‘Excellent, Sir! All the film personalities and other dignitaries are already inside the hall. We will begin the event in about twenty-five minutes.’
Saran nodded.
‘We have a small buffet in the VVIP chamber. That’s where you can rest until we begin, Sir,’ Singh continued, as his eyes searched and quickly caught sight of a Sikh gentleman standing at the back around ten feet away. Singh gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Relieved, the host—still holding Saran’s hand firmly—led the PM and his entourage down the corridor towards the special chamber. Saran’s bodyguards, two SPG personnel, each at least 6-foot-4 and weighing close to 120 kilos of mainly muscle, followed suit. One of them noticed the same Sikh man, in a large maroon turban, 40ish, thin but with a reasonably large pot-belly, break away from the group of officials and disappear towards the back.
As Joginder Singh Bhatia, also known as Jolly, left the welcome assembly, he overheard the Prime Minister ask Chandrachur Singh when Jazmeen was scheduled to start her performance. Jolly smiled as he hurriedly made his way to the Siri Fort pantry to have another check of the catering services that his company was responsible for that evening.
Manjrekar’s instructions had been very clear and he was going to stick to them sans deviation, considering how crowded the place was with security personnel. The ‘On Official Duty’ pass that he wore around his neck had a red border, which meant that he had access to all areas; but any suspicious move could get him stopped and questioned. He couldn’t risk that.
‘Just look busy outside Rooms 4 and 5,’ he had been told. Room 4 was Jazmeen’s personal makeup room. Room 5 was being used as a hold area for Chandrima Bhan and her troupe. ‘With so many dancers and staff around, no one will bother you there.’
There were two dusty steel chairs in the corridor about fifteen feet from the door of Room 5. Manjrekar used his hands to wipe one of them clean. He then settled precariously on it, as if half expecting the seat bottom to give away under his weight. His hand touched the gun holster near his pant’s right pocket. Its weight and the feel of leather felt reassuring.
There was still some time to kill, so he dreamed of his daughter Roshni.
Prime Minister Satyendra Saran took a big bite of the paneer patty that had been served to him on an expensive white plate by a waiter wearing a starched pagdee. First, the flaky folds of the perfectly browned covering dissolved like fine flecks of butter in his mouth, and then the succulent paneer burst through, soft and gently spiced, generating a smile of fulfilment. Though that smile could easily have been caused by the beautiful woman who had just walked into the VVIP lounge. Saran had explicitly asked Chandrachur Singh to organise a meeting with the lady before the event began. Now, seeing her walk towards him with her customary dazzle, Saran hurriedly chewed the last of the paneer and gulped it down.
‘Pradhan Mantriji!’ Jazmeen said in the friendly and boisterous style she deployed during her interviews and public appearances. She extended her hand and Saran promptly took it. All the six pairs of eyes facing her were immediately upon her skin, much of which was still visible under the transparent dupatta she had draped over herself. Except for Saran, Singh and Karan, Jazmeen didn’t recognise the other three men. It didn’t matter. She was interested in making Saran feel like he was the only man in the room.
‘My lucky stars! I get to meet my real hero again so soon!’ she declared.
Saran smiled benignly. ‘Jazmeenji, I am the one who is lucky!’
‘Please, Sir! Don’t call me “ji”. It makes me sound old. Like a Rajya Sabha member!’ she scolded playfully.
‘OK, OK, never again!’ he said, raising both hands in apology. ‘Though, one day, I will nominate you to the Upper House.’
‘By God! May you never get that opportunity, Sir!’
Both giggled, as did the rest of the gathering.
‘I hope we Dilliwalas are taking good care of you today! Just like we did at Gopinath Chaube’s daughter’s wedding the other week,’ Saran asked, as everyone settled down on the elegant beige sofas.
‘Since I was going to be meeting you, did they even have a choice?’ Jazmeen said flirtatiously. ‘But I’m very disappointed with you, Sir! Where are the famed kachoriyaan and samosay? Look at you, sitting in the heart of Delhi and eating patties and cakes instead of what your city is known for!’
‘OK, next time you are in Delhi, I shall invite you to my residence for a full-on Purani Dilli buffet. There are a few perks of being the Prime Minister—like you can order food from any place you want and be assured of express delivery!’
They discussed Indian cuisines for some minutes over patties, cake and coffee. The other guests chipped in occasionally.
‘Frankly, who can beat the street food available in your city, Jazmeen!’ Saran said. ‘Our Minister Saahab here,’ he continued, turning a part of his gaze towards Karan, ‘has been spending a lot of time in Mumbai these days. I am surprised that the two of you haven’t bumped into each other at an event there yet!’
Jazmeen’s face blanched for a fraction of a second. ‘Does this bastard already know about us?’ was the thought that had exploded in both her and Karan’s mind at the very same instant.
‘Arre Sir, your ministers are all VVIPs!’ she replied, straining to keep her voice even. ‘Why would they have time to meet with a nobody like me?’ She swept a glance towards Karan, who appeared to have recovered from Saran’s googly too. His face had resumed the same polite smile it had carried ever since Jazmeen had walked into the room.
‘Yes, or so they seem to think,’ Saran said, the snide intention of the remark clear only to Karan and Jazmeen.
‘In any case, Sir, we Mumbai movie folk hardly have time to notice what is happening in the rest of the country!’ Jazmeen said in an attempt to deflect the conversation to more pleasant subjects. ‘You see, we are so busy admiring our own faces in the mirror!’
Her self-deprecating humour made Saran laugh. ‘Is that why you always look so dazzling, Jazmeenji?’
‘“Ji” again?’
Saran bowed in apology, making her smile.
‘If you must know, Prime Minister Saahab, our dazzling beauty comes out of bottles and jars! Don’t let anyone fool you into believing anything else!’
Saran laughed.
‘But it’s true!’ Jazmeen beseeched. ‘Now look, Sir. In a few minutes, you and I will share the same stage. There will be thousands in the audience assembled here, and millions more on TV. With make-up, I will look like an apsara straight from Bollywood Heaven. With makeup, you could look like an avtaar of Lord Vishnu too!’
‘Forget Krishan Bhagwan,’ Saran played along with her joke, ‘I bet you, you can’t even make this face look like Anupam Kher’s!’ All the men present were now grinning.
‘Prime Minister Satyendra Saranji, are you actually challenging Jazmeen that she can’t make you look handsome?’ Jazmeen asked loudly, her voice sounding cheerfully defiant.
Saran smiled and pointed at his watch. ‘We have five minutes before we need to go out to the public,’ he said. ‘Miracles don’t happen in five minutes!’
‘Sareen!’ Jazmeen yelled. ‘Someone please go get my makeup man from my room. Quick!’
Within five minutes, the most amusingly outrageous scene was playing out in the VVIP lounge of Siri Fort. Any newspaper, magazine or TV channel in India would have willingly given away their entire annual budget to get the footage of India’s new It-Girl’s makeup assistant dabbing foundation cream on the forehead and cheeks of the Prime Minister! Saran was no prude, in fact, he was happy to play the flirting game with the hot young woman sitting in front of him, and who was clearly having a great time herself.
Literally within minutes, Sareen’s deft strokes had evened out the tonal differences in Saran’s facial complexion, hidden the blackheads on his nose and cheeks, and camouflaged the age-lines on his forehead. The effect wasn’t transformational, obviously, but greatly noticeable.
‘Well?’ Jazmeen d
emanded when the exercise was complete. Saran was looking at the results in the mirror that Sareen held.
‘I say, that Shah Rukh Khan chap had better watch out!’ the PM said finally, leading to chuckles all around.
Finally, it was upon Chandrachur Singh to break up the party. ‘I think we must proceed to the stage now. It is time to present the hero and heroine of tonight’s event to the public!’
When Saran and Jazmeen stepped on to the stage a couple of minutes later, the waiting audience stood up and gave them a standing ovation that went on for almost a minute. All that they could do in return was fold their hands, bow, wave, and make gestures for folks to resume their seats, repeatedly. Then the two most important guests walked to the right corner of the stage and lit the ceremonial inauguration diya together.
The grand show had begun.
Manjrekar’s mind may have braced itself for the havoc he was about to cause in the universe in a few minutes, but his body was a different story altogether. Despite the mild Delhi weather at this time of the year, his skin crawled with cold sweat, making his teeth chatter. His limbs felt like lead. And if what he was feeling in his stomach were proverbial butterflies, they sure belonged to a particularly fluttery variety. Manjrekar sensed he needed a washroom break. He looked around his vantage point. It was good that the dignitaries were busy inside the main hall now, leaving the back area bereft of security personnel. Manjrekar decided to leave his perch outside Rooms 4 and 5 for a few minutes.
Later, as he was walking back from the washroom, he could hear the hollow wafts of a man making a speech. It sounded like Prime Minister Saran but Manjrekar couldn’t be certain. ‘Halkat chutiya, saala. Out to solve all the imaginary problems in the world.’ He angrily spat at the bottom of one of the pillars dotting the hallway already spotted with paan stains. Manjrekar was about twenty-five feet away from his steel chairs when he noticed something strange. A lanky man wearing a waiter’s uniform was just exiting Jazmeen’s room. It was the same fellow he had noticed hovering around a few times in the past half hour. Manjrekar saw the man quietly close the door behind him and walk away in the other direction. The fleeing figure was soon obscured by the dancers of Chandrima Bhan’s troupe milling in and out of Room number 5.
Manjrekar reached the large, white door with a big ‘4’ painted on it. The noisy girls in the hallway, each wearing identical dance costumes, didn’t seem to even notice him. They had seen so many security folk today, what was one more? All policewalas looked the same!
Manjrekar rapped on the door gently. As expected, there was no response. He entered and swiftly closed the door behind him. The sounds from the world outside disappeared instantly. The room was cold, the humming air-conditioning chilling the empty space to near-freezing. Manjrekar’s eyes took a few seconds to get used to the brightly-lit interior. There were clothes everywhere. And shoes. A bra lay carelessly on a single-seater sofa. It seemed too small to be Jazmeen’s. He imagined his wife’s dark breasts. The ones he hadn’t touched in over a year. He dismissed the thought quickly. There was work to be done.
He quietly sat himself on the large sofa on the right, taking a few minutes to familiarise himself with the room. It had been specially chosen for the drama performance that was about to be staged. After about a couple of minutes, Manjrekar got up and opened the door of a small walk-in closet diagonally across from the sofa. The space was like a small corridor, about five-feet in depth and three in width, with shelves lining one side. It was bare. There was no light inside. Manjrekar walked in and closed the door behind him.
Just as he had been instructed.
Ruby Verghese’s phone screen lit up suddenly, offering her a distraction from the Prime Minister’s address. Being a TV reporter, she had lived through too many such speeches. She thanked her sagacity of remembering to put the phone on vibrate as soon as Saran and Jazmeen had arrived on stage. She saw the flashing number and made a face. ‘Stupid idiot, it’s too late. Why is he calling me now?’ she thought, but at the very last second, she hit the green button instead of the red one. ‘Maybe I will need him again in the future.’
‘Hello?’ she whispered.
‘That camera you gave me, Madam?’ the man on the other side said without preamble. He was talking in a whisper too.
‘Haan?’
‘I have placed it in her room.’
‘Her makeup room? Carefully hidden, I hope?’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘That’s excellent!’ ‘Maybe I’ll still get something out of it!’
There was a brief pause.
‘What about my…?’
‘Payment? Sure, Keshav, let me come out of the audi as soon as the event is over and I will call you.’
‘Thank you, Madam,’ the man said and hung up.
‘Polite chap. How I wish all waiters were useful like him,’ Ruby thought as the phone went dark. She looked at the stage again. The PM was still waxing eloquent about Right-dot-Comm. ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She moved her eyes away from him and rested them on the younger man seated on stage. As usual, he looked delectable in his typical crisp, white, linen kurta and blue jeans.
‘Whoever manages to hook Karan Rathore has got to be the luckiest bitch in the world!’ she sighed.
Halfway through Saran’s speech, Karan willed his mind to tune out his mentor’s fake words completely. They were giving him a headache. He discreetly looked at his watch. ‘Well, at least it’ll be over soon,’ he thought.
He wasn’t just talking about the speech.
Physically, Karan was seated no more than ten feet away from where the Prime Minister stood at the podium addressing an elite audience of around three thousand. Emotionally, however, Karan felt he had drifted several light years away from the man he had once followed. Even admired. But then, Romesh Lakhani had showed up. With an opportunity too lucrative for an ambitious man like Karan to pass. Only a fool wouldn’t have grabbed what Lakhani was offering.
The Karan–Lakhani Trojan Horse had been galloping as per plan. Most of the foot soldiers required for the coup had been recruited. The Right-dot-Comm Bill had also been passed recently. As per schedule, all that was required to be done now was to lie low and wait for around three months to allow the euphoric buzz around the Prime Minister and his new law to quieten down. As soon as things got less frenzied in the media and public, the demolition squad led by Gopinath Chaube was to roll in and tear down the PM’s signature achievement—and Saran himself in the bargain. And a few days later…
Well, that was the plan anyway. Its success was incumbent on all of its constituent pieces working smoothly and kicking in at the right time. Any surprises could jeopardise the entire scheme. A failed coup could have mortal consequences for both Karan and Lakhani—ruination, jail… or worse.
And that was why the discovery of one flaw in their grand scheme had shaken Karan to the bone. The chilling realisation had made him wonder how he had missed such an obvious defect with their so-called foolproof strategy. How could he have not anticipated the possibility that Satyendra Saran himself might come after Karan before the coup was launched?
A pre-emptive strike.
That was precisely what Saran appeared to be gearing up for. A pre-emptive strike to destroy Karan.
An inkling of Saran’s covert plan had come to Karan’s notice via an unexpected phone call from Pradeep Roy, the Principal Secretary.
‘Are you aware of any reason why the PM would want to meet the CBI Chief next week?’ Royda asked Karan in that phone call four weeks ago.
‘No. Why?’
‘I thought you might know since the agenda to be discussed in the meeting is “Countermanded Elections in Uttar Pradesh”.’
Karan was immediately attentive. ‘What?’
‘The only recent countermanded election that I am aware of is the last one in Gorakhpur. Your constituency. When your opposing candidate passed away suddenly.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Under suspicious circumstances, I m
ight add?’
‘The police found nothing.’
Royda laughed. ‘Uttar Pradesh Police? The paragon of virtue and efficiency, surely!’
‘Watch out, Royda. No need to jump to any conclusions. You might land in a ditch,’ Karan warned.
‘Oh, I’m not jumping to anything. But once the PMO sets the ball rolling, no one will have an option but to jump.’
Karan was silent.
‘Have you given a reason for the PM to suspect that you might be up to something fishy?’
‘Nothing except that I simply go missing from in front of his eyes. Maybe too frequently…’ Karan thought.
‘Listen, Karan, this just caught my attention so I thought I should let you know. What you do with this information is your headache.’
‘Thanks, Royda,’ Karan resumed his voice. ‘Keep me posted on any further developments on this.’
The man on the phone responded with a gruff sound of acceptance.
‘By the way, how is your father doing?’
Pradeep Roy disconnected the line without an answer.
That was four weeks ago. Between then and now, Karan had reliably learned that the CBI had formed a two-man committee to quietly investigate the death of Amrit Singh Yadav. That was, quite literally, the one skeleton that Karan did not want tumbling out of his closet. It would be like a nuclear bomb in Saran’s possession, threatening to obliterate Karan whenever he chose to.
Yes, Satyendra Saran had to be brought down. Finished. Immediately.
‘Well, at least it will be over soon,’ Karan thought again, as he rose from his seat to give his Prime Minister a standing ovation. Saran had just concluded his speech. The next part of the show could now begin. Film star Jazmeen was about to bring the house down with her specially-choreographed performance of ‘Chhoti choli te bada bawaal’.
The woman in the tiny tunic had planned to cause much ado tonight.
Pretty Vile Girl Page 37