The Great Indian Novel (41 page)

‘Oh, Kanika,’ laughed the Prime Minister helplessly, ‘I don’t know what I do without you in Delhi most of the year. But I am glad you have taken this little holiday. You are just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Problems?’ Kanika asked, instantly sympathetic.

‘Well, of a fashion,’ Dhritarashtra replied. ‘No, not really. Well, let me put it this way: some of our people in the Kaurava Party think there is a problem.’

‘You are speaking, Prime Minister, in riddles. You will have to make allowances for your uninformed cousin from the country.’

‘I don’t think you know Jayaprakash Drona,’ Dhritarashtra said. It was more of a statement than a question: Kanika had spent the years of the struggle for freedom running the Indian Home Rule League in London, where Dhritarashtra had met him. His personal knowledge of Indian politicians was largely based on whether they had travelled his way during his long self-exile. Drona had not.

‘You mean the saintly anarchist? Only by reputation.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘A
good
reputation?’

‘More or less,’ Kanika responded cautiously. ‘Nationalist, idealist, willing to lay himself on the line, or so the American military attaché said to me at the time of the Quit India business.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought the Americans took much notice of the Quit India movement.’

‘Oh, they did. The moment it was announced. I think they saw Gangaji’s choice of a slogan as a definite tilt towards America. “Quit” is very American, you know. Though the Yankees are more used to hearing it applied to them in the Latin world. I was a little surprised myself: the British stopped using “quit” in that sense about the time of Spenser.’

Dhritarashtra laughed. ‘And did you confirm the American’s analysis for him?’

‘Of course not. I told him we were still three hundred years behind in our use of the English language.’

‘Disappointing,’ Dhritarashtra said lightly. ‘I wonder when we’ll ever make a diplomat out of you? Anyway, so you know about Drona. If you have been following developments at home as you are supposed to, I suppose you also know he quit the Council of Ministers some time ago and went off into the villages, accompanied by Pandu’s five sons and his own.’

‘I seem dimly to recall something along those lines,’ Kanika replied, as fastidious about not splitting his infinitives as he was about infinitely splitting hairs. ‘As you can probably guess, it failed to make much of an impact in the imperialist press, and I read the Indian papers, when they get to me five weeks late, only for the domestic cricket scores. But why on earth did Drona do this?’

‘To work for the political transformation of rural India,’ Dhritarashtra sighed. ‘And no, you wouldn’t have seen much about it in the Indian newspapers even if you had looked beyond the sports page, because their reporters never venture out into the countryside. The Indian press purveys news of, by and for the urban élite. Drona doesn’t belong to any of those categories.’

‘Oh, the jute-bag press will notice him all right, the moment his rustic crusade impinges on their owners’ interests,’ Kanika replied sardonically. ‘My personal recipe for getting the attention of the Indian press is to attack the jute industry. Gangaji did it, and he was front-page material for the rest of his life. Mind you, he did a few other things too, but you can’t overlook the fact that the largest shareholders in at least half a dozen of the country’s leading newspapers are jute barons. But I digress. You were telling me about Drona, who, I presume, has so far left jute alone.’

‘Oh, yes. But he has made some inroads in other areas, with his young followers. Raising the villagers’ consciousness of their democratic rights. Ensuring that tenants on large farms get their due, and clamouring for land reform. Exposing corruption and maladministration in the police and the village councils.’

‘And this worries you?’

‘It delights me!’ Dhritarashtra was emphatic. ‘Kanika, these are the sorts of things that I have spoken and written about all my life, the kinds of things that the Kaurava movement was, as far as I am concerned, all about. You know my views - we were Socialists in London together. How could you ask such a question?’

‘Because you seem troubled. And because you implied there may be a problem about Drona.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry, Kanika. It’s just that - that this whole business is so terribly unworthy, if you know what I mean. Some people have been advising me that Drona and his young followers are becoming too popular. They feel I ought to be doing something to - make life a little difficult for them. Cut them down to size.’ Dhritarashtra exhaled his anguish. ‘I just can’t bring myself to, Kanika. I need your advice.’

Kanika was silent for a moment, as if weighing two answers in the balance. ‘In questions of political judgement, Prime Minister, I am something of a traditionalist,’ he said at last. ‘I go back to the lessons of the
Arthashastra,
from which Machiavelli plagiarized so effectively, and the
Shantiparvan
of Vyasa. I hope you won’t mind what I am going to tell you, but for what it’s worth, it comes sanctified by the centuries:

It’s never that easy to be a king
And rule a populace;
For popularity’s a fickle thing
Which might easily gobble us.

A king must always make it clear
That in his realm he’s boss;
Nobody else, though near and dear,
May inflict on him a loss.

A king must always show his might
Even ‘gainst kith and kin;
It doesn’t matter if he’s right
But he must be seen to win.

There’s not much point in being strong
If no one see’s your strength;
A tiger shows power all along
His striped and muscular length

Any weakness must be concealed
As a tortoise hides his head;
A king must never be revealed
Quaking under his bed.

Stealth and discretion are the means
To employ in making plans;
A clever king, though, never leans
In trust on another man’s.

Pretend! Conceal! Find out! Mistrust!
These are the vital things;
Maintain a cheerful outer crust
But permit no rival kings.

Keep your intentions to yourself
Don’t reveal them on your face;
Purchase silence with your pelf
And pack a knife (in case).

Give orders only when you’re sure
Of their effective execution;
Make certain you are seen as pure
– Innocent of persecution.

Eradicate the slightest threat!
Don’t forget the thinnest thorn
Embedded in your flesh, might yet
Fester; and this I warn:

A small spark can start a forest fire –
No enemy’s too minor –
Before the danger gets too dire
Don’t make the fine points finer

There never is a genuine need
To issue an ultimatum;
Before a rival does the deed –
Simply eliminate him.

Do it sharp, and do it quick!
But never let him catch on.
(To be safe, keep a big stout stick
And always sleep with the latch on.)

Dissimulate! When angry, smile;
Speak soft; then strike to kill;
Then weep – oh, never show your bile –
And mourn your victim still.

Amass all the wealth you can;
Cash, jewels, humans too;
Resources are needed for every plan,
And any means will do.

Remember it’s said a crooked stick
Serves just as well as a straight one
When it’s fruit from a tree you wish to pick
(An early plum, or a late one).

So employ your own crooked men
To gather information;
From the market and the gambling den
Let them take the pulse of the nation.

Regarding enemies, I only wish
You’d learn from the fisherman’s book;
He traps and slits and strips his fish.
And burns what he doesn’t cook.

That’s the only way to treat all those
Who pose a threat to you;
They may genuflect, and touch your toes –
But don’t let them get to you.

Think of the future; it’s time to start
To anticipate the threat;
If you don’t grow callouses on your heart
You might just bleed to death.’

Dhritarashtra sighed. ‘Thank you, Kanika. I know you’re speaking with my best interests at heart, but that’s simply not me. I can’t do it.’

‘You asked for my advice,’ Kanika Menon shrugged. ‘I gave you the only advice I could.’

‘I know,’ Dhritarashtra said. ‘Now let’s try and forget I ever asked you, shall we?’

‘Certainly,’ his visitor said, the sharp, hawk-like face a mask. ‘It’ll go no further.’

But it already had. Just beyond the half-open door leading to the Prime Minister’s private study, Dhritarashtra’s dark-eyed daughter put down the book she had been pretending to read and smiled a quiet smile of satisfaction She was glad her idealistic father had some less idealistic friends. Dhritarashtra might forget Kanika’s advice, but Priya Duryodhani would remember every word of the acerbic High Commissioner’s brutal counsel.

And she would not hesitate to act on it.

The government jeep seemed to hesitate before turning into the small village lane. When it gradually eased its way past the corner and entered the dust- track, its gear-grinding reluctance proved amply justified. There was scarcely enough space between the walls of the mud houses on either side for it to progress smoothly, and the road-surface available would not lightly have been classified by the Automobile Association as motorable. But once the turn was past, it was almost easier to continue than to retreat. The jeep bumped and jolted its way down, scattering shrieking children and squawking chickens in all directions like seeds flung by a tipsy farmer.

At last it drew to a noisy halt before an open space where a throng of villagers had gathered in front of a red-and-white banner proclaiming ‘Land Reform Rally’ in Hindi and English. A bearded speaker was declaiming to the crowd without the benefit of either text or microphone. The wayward breeze carried some of his phrases erratically towards sections of the crowd, which punctuated his eloquence with the occasional ragged cheer. The arrival of the jeep lost him the fringes of his audience: from where they stood the intruding vehicle had a clear advantage in audibility.

A rumpled figure emerged from the jeep and stood outside it, squinting at the scene with his hand to his brow like a sailor looking for land. A generous layer of dust had settled on his face and hair and streaked his unfortunate choice of garment, a cream-coloured cotton suit. In his hand he held a battered black briefcase.

‘Uncle Vidur!’ a youthful voice rang out above the speculative murmurs of the crowd. ‘Uncle Vidur!’ its twin echoed.

A tall, distinguished-looking young man in a cotton shirt and trousers detached himself from the knot of people near the platform and made his way after the two younger boys to the jeep. ‘Uncle Vidur,’ Yudhishtir said. ‘What a pleasure to see you! What brings you here?’

‘You,’ Vidur said shortly. He was clearly in no mood for pleasantries. ‘Where are the others? I have to talk to you all urgently.’

‘Dronaji’s on the platform and Bhim is pretty much holding it up for him - one of the supports gave way: we think it was sawed through by one of the landlords’ people last night. Oh, and Arjun is up there somewhere keeping an eye on the crowd; we’ve had a couple of ugly incidents recently. But if you’ll wait just a few minutes, Uncle Vidur, the rally’s almost coming to an end.’

Vidur looked dubiously at the crowd. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said at last. ‘But try and signal to him to finish fairly quickly. I haven’t a great deal of time.’

Up on the platform Jayaprakash Drona was building up to an impassioned climax. ‘We hear a great deal of socialist talk from New Delhi,’ he declared. ‘The government tells us it is reserving the “commanding heights of the economy” for the people - for the public sector. And what are these “commanding heights”? Iron and steel, to build big ships in which none of us will ever sail. Power, to light the homes of the rich who have electricity. Banking and finance, for those who have money to put into them.’ (Answering echoes from the throng.) ‘But what about the land, the earth, the soil which each of you and four fifths of your countrymen till to feed yourselves, your families, and the ration-card-wallahs in the cities? No one in Delhi is talking about land!’ (Angry shouts.) ‘While the bureaucrats and ministers stand on their “commanding heights”, the common peasant of India is trodden into the demanding depths - of starvation and ruin!
They
do not care about ruthless exploitation by the landlords in the villages, because they are too busy in the cities. Busy worshipping at what our Prime Minister, Dhritarashtra, a man for whom I have great respect,’ (ironic cheers from a section of the crowd), ‘no, seriously, a man whom I greatly respect, called the “new temples” of modern India - the gleaming new factories his government has erected. Why “new temples”? Because Dhritarashtra hopes that our people will abandon their old temples, their real temples, to pray at the altar of his new machinery.’ (Shouts of outrage.) ‘I know this is difficult for you to believe, but that is what our Prime Minister wants. Well, he is not going to get it for a while, because his ministers dutifully echo his views, and then they make the new temples just like the old ones: they go to inaugurate a steel factory or a chemical laboratory, and they break a coconut and perform a puja outside.’ (Appreciative laughter.) ‘So I say to you all, it is time we forgot about the new temples and spent a bit of time thinking about the people who go to the old ones.’ (Hear, hear.) ‘You!’ (Roar of applause.) ‘This government has got to be pressed into implementing the land reforms the Kaurava Party has promised since before Independence. The honest peasant must be rewarded for the sweat of his brow! Land to the tiller! Down with landlord exploitation! Long live the humble Indian farmer!’ (And echo answered, ‘
Zindabad!’)