‘Worry is like a rocking chair; it keeps you in motion, but gets you nowhere,’ replied Gangasagar, swaying back and forth on the lounger he was seated on. ‘I have asked Agrawalji to set up a privately-funded trust. The money from R&S won't be used entirely for political ends. It shall identify Dalit villages in Bihar—the poorest of the poor—and focus on a few simple issues.’
‘What issues?’
‘A primary school, clean drinking water, a basic healthcare centre and the guarantee of daily nutrition.’
‘And which villages are the beneficiaries?’
‘Villages in Rohtas and Bhabua districts of Bihar.’
‘Does the choice of Rohtas and Bhabua have anything to do with the fact that these districts are the electoral strongholds of Bihar's Dalit chief minister?’ asked Chandini shrewdly.
‘The chief minister of Bihar wishes to have a meeting with you,’ said Menon.
‘Ah!’ said Gangasagar smiling.
‘Why are you so interested in Bihar?’ asked Chandini, ‘Our stronghold is in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘Dear girl, Bihar sends fifty-four MP's to the Lok Sabha. During the last general elections the chief minister of Bihar had a seat-sharing arrangement with the ruling party. His party contested fifty per cent of the seats and the ruling party contested the other fifty. He now wants to contest all the seats on his own in the next elections.’
‘So why does he need us?’
‘Because if he has an alliance with us, we would contest only Uttar Pradesh seats—not Bihar's, and he would contest only Bihar seats—not Uttar Pradesh's. It works for both of us.’
‘But you sent me to his stronghold in Bihar!’
‘How else could I have got him on the run?’
‘Then you used Agrawalji to get his bank in trouble with the regulators.’
‘A run on the bank was the perfect method to set the chief minister on the run. Judging by the looks of it, my scheme seems to have worked!’
‘But Bihar in itself cannot get us a majority in the house. Even assuming that eighty-five seats of Uttar Pradesh are with the ABNS and fifty-four of Bihar with him, we only make a hundred and thirty-nine. That's still only half of what we need to form a government on our own.’
‘The Bihar chief minister will do the rest.’
‘How?’
‘Didn't you know that he's an intimate friend of the leader of the Opposition?’
‘The Americans have decided to supply a couple of billion dollars’ worth of military hardware to Pakistan,’ stated the RAW chief. ‘The news isn't public as yet but will be announced next month by the White House.’
‘They're playing a dangerous game,’ said Chandini. ‘They know that Pakistan's army is busy fighting India rather than concentrating on their real enemy, Islamic militancy.’
‘Can't we convince the Americans that it isn't in their own interest to be supplying arms to Pakistan?’ enquired the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘Everything's been tried. There's no diplomatic channel that hasn't been explored. Our lobbyists even met with the American President's latest infatuation. She's rather pretty—a little chubby though,’ said Chandini smiling.
‘I have an idea,’ said the director.
‘What?’ asked Chandini.
‘Gas,’ said the director.
‘I'm sorry to hear that. Can I get you an antiflatulent?’ asked Chandini.
‘Not gas. Gas centrifuges,’ said the embarrassed director.
‘What are you both going on about?’ asked the RAW chief crossly. He was feeling left out of the earthshattering discussion on wind.
‘The designs of the gas centrifuges used by the Pakistanis to produce nuclear material at their atomic reactors were stolen from a company called Uronico in Germany,’ explained the director.
‘So what? Most of Pakistan's nuclear programme consists of stolen technology,’ said Chandini.
‘Yes, but Uronico's designs were based on a Russian design. The Russians would willingly share the design with us, if you asked them,’ said the director.
‘Why should I want to obtain antiquated designs for a technology that we already have?’ asked Chandini incredulously.
‘Because I have a man in my department who is terrific at creating antiquated designs—he used to work for the Archaeological Survey,’ said the director.
‘And how would that help us?’ snapped the RAW chief.
‘We could have the drawings secretly sold to North Korea and Libya,’ said the director.
‘That's preposterous! We've never engaged in proliferation,’ said Chandini.
‘That's where my chap comes into the picture,’ said the director, relishing the attention he was now commanding. The former police commissioner was now in his element. ‘He'll build in a couple of flaws that make the technology useless. But he'll make it authentic enough to ensure provenance.’
‘But how does this help in our negotiations with the Americans?’ asked Chandini.
‘Ah! The designs will indicate that they are Uronico plans redrawn in Pakistan. I'm assuming that with the ruckus that will follow, you'll be able to get the Americans to drop their plans to supply hardware to proliferators.’
‘I'm assuming that a large chunk of the money coming in as commissions from R&S is being used as we discussed?’ asked Gangasagar.
Agrawalji nodded. ‘Besides a small fraction for the work of the trust in Bihar, the balance is all going towards buying the shares of Sentiosys. We now own five per cent of the company.’
‘Good,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But why are we buying Sentiosys?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘There are better software companies that we could invest in. We'd double the return on our investment!’
‘I like the sound of its name,’ said Gangasagar, winking at his former boss.
‘The leader of the Opposition on a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, Mr Speaker, sir. My question was regarding this government's handling of the recent hijack—’
‘The leader of the Opposition shall resume his seat. The Prime Minister has just begun narrating his version of the events. This house shall hear him—’
‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The Prime Minister was not even present in the control room. The minister for external affairs was. We'd like to hear from her,’ argued the leader of the Opposition.
The Prime Minister sat down, allowing Chandini to get up and speak. ‘The hon'ble minister for external affairs may address the house,’ said the Speaker.
Sitting in the visitor's gallery, Gangasagar smiled. The leader of the Opposition was turning Chandini into a star.
‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ chanted Gangasagar to himself.
‘You should resign. In fact, the entire ABNS contingent in the Cabinet should resign.’
‘But we're seen as part of the government,’ argued Chandini. ‘We can't be seen to be pulling it down!’
‘Not unless you have a very good reason,’ said Gangasagar. He carefully opened his little silver box—a gift from Agrawalji—took out a paan and thoughtfully placed it in his mouth. He allowed the juices to swirl around inside his mouth as his brain whirred—food for thought. He was sitting along with Chandini in the backseat of her official car as they drove towards the building in South Block that housed the ministry of external affairs.
‘And the good reason?’ asked Chandini.
‘This is the perfect opportunity to bring down this government and bring about fresh elections,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I had a meeting with our friend, the director of the Intelligence Bureau, this morning. He said Rashid was released from interrogation at the behest of the Prime Minister.’
‘Why was that man released? He was plotting to kill me!’
‘While that's true,’ said Gangasagar, ‘it's equally true that Rashid was actually Makhmud, a RAW agent, and you—my dear—were instru
mental in having him arrested by the Chinese. Can't blame a man for getting upset.’ He grinned when he saw the scowl on Chandini's face.
He quickly resumed. ‘But there's no way that the prime minister can reveal that Rashid's a RAW agent. This is our opportunity to glorify Ikram, the ABNS hero who died for his country. It's also our chance to demonise the dastardly prime minister—releasing the kingpin of the plot, Rashid. And finally you, the noble inheritor of Ikram's legacy—resigning in disgust along with all your colleagues of the ABNS!’
‘How will we prove it?’
‘The IB director is willing to go public. He'll announce that he had Rashid in custody and that he was forced to release him at the behest of the prime minister.’
‘If we resign, this government collapses. You do realise that?’
‘This government has seen its own finance minister and prime minister resign in the aftermath of numerous scams. Our arrangement with the Bihar chief minister is in place. The leader of the Opposition is waiting for a sign. We should not wait any further.’
‘What sign is the Opposition leader waiting for?’
‘It looks like the letter “R” dissected by a horizontal line.’
‘Huh?’
‘The rupee sign.’
‘These are difficult times. The Opposition seems to be sharpening their knives. Of course, I am with you. The whole ABNS is with you. You have our assured support,’ said Gangasagar to the prime minister.
‘Then why am I hearing stories about the imminent resignation of your ministers from the Cabinet, Gangasagarji?’ asked the worried premier.
‘Rumours travel fast but don't stay put for as long as the truth. You should disregard such stories.’
‘I'm happy that we've had this discussion. Now, what is it that you wanted to see me about?’
‘Well, given the uncertainties that surround us, I believe that some amount of divine intervention is called for.’
‘What do you suggest, Gangasagarji. I didn't know you were one to believe in praying for God's blessings.’
‘Sometimes, kneeling keeps us in good standing,’ joked Gangasagar. ‘In any case, I plan to visit Mumbai later today. As you know, the Ganesha festival is currently being celebrated and I'm paying my respects to Lalbaugcha Raja.’
The prime minister nodded. He'd heard about Lalbaugcha Raja but had never had the opportunity of visiting. Each year during the festival, a massive twelvefoot high idol of Ganesha would be installed in Lalbaug— in the heart of Mumbai's textile mill district—and over a million devotees would throng to him each day over the next eleven days.
‘It is claimed that this year over a hundred million rupees will get collected as offerings to the deity,’ said the premier.
‘Absolutely. I have brought here with me a few thousand rupees, which I would like you to hold in your hands before I take this offering with me to Lalbaugcha Raja on your behalf and pray for our continued success,’ said Gangasagar as he handed over a bundle of crisp thousand-rupee notes to the prime minister.
‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, for being such a good friend of my government. Man's way leads to a hopeless end but God's way leads to endless hope,’ said the prime minister as he handed back the cash to Gangasagar.
The horseshoe-shaped chamber of the Lok Sabha had the Speaker's chair located between the two arms. In the pit of the chamber, just below his chair, was the Table of the House where the secretary-general, secretariat officers and recorders of the proceedings sat. To the Speaker's right were the government benches and to his left sat the members of the Opposition. The prime minister sat at his customary seat in the front row of the government benches. Towards the left was the special box reserved for VIPs inside which sat Gangasagar. Also seated on the first row of the government benches was Chandini. Dressed in a citrus-green saree, her ensemble—together with her green eyes—blended in perfectly with the green leather of the chamber of the world's largest democracy.
Overlooking the chamber opposite the Speaker was a large portrait of Vithalbhai Patel, the first elected president of the Central Legislative Assembly, a man who had stood for high parliamentary traditions. The face in the portrait did not seem to foresee that all parliamentary traditions were about to be broken that day.
‘The hon'ble minister for power may address the House,’ said the Speaker.
‘Hon'ble Speaker, sir, I beg to move for leave to introduce a Bill to provide for the establishment of a Central Electricity Regulatory Commission and for matters connected therewith or incidental thereto,’ said the minister for power.
‘Motion moved,’ said the Speaker mechanically.
‘Sir, I have given a notice under Rule 72 to oppose the introduction of this Bill,’ said the leader of the Opposition, rising from his seat.
‘Yes, yes. The Hon'ble leader of the Opposition may address the House,’ said the Speaker.
‘Sir, I hold in my hands over a million rupees. This money was given as a bribe by the Prime Minister to one of our honourable members to secure his vote for this Bill in Parliament. I demand an immediate statement—’
The premier's face turned ashen as the proceedings descended into chaos. The uproar was deafening, with the Opposition members shouting ‘Shame!’ and the occupants of the government benches yelling ‘Liar!’ The leader of the Opposition, still standing with bundles of cash in his hands, screamed above the din, ‘These notes were handed over by the prime minister himself. Let the country's investigating agencies check to see whether his fingerprints are on them or not!’
Trying to be heard above the din, the Speaker shouted, ‘I request all the members to please take their seats. There's simply no reason why this House cannot maintain dignity and decorum.’
‘It isn't possible to maintain decorum when the prime minister himself indulges in acts of corruption—this government is rotten to the core and this House has lost confidence in it!’ The voice was not from the Opposition benches. It was Chandini's. ‘At this moment, all eight members of the ABNS have handed in their resignations. This administration has allowed a key operative responsible for the sabotage attempt on my helicopter and the subsequent hijack of IC-617 to walk free! Is this how we should honour the memory of the late Ikram Shaikh, who sacrificed his life for the nation?’
The members of the Opposition rushed into the well of the house and the Speaker was left with little alternative but to adjourn the proceedings. In the visitor's gallery, Gangasagar watched the happenings and snickered. Chandini had been planning to hand in her resignation to the prime minister the previous day. He had advised her against it.
‘But you advised us to resign. Why not let us hand in our letters?’ she had demanded.
‘Because I want live television cameras present when you do,’ he had said.
‘How are we doing with Sentiosys?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘We now own twenty-five per cent of the company.’
‘Good,’ said Gangasagar.
‘I still don't understand why we're buying Sentiosys,’ said Agrawalji. ‘The company has shown losses for the past three years. The commissions flowing in from R&S are huge and yet we persist in throwing good money into bad deals. Why?’
‘I like the cover design of their annual report,’ said Gangasagar cheerily.
‘Did you get Chandini to agree to procuring the gas centrifuge designs from the Russians?’ asked Gangasagar. The IB director nodded.
‘And were these redrafted to resemble the Uronico plans, as I asked?’
‘Yes—beautifully and aesthetically.’
‘Did you get the RAW chief to sell the plans to the North Koreans?’ asked the Pandit.
‘They fell over themselves to buy it,’ said the director. ‘They're under the impression they've acquired the plans through the Pakistani black market.’
‘And the money?’
‘Transferred to the Liechtenstein bank account number that you gave me.’
‘Good man. Your debt to me for having you promote
d from police commissioner to Director Intelligence Bureau is now repaid.’
The backyard of the sadhvi's cottage in Simla was quiet. The sadhvi—the blessed mother—sat facing a roaring fire. Opposite her, sat three prime ministers. The first was her father—the previous premier who had been forced to resign because of Gangasagar's press leaks about his relationship with the sadhvi. The second was the man who had clambered down a rope ladder from a helicopter following Gangasagar's advice—the former defence minister. He had usurped the prime ministerial chair only to have his government pulled down by the telecom, fodder, SEZ and petroleum scams. The third was the current prime minister—the home minister whose portfolio had been passed on to Ikram—brought down by the recent cash-for-votes scandal and just a caretaker till the next elections.
In front of the three men lay the carcass of a goat covered in black cloth, with a small idol, moulded out of dough, placed on top. Surrounding it were odd items such as lemons, nails, yellow rice and chicken bones. The sadhvi was tending the fire. ‘Om lingalingalinalinga, kilikili…’ she chanted as she threw mustard seeds and secret ingredients into the fire, producing strange colours, crackling sounds and odd-smelling vapours.
She nodded at her father. He dipped the oldfashioned quill into a bowl containing the goat's blood and carefully wrote ‘Gangasagar’ on a chit of paper. He then reached over and handed the chit to her. She dipped the chit into a pot of melted butter and then threw it into the fire. It burst into flames.
She sprinkled water on the dough idol and mopped it with peacock feathers while delicately placing a string around the idol's neck. She gestured for the former defence minister to hold one end of the string while she held the other. As they both pulled, the string tightened around the doughboy's neck like a hangman's noose until the head separated and rolled into the fire.
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