'Ponky!' shouted Joline Bai, her guttural voice making us jump. 'Don, Ponky, don! Bad dog, Ponky! Get don, Ponky!'
But Ponky wasn't paying attention. He was too busy thrusting his snout way too intimately between my thighs and making sure that I really was a girl and not, you know, a female impersonator or something.
'What a nice doggie, madam!' cooed Gudia aunty as she emerged from the Sumo behind me. 'Jinni, don't be alarmed - he knows, ha ha ha' - this as Ponky finished with me and thrust his snout between her legs instead - 'he knows we are family! Hello doggie... hello doggie... He looks so intelligent!'
'He looks demented,' I said firmly. 'Joline Bai, take him away. He's trying to make babies with Gudia aunty.'
Gudia aunty giggled coyly at this, like being violated by Pushpa Pande's golden retriever was a badge of honour of sorts. Joline Bai lunged at the protesting Ponky and hauled him away by the collar, but he shook himself loose, weaved right and left with a silly grin across his face, and then gambolled playfully across the lawn, scattering mynahs in every direction.
'When did you get a dog, Amma?' I asked, brushing off my kurta. Both Gudia aunty and I had two large muddy paw marks imprinted precisely over our breasts. The Mark of Ponky. I didn't know then, but I was to see a lot of that particular mark over the next three weeks.
Amma shrugged and emerged from the Sumo with rickety dignity. 'It waj a Diwali gift. From cabinet minister industry ke son. He ij a breeder.'
'Baby, do lakh ka kutta hai yeh!' piped up Jugatram proudly. 'He is worth two lakh rupees! His parents are the best sniffer dogs in the Delhi police!'
'That explains a lot,' I said weakly. 'I think he's checked out just about every crevice in my body for cocaine.'
'Oh, mine too,' Gudia aunty chimed in with immediate competitiveness.
Amma gave us both a quelling look. 'Let us all take snaan,' she said austerely. 'Then we will eat.'
'You snaan again,' I told her sunnily. 'I snaanned on the train. I'll go check out my old petal room...'
I raced up the three shallow verandah steps, a tight feeling of anticipation bubbling up inside me. I used to call my room from the old days the 'petal room' because it had just one corner, otherwise it was completely circular. There were two petal rooms in the house, flanking each end of the pillared front verandah and they gave the house a slight castle-with-towers feel. The other petal room used to be Bauji's study. Both petal rooms had old-fashioned, bottle-green-and-white patterned tiles on the floor and big barred windows looking into the garden but mine also had a pink bougainvillea creeper looking into it, which used to make me feel like I'd scored one over Bauji.
I threw open the door and burst into the room.
There was the high bed with the lumpy mattress, upon which I used to sprinkle three mugs of water every night because the heat used to be so oppressive. There was the eccentric old fan that did either five or nothing because the regulator was broken. There was the dark teak wardrobe with peeling superhero stickers still stuck on it. And there, sprawled on the old tiled floor, propped up on his elbows and writing furiously, a lock of dark hair falling on his forehead, was sixteen-year-old Zain Altaf Khan.
'Buzz off,' I hissed at this extremely lustworthy ghost, but he didn't budge. He just flipped a page and continued to write, while all the summers I had spent in Bittora came flooding back to me in a searingly hot, mango-blossom-and-wet-earth scented rush.
Turning my back on him, I fled to the loo, and even though I'd told Amma I wouldn't, turned on the stiff old copper taps for another bath. And it worked. Kind of. Not because the bath was cold and refreshing or anything. But because by the time I'd dealt with the window that wouldn't latch shut, the hot-as-tea water that hissed out of the rusty tap and the unbelievable amount of gunk blocking the drain, I had stopped seeing pulse-quickening ghosts lounging on the floor, following my every movement with dark, stormy eyes.
He's a frenemy, I told myself firmly as I jabbed at the blocked drain with the back end of my toothbrush. You are being stupid, you haven't thought about him for years, the world is full of attractive men dying to date a wannabe MP. What kind of loser are you, anyway, mooning over a guy when there's a whole parliamentary constituency to be won?
***
There was to be a huge shindig to kick off our campaign that afternoon, not for the voters, but for the party workers. This was a slightly unorthodox move, but Amma was very clear she wanted to clear up any confusion or bad blood caused by Dwivedi's ouster and my last-minute nomination.
'Basically, we need to tell our workers that we are back' she said with relish, as she energetically mixed ghee into her dal and rice at lunch. 'And that their lauki-ka-chhilka eating days are over!'
By four o'clock more than a thousand workers had poured into the venue - which was the much put upon Normal Public School in Begumbagh. The crowds, the press, the election commission cameramen stalking our every move, all of it was pretty intimidating. As nobody had bothered to inform the school children or their parents, the kids, instead of going home, stood around curiously, watching the Pragati Party workers troop in. They were definitely a compelling sight, all grinning and swaggering and dressed to party, with Pragati mufflers tied around their necks and flashy Pragati tattoos on their biceps. Many of them were dressed in flashy tiranga T-shirts over jeans. Some, I realized with a start, even had a picture of me scanned onto their tiranga tees.
'Namaste, didi,' one such dude said, flashing a bright white grin as he scratched my right eye (which was covering his right tit). 'I will get you a lead of three-four, no five thousand, just from my area, didi!'
'Thanks,' I said, pleasantly surprised. Wow, if all these guys here could promise me five thousand votes each...
'Don't you believe him,' Amma hissed into my ear. 'No single person can guarantee you five thousand votes just like that! This is not SMS-voting for Big Boss, you know!'
'Oh, okay,' I said, wilting a little. 'Um... Amma, are some of these dudes drunk?'
'Of course they are not drunk, Sarojini,' she said, smiling and nodding busily as a couple of men, suspiciously red-eyed, staggered, tripped and almost fell before us. 'They are just happy to see us, that ij all!'
There was a garish, multi-coloured shamiana set up over a cemented platform, and with huge amounts of whooping and cheering, Amma, Munni, Our Pappu and I were ushered on to it. Garlands of thousand-rupee notes arranged like playing-card fans were strung around our necks and then we were seated on red plastic chairs behind a long white table. Plastic glasses of water stood before us, and two medium-sized storm fans blew vast amounts of hot air into our faces. Every now and then, a thin stream of warm water would spray out from a tiny tube attached to the fans, smudging the red bindi I'd painted onto my forehead. Soon, I would start looking like I'd taken a bullet in the head. No wonder Amma always wore stick-on bindis.
Still, I'd never sat at a political podium before! It was way cooler than sitting down below and looking up supplicantly. I could totally get used to this.
Intermittently, to keep the crowd stoked, somebody would yell into the mike at the lectern, 'Pushpa Pande ki?'
And the workers would obligingly yell back, 'Jai!!!'
'Sarojini Pande ki?'
'Jai!!!!'
'Pragati Party ki?'
'Jai!!!!'
Munni sat behind me, fidgeting endlessly. 'Sab bakwaas hai, didi,' she told me in a conspiratorial whisper. 'This is a rubbish congregation - these people, these men - they are all opportunists.'
I looked at her, intrigued. 'Oh, really?' I said, as I wrestled grimly with the thin plastic film over my glass of water.
She nodded emphatically, her chubby cheeks quivering. 'It is all up to us ladies eventually,' she said earnestly. 'Like jiji and you and--'
'And you,' I whispered back sincerely. 'You're fantastic, Munni.'
'Thenks,' she replied composedly. She peeled off the plastic film covering her glass in one smooth move and took a big sip, smacking her lips.
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Abruptly, I asked, 'How am I doing? I... I mean... am I looking the part and all?'
She pursed her lips and studied me intently.
I fiddled with the film over my water glass, feeling absurdly self-conscious under her frank, assessing gaze.
Finally she said, 'You're super, didi, super. Only... you move your face too much.'
'Matlab?' I asked worriedly.
'Keep a still face,' she advised me. 'Don't react so much to what all the people say. If you smile so much, your cheek muscles will die of pain by the end of the second day, only. So save your energy. Make your face like a finks.'
'A finks?' I asked, stumped.
'It's a famous statue in Egypt,' she explained kindly. 'Ekchully, you must be careful because your mouth and eyes are big, no - which is good,' she clarified hastily, 'but if you show too much reactions, big big ones, then in photos you may look little bit crack.'
Basically, I had been grinning like a mentally deficient person the whole day.
'Okay, okay,' I said. 'Umm, can I have the rest of your water? This thing is refusing to open.'
She looked a little startled, then said, 'Of course, didi,' and quietly handed it over. I glugged it thankfully, though there wasn't much left.
Silence for a while.
Then Munni said in heartfelt accents, 'Ufffff, how much Our Pappu can talk!'
This was true. Our Pappu was standing at the lectern and doing a very fulsome introductory address for Amma, calling her a Jewel in the Crown of India and a Flaming Torch of the Freedom Struggle. He said that she had travelled to every country in the world and met Margaret Scratcher and Baraat Obama himself.
Munni shifted uneasily. 'When will he stop his Yaadon ki Baraat? I have to go to toilet.'
So did I, actually. I wished she hadn't mentioned it.
Amma's bladder, however, was obviously made of iron, because she just sat there, eyes half-closed, nodding gently and letting Our Pappu drone on about Rubies and Diamonds and every other kind of precious stone that she apparently was.
Suddenly, Munni twinkled at me. 'Shall I show you something?'
I nodded. 'Sure.'
She leaned into the table mike, balled both hands into fists, raised them above her head and, rudely interrupting Our Pappu, yelled in her shrill voice, 'Chacha Chaudhury ki?'
The crowd obligingly roared back, 'Jai!'
'Michael Jackson ki?' yelled Munni.
'Jai!' roared the crowd.
I thrust my face into the mike and shouted, 'Pixel Animation ki?'
'Jai!' roared the crowd again.
'Ponky doggie ki?'
'Jai!'
Wow.
She flashed me a triumphant grin. 'Dekha,' she said. 'I told you men are stupid.'
I nodded, both depressed and impressed.
'We should've tried Zain Altaf ki,' I told her gloomily. 'I bet they'd have cheered. Will you speak too, Munni?'
She shook her head. 'Not to workers,' she said, wrinkling up her nose. 'Now, if they were voters...'
Our Pappu, who'd restarted his speech like there had been no interruption, now got started on me. He said Amma was the Great Mother Cow, and that she had fed me from her breast and that I was the calf who had imbibed all the good values from her and now that I had grown up into a fine young cow myself, I was going to nourish all of Bittora from my juicy young br--
Amma opened one gimlet-like eye and barked out shortly, 'Pappu. Enough.'
He went 'Jai Hind! Jai Hind! Jai Hind!' immediately, bowed thrice very low and jumped off the stage to switch on music on the loud speaker systems.
I stared at Amma reproachfully. 'Amma, you could've made him stop ages ago.'
'We know,' Amma said. The five-rupee-coin gap between her teeth flashed as her face split slowly into a wicked grin. 'But he's funny, Sarojini. He makes us laugh' She giggled heartily to herself for two whole minutes, her shoulders shaking, while I glowered at her with my new finks face on. Finally, she drew a long deep breath, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. 'Oh, we love campaigning!' she declared. 'Nothing like meeting the people face to face, hai-ke-nahin?'
I wanted to tell her that these were not really people, just party workers with an axe to grind, but just then the music started blaring from the speakers. The raucous crowd roared with laughter as some workers, wearing masks with the faces of Zain and other IJP leaders on them, swung to a parody set to the tune of a song from Rock On.
Meri MP ki gaddi
Nana na na na, nana na
Meri kesari chaddi
Nana na na na, nana na
Mera pyaara Jummabagh
Nana na na na, nana na
Champapul aur Begumbagh
Nana na na na, nana na
Mera... das hazaar ka deposit!
Mera... bhagwan Ram ka locket
Pichhle saat dino mein, maine khoya
Kabhi khud pe hansa mein, aur,
kabhi khud pe roya!
And then, once everybody was fully stoked up, Amma took the mike and delivered a speech outlining all the points listed in the extremely predictable Pragati Party manifesto.
Only, when she said it, they stopped sounding hollow. Maybe it was the flawlessness of her Pavit Pradeshi, maybe it was the authentic throb of sincerity in her voice, maybe it was just that it was the cowdust hour, a beautiful early summer evening in the place where I'd spent my childhood. But Amma made me believe that the Pragati really was a grand old party, the party that had bought us independence, the only party for me to be starting my political career in. When she spoke like that, and the crowd - no matter that it was just a gathering of what's-in-it-for-me party workers - cheered with her, I believed that Ma and I were both wrong, that Amma's cynical veneer was just that, a veneer, and that she did have Bauji's principles close to her heart, after all.
***
After the meeting, Amma decreed that I should wrap up the day by putting in a spot of door-to-door campaigning in the nearby PADMA (Poor Dalit and Muslim Area) in Champapul.
'Just get a sense of which way the wind is blowing, Sarojini,' she said. 'Munni, you take her. We will go home and take rest. Tomorrow, offisial campaigning can start.'
There were no streets in Champapul, as I discovered, and we had to park the Sumos and walk everywhere, because the lanes in Champapul were about as broad as aeroplane aisles. There were continuous lines of houses on both sides of these lanes, their front doors practically touching each other. Drains opened right into the lanes. You could smell Lifebuoy soap, or arhar ka dal or human potty, depending on what was being thrown down the pipes as you passed. The place was a total fire hazard, of course, but excellently constructed for door-to-door campaigning. The other good part was that the lanes were cool and shady, and very social too, with ladies shelling peas outside their houses and feeding the pods to the cows wandering up and down, dribbling dung at will, staring at the evening action with large, soft, long-lashed eyes.
The sign on the first door we happened upon read 'Chief Petty Officer Liaquat ul Haque'.
I hoped his loo would be fully shipshape - I was desperate to pee again - and rang the bell.
The door opened and a very ancient man peered out. He was meticulously clean shaven, had a gleaming dome-like forehead, and was dressed in a spotless white kurta over a checked blue lungi. His features were bulbous and his skin was the colour of darkest walnut.
'Namaste!' I said brightly. And almost added, take it away, Munni! Because that was Munni's cue to give a little speech on who I was. She pointed at me and rattled off shrilly, 'Aap hain Srimati Sarojini Pande ji, BA, post graduate from fillum school, Toronto, MP candidate for Bittora seat from Pragati Party, granddaughter of hamari jiji Pushpa Pandeji.'
'Namaste,' I said again, right on cue. 'Please give me your keemti vote.'
He gazed at me with rheumy, jewel-like eyes under huge sweeping lashes. I noticed a cluster of tiny brown warts upon one eyelid.
'Why?' he asked point blank, in a rich baritone, i
n pretty much perfect English.
I blinked. 'Uh... because I will do my best for the upliftment of this area.'
'How?' he asked. I got the distinct feeling he wasn't being rude. He looked genuinely curious.
I looked at Munni. She thrust out her ship-in-full-sail bosom, perhaps to appeal to his nautical mind, and said aggressively, 'Pragati Party is a secular party. We believe all religions are equal-equal.'
He looked a little bewildered. 'So?'
She said, extremely fluently, like she had learnt this off by heart, 'So, unlike other parties, we will protect your community and not let it be marginalized.'
'Sit down,' the old man said.
He had a voice you couldn't mess with. We sat down.
He said, 'So I will not be marginalized. Well and good. Now what are you going to do about education? Sanitation? The PDS? Ex-servicemen's pensions? Rural credit? Law and order? Employment? The state of the roads? Bipasa?'
'Who's Bipasha?' I asked, confused.
'Bijli-Paani-Sadak,' he explained patiently. 'Electricity-Water-Roads. What have you learnt in film school, Toronto that will help us with these?'
'All these things have been badly messed up by the IJP state gourmint,' smiled Munni instantly, with the assurance of one who knew her cue. 'But if you support us in the upcoming state elections also, we will fix all this, slowly slowly.'
The old man heard her out politely, then turned to me. 'You look like a nice enough girl,' he said kindly. 'But don't you see... the same old answers won't do any more. Thank you for dropping by.'
And before I could even ask if I could use his bathroom, he ushered us to the door and shut the door firmly in our faces.
'Saala Tata tea!' muttered Munni as a few giggles sounded from the street behind us. 'Bhaashan deta hai! I'll just now make two phone calls and get his name cut off the rolls!'
Battle for Bittora Page 10