Chankya's Chant (70 page)

A few hours later, the old man was settled in his room in the hospital and regained a little strength. Menon and Agrawalji sat by his side while Gangasagar continued to recite his prayers.

‘
Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.’

The next morning, he lay propped up in bed and asked Menon, ‘I hope you didn’t tell her?’

‘I didn’t,’ lied Menon. He had phoned Chandini the moment they had arrived in the hospital.

‘I need to meet our friend at the Intelligence Bureau,’ whispered Gangasagar hoarsely, to Menon. He knew that the doctor had banned visitors to Gangasagar—even the slightest exertion was not recommended in his condition. Agrawalji reminded Gangasagar gently of the doctor’s orders.

‘He can’t kill my ills with pills and instead chooses to kill me with his bills! Screw doctor’s orders. Find me the IB director.’

Hameeda walked in to the filthy room and sat down at the man’s desk without waiting for an invitation to do so. The room’s walls were of exposed brick and concrete. Above the desk, a naked bulb hung eerily. The room had a vaguely musty smell—stale smoke from the man’s cheroots. He took one look at her and turned his head away in disgust.

‘Why have you come here,
chhakka
?’ he asked using the derogatory term for transsexuals.

‘Certainly not to make love to you, sweetie,’ said Hameeda, falling into the usual eunuch banter effortlessly. ‘I’ve not come to beg. I’m here to buy.’

‘What do you wish to buy, chhakka?’ he asked.

‘A gun,’ said Hameeda.

‘Sorry, I don’t sell guns to guys without dicks. A gun is a very male thing, y’know. No shemales.’

‘Listen, ratface, I am willing to pay you fair price for a Stinger .22 Magnum pen gun. If you don’t sell it to me I’ll get Sachla Devi to come in here and wave her crotch at you everyday. Perhaps you’d prefer that!’

The man grunted. Why did he get all the weirdos of the world as customers? He needed a change of occupation, he thought to himself as he started searching his boxes for the gun the eunuch wanted.

Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he had observed to the director.

Hameeda’s next stop was a little less seedy. It was a contraband dealer’s store. The owner sighed as Hameeda walked in. ‘You want some money, take it,’ he said handing out a fifty-rupee note, ‘But please get the hell out of here. My customers will disappear.’

‘It’s your lucky day,’ said Hameeda. ‘I’m here to pay
you
. I need a used Asahi Pentax 35mm SLR and am willing to pay a fair price.’

‘Why have you come to me, fifty-fifty?’ he asked, using the street slang for eunuchs, ‘There are other dealers who could get it for you.’

‘But no one has a sweeter expression, assface,’ said Hameeda caustically.

The owner sighed again. Why did he have to deal with the dregs of humanity? He began wistfully thinking of how good a snort of coke would feel as he sifted through the cartons, searching for the camera that the fifty-fifty wanted.

Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he had observed to the director.

Hameeda was bent over the little wooden table in her room. In front of her lay the used Pentax camera disassembled besides the Stinger .22 Magnum pen gun. She gutted the camera, gently lowering the Stinger in place of the camera’s innards. She needed to ensure it was properly cocked via the camera’s film-advance lever. It would shoot by pressing the shutter release button— breaking the glass lens elements in front.

Towards one corner of her table lay the pass she had stolen from the prime minister’s private secretary. She could only hope that the bar code still worked and would get her into Rashtrapati Bhavan. If visitor’s passes were allowed access to North Block, South Block and Rashtrapati Bhavan, it seemed unlikely that passes belonging to senior functionaries would not.

On one wall was a nail on which was suspended a coat hanger. The suit, shirt and tie provided by the private secretary had been laundered and pressed and was ready for use.
Of what use is your dying to me, Gangasagar?
thought Hameeda.
It has taken away the opportunity for revenge. Alas, it shall now have to be your beloved Chandini.

The Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapati Bhavan—built to resemble a large jewel box—was actually a simple rectangle, thirty-two metres in length and twenty metres in width. The most striking feature of the hall was that it had a painted ceiling. The central painting—in Persian style— depicted a royal hunting expedition. Originally built as the state ballroom for the British Viceroy, Ashoka Hall also had a wooden dance floor. It was ironic that prime ministers and other ministers took their sacrosanct oath of office and secrecy in this particular hall. After all, prime ministers needed a killer instinct to reach the position first. The rest of their tenure was coloured by the great dance of Indian democracy—defections, rebellions, and general chaos.

The hall was packed to capacity as elected members of the government-in-waiting, as well as the key members of the Opposition, gathered for the historic ceremony symbolising peaceful transfer of power from one civilian government to another. Chandini walked in, dressed in her usual off-white cotton saree, trimmed with a pale gold border, with no jewellery except for a pair of simple solitaire diamond earrings. The assembled crowd instantly gave her a standing ovation. She was the victor arriving to claim the spoils of war. Chandini gratefully acknowledged the ovation and then sat in the front row along with the chief minister of Bihar. The two had proved to be a deadly and unbeatable combination. Together they had swept the Lok Sabha polls in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, the two largest states of India. The remaining seats required for a working majority had been helpfully provided by the caretaker PM under the assumption Chandini and Gangasagar were foes.

The bugles sounded and the presidential guard marched in, escorting the president of India to the hall. The band started playing the Indian national anthem and the entire Indian political leadership stood in respect, ensuring that their faces were appropriately sombre for television cameras that loved close-ups. Almost a third of the hall had been cordoned off for the press corps. Among them was an effeminate young man with a Pentax camera that never seemed to flash.

Gangasagar watched the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The President was administering the oath of office to Chandini. She quite obviously had the text of the oath before her on a single sheet of paper but did not seem to need it. It was almost as if she had spent her entire life preparing for the occasion. In her crisp Oxford accent she was saying ‘I, Chandini Gupta, do swear in the name of God that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India as by law established, that I will uphold the sovereignty and integrity of India, that I will faithfully and conscientiously discharge my duties as prime minister and that I will do right to all manner of people in accordance with the Constitution and the law without fear or favour, affection or illwill.’

The godfather smiled. Without fear, favour, affection or ill will! Ridiculous! The old man continued mumbling his prayers, a laboured effort to get the words out. It said ‘
Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow
.’

He saw his protégé—now sworn in as the eighteenth prime minister of India—fold her hands together in a humble gesture of acknowledgement to the television cameras and then stumble backwards. The red stain that spread on her left shoulder—almost in slow motion— had been fired from a Stinger .22 Magnum. The tiny case of the .22 and the subsonic velocities made it wellsuited for use with a Ruger 10/22 silencer. It was reliable, deadly, and almost completely silent.

The ornate Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapathi Bhavan exploded into pandemonium as shots were fired and hundreds of India’s political leadership ducked for cover. A few minutes later, the director of the Intelligence Bureau had the lifeless body of Hameeda removed as paramedics rushed to the bloody and comatose body of Chandini that lay on the wooden dance floor of Ashoka Hall.

The dance had started.