer pakoras, Gangasagar handed over the bundle of papers to them. ‘These belong to both of you. No one has any right to be prying into the personal lives of a family,’ he said.

The former statesman looked at the papers and a faint smile appeared on his lips. He recalled how much in love he’d been with the sadhvi’s mother. She was an incredible woman—intelligent and beautiful—like their daughter.

‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, but why are you doing this? You have just lost your leverage on me,’ said the former prime minister as the sadhvi appeared to meditate in silence.

‘I didn’t need all of them. I’ve just kept a few. I’ve placed them in a safe-deposit vault and the key has been left as per my will to you. You shall receive it once my will is probated,’ said Gangasagar.

‘But why?’ asked the sadhvi, opening her eyes.

‘Getting a will probated in India can take a few years. Even if I die tomorrow, it still gives Chandini enough time to consolidate her position as prime minister.’

The caretaker prime minister’s house wore a festive look. Despite having lost the elections, his party had inked an alliance with Chandini. Their MPs would support Chandini’s bid for prime minister but would want some Cabinet berths in return. Gangasagar looked depressed. The caretaker prime minister was not fooled by it. He knew that depression was merely anger without the energy.

‘I know that you have signed a deal with Chandini,’ said Gangasagar, ‘and it is my hope that you will not pull down her government prematurely’.

‘Why should that concern you?’ asked the caretaker PM. ‘I’m told you and your protégé are no longer on speaking terms.’

‘Ah. Yes. We do fight occasionally, but only to mislead others,’ said Gangasagar, ‘and it worked. You would never have extended support to her if we had not fought.’ Gangasagar continued observing the face of the caretaker PM as it turned red with rage.

‘I shall now show both you and your puppet what I am capable of,’ thundered the caretaker premier. ‘I have enough explosive material to blow you and your protégé sky-high! A trust fund was established by you in the Channel Islands to meet the education and living expenses of the bastard boy. I have enough documentary proof to back it up. I’m going to use it to withdraw support no sooner than she becomes prime minister. She’ll go down in history as the shortest-serving prime minister ever!’

‘It’s unfortunate that you choose to behave like that,’ said Gangasagar, almost like a mother admonishing her child.

‘I want her to step aside. She cannot take the oath of office. This country does not need a slut at the helm of affairs!’ shouted the premier.

‘I would suggest that you reconsider your position very carefully, prime minister,’ said Gangasagar softly.

‘Why should I?’ shouted the prime minister.

‘Because I have with me the papers of an account in Liechtenstein. It received payments from North Korea and Libya for designs of sensitive nuclear technology— gas centrifuges—I’m told. The odd thing is that the beneficiary of the account is you. So I would be rather careful about withdrawing support for the entire term of this new administration.’

The ambulance wailed as it sped through the dusty streets of Kanpur. In the back, a medic placed an oxygen mask on Gangasagar’s face and administered an IV of sodium chloride. The old Pandit had fallen down after getting up from his morning prayers and Menon had phoned for the ambulance in panic. The doctor from the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in New Delhi had suggested that Gangasagarji be flown down to Delhi but the old man was adamant. He was staying firmly put at home— Kanpur.

Menon sat beside the Pandit who was struggling to take in air through the mask and held his hand tenderly. There were tears in his eyes. Gangasagar was everything in Menon’s world. Despite his critical state, the old Pandit observed Menon’s anguish and began to say something. ‘Primal—’ he began, but the effort involved in the simple act of breathing prevented him from talking further.