Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

'That's sick!' I said, thinking, so much for all the lectures on national integration Zain had given me, he was playing real dirty. Where was he getting all these sicko ideas from?

  'Who is hij crack team?' Amma demanded. 'How come he haj become so smart suddenly?'

  'He doesn't have a crack team, jiji,' said Our Pappu gloomily. 'He has a cricket team...'

  Amma looked flummoxed. But I remembered the bunch of sweaty local boys (headed by Bunty the snakling) with whom Zain used to play endless games of cricket in the old days. I'd hated the lot of them. They were a bunch of rich local kids who were always sidling over and snatching Zain away from me, because his bowling was really good or whatever. They used to hang out in the Company Bagh, playing cricket and sucking on Mango Delights from the local Kristal ice-cream carts. They'd won a couple of stupid trophies too, which Zain had been inordinately proud of. Obviously, they were all grown up now, and were giving him crafty advice and the local perspective and had their ear to the ground and everything. No wonder he'd written 'old friends are best' in his Facebook status. Right next to the cricket group pictures too. And I, like a fool, had thought he was talking about me.

  'Funtaastic,' Amma said gloomily, when Our Pappu and I had explained all this to her. 'But old friends alone can't make you win -- where is hij oxygen coming from, Munni?'

  Munni hesitated. 'Jiji, his pockets are very full. Jeeps, helicopters, expensive giveaways. It is IJP money... their people are taking him around everywhere, and all of them are eating room service in Zain Mahal every day...'

  'Munni, any news of Vir Singh?' Gudia aunty asked suddenly. 'And Dwivedi?'

  Munni looked glum. 'Vir Singh wants forty lakhs,' she said. 'Means twenty mein settle kar lega.'

  Amma tch tched. 'What, Munni,' she said, looking personally let down. 'You are losing your touch.'

  'Jiji, he started with ninety!' Munni returned indignantly.

  Gudia aunty winced. She looked in a haunted sort of way at her Milton hotcase, which was almost empty now.

  'Aur Dwivedi?' Amma asked.

  Rocket Singh shook his head and said, with finality, 'Jiji, unka toh pukka hai. He said nothing would make him withdraw.'

  At this gloomy point, Jugatram walked in.

  He looked really chirpy. Apparently, everyone in Tanki Bazaar was gung-ho about Pragati Party.

  'Eighty thousand votes,' he promised. 'Full eighty. As long as we can arrange the transport to and from the polling booths.'

  'No one person can promise to deliver eighty thousand votes, Jugatramji,' I said sternly. 'You can't read people's minds.'

  But Amma's eyes had brightened visibly. 'Hain?' she said eagerly. 'Sachhi? Eighty? Did Hasina say so?'

  Jugatram nodded. 'Yes, jiji!'

  Amma started counting off on her fingers.

  'Eighty from Tanki, fifty from Champapul, ten from Begumbagh...'

  'Fifty from Jummabagh,' Our Pappu piped up.

  Amma's eyes glittered dangerously and we braced ourselves. But before she could disembowel Our Pappu, Munni suddenly went 'Shhhhhushhh!' and pointed at the spiffy little plasma TV which was showing the news on mute on the wall. I looked up -- we all did -- and saw an image of Zain, quickly followed by one of Nauzer Nulwallah. I realized this must be the show he'd been urging me to appear on. It was running on the Star News channel; MTV must have a tie-up with them. That was pretty impressive, maybe it had been a mistake refusing to appear on it.

  ***

  'These people don't even know the spelling of Democracy,' Our Pappu scoffed as the graphics for MTV Democrazeee filled the screen. 'What programme will they make?'

  The graphics got over and the show cut straight to Zain in conversation with Nauzer. They were both sitting on deck chairs, at a poolside -- which I recognized with some surprise as the refurbished central courtyard of Zain's horrible dad's hideous Bittora Fort. Only, it looked kind of different. Clearly the Taj people had managed to get rid of all the dead stuffed animals. And the pool! They certainly didn't have a pool nine years ago! How dare Zain smarm about acting all khandaani and cool and pool-owning? Like he'd swum in it since he was a baby! Like he'd never gone swimming with me in the sludgy Bitwa river!

  He was lounging in the deck chair, wearing a crew-necked ice-blue T-shirt and white cargoes. Purple jacaranda bloomed on the weathered stone walls behind him. He was wearing sunglasses, but when Nauzer introduced him, he took them off, squinting slightly, his skin dark gold in the late afternoon sun. Then he sat forward, legs planted wide, and grinned into the camera. That was the way he always sat, I remembered suddenly, vividly. It looked so inviting somehow, like his lap was open to anyone who wanted to drop into it. Also, can I just add that sitting at that angle, his T-shirt got just a little taut across his chest.

  Basically, he totally had my vote at that instant.

  NN (waving his arms about dramatically): He's muscular! He's popular! He's spectacular! And... he's secular! [Turning to Zain] Speaking of which, dude, aren't you in the wrong party?

  ZAK: No way, Nauzer! This party's done major introspection and set itself a whole new agenda. There's been a lot of churning and change. Change for the better. Today, it's the only place for someone young and unconnected like me.

  NN: Duh, you're Muslim. The IJP isn't exactly famous for its love of Muslims.

  ZAK: The prime minister is a Sikh. The Pragati isn't exactly known for its love of Sikhs.

  NN: What made you join politics?

  ZAK: Politicians. I couldn't believe how unbelievably venal they are.

  NN (smirking): As venal as centuries of rulers in Pavit Pradesh maybe?

  ZAK (a trace of hauteur creeping into his voice): I know my ancestors have a lot to answer for. And I'm here to answer for them.

  NN: You come from a world where the only naked and starving people you know are supermodels. How does the voter know this isn't just a giant ego trip for you?

  ZAK: He doesn't, really. Except, look, I don't want to sound obnoxious, but there are a lot of other things I could do if all I wanted was an ego massage.

  NN: Like what? Date a movie star? Grace the cover of People magazine? Buy an IPL team?

  ZAK (with a shrug): Yeah, something like that. Or I could just wait until I'm thirty and buy my way into the Rajya Sabha. It's very easy, from what I hear. You pretty much just bribe a bunch of MLAs to vote you in.

  NN: Dude, that's libellous.

  ZAK (nostrils flaring): So sue me.

  NN (combatively): I put it to you that you are just a rich kid playing at being grown-up.

  ZAK (calmly): I put it to you that you've just described yourself. [Choking sounds from Nauzer] And anyway, I'm not that rich. Definitely not compared to all the fat cat netas in Lutyens' Delhi.

  NN: So you'll really miss your ten thousand-rupee deposit if you lose it?

  ZAK (with a lazy smile and glittering eyes): I won't lose it.

  NN (waving a paper about): We have all your declared personal assets and liabilities listed right here, Mr Not-rich Man Should I start reading them out?

  ZAK (throwing up his hands and laughing): I can't stop you, I can just request you not to embarrass me!

  NN: You think you'll have enough time for the job? Don't the hotel and the hospital and the women's college [he managed to make this sound highly suggestive somehow] and the eco-drives and rally driving take up all your time?

  ZAK (doggedly): I'll make time.

  NN: What upsets you the most about politics today?

  ZAK (simply): I don't like the way my community is being treated.

  NN: Speaking of which, the Christian, the surd and the lady in the burqa went to rent which DVD at the rental store?

  ZAK: That is such an old one. The Minority Report.

  NN (abruptly): Do you think you're a good Muslim?

  ZAK (after a long pause): I'm trying to be a good person.

  NN: So this is not about your religious identity?

  ZAK (frowning): Look, I'm tired of being treated like a second-
class citizen in my own country.

  NN (nodding understandingly): Yeah, that sucks. Personally, I always fly first class.

  ZAK (ignoring this very lame crack): Nobody's doing the Muslim a favour by being 'nice' to him. [suddenly adopting a squeaky pidgin accent] Oho, you're a Muslim? Never mind, what's there? We are very broadminded! God is One! So, do you whip yourself all the time? No? Can you read and write? Well done! In English? Fantastic! Do you have twenty-seven brothers and sisters? Do you have three stepmothers?

  NN (completely deadpan): Do you?

  ZAK's eyes blazed with pure anger for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. 'No man, but you see what I mean?'

  NN: Yeeeahh... kinda. But that brings me back to my very first question. I mean, the IJP? They're the Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan brigade, dude!

  ZAK (steadily): That's all in the past. I believe this is a genuine re-invention. They're trying to provide a solid option to the corruption-ridden Pragati. Getting clean people in. That's a good thing.

  NN: You're a champion for the underdog. Muslims, Dalits, OBCs. A more natural ally for your beliefs would have been the Pragati Party, surely? Or the KDS? Did you never consider contesting on their ticket?

  ZAK: Well, I hate cliches, but unfortunately, the term pseudo-secularist springs to the lips. Besides, I'm deeply uncomfortable about how... centralized the Pragati Party power structure is. Coming from an ex-royal family, I distrust any kind of rule by [he made inverted commas in the air] divine right.

  NN: And the KDS?

  ZAK (dismissively): The KDS is just a bunch of opportunist thugs.

  NN: Wow. Okay! Tell us something about your plans for your constituency if you win.

  ZAK (eyes lighting up): My constituency, in the heart of the historic district of Bittoragarh, is an eight-hundred-square kilometre stretch that includes the town of Bittora and 600 surrounding villages. My plans for the constituency are pretty much the same as the plans every other party claims to have for the constituency. Education. Jobs. Bijli-Paani-Sadak. Except that I am actually going to implement them.

  NN: Who's funding your campaign?

  ZAK: My party, obviously.

  NN: The helicopter? You can get that in twenty-five lakhs?

  ZAK (calmly): It's a friend's. All perfectly above board, I assure you.

  NN (pursing his lips in disbelief): Hmmm! Can we talk a little about your opponent, now?

  ZAK (looking all haughty): You must mean opponents. There are seventeen candidates standing in this election.

  NN: Well, your closest opponent. Sarojini Pande. With whom you make up the Youngest Political Face-Off India's Ever Seen. Surely she proves there's place for youngsters in the Pragati ranks? That things there are not quite so - centralized?.

  ZAK (lightly): Sarojini Pande is just a mask. A very pretty, appealing, youthful mask for the ancient, canny political animal that is Srimati Pushpa Pande.

  NN: And Srimati Pande's politics?

  ZAK (jaw hardening): Are not mine.

  NN: Zain, d'you really think you can win this thing?

  ZAK: Look, whether I win or lose, I'm doing what needs to be done. I'm done with talking loudly from the sidelines. I'm here, I'm involved, I want to contribute. Bittoragarh is not just a political constituency for me. It's my home. My past. My future. My whole life.

  NN: What's your political ambition?

  ZAK: I told you, I want to be a first-class citizen.

  NN (nudging him meaningfully): Not the first citizen, eh?

  ZAK: I'd like to see a Muslim prime minister. Or a Dalit prime minister. Definitely.

  NN (belligerendy): Or a Parsi? Why not a Parsi, huh? Your party got issues with Parsis?

  ZAK (laughing): Yes, a Parsi, or a Christian, or even just a below-fifty honest, educated, intelligent Indian from a non-political family, of any religious denomination!

  NN: Okay. And here's the final question. As this is a music channel, you have to tell us your most favourite patriotic song of all time, and we'll play it for you.

  ZAK: Um, well... [pausing for thought] that would have to be 'Desi Girl' from Dostana.

  NN: Hmmm... cheesy choice, dude! Okay, coming up next, right after the ad-break for all our viewers -- sorry, voters - out there - dekhi lakh lakh pardesi girls, aint nobody like my desi girl!

  ***

  We sat through the stupid Dostana number, and then they showed a quick montage of Zain riding the footboard of a black Scorpio, waving to the crowds as he drove past, flashing his quick, compelling grin. They rounded it off with one of his campaign speeches. I don't know exactly what I thought his campaigning style was, but after the very 'swayve' interview, I'd expected something pretty slick. Witty and clever and poking fun at Amma, you know. And so, I was really surprised by his speech.

  He stood before a row of mikes, his dark hair tousled, the sleeves of his white kurta rolled up, giving him a very hands-on, ready-to-work appearance. It was a still day, very hot, and you could see a steady flutter of pamphlets in the audience. Zain spoke in fluent Pavit Pradeshi and his appeal to the people was simple, straight-up and unabashedly sentimental.

  'My relationship with the people of Bittoragarh is a very old one. It is not a relationship I began, it began long before I was born, long before even you were born, about six hundred years ago. It is a relationship built, not on votes, not on politics, but on love.'

  Oh please, based on six hundred years of exploitation, you mean.

  A little breeze stirred, tousling his hair, making a rattling noise in the mike. He waited for it to die down, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the podium, and continued steadily, his dark eyes glowing.

  'Maybe you know, maybe you don't, but most members of my family chose to go to Pakistan after independence, while my grandfather decided to stay here. Because this was his home. You were his family.'

  Dramatic pause.

  In the drawing room, Jugatram cleared his throat and said rather randomly to no one in particular, 'I taught him how to drive when he was twelve years old.'

  On TV, the twenty-five-year-old Zain continued. 'Maybe you know, maybe you don't, that my mother died when I was just three years old. I do not have many memories of her. The women of Bittoragarh have told me that she was beautiful and kind and brave. I feel very proud when they tell me this.'

  Another pause. There wasn't a choon or a chaan from the crowd. They were quiet. Clearly, he was holding them in the palm of his hand.

  'But do not for a moment think that I felt alone or abandoned as a child or when I was growing up. Because I had a mother.'

  The ultimate pause.

  'Bittora was my mother.'

  Okay, excuse me while I throw up here.

  This shamelessly Bollywoodish sally was greeted with huge applause by the crowd. And by Munni, who went all tremulous and moist-eyed and clapped until Amma glared at her.

  'In her lap I played and was nourished and slept and grew strong. Now that I am grown up, I simply want to do what all sons want to do - look after my mother. And make her proud.'

  Tumultous applause. Cries of Zain Bhai ki jai! He waited for it to die down, smiling a little, his dark eyes glowing with emotion. I had an uneasy feeling that he actually meant what he said.

  'I will not ask you for votes, one does not ask one's family for votes. One simply loves and is loved back. And so I ask you to shower your love on me and give me a chance to serve you. Jai Hind.'

  He smiled and folded his hands with boyish, idealistic intensity. The superhit 'Sasuraal genda phool' song from Delhi 6, A.R. Rahman's unwitting gift to the IJP election campaign -which the party had lost no time in converting to 'Sarkar genda phool' - kicked in from the massive speakers. In response, the crowd leapt to its feet and cheered like it was at a heavy metal concert. I half expected the screaming village girls to stick out their tongues, rip off their cholis and bare their breasts.

  In the drawing room, Amma snorted and zapped off the TV.

  'Whatever you say, jiji
,' declared Our Pappu, and the entire crack team nodded mistily as he spoke, 'banda kaafi cool hai!'

  ***

  Amma muttered and grumbled and made rude snorting noises about Zain until she went to bed. She couldn't understand why he had his knife into her. She'd always been so nice to him, she said, given him big fat lifafas full of money on his birthday and on every festival. 'Arrey, he did not feel alone and abandoned as a child because we were hij mother!' she fumed. 'Ungrateful pilla! Alwayj coming over and eating and drinking here only. How could he insult us on TV? What did we ever do to him, Sarojini?'

  'Nothing, Amma,' I said wearily. I was so not in the mood to talk.

  It rankled that Zain had come across as so sincere and sorted out. He'd looked like he knew what he was doing - unlike me, I wasn't even clear why I was standing in the first place. It was also pretty obvious that he thought I was some little puppet on a string, doing what I was told to. Well, I wasn't. I had a plan for Bittoragarh too, and the first part of the plan was to win the seat from under his haughty, muscular-and-secular nose.

  Amma, meanwhile, was still on her own trip.

  'But we fed him with our own hands when he was small!' she said, sounding perplexed. 'Such nice dark curls he had. Why is he so bitter? You two were childhood friends. Your grandfathers were childhood friends! The Altaf Khans have always been Pragati Party supporters! Why has he become so bitter, Sarojini?'

  I sighed, patted her back and went into my petal room to sleep. She really had no clue, and I was so not in the mood to tell her...

  I forget now how the whole thing started. What he said, what I said. But somehow it had been clearly understood by both of us. It was the last day of the holidays and when our game of carom ended, we were going to kiss.

  I'd been dragging the game out all afternoon. Partly just to play hard-to-get, and partly because, though I would never admit it, I was lousy at carom.

  We were down to one black, one white. He'd potted the queen ages ago. It was his turn. He smiled a slow lazy smile as he bent over the board, a lock of dark hair falling forward on his forehead. His long, lean fingers, slightly dusty with carom powder, tensed behind the striker. He hit it gently, there was a soft whfffuft sound and a blow of powder as the striker made contact with the white and slid smoothly home.