Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  'With Bunty,' I corrected him.

  'With Bunty,' he agreed, somewhat huskily.

  A while later, my sari lay unspooled at the bottom of the bed.

  'Jin?'

  'Hmm?'

  'It's not consume, by the way, it's consummate.'

  'I know that,' I retorted fiercely, rearing up at once. 'I'm not stu--'

  But he didn't let me finish. Shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, he pushed me back down on the big sunshine-filled bed, lowered his tousled dark head, and kissed me.

  ***

  Epilogue

  I almost missed the swearing in.

  Zain drove us back to Delhi, tearing down the bumpy highway in the dark pelting rain like a maniac, swearing at the trucks on the road and yelling at me for being dumb enough to drive to Bittora a day before what he kept calling 'the biggest day of your life'.

  I smiled at him, too replete and happy to argue, even when he cursed the condition of my Sumo (which he had no option but to take because of the brand new Parliament House parking sticker pasted on its windshield).

  'Don't put the glass down,' he yelled when, still in a fuzzy romantic daze, I slid my window down just a couple of inches to inhale the falling raindrops. 'You'll mess up your hair!'

  'Okay...' I muttered, then brightened at the sight of a passing tea-stall. 'Hey, d'you wanna get some chai?'

  'No,' he snapped, his eyes on the road. 'I'm trying to get you to Parliament in time. Would you please try to get with the programme?'

  'Oh, please.' I stretched back in my seat languorously. 'What's the big deal about going to Parliament? I've been there tons of times, to withdraw money from Amma's SBI account.'

  'There's a difference between running errands and being sworn in as a member,' Zain told me grimly. 'You'll see.'

  'And afterwards, she'd sometimes buy me this awesome tomato soup from the railway canteen upstairs,' I continued, my mind still on the tea he hadn't let me buy. 'It used to be fully subsidized. Just two bucks a bowl, at least that's what it used to be back in the nineties...'

  He ignored these reminiscences completely, so I shrugged, lay back in my seat and closed my eyes. God knows why he was hyperventilating so much. We had ages to make it to Parliament. And the swearing in was no big deal, really. I'd seen it happen loads of times.

  'See?' I told him smugly, three hours later, as we sped down Ashoka Road and turned onto Sansad Marg with over fifteen minutes to spare. 'There was no need to lose the plot.'

  He shot me an exasperated look even as the sentries at Gate No. 1 looked at the brand new 'MP Fifteenth Lok Sabha' sticker and waved us through. Then he turned into the lane that leads to the main porch of Parliament House.

  And there, the sight of a thousand news channel vans, the hypnotic khit khit khit of flashing cameras, the revolving blue and red lights on the white cars clogging the drive, disgorging the triumphant looking Ugly People Mafia onto the porch, suddenly turned all my muscles to water.

  I can't go in there, I thought. I can't. I just can't.

  Honestly. The nervousness I felt lurking outside the Taj Bittora yesterday was nothing compared to the panic I was feeling now.

  I wanted to run back to Pixel animation and design kitaanus for the rest of my life.

  Zain, the bastard, fully aware of the consternation inside my primly-encased-in-grey-and-pink-khadi breast, killed the engine, turned to me and smiled.

  'All the best,' he said with a wicked grin. 'Get in there. Kick some ass.'

  Was he insane?

  The press had seen me now. Worse, they'd seen who was driving my vehicle. The windows of the Sumo, designed for campaigning, gave them a clear view of both of us. As they surged towards us, waving their microphones and shouting questions, I resisted the urge to duck.

  'Sarojiniji!'

  'Youngest MP! How does it feel?'

  'What's the biggest challenge your state is facing?'

  'What's your view on the growing Naxal presence in the province of Durguja?'

  'Will you convert to Islam when you get married?'

  Cars behind us were starting to honk so I took a deep breath, opened the door of the Sumo, and narrowly missed knocking somebody down.

  'Pande junior.'

  It was TB. Flanking him was that prince of snakes, my late grandmother's best friend, Tawny Suleiman. They'd obviously showed up to see their respective progeny being sworn in as PP MPs. How sweet.

  'We were so happy to hear you scraped through! Weren't we, Anthony?'

  Tawny nodded enthusiastically. 'Thrilled. Thrilled,' he said, smiling at me with what looked like real affection, his shamelessness quite sucking my breath away. 'I told you she would win, sir! Though it was close. Two hundred votes, wasn't it, dear?'

  'Six hundred actually,' Zain's lips smiled politely enough, though his nostrils flared warningly.

  TB looked around, astounded at my outspoken 'driver', did an infinitesimal double take, and then said smoothly, 'Ah, young... err... Zuber. How nice.'

  'Congratulations on your victory, sir,' Zain said.

  'Yes, yes, such as it is,' responded TB a little grumpily. The wrangling preceding the formation of his coalition government had been the only thing in the news all month.

  Meanwhile, the press hounds, who'd been clicking away gleefully, now started emitting hoarse, uncouth shouts. 'Hug her, Zain!' they heckled from behind their cameras. 'Kiss him, Jinni!'

  TB cast a jaundiced eye around the porch. 'Politics in this country is just not what it used to be,' he murmured dryly.

  Tawny hastily stuck his head into the Sumo and tackled Zain. 'So!' he said jovially. 'Come to see Jinni's swearing in?'

  Zain looked taken aback, and cast an involuntary look at his scruffy jeans and Champapuli chappals. 'Err... I'm not properly dressed. Besides I don't have a pass.'

  'Arrey, pass humare paas hai!' said Tawny, all bluff good humour. 'You come up and sit with me in the Rajya Sabha gallery!'

  I looked ahead, noncommittal, and fiddled with the end of my pallu. It would be awesome if Zain watched my swearing in, of course. But I hadn't asked him to, partly because I'd already given all my passes away to the crack team, but mostly because I was trying to be sensitive. Watching me being sworn in when he had hoped to be sworn in himself? That would be too painful, surely.

  So now, I steeled myself and waited for him to make some excuse.

  Instead, he said, his dark eyes totally lighting up, 'Thanks so much, sir. I'd love to see Jinni being sworn in.'

  Huh?

  I know, I know. I don't deserve him one bit.

  I almost hugged him in public again, but managed to stop myself just in the nick of time. (Well, to tell you the truth, I kind of half-lunged into the Sumo but then TB's hand closed warningly over my arm.)

  'Yes, yes,' said TB, as he patted my arm austerely. Then he leaned into the vehicle and addressed Zain. 'Come and see me sometime, when you're properly dressed. Young men like you have no business being in the IJP'

  'It's like you said, sir,' Zain replied pleasantly. 'Politics in this country is just not what it used to be.'

  Saying which, he grinned, restarted the engine, tossed a casual, 'Meet you at the public gallery entrance in ten, Mr S' in Tawny's direction, and drove the rattling mud-spattered Sumo out of there with the air of a world-saving superhero cruising off behind the wheel of the Batmobile.

  As for me, I wiped the stupid, adoring smile off my face, took a deep breath, and followed the luminaries of the fifteenth Lok Sabha into the House.

  And it was exactly like Zain had said.

  Being sworn in is completely different from visiting to drink tomato soup.

  I walked like someone in a dream, through the security area and into the stately pillared corridor, dotted every now and again with dark, wooden benches. The grassed courtyard within and the three life-sized stone statues of the founding fathers, were wet with morning dew. I sent up a fervent application for their blessings, and then, lifting my sari plea
ts a little, followed the other new MPs past the Library Hall, the Central Hall and the Rajya Sabha, into the House of the People.

  The Lok Sabha was pretty much as I remembered it. Semicircular, reminiscent of the interiors of a large, slightly tatty, multiplex movie theatre, and done up in pool-table green. The white bearded portrait of Vithhalbhai Patel, the first elected President of the Central Legislative Assembly, glowered down fiercely at everyone.

  I walked sedately to the humble backbencher seats at the right hand side of the Speaker's chair and looked up at the galleries, hoping to spot Zain, Ma and my crack team, and did so almost immediately, probably because of the incandescent glow on Ma's face. Smiling the world's biggest smile, she pointed at Zain and did a double thumbs up. I beamed back at both of them. Zain immediately staggered back in mock alarm, his hand going to his heart.

  Whoa, smile impact.

  Blushing bright red, I stumbled and almost fell, but managed to make it look like I was just sitting down. As I adjusted my sari and looked down at the buttons and gizmos of the automatic voting system on my desk, a dulcet voice spoke in my ear.

  'Hello, so nice to meet...'

  Both of you, I thought with a sigh. And smiled. 'Hi, Titu.'

  'Hello, Sarojiniji,' he said politely, like he was this really khandaani person who hadn't been trying to sabotage my campaign all summer. 'Meet Saurav and Manish and Madhu.'

  I folded my hands in a namaste to the other nervous-looking first-timers in our row and sat back, head bowed, waiting for my name to be announced.

  Which is when a strange thing happened.

  As I listened to MP after MP taking the oath, all the foolish skittering notions of impressing the Pragati Party Top Brass, the other big shots in the party and the cynical press with my perfect enunciation, my pretty sari or the simple sincerity of my oath-delivery faded from my mind. Amma and Bauji, who seemed to be hovering by my side since I entered Parliament House, all misty-eyed and full of unsolicited advice, withdrew too. Ma retreated. Even Zain grew a little dim.

  They were all unceremoniously pushed aside by an aggressive horde which shouldered its way into my mind, without a VVIP pass of any sort, refusing to be disallowed. Dour faced and unblinking, the eleven lakh plus people of the eight legislative assembly segments of Bittoragarh took centre space in my head. Not so subtly reminding me that they were the ones who'd sent me here. For whatever reason. Out of love, or hope, or a gold nose-pin, or lack of choice, or force of habit, or by simply not showing up to cast their vote. I could see them clearly, I could read their minds. Frowning down at me, brows furrowed, lips pursed and fingers crossed, they were thinking darkly, Okay let's hope we haven't screwed up here, choosing this cartoon-college graduate to represent us...

  The thought humbled me and made me incredibly proud, both at the same time.

  Which is why, when my turn finally came, I was able to swallow the lump in my throat, raise my chin and speak clearly, the words coming with fierce, painful intensity, straight from the bottom of my heart.

  I,

  Sarojini Devi Pande,

  having been elected as a Member,

  in the House of the People,

  do solemnly swear,

  with God as my witness

  that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the

  Constitution of India,

  as by Law established,

  That I will uphold the Sovereignty and Integrity of

  India,

  That I will faithfully discharge the duties

  to which I am about to enter.

  So help me God.

  ***

  Acknowledgements

  My mother-in-law, Margaret Alva, whose many hilarious stories about her 'office' made me want to write this book in the first place. Thank you, Mamma.

  My mother, Pushpa Raman, who let me borrow her name, and her memories. Thank you, Mummy.

  My ammaji, Leelavati Thakur, who taught me that a maternal grandmother's home is indeed Home. For my sisters and me, it will always be 898 Saket Bhavan, Pyaare Lal Sharma Road, Meerut Cantt.

  Niharika, for her effusive praise and brutal criticism.

  Nayantara, whose sudden, wide, sweet smile I stole for Jinni.

  Daivik John, who continues to inspire. (No, Daivik John, you may not have Grand Theft Auto, not even if you buy it with your own money. Not even Grand Theft Auto Chinatown even if it has 'no sex - only violence and bad words'. Not even if you 'play it on mute and don't even hear the bad words'.)

  My sister-in-law, Manira, who, when plied with cups of midnight chai, supplied anecdotes and insight and major plot points.

  My Mini didi, who found the manuscript 'unputdownable' and read it in four hours flat on a hectic working day. (But who's a member of a Facebook group called 'I'll Read Anything' so let's not get too excited here...)

  My sister, Nandini, for her totally excellent, vital early advice on my hero.

  Early readers, Shalini Beri and Alok Lall.

  Neelini Sarkar - nit-picky Virgo editor whose eagle eye missed nothing. (Neelini's log, 7:20 am: Technically, if she's five-feet-two and he's six-ish, their navels can't be kissing. Think about it...)

  V.K. Karthika, for being both giggly girl and savvy chief editor.

  The poetry selection Panorama which exposed entire generations of class ten students to Sarojini Naidu's poetry.

  P. Sainath's Everybody Loves a Good Drought, for its 'legend of the water-thieves'.

  Anupama Ramaswamy, Cannes Gold Lion winning art-director, who designed at least seven hundred and ninety-three cover options - including this one.

  Sidhaarth Dyalchand, whose store of 'desi English' gems I help myself to liberally.

  My entire family - Alva and Chauhan both - who had to put up with me rabbitting on and on about this book all year.

  Ditto, my entire office.

  All the staff at 23 Ashoka Road and 12 Safdurjung Lane - especially the Late Ishwar Dasji. I think the odds on Sean Connery possessing an I LOOK LIKE ISHWAR DASJI T-shirt are extremely high.

  Goldy, the resident Ponky at the Raj Bhavan, Dehradun.

  And finally, the big three.

  Our Lord Jesus Christ, in whose peace we dwell.

  Choku, my first reader - for his patience, his clarity and his childhood memories. And for his testy no-no, it's okay, keep going, I've gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of the laptop keys tapping away, anyway...

  And my grandparents-in-law, the late Joachim and Violet Alva, the first couple in India's Parliament, whose romance and idealism inspired this book.

  ***

  About the Author

  Anuja Chauhan was born in Meerut and went to school in Meerut, Delhi and Melbourne. Her first book, TheZoya Factor, was a national bestseller and is being made into a film by Shah Rukh Khan's Red Chillies Entertainment. Anuja lives in Gurgaon with her husband Niret Alva and their three children, and works in advertising. Her contribution to the nation's real politik is mostly limited to serving tea and being seen and not heard in her mother-in-law's drawing room.

  ***

  What people are saying about The Zoya Factor

  'Her writing is very young, very now, very funny. Sparkling with wit and cattiness, here's the much-awaited doosra of Indian writing!' - The Times of India

  'Ms Chauhan had me laughing aloud so often that I'm sure my fellow passengers thought I'm a bit of a nut.' - Headlines Today

  'Let's not beat around the bush. This book is gross and really funny. Chauhan has the craft, panache and talent for fiction writing.' - The Week

  'It's a sweet, heart-hugging story that ends in a confetti of happy resolutions you will enjoy arriving at.' - Hindustan Times

  'An entirely sophisticated first novel, The Zoya Factor brings the insouciance, humour and heart back into chick-lit.' - TimeOut

  'Cute butts. Biteable chests. A saucy new read that has all that and more. It's a fascinating, unabashedly shallow world and I fell madly in love with it.' - India Todayr />
  First published in India in 2010 by

  HarperCollins Publishers India

  Copyright (c) Anuja Chauhan 2010

  ISBN: 978-93-5029-002-6

  Epub Edition (c) June 2012 ISBN: 9789350294802

  2 4 6 8 1 0 9 7 5 3

  Anuja Chauhan asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are

  the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.

  Cover design: Anupama Ramaswamy

  For Sale in the Indian Subcontinent Only

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