Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  As the debate raged between their respective camps, the principals themselves observed a studied silence. Karan, because he was still in shock after his father’s death. Madan Mohan, because it would have appeared unseemly to show undue interest in the job. But even as he sat quietly, lips pursed in concentration, the excited gleam of his eyes gave his true feelings away.

  Prime Minister. What better end to a career that had survived three decades of rough and tumble in politics? What better address in Delhi than Race Course Road?

  ▪

  Manisha Patel had finessed the act of bagging the prime reporting spot at any location to a fine art. This time, she had been helped by the fact that she had been first off the block, so to speak.

  So, as political leaders from across the spectrum began trooping into AIIMS to check on the Prime Minister’s health (or, more likely, to make sure the bastard really was dead), they had no option but to walk by the area where Manisha and her cameraman had set up shop.

  And while other reporters may have restricted themselves to shouting loud questions, Manisha took a rather more direct approach. She would march towards the visiting dignatory, brandishing her microphone like an offensive weapon, shouting out their names until they were shamed into looking in her direction. Then the questions would start: ‘What have you heard about the PM’s condition?’ ‘Is he out of surgery yet?’ ‘Is there any news as to what really happened to him at Ramlila Maidan?’

  Those who stopped and answered her queries—no matter how monosyllabically—would be allowed to move on. Those who had the temerity to ignore her would soon realize that this woman was not to be shaken off. Manisha would start walking in step with them, even holding them back with her free arm, until they acknowledged her presence.

  But despite all her badgering and her frantic phone calls to her sources in AIIMS, Manisha was coming up against a wall of silence. Nobody was willing to say any more than that the Prime Minister was in surgery. And that his condition was ‘stable but critical’. Which, of course, was tantamount to saying nothing at all.

  It was time for another piece to camera. And she really had nothing new to offer her viewers. What could she possibly say that she hadn’t said about twenty times already?

  The cameraman counted down and then she was on air. She heard the studio anchor’s voice in her ear. ‘Manisha, we are hearing reports that this was not a health issue at all. We are being told by our sources that an attempt was made on the Prime Minister’s life. Can you tell us anything more about that?’

  Manisha kept nodding as she listened, her face calm and solemn. Nobody watching her could have told that she was livid. She knew exactly where these ‘reports’ were coming from and who these ‘sources’ were. They were emanating from the studio of NTN, and they were being broadcast to the world by Gaurav Agnihotri.

  Typical Gaurav, she thought. He may not know anything but he sure knows the best way to keep his TRPs up. Target Pakistan. Fall back on jingoism. Wave the flag. Spout the usual patriotic bullshit. And sit back and wait for the public to lap it up.

  She now had a decision to make. Did she go along with his nonsense? Or did she debunk the theory that he had woven out of nothing?

  Manisha took a deep breath and began: ‘Well, we have been hearing these reports as well. But in absence of any corroborating evidence, it is hard to say if there is any truth to them. That said, if an assassination attempt has been made, then the most obvious suspect is Pakistan. But as I said, we do not have any proof of that, there’s just a lot of speculation on the ground.’

  The studio anchor cut in: ‘But is there any basis to this speculation? What are your sources telling you?’

  My sources are telling me bugger-all, Manisha swore to herself. But for the benefit of the camera, she kept an expression of concern on her face as she said, ‘Nobody is willing to come on the record as of now, because, as you know, the Prime Minister’s health is of primary importance. But it is certainly beginning to look as if this was no ordinary heart attack. And in the absence of any tangible information from the government or the doctors, speculation is running wild.’

  ‘What is your personal assessment of the situation?’

  ‘Speaking for myself, and on the basis of the information I have managed to gather, I think Pakistan is a viable suspect. A healthy man like Birendra Pratap doesn’t just collapse for no reason. He has to have been targeted by someone. And suspect number one has to be Pakistan.’

  Somewhere, she thought grimly, Gaurav would be chortling with delight. He had managed to decide the news agenda yet again. And yet again, she had had no option but to fall in line and play catch up.

  How the fuck did he do that every single time?

  ▪

  Asha Devi had just picked up her mobile to try her mother once again when the landline began ringing in the drawing room. So unaccustomed was she to the sound that it took her a minute to even identify it as a ringing telephone.

  She picked it up on the eighth ring. It was the high commissioner of India, Vikas Chowdhury, calling to tell her about her father. So finally somebody had remembered her existence.

  Asha had a million questions. But she didn’t get to ask any. Chowdhury, always a man of few words, asked her to get packed. He was going to send a car to take her to the airport, where he had booked her on a flight to Delhi.

  He hung up before she could tell him that she didn’t need to pack. She had an entire wardrobe hanging up in the closet of her now-unused room in 3, Race Course Road. She didn’t need to pack as much as a toothbrush.

  Asha pulled out her Chanel carry-on case from underneath her bed. Her medicine bag, a travel pillow and a shahtoosh shawl were already inside, the staples of airline travel that never ever left her case. She threw in the chargers for her phone and computer, zipped up her MacAir and shoved it into the outer compartment.

  She just about had enough time for a quick shower. Dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around her, she stood in front of her closet wondering what to wear. Her usual uniform of track pants and loose T-shirt wouldn’t do. There would be a whole delegation waiting for her when she got off the plane in Delhi. It was important to keep up appearances; at least, that’s what her father always said.

  Asha slipped on a long black full-sleeved silk kurta over a pair of black leggings, threw her cream shahtoosh around her shoulder and sat down to await the car, keeping one anxious eye on the BBC. She tried her mother yet again. No reply.

  She was now beginning to get worried. It wasn’t like her mother to not call her at such a time. She was just dialling her sister-in-law, Radhika, as a last resort, when the doorbell rang. Asha picked up her case and headed for the door.

  The driver grabbed her luggage and ran down the stairs to where a gleaming Daimler waited. He opened the rear door for Asha, who slipped into her seat, and was startled to see Vikas Chowdhury already seated inside.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked as the car picked up speed. ‘Is there any new information?’

  ‘I am afraid not, ma’am. The last thing I heard was that the doctors were still working on him.’

  ‘Can’t we call someone at the hospital and find out? I can’t get through to my brothers or my mother…’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m sure that as and when they get more information, they will call us. As for Sadhanaji, I believe that the doctors have given her sedation for the shock. She is under observation at RCR.’

  Asha bit her lip and turned her head to look out of the window. The rain was coming down hard now, and the traffic was beginning to slow down.

  Just as they were passing Hounslow, Chowdhury’s phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring, with a soft ‘Hello,’ before listening quietly to what the other person was saying. All he contributed to the conversation were a couple of ‘yes, sirs’ before hanging up with a ‘thank you’.

  ‘What was that about?’ demanded Asha.

  Chowdhury looked about as discomfited as his poker face would allow. ‘Er, I a
m very sorry to inform you, ma’am. There is some, er, bad news.’

  Asha felt a fist close around her heart. She knew what was coming even before she heard it. Her father was dead.

  She could tell by his moving lips that Chowdhury was still speaking. But she couldn’t hear him above the silent screams rising from her throat.

  She nodded in acknowledgement of the news. And then retreated further back into her seat, her icy calm camouflaging the raging emotions laying waste to her heart.

  She would not cry in front of this man. Or anybody else, for the matter. The only man who deserved her tears was dead. And she would cry for him in her own time. Until then, she would stay strong. Baba would have expected no less from her.

  ▪

  At AIIMS, the media pack had been asked to assemble once again in the forecourt. All the cameras were in place, the reporters packed tight as they stood and awaited the next medical briefing. It had now been nearly two hours since Birendra Pratap had arrived at the hospital. Surely by now the doctors would have some definitive news about his condition?

  Questions were being shouted out even before the two doctors reached the bank of microphones. Dr Gulati stepped up and began reading out from a prepared text: ‘At 12.05 this afternoon, the Prime Minister was admitted to AIIMS. He was undergoing respiratory distress and was taken into surgery. At 1.15 p.m., he suffered cardiac arrest. All attempts to revive him having failed, Birendra Pratap Singh was declared dead at 1.55 p.m.’

  There was a second’s stunned silence, and then complete pandemonium broke out. Dr Gulati hastily abandoned his spot in front of the microphones to Madan Mohan Prajapati, who stepped forward with a mournful expression on his face. Only he knew that he wasn’t mourning the dead Prime Minister but the death of his own prime ministerial ambitions.

  In the end, the party had decided to go with the dead man’s son. The general consensus was that the best way to honour Birendra Pratap’s memory would be to anoint his chosen successor as the Prime Minister. (It remained unsaid that the party would unite behind a bereaved son much more willingly than it would behind a divisive political leader like Madan Mohan.)

  Madan Mohan had been livid at this turn of events. The Prime Minister’s post was his by right, he believed. As Defence Minister and number two in the cabinet, he should have been the natural choice of the party. And in other circumstances, he would have fought harder for the job. But given that Birendra Pratap’s body hadn’t yet turned cold, it would have been unseemly to set himself up against his son.

  Ah well, never mind, Madan Mohan told himself. His time would come.

  Holding up his hands to ask for quiet, he brought Karan Pratap forward to stand beside him. Karan stepped up, looking like death warmed over, his eyes focused unseeingly into the far distance.

  ‘This is a sad and tragic day in our history,’ began Madan Mohan, ‘It is a day on which we have lost one of the brightest stars in our political firmament.’

  Gaurav Agnihotri, watching from his studio, snorted into his coffee. Just how many clichés did this man mean to employ at this ‘tragic time’. Why didn’t he just get on with it? Who was going to succeed Birendra Pratap? That’s all that people wanted to know.

  ‘At such a time,’ Madan Mohan continued, in his sonorous voice, ‘it is very important that we remain calm and don’t allow our emotions to get the better of us.’

  What on earth was he on about, wondered Manisha, as she pushed back against the scrum of reporters who were trying their best to take over her front-row position. If his intention was to reassure people, his words would have the absolute opposite effect. You only told people to remain calm when there was cause for panic.

  ‘To maintain peace and law and order it is very important that there be a seamless transfer of power in the government,’ droned on Madan Mohan. ‘Which is why, after due deliberation and consultations with all, it has been decided that we shall ask Karan Pratap Singh to take over the mantle of his honourable father.’

  There was a fresh round of loud but unintelligible questioning from the assembled press corps.

  Madan Mohan ignored them and continued in his overblown style. ‘The number one priority right now is to get Karan Pratapji sworn in as the Prime Minister. We will keep you updated on events in due course.’

  But the media was not going to give up so easily. ‘Karan Pratapji, ek bite de dijiye! Sir, bas ek bite de dijiye!’ (Karan Pratapji, just give us one bite!)

  Madan Mohan put an avuncular arm around Karan, preparatory to hustling him away. Karan startled a little when he did that, and then shrugged off Madan Mohan’s hold. He stepped up to the bank of microphones and then waited till complete silence prevailed.

  ‘This is a very difficult moment for me,’ he began. ‘Today I have lost my father. But my loss is as nothing compared to the loss of the nation that has lost its tallest leader. I know that I will not be able to fill my father’s shoes. But I will try my best. And I ask for the love and support of the people of India as my family comes to terms with our immense loss. It will be my duty to serve you just as my father did. And just like Baba, I will be your pradhan sewak, not your pradhan mantri. Thank you.’

  Wow, thought Manisha, that wasn’t half bad. She had always thought of Karan Pratap as a political lightweight, who cruised along attached to his father’s coat-tails. But if that little performance was anything to go by, his father’s death may very well be the making of him.

  She hurried back to the territory she had marked off as her own in the AIIMS forecourt to begin her last piece to camera from this location.

  ‘So, finally we have confirmation of what we have been hearing from our sources for the last couple of hours. Prime Minister Birendra Pratap Singh has passed away. We still don’t have any information as to what really happened to him. But we do know that there has been a smooth transition of power. I can confirm to all our viewers that Karan Pratap Singh, the elder son of the late PM, is headed for Rashtrapati Bhavan with other senior members of his party, where he will be sworn in as the new Prime Minister of India.’

  Back in his studio, Gaurav Agnihotri turned back to his guests. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, the truth is out at last. The Prime Minister is dead. But then, we have known that from the time he was driven into the gates of AIIMS. In fact, he was probably dead as soon as he hit the ground in Ramlila Maidan. But the truth was hidden from the Indian people until now.

  ‘Why was that done? At whose behest? Don’t the people of India have the right to know the truth about their leaders? Or is that a privilege that is only granted to the rich and the powerful in this country? Today, this country demands some answers! And we will not rest until we get them. Because, as you know, our motto at this channel is, “News Over Views”.’

  Gaurav’s panellists tried hard to keep a straight face. ‘News Over Views’. The motto of NTN had become a running joke now. One could only laugh at a channel that relied on endless debate programmes featuring the same talking heads but insisted it relied on ‘news’ over ‘views’.

  Clearly, irony had died and gone to TRP heaven.

  ▪

  Asha waited until the plane had pushed back from the bay and the cabin crew had taken their seats for take-off. Only then, sitting all the way back in her first class seat so that none of her co-passengers could see her, did she give herself permission to cry.

  Once the tears began flowing, there was no stopping them. Baba was gone. Dead. She would never be able to speak to him again. She would never be able to tell him that she loved him. She would never have a chance to ask forgiveness for the many times when she had angered him, the many ways in which she had let him down.

  There would be none of those late-night phone conversations that she had so looked forward to all day. When her father would be done with his workday, Amma had gone to bed, and her brothers had retired to their respective bungalows: that was when the two of them had had what he called their ‘alone time’. When they would discuss politics, curr
ent events, the state of the world, and whatever else popped into their heads.

  Of all his children, Birendra Pratap had always believed that it was Asha who had inherited his flair for politics—and he had never tired of telling her that. She had the same sharp eye that cut through all the clutter and honed in on the main issue. She had his dispassionate take on people, seeing them for what they were and making use of them without any value judgements. And she had his political instincts, knowing intuitively what would work and what would not.

  A feudal man at heart, Birendra Pratap had been resigned to handing over charge to his elder son, Karan, one day. But in his clear-headed way, he knew perfectly well that Karan was not, in fact, his political heir. That he didn’t posses even a fraction of Asha’s political savvy. Unfortunately, the poor fellow had inherited his late mother’s mulish obstinacy, her inability to compromise or even read people, her hair-trigger temper and her belief that she knew best.

  But, at the end of the day, Karan was his son. So, he would always rate above a daughter, even if she was his political mirror image.

  As she waited for the Ambien she had popped to work, Asha’s mind kept flashing back to her last conversation with her father. She had missed her usual late-night call to Baba the day she called it off with Sunny. She had been too distraught to speak to anyone. Instead, she had messaged to say she was busy. The following night she had steeled herself to call him. She needed to tell him that she and Sunny were over, no matter how difficult that conversation might be.

  She could hear the delight in her father’s voice even as he complained, ‘Ah, so finally you have remembered your poor Baba!’

  But she hadn’t been in the mood for the kind of gentle ribbing that had been so much a part of their relationship. She had to give him some bad news. So, she launched into her rehearsed spiel, editing out all those awful details that would break Baba’s heart.

  Yes, she knew that he had set his heart on them getting married. She knew that he had come to love Sunny like a son. But she no longer loved Sunny. She hadn’t been in love with him for some time now. So, she had decided to call it off.