Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  The roads were eerily silent as the cars sped towards RCR. But as they cleared the Santushti roundabout, the crowds came into view. They were massed on both sides of road, some of them wearing the distinctive orange caps that were associated with Birendra Pratap’s party, others in funereal white. As her car drove into the Race Course Road complex, past the first entry gate, Asha could see a flurry of excitement go through the ranks of the media party, assembled across the road. Clearly, they had spotted her, the bereaved daughter.

  Cameras started going off with blinding flashes, while TV crews jostled one another to get a better view of the prodigal daughter. This was exactly what she had been trying to get away from when she had escaped to London so many years ago. The incessant media attention, the constant scrutiny of her life, the endless speculation about her boyfriends, the constant hunt for an unsavoury story about her ‘wild’ and ‘bohemian’ ways.

  One look at the baying crowd of reporters and the indignities of her previous life came flashing back as Asha remembered all that she had loathed about politics. The complete lack of privacy; the overbearing presence of her security detail; the culture of sycophancy that surrounded her, the pampered only daughter of the Prime Minister; the unbearable tedium of living a life in which her every move had to be within the parameters of political correctness.

  She had crystal-clear recall of her father’s furious face when she had defiantly signed a bond refusing SPG protection when she moved to London. Maybe she could have done a better job of explaining to him why she needed to break free of the bonds his status imposed on her.

  She should have told him that she wasn’t just escaping the pressures of a life lived in full public view. She wasn’t just trying to slither out of his shadow. No, she just needed to find out who she was and she needed a safe space to do that, away from the burden of his expectations—and as far away as possible from the stifling claustrophobia of her mother’s overbearing love.

  Her mother. It was hard to recognize her in the quivering mess that lay on the bed, bundled under a profusion of blankets. She was surrounded by her usual pack of ladies-in-waiting, women from her village in UP who drifted in and out of her life in an endless procession.

  It took Sadhana Devi a moment to realize that the figure in the door was her daughter. But as Asha moved into the light, her mother gave a piteous cry and held out her arms. Asha ran into them, and dissolved right into her mother’s grief.

  From now on, it would just be the two of them. The two of them against the world.

  ▪

  Gaurav Agnihotri had just got off his nightly shouting match on television, and was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had been particularly lucky with the panel his guest coordinator had booked tonight. There was the former R&AW hand (a junior officer who had left the service in disgrace; but who among his viewers would know that?) to present the case against Pakistan. There were the usual three journalists, who could be counted upon to echo the anchor’s views. And then, there were the two Pakistani ex-Generals: loud, obnoxious, and virulently anti-India, they were just the stuff that high TRPs were made of.

  The ‘debate’ had gone so well that by the end, Gaurav had convinced even himself that Pakistan had assassinated the Indian Prime Minister. So what if there wasn’t a shred of evidence for this theory so far? It would turn up eventually. And then, he could go on prime-time TV again with a self-congratulatory halo around his head.

  Gaurav took out the bottle of Glenfiddich that lived in the bottom drawer of his desk and poured the ‘chhota peg’ he allowed himself every night to unwind after the adrenaline rush of his show. He settled back on his swivel chair, took a tiny sip and felt the warmth of the single malt trickle down his throat.

  The TV on the wall opposite his desk was on mute. But the moment he saw the scene cut to Race Course Road, where a motorcade of white BMWs was driving into the main gate, he switched the sound on. Asha Devi, the beautiful, glamorous wild child, was back home after her father’s death. Gaurav only caught a fleeting glimpse of her pale face, immobile as if it had been carved out of marble, and framed with sunglasses that looked completely incongruous at that time of night.

  But even in that instant, he knew that this image would stay with him. The tragic figure of the grieving daughter, who had had a troubled relationship with her father, and would now never be able to repair it. This was the picture frame that would tell the human story of the tragedy of Birendra Pratap’s death.

  Gaurav pulled out his phone and shot off a mail to his chief of bureau. They had to get an interview with Asha. It didn’t matter if it was only a couple of bites. But they had to be the first channel on which she appeared to talk about her father.

  Across Delhi, in an apartment in Defence Colony, Manisha was thinking along exactly the same lines as she saw Asha drive into Race Course Road. She had to get through to Asha before anyone else did.

  She still had Asha’s mobile number entered into her phone, from back in the day when the two of them had known each other socially on Delhi’s cocktail party circuit. They had never been friends. Manisha was far too much of a control freak to be drawn into the coke crowd that Asha ran with. But on the few occasions that they had spoken, there had been an instant connection between them: the courageous female reporter who was breaking barriers in journalism every day and the politician’s daughter who desperately wanted to get out of the shadows of her father and brothers and was on the lookout for strong role models.

  But that had been years ago. Would that number even be valid now? Manisha picked up her phone and dialled it. It went instantly to voicemail. But the voice that greeted her was Asha’s: ‘Sorry, I am unable to take your call right now. You know what to do…’

  What did she have to lose? Manisha waited for a beat and then began, ‘Hi Asha, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your father. I know this must be a difficult time for you. If there is anything I can do, please let me know. With my deepest condolences, Manisha.’

  Yes, that would do. If this number was still valid and Asha checked in for her messages, she would know that Manisha was thinking of her. So, the next time she called and asked for an interview, the request wouldn’t seem like someone from a call centre cold-calling a prospective customer.

  Of course, it was entirely possible that Asha no longer used this number. In which case, she would have to start work on finding out her new contact details.

  But that could wait until tomorrow. Now it was time for a single malt and some telly. Manisha reached out for the Glenfiddich on the bar counter, poured herself a large measure, added a splash of water—she could still hear Gaurav’s voice in her head saying, ‘No rocks, no fucking rocks. Don’t insult that malt!’—and settled down on the couch to channel surf through all her rival news networks.

  Despite herself, she found herself watching the repeat of Gaurav’s show, her nose crinkled in disgust as the decibel level got higher and higher.

  The man really was irremediable. The only good thing he had ever done was to introduce her to his favourite whisky. It soothed and calmed her as he had never ever managed to do.

  ▪

  An awkward silence filled the Number 7, Race Course Road drawing room. The top security officers of the government of India—always touchy about bureaucratic protocol—weren’t sure who should go first.

  Karan gestured to Suresh Shastri to start. So, it was the chief of the Intelligence Bureau who informed Karan Pratap that his father had, in fact, been assassinated. The autopsy conducted at AIIMS had led to the discovery of a microscopic puncture wound on Birendra Pratap’s palm, so tiny that it was near-invisible to the naked eye. That was the route through which an unknown toxin had been injected into the Prime Minister.

  What kind of toxin? What could possibly kill a man so instantaneously? Surely they must have some idea of the poisons that could achieve that?

  Shastri was reluctant to commit himself. They would only know more about that once the toxicology repo
rts came in. And those would take up to three days or even a week.

  Who could have done this? Which foreign power had the ways and means—not to mention, the sheer nerve—to make a direct hit on the person of the Indian Prime Minister?

  Karan turned to Anil Bhalla, R&AW chief. Had the service picked up no chatter about this? What was the point of spending so much money on intelligence gathering when no intelligence was, in fact, gathered?

  Bhalla looked glum. This was the part of his job that he hated the most. When he had to deal with ignorant politicians like Karan Pratap who thought that ‘electronic surveillance’ meant that R&AW could monitor every website, all message boards, keep tabs on every suspicious exchange on the web, tap all phone lines. Well, technically, it could. But you still needed to know where to look, who to listen to and what to listen for.

  Did this wet-behind-the-ears Prime Minister realize just how many jihadi networks there were out there, lurking beneath the surface, using their smartphones to connect on WhatsApp (which was impossible to tap or crack)? Could he even fathom the depths of the Dark Web, where terrorists lurked to plot, plan and coordinate their attacks? Did he realize how many ‘sleeper cells’ were in existence, peopled by ‘clean-skins’ (who had never come to the attention of the authorities and hence were impossible to trace), just waiting to be deployed in the service of one terror organization or the other?

  Trying hard not to let his contempt show on his face, Bhalla ventured mildly, ‘Sir, we didn’t pick up anything from our surveillance on known Pakistani and Kashmiri networks. But it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. We will need some time to investigate further…’

  ‘Well, time is something that I simply don’t have,’ snapped Karan, cutting Bhalla off mid-sentence. ‘I need information. And I need it now. I can’t really go on TV tomorrow and address the people of India with so few facts at my disposal. It’s not enough to tell them that my father was murdered by some poison we can’t even identify as yet. And that our intelligence agencies have no clue who could have targeted him. I need more by the time I speak to the nation tomorrow. What can you give me? If you had to make an educated guess, who would you say is behind this?’

  Bhalla looked discomfited. Educated guess? Was this man serious? Did he really expect the R&AW chief to speculate on as serious a matter as this?

  It was left to Arunoday Sengupta, the National Security Advisor, to fill the pause that followed. A career diplomat, Sengupta knew exactly how to tell people what they wanted to hear. And his stint with Birendra Pratap had given him some insight into how Karan’s mind worked.

  ‘Well, sir, there are two distinct possibilities and one distant probability. Suspect number one has to be Pakistan, given that it was your father who launched the strategy of “surgical strikes” to hit at terror camps across the border. But if it is Pakistan, then they are using non-state actors who are not on our radar as yet. They may even have activated one of the many sleeper cells they have set up all across the country. If that is the case, then it will be very difficult to actually identify who attacked the Prime Minister and at whose behest.’

  ‘Are you telling me that we may never get to prove who killed my father?’ asked Karan.

  ‘Well, we may not get the level of proof that is required in a court of law. But I am sure that we will be able to find evidence that can satisfy us. Unless, of course, someone comes forward and claims responsibility,’ said Sengupta.

  Shastri broke in at this point, ‘Sir, we have been going through videos of the rally. All the news channels have shared their unedited tapes with us. But it is hard to work out exactly what happened given that all we have are long shots. Our technical teams are working around the clock to enhance the quality of the videos, so we may have more information by tomorrow. And of course, Shankar Roy’s debriefing will be through by now. We may learn something important from that as well.’

  Karan nodded curtly and turned to Kutty. ‘Who are the other suspects on the list?’

  ‘Well, there are several,’ said Kutty. ‘The assassination could be the work of domestic terror groups as well. Militant groups in Kashmir have been threatening attacks on the PM ever since pellet guns began to be used in the valley for crowd control. The Maoist insurgents have become much more aggressive of late as well. Though the death threats they issue are mostly against the Chhattisgarh Chief Minister rather than the PM.’

  Bhalla now felt himself on surer ground, so he moved swiftly to redeem himself in the eyes of the new Prime Minister. ‘Also, allow me to point out,’ he began, in his usual pedantic style, ‘the poison pen has always been the weapon of choice for North Korea. They have been using it in South Korea and on some occasions in the Western world as well to rid themselves of dissidents and enemies of the state.’

  Karan’s frayed nerves finally gave way. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that North Korea wanted to kill the Indian Prime Minister?’

  Bhalla flushed. ‘No sir, you didn’t let me finish. I meant to say that the weapon of choice could point to China as well. It has very strong links to North Korea, and we know that China has been trying to disrupt our economic progress for decades. What better way to create chaos in our country than to kill the Prime Minister? The country will be badly destabilized now. People will cease to have faith in our economy. Who will invest in India now? And once they turn their eyes away from India, who will they look at? The Chinese, of course.’

  Karan’s head was reeling by now. China would kill the Indian Prime Minister so that the Indian economy tanked? Was he really being briefed on such matters? Or had he wandered on to the set of a bad TV spy series?

  Kutty, always acutely aware of the moods of his principals, stood up suddenly. ‘Sir, I think you should rest now. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning. And you have to be at AIIMS at 8 a.m.’

  Karan nodded his dismissal to the other men and then sat down to work out the details of the next day’s programme with Kutty and Sengupta. Arjun and he would go to AIIMS, from where Birendra Pratap’s body would be transported on a gun carriage to Teen Murti Bhavan, where it would lie in state. They would spend the day there, accepting condolences.

  And then, at 9 p.m., Karan Pratap Singh, the new Prime Minister of India, would address his people for the first time on television, telecasting live from Race Course Road.

  ▪

  It was sunlight that woke Asha up. She had forgotten to draw the blackout blinds the night before when she had finally collapsed into her bed, drained with both physical and emotional exhaustion. It had been hard to see her mother reduced to a wreck, wailing and weeping loudly like a small child, clinging to Asha for comfort, more evidence—if any were needed—that their parent-child roles had been swapped irrevocably.

  The doctor had had to give Sadhana Devi another sedative so that she could get a few hours of rest. It was only after she had seen her mother slip away into sleep that Asha had headed to her room, where her bed had already been made, her pyjamas laid out and a tumbler of water placed on the bedside table.

  No matter if the world outside was collapsing, the Race Course Road housekeeping machine hummed smoothly along.

  Asha slipped out of bed, still feeling groggy from the many Ambiens she had swallowed the day before. She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. How was it possible that she still looked the same as she had the day before yesterday—before her world had been blown apart in that Belgravia gym—when nothing was ever going to be the same again?

  Picking up the intercom, Asha asked for tea, and dragged herself into the shower.

  The steaming hot water served to clear her head, still woozy from the after-effects of the sedative. Asha toweled herself off, and slipped into a white chikankari salwar kameez that her father had bought back for her from his last trip to Lucknow. This would be the last gift he ever gave her.

  She felt the salty sting of tears in her eyes, as the reality of the situation hit home. Her father was dead.
She never got to see him. She never got to say goodbye. She never got to say sorry. She never got to tell him how much she loved him.

  There was a soft tap on the door. Her tea was here. Pouring herself a cup, Asha turned on the TV. All the channels were showing just one picture. Her father’s body lying in state at Teen Murti Bhavan, her brothers standing behind the bier, looking shattered, while an endless procession of people filed past to pay their last respects to the late Birendra Pratap.

  Asha could feel that familiar hot haze of anger and resentment descend upon her. Why did they get to act like the bereaved children in the eyes of the world, while she and her mother hid their grief behind the many layers of security at Race Course Road?

  This simply would not do. Abandoning her tea, Asha stomped off to her mother’s room. Sadhana Devi was still lying in the same piteous heap she had been the night before.

  ‘Amma,’ said Asha, shaking her awake gently. ‘Wake up. It’s time to wake up.’

  One of the ladies-in-waiting tried to suggest that maybe she should let her mother sleep and was subdued with one angry glance.

  ‘Amma, get up. You have to get dressed. We need to go and see Baba.’

  Those were the magic words needed to galvanize Sadhana Devi. They had to go and see Baba.

  Asha threw her mother’s attendants out and took charge. She chivvied Sadhana Devi into the shower and threw open her closet to choose a sari for her to wear. Her hands reached out for the white chiffon with chikankari, bought by her father on the same trip he’d bought her the salwar kameez she was wearing.

  Half an hour later, there was a buzz among the crowd assembled around Birendra Pratap Singh’s bier, with the cameras going crazy with their flashes and popgun sounds. Karan and Arjun, standing with heads bowed beside their father’s body, looked up to see what the commotion was about.

  It was about Asha and Sadhana Devi, the bereaved daughter and wife, walking up to take their places beside them.