'Sarojini?'
I started.
Amma said, not very enthusiastically, 'Hello bolo, Sarojini. This is your crack team.'
The way she enunciated 'crack' made it sound like they were all nuts, and not, you know, 'ace' or 'expert' or 'the best' or whatever.
'Hello,' I said, looking at the crack team gravely.
'Hello,' they chorused back, looking at me with a total respect I'd done absolutely nothing to earn. I wondered if they knew that the big noises at Akbar Road had declared my cause a lost one.
One of them, I realized suddenly, was a woman. She was sturdily built, with an aggressive ponytail and a thick pink khaddar dupatta wound very tight round her neck, and a surprisingly sweet, chubby face, with long-lashed, slightly protruding round eyes. Taking in her grey kurta, track pants and Lotto sneakers, I realized she was the one who'd been pushing and shoving the most in the corridor. She'd slapped a couple of people rather hard and definitely kneed at least one guy in the groin. Now she looked at me and smiled, a sweet, guileless, almost childlike smile.
'Hello, didi,' she said breathlessly. 'Myself Munni.'
'Oh, hiii.' I smiled at her. I knew Munni's story, everyone did. She'd blazed into the public eye a few years ago when her college professor, a high-caste Brahmin, had promised her, a Dalit student, good grades in return for sexual favours. She'd agreed meekly enough, gone for the rendezvous with a tiny camera taped to the neckline of her straining kurta, strung him along nice and proper and then sneaked out through the loo window at the penultimate moment. The clip had run on all major channels that same night, the professor was suspended and Munni soon became a Youth Pragati leader to reckon with.
Our Pappu, of course, was the silver-earringed, puffy-with-muscles little guy who'd been hanging around Tughlaq Road, sloganeering for over a week now. He was all bright eyes and chubby-cheeked and waggy-tailed. As he shook my hand, he informed me yet again, in one well-constructed sentence, that he was MLA-Jummabagh, a science graduate, a bachelor, an only son, a trained yoga instructor, from a business family, and totally at my service. Between noisy slurps of tea, he kept repeating, 'Sarojini didi, I will do anything for you! Anything! Any service! Whatever you want, I will give! How many times you want - I will give! Anything to satisfy you, anything!'
It sounded vaguely indecent. I wondered if he was propositioning me.
Next to him was the Saakshaat Fart. Rocket Singh was a brown man-mountain, with a sloping paunch, loose flapping arms and a complexion like sludge-coloured bubble wrap. He was an ex-wrestler who earned the sobriquet 'Rocket' when he was in his prime, because he moved as fast as a rocket in the wrestling pit. He won the gold medal at the '82, '86 and '92 Asiads but then somebody managed to slip a vicious one to his vitals, and he had to retire. He always looked like he was in pain, and he never smiled, only occasionally letting a constipated little grimace twist his lips. He ran a very popular amateur wrestling gymkhana in Bittora and right now he was wearing a shiny white tracksuit embroidered with his Gymkhana's logo - a tiny gold rocket.
Rocket folded his massive hands in a namaste and winced a stiff hello at me. I returned the gesture, before looking beyond him to the fourth member of the crack team.
Jugatram, Amma's some-time driver and man Friday was very handsome in a grizzled old Sean-Connery-from-The Rock sort of way. He was an ex-serviceman and a Vir Chakra winner and I remembered him very clearly, mainly because, when I was twelve years old, he had taught both Zain and me to drive.
He taught us on one of the Normal Public School buses, which he drove, shouting encouragement and instructions over the screams of the children. When we were a bit older, he used to give Zain and me constant updates on the situation in 'Gargle', as his grandson, who was also in the army, was posted there during the war. He had bought us a huge watermelon to celebrate the Indian victory, I remembered, and his grandson had thankfully returned home unhurt.
Zain and I had totally idolized Jugatram when we were children, but now I looked at him with misgiving. What kind of man, I wondered, lets twelve year olds drive a school bus filled with little kiddies?
'Jugatram and Munni,' said Amma, as I goggled at Jugatram, 'are trusted Pragati Party workers. And Rocket Singh and Pappu are sitting Pragati Party MLAs.'
'Uh, how many MLAs do we have?' I asked hesitantly, hoping this wasn't a stupid question.
'Just us two, didi,' Our Pappu informed me. 'Other six are IJP. State gourmint is theirs, no.'
'I knew that,' I said defensively.
There was an awkward little silence.
Then Munni stood up and said with breathless sincerity, 'Didi, I want to take this apportunity to say how proud we are to have you as our candidate...'
Okay, this sounded like the beginning of a speech, which I would have to answer with a short speech of my own. Thankfully, I was ready for this. In fact, I'd sat up for a while last night, thought of a few points that I wanted to make to the core team and typed them out on my laptop. I reached for it, as unobtrusively as I could, and quickly double-clicked my Word file open.
Meanwhile, Munni was going on and on. 'Your international qualifications... all that you have learnt at the feet of jiji... your illustrious grandfather... your love for Bittora...' and other remarks of the same variety. I calculated that I had a good ten minutes before I had to reply.
Looking down at my laptop screen, I realized that a new mail notification icon was popping up and down on my screen. Automatically, I clicked it open. It was from Facebook, which is weird because even though I have a Facebook account, I hardly ever use it. It's too full of these over-smart, acknowledge-how-clever-my-status-update-is types. Or the show-offy, check-out-the-photos-of-my-holiday-in-Peru variety. Or some forty-plus old fogeys looking for their school friends or whatever.
Still, there it was, and my eyes couldn't help skimming over it automatically.
Zain Altaf Khan wants to be friends with you on Facebook, the mail stated blandly. To confirm (or quietly ignore) this friend request go to - and a link followed.
I choked.
And looked around quickly.
'And so, didi,' Munni was saying reverentially, as she brought her speech to a surprisingly quick conclusion, 'we would like you to say a few precious words to us!'
Everybody in the compartment turned to look at me with eager expectancy.
I quickly flipped the laptop shut.
Pushing it away gingerly, I stood up, cleared my throat and said, 'Uh... thank you! I am honoured to have such a fantastic crack team! I am sure that with your support and guidance, we will taste victory! As I am young... and inexperienced, I would like help and suggestions from all of you. Pappu, what do you think we need to win this election?'
Having thus neatly tossed the ball back into the crack team's court, I sat down again, my brain gibbering dementedly. He sent you a friend request. A friend request! A friend request! Maybe he's uploaded pictures of you smooching him in your velvet choli and unravelled sari on his Facebook account! Maybe he's even tagged them!
Meanwhile, Our Pappu had grabbed the ball with enthu.
'What we need,' he declared importantly, springing up, his big black eyes flashing, 'is a Plaan.'
He pronounced it to rhyme with 'barn'. Then he dived into a shiny black Rexine rucksack and produced a bunch of impressive, spiral-bound, one-inch thick plastic files. He handed them around smoothly, and we all studied them, stunned by his efficiency.
'Jiji and didi,' said Our Pappu in hushed tones, 'these are the findings of famous survey expert, Mr Urvashi! He may have the name of a woman but he has the brain of a man! His team of dedicated interviewers melt into The Masses and ask them questions. Yesterday, we commissioned him to conduct a snap survey of entire Bittoragarh and tell us what our chances of winning are. Please read and absorb.'
The first page said, in big, fat, slightly erratically written typewriter font:
BITTORAGARH CONSTITUENCY SURVEY AND BREAKUP
Only for eyes of ho
nourable, respected, venerated, most gracious, motherly big sister Smt. Pushpa Pande jiji and small-big sister Sarojini didi.
Eight assembly segments of the Lok Sabha constituency of Bittoragarh, PP.
Begumbagh
GOBS (Greedy Oversmart Brahmins and Seths Area)
These people perceive jiji as too liberal, too close to the OBCs and tribals. They will vote for Vir Singh or for Dwivedi. Our chances here are minuscule.
Champapul
PADMA (Poor Dalit and Muslim Area)
Traditionally a Praggu area, but now people are restive. High voter turnout area because of joblessness. Jiji will probably retain Champapul - but the lead may be small, one-two thousand only.
Jummabagh
PUM (Poor Underemployed Muslim Area)
Craftsmen, carpenters and all. Traditional Pragati Party loyalties may retain them - but these areas are also loyal to the old royalty. So ZAK is a serious threat. Contacting local leaders and offering financial help could work.
Doodhiya
FUCT (Forest of Unemployed Christian Tribals)
Jiji is very popular here for her many good works. Lead of eight to ten thousand seems assured. This lead could clinch the election for jiji.
Durguja
THID (Thirsty Hindu Illiterate Dalits)
Water, electicity, roads are problems here. And there are no schools. This is a very backward area. People here told our surveyors they will vote for change - for ZAK, especially because he has got good relations with Dugguji Sisodia, local industrialist and landowner. However, if jiji can manage to get Dugguji on our side somehow, then we could win Durguja.
Sujanpur
THID
Same problems as Durguja. But traditionally Pragati-loyal area. Pragati Party has never lost here. We will definitely get lead of eight thousand.
Tanki Bazaar
Could go to anyone. Hasina Behenji should be contacted. People here will vote for whoever she says. We should promise her MLA ticket also, funds also. If Tanki Bazaar is secured, victory for jiji is secured.
Purana Bittora
ROMP (Rich Oversmart Muslim People)
It is a hopeless case. Don't even try. They will all vote for ZAK, regardless of which party he stands from. He will get lead of forty thousand from here.
I read through the report, did the math, and instantly lost interest in all Facebook friendship requests.
'Pappu,' I said, 'according to this, our lead will be maximum 8 + 8 + 2, which is eighteen thousand. But Zain's lead, just from Purana Bittora, is a full forty! So, according to Mr Urvashi, we have no hope of winning, is that right?'
Our Pappu beamed at me approvingly, like I'd said something extremely intelligent. 'Didi, main point of Mr Urvashi is that it will be a close thing, very close. At the moment, maybe IJP has the lead, but if we campaign with science, and put oxygen injections in the right areas, the areas that he indicates - then you could squeeze ahead with two-three thousand margin!'
Amma threw down the report with a snort. 'This Urvasi is a fool!' she declared. 'Last time he said there waj no way Dwivedi would win, and he did! And once before that he said we would lose and we swept! If this time he ij saying ki Sarojini will win, then let us all shave our heads and go into mourning now only!'
'Actually, he's saying I'll lose,' I pointed out mildly. 'So - '
'So nothing!' Amma said roundly. Then she turned to Our Pappu. 'We hope,' she said sternly, 'that you have commissioned this survey with your own funds. We are not going to pay for that fool Urvasi's so-called fieldwork and findings.'
Our Pappu ducked his head and nodded cheerfully, not at all fazed. 'Yes, jiji!' he agreed and quickly took back his spiffy spiral-bound folders from us. 'Okay, jiji! Sorry, jiji!'
I said, with slightly forced heartiness, 'Well! Does anybody else have any suggestions or advice?'
Total silence.
Amma stood up.
'Bhai, let us talk about the most important thing,' she said. 'When ij last date to withdraw nominasun?'
'In nine days' time,' wheezed Rocket Singh, suddenly looking wide awake.
'Will anyone sit down?' Amma asked.
It took me a minute to realize that she meant, 'Will anyone withdraw?'
Munni blinked her big long-lashed eyes and ventured doubtfully, 'I could try to persuade Vir Singhji to sit. He knows only Begumbagh is with him. No one else. He is just standing out of pride. But he'll ask for money, jiji.'
'De denge, little bit,' Amma said grudgingly. 'But tell him not to open his mouth too big - and he will have to campaign for us afterwards. Talk to him, Munni. What about Dwivedi? He is also strong in Begumbagh. Must be even stronger than before, after saying so many anti-Muslim things!'
There was an uncomfortable silence. It occurred to me that some of the people in the room, Our Pappu and Munni definitely, must have worked for Dwivedi in the last election - and had been gearing up to work for him this time too, till he screwed it up with his English-style commode and mossie-bashing on national TV.
'Jiji, I don't think so he will sit down,' Our Pappu said with finality. 'He is very upset, purey emosunal ho gaye hain.'
Amma just grunted. 'Find out what it'll take to make him pack his cards and leave the table, Pappu,' she said brusquely. 'We can't have all these nuisance-value people splitting the GOBS vote. Now go, all of you.'
Looking suitably cowed, the crack team took its leave.
Immediately, Gudia aunty leaned back in her seat, sighed, uncapped a plastic bottle of Himalayan mineral water, and took a hefty swig. The unmistakable odour of Absolut vodka filled the air. Amma and I exchanged glances.
'Baba re,' said Gudia aunty in a tired, slightly self-conscious voice. 'I am so tired, madam.'
'Hmmm,' said Amma, noncommittal. 'Don't drink too much water at night, Gudia, you will have to go to the bathroom again and again.'
'Only two-three sips, madam,' she returned in a slightly wheedling voice. 'Otherwise I wake up at night feeling so thirsty.'
Rolling my eyes at this entirely coded conversation, I climbed into the top berth and flipped open my laptop to see if I had hallucinated the whole Facebook email. But there it was, sitting prettily in my inbox.
Zain Altaf Khan wants to be friends with you on Facebook, it purred tantalizingly. To confirm (or quietly ignore) this friend request go to.
There was a picture of him next to the message. A tiny one. But enough to get my heartbeat zooming. I squinted and thrust my face closer to the screen to see it better...
'Gudia, how much oxygen?' Amma asked abruptly.
I jumped up a few inches, almost hitting my head on the roof of the train.
Amma looked up crossly. 'What is wrong with you?' she demanded. 'Jumping like a crack. And your hair looks mad.'
The trouble with my life, I thought resentfully as I hunched behind my laptop screen again and sucked on a lock of my hair, is that I have no standing.
Gudia aunty recapped her Himalayan water bottle, took down an insulated red-checked Milton tiffin-carrier from the empty top berth opposite mine, and peered into it. From my perch above, I could clearly see, not parathas or sandwiches, but stacks and stacks of red-and-white thousand-rupee notes. 'It's not so bad, madam,' she said in hushed self-important tones.
'We have forty L and fifty T. Just enough to start us off. The main consignment will reach us through Shortcut.'
'Shortcut?' I asked, too intrigued to sulk.
Gudia aunty looked up, opening her eyes very wide, as if marvelling at my ignorance.
'Shafquat,' she explained in the sweet mango-laced-with-onion voice that always set my teeth on edge. 'Shafquat Haq. He's a local construction king. Old well-wisher of madam's. Our people drop off the consignment at his office in Delhi, and when we get to Bittora, his people release the same amount to us there. It's a quick, smooth and really safe system. Standard procedure.'
'Still, it ij nothing,' Amma said gloomily. 'Nowadayj you need six, seven, even ten crore to win.'
> Gudia aunty tittered. 'Madam, you have been away too long!' she said. 'People are spending much more than that now.'
A heavy silence prevailed for a while as the elderly ladies unwound their saris and climbed into their nighties.
Then Gudia aunty said, 'Madam, do you want me to help you remove your shoes?'
Uff. So must the French bourgeoisie have grovelled before the aristocrats, before jumping on them one dark night and chopping off all their heads beneath the guillotine. Leaving her to suck up to Amma, I leaned against the 'To Stop Train Pull Chain sign, feeling slightly stunned. What was I getting myself into?
I mean, obviously, Shortcut wasn't just a nice guy. He wanted something. Anybody who helped a political candidate wanted something in return. Could I handle where this whole thing was headed? The day Shortcut strutted into my MP's office (that is, if I won) and demanded his pound of flesh, would I have to cower and scrape and go 'of course, of course, you were my Shortcut, now I'll be your Shortcut'?
Cross that bridge when you come to it, I told myself. Right now, just concentrate on the present.
Which brought me right back to my laptop and the H-bomb fizzing gently there. To confirm this friend request, go to...
I clicked on the link, staring at the screen, my fingers drumming against the space bar nervously. The image flipped to my Facebook page, and there was Zain's profile picture. He was smiling right at me, dark eyes quizzical, all these cool, intellectual looking lines crinkling up his forehead.
I looked around quickly.
Amma was snoring lightly in the lower berth, but Gudia aunty was still standing, swaying gently, her extremely plump bottom wobbling rhythmically like the boot of an Ambassador car. She seemed to be having a problem unknotting the naada of her petticoat.
I sneaked a look at Zain's picture again. His eyes seemed to dance, they were positively conspiratorial.
I wanted to hit him.
They'd called him what in that newspaper article? Charismatic. Upright. Intelligent. And a 'scion'. Why hadn't they called me a scion? Bauji was thirty times more khandaani than Zain's psycho dad! And he was a freedom fighter! We were the Brahmin family of Bittoragarh. But no, they'd made fun of Amma and called me short and warm and eager and 'pretty'. Who the hell wanted a short, warm, eager and pretty MP? That too, in the cut-throat badlands of Pavit Pradesh.
Battle for Bittora Page 8