Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  What would her life have been like if she had been born of the same mother? Would her brothers be sitting by her side, consoling her, instead of being closeted in a meeting that she would never be allowed into?

  Asha still had crystal-clear recall of the time when she had first realized that she was that awkward beast called a ‘half-sister’—and what that meant in real terms. Until then, she had never realized that she and her brothers had different mothers. And why would she, when they called Sadhana Devi ‘Amma’ just like she did.

  The moment of epiphany came in the run-up to her sixth birthday. All day long, her brothers had been in a state of high excitement because Bhim Mamaji was scheduled to arrive in the evening and stay with them for a week.

  Like all children, Asha too assumed that the world revolved around her. And to her, it seemed entirely reasonable to conclude that Bhim Mamaji was coming to celebrate her birthday. So, when she wandered into her brothers’ room and found them working on a welcome banner for Mamaji, she asked if she could also sign her name (a skill she had recently acquired and was very proud of) on it.

  ‘No,’ Arjun had shouted, whipping the banner out of her reach. ‘Why should you sign it? He is our Mamaji, not yours!’

  Asha didn’t quite understand how that worked. But even at that age, she could sense the hostility and anger coming off her brothers in waves. She reacted like any child would: she burst into tears.

  Neither of the boys made the slightest effort to console her. Arjun continued holding the banner up high, as if he believed that she would leap into the air and snatch it out of his hands. And Karan just stared at her silently, his expression falling somewhere between boredom and distaste.

  It was left to her mother to explain why the boys’ maternal uncle was not her maternal uncle as well. And as she listened, so many things that Asha had never really understood became clear to her. Sitting in her mother’s lap, still sniveling loudly, Asha came to terms with the essential truth of her life. The boys she had known all her short life as her ‘brothers’ were actually her ‘half-brothers’. They were born of a different mother; and that made all the difference.

  In that instant, everything had fallen into place. It became clear to her why Karan and Arjun had always treated her as an interloper, the ‘outsider’ in the family. Those silences that fell between them as soon as she entered the room, their casual rejection of her love, the indifference that came off them in waves when Baba sat them down in the puja room so that she could tie a Rakhi on them.

  Looking back now, Asha was struck by a fresh realization. Her brothers hadn’t even cared enough to hate her. She had been so unimportant in the scheme of things that they could afford to just ignore her and her infantile demands for affection and attention.

  They didn’t want her to exist. So, for them, she didn’t.

  Asha stopped at a formal family photograph taken at their ancestral home when she must have been around eight. She was seated between her parents on a sofa while her brothers perched on the arms, awkward smiles on all their faces. She was about to turn the page when she noticed with a start that there was one more person in their ‘Happy Family’ portrait. Annapurna Devi, her father’s first wife and her brothers’ mother, was staring serenely into the camera from the life-sized canvas hung on the wall behind. It was almost as if she was announcing the fact that she may be dead but she would never be gone from their lives.

  Asha stared hard at the sharply delineated features of the stepmother she had never known. Her face, with its hooked nose and high forehead, missed beauty. But the sharp jaw and the intense gaze hinted at a strong character and a keen intelligence that was quite missing from her own mother.

  Maybe that was the reason why Baba had married Amma in the first place. He had tired of character and pride and decided to go in for dumb beauty instead.

  Asha had always been mildly irritated when her father had gone on and on about how fortunate she was to have inherited his brain and her mother’s looks—and not the other way around. But now that he was gone, she could begin to admit to herself how thankful she was that it hadn’t gone the other way around. She needed her father’s genes if she was going to survive in this new world in which he was no longer there to shield her.

  Her iPhone vibrated in her lap. Asha looked down discreetly. The display read ‘Sunny’. This was the twentieth call he had made in the last two weeks. She had let it go to voice mail each time. You would think the man would take a hint. But no, he had to keep calling. No doubt he believed that if he kept at it she would finally take his call. This was what happened when you went out with men who had never been taught to take ‘no’ for an answer.

  ‘Kiska phone tha?’ her mother asked, putting away the album.

  ‘Nobody,’ mumbled Asha, thrusting her phone under the covers, as if afraid that her mother would snatch it out of her hands.

  ‘It was Sunny, wasn’t it? Why won’t you speak to him, beta?’

  And then began anew the argument they had been returning to for the past week. Why didn’t Asha make up with Sunny? He had called both her parents to ask them to intercede with her. He wanted so desperately to have her back in his life. Didn’t she see that, with Baba gone, she needed a male protector? She needed a strong man to stand beside her, because her brothers never would. And who better than Sunny—with his billions in the bank, a business empire that stretched across the globe, his palatial homes in London, Delhi, Mumbai, New York (and God alone knows where else!), his fleet of private jets—to fill that role.

  Asha was on the point of losing her temper with her mother, when there was a discreet knock on the door. ‘Who is it?’ she cried out impatiently.

  One of her mother’s interchangeable ladies-in-waiting popped her head in. Karan Pratap ji had sent word from Number 7, Race Course Road. He wanted Asha Devi to come over and join the meeting of the party’s parliamentary board.

  Asha was dumbstruck. This was a first. She looked across at her mother, who seemed as mystified as she was.

  She needed a moment to get her thoughts together. ‘Please tell them I will get dressed and be there in ten minutes,’ said Asha.

  Asha headed to her room, to change out of her jeans and T-shirt into a cream salwar kameez with a black and cream dupatta. Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she smiled as she recalled what Baba used to say whenever she dressed in Indian outfits. ‘Ah, you are in your politician’s uniform today!’

  Well, if she ever needed to look the part, it was today.

  FIVE

  It was left to Karan Pratap’s trusty PA, Vikram Sinha, to escort Asha to the conference room in which the parliamentary board was meeting. She paused at the threshold, trying to get her bearings. How strange, she thought to herself, that despite living in RCR for so long, this was the first time she was seeing this room.

  It was fitted out in a strictly utilitarian style, with a mahogany table that ran almost the entire length of the room, with high-backed armchairs placed around it. There were smaller chairs (clearly meant for those lesser mortals who were allowed in to assist their masters by proffering the odd file or report) placed against one long wall while the French windows opposite let in lots of natural light and a view of the back garden.

  Today, those chairs lay empty. This was a meeting for principals only. And at the head of the table sat Karan, with Arjun seated on his right and Madan Mohan on his left. Asha took a quick look at the rest of the party. The usual suspects were in attendance: some senior cabinet ministers whom she had a nodding acquaintance with, and two LJP general secretaries, whom she had dealt with on party matters and knew rather well.

  Karan looked up at that instant and saw her hesitating at the door. But instead of getting up to greet her, he nodded in acknowledgement of her presence and gestured for her to enter. It was left to Madan Mohan to walk Asha into the room, which he did with a protective arm around her shoulder, leading her to the chair next to his own. One peremptory look was enough to ma
ke the HRD minister vacate his chair for Asha.

  There was complete silence in the room as she took her seat. Asha was determined not to break the quiet. If her father had taught her anything in life it was never to be afraid of an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, never to rush forward to fill it. So, she sat back serenely, eyes modestly downcast, the picture of the dutiful daughter who knows her place in a roomful of men.

  Clearly, Karan and Arjun had learnt the same lesson at their father’s feet because they made no attempt to restart the discussion either. Finally, it was left to Madan Mohan to begin proceedings—which he did in his usual bombastic style.

  ‘Asha beti, on the behalf of the party, I would like to offer you my condolences on the demise of your father, the tallest leader this country has ever known.’

  Asha murmured her thanks without raising her eyes.

  Madan Mohan continued, ‘In this dark hour, it is duty of all of us to come to the aid of the country—and of the party. We have discussed the matter between us and we are agreed that at this testing time you should join the party and take a leading role in the next election campaign.’

  Karan could stay silent no longer. ‘There’s no pressure, Asha,’ he interjected silkily. ‘Both you and I know that Baba did not want you to enter active politics. And nobody would have a problem if you decided to respect his wishes now that he is no more. In fact, we would understand completely.’

  Asha stayed silent, her face an immobile mask, giving no indication of the thoughts churning madly through her brain. Join politics. What would Baba want? Campaign for the party. Did she really want to do that? It was one thing to run her father’s election, but to campaign across the country like he did? Did she have it in her?

  But even as these doubts overwhelmed her, there was a tiny part of Asha that couldn’t help but exult at the thought of finally being valued and sought out for what she could bring to the table.

  Before she could formulate a response, though, Madan Mohan spoke up again. ‘Karan Pratapji is quite right. We would understand if you decided that politics wasn’t for you. But Asha beti, just remember, we have a tough election campaign in front of us. Yes, at the moment, people are inclined to support us out of sympathy for your father’s death. But, you know what they say: a week is a long time in politics. We may not have the same support in even a month’s time. That’s why we need all the help we can get. And I know for a fact that Birendra Pratapji considered you the best campaigner in his family.’

  Asha didn’t need to look up to be able to tell that both Karan and Arjun had turned puce at this statement.

  But it didn’t matter how much that angered her brothers. What Madan Mohan had said was nothing less than the truth. Whatever her differences with her father, whatever the difficulties in their relationship, if there was one time that Baba relied entirely on her, it was in the run-up to his election. She was always put in charge of the election campaign in the family constituency of Bharatnagar while he toured the country on his party’s behalf, secure in the knowledge that his daughter would get out the vote for him.

  And, in that instance at least, she had never let him down.

  Damping down the tears that threatened to spill over at that recollection, Asha finally broke her silence. ‘Thank you, Madan Uncle. That’s good to hear. But as you know, until now I have only stayed within the family constituency where everyone knew me—and worshipped Baba. Do you really think my presence will make a difference in the rest of the country? Would people even know who I am? Would they even care?’

  Madan Mohan looked shocked. ‘Of course they would, beta. The entire country is with you in your hour of grief.’

  Arjun finally stirred out of his stupor. ‘The country is with all of Baba’s children as they grieve. And I really don’t think we should put pressure on Asha at this time. She is not in a good frame of mind to make these decisions.’

  That much, at least, was true, thought Asha. She was not in the right frame of mind to make any decisions at all—let alone a life-altering one like this. And certainly not here, in this roomful of men (with the exception of the finance minister, who had been the only one to smile encouragingly at her), all of whom were staring intently at her, as if she was some circus beast. Wasn’t this exactly what she had been trying to escape when she had made the run to London?

  ‘Thank you Arjun bhaiya,’ she said, rewarding him with a tiny smile. ‘You’re right, I need some time to think this over. It is a huge commitment to make.’

  ‘Of course it is, beta,’ interjected Madan Mohan smoothly. ‘But it is a commitment you must make to honour the memory of your late father. In fact, some of us believe that you should also stand from your late father’s constituency in the next election, so that the people there feel that there is still a family connect to them.’

  Both Karan and Arjun visibly started at this, while the rest of the room went curiously still. Clearly, they hadn’t heard this one before.

  Despite herself, Asha felt a flicker of excitement go through her. Stand from Bharatnagar? Become the political heir to Baba, at least in his own constituency? That felt like something she could do. Even something she should do.

  But no, it was no point making hasty decisions in this fog of grief. She needed to think this over. She needed to buy some time. And she needed to get away from the oppressive energy of this room, infected as it was by the conflicting egos of powerful men.

  Before she could say anything, Karan spoke up. ‘Bharatnagar has always been our family seat. I think Baba would have wanted me to stand from there. I am, after all, his eldest son.’

  ‘But Karan Pratapji, how can you give up your own seat? Sultanpur is also part of your erstwhile family estate. If you move away from there, the people of Sultanpur will treat this as a personal insult,’ said Madan Mohan.

  There was a point to that, Karan acknowledged ruefully to himself. He couldn’t really give up Sultanpur without angering his own constituents. And nor could Arjun move away from Lakhanpur, another family stronghold, without causing offense. But the very idea of allowing Asha to take over his father’s seat was anathema to him.

  She was not part of the family; never had been, as far as he was concerned. And once she married—as she inevitably would in a couple of years—she would officially become part of another family. So what gave her the right to stand from Bharatnagar?

  He would much rather that Radhika stood from Baba’s old constituency. At least, that way, the seat would remain within the Pratap Singh clan. But even as the thought occurred to him, Karan knew that it was a non-starter. His wife had zero interest in politics. She regarded campaigning for him as a major imposition, so she was unlikely to want to stand for election herself. So, let alone parachute her into Bharatnagar, he couldn’t even put her up for his seat in Sultanpur and move to his father’s constituency himself.

  ‘Well,’ Karan conceded reluctantly, ‘that may well be true. But why this obscene hurry to give away Baba’s seat? We can surely wait a little out of respect for his memory.’

  Yeah right, thought Asha. So says the man who is sitting in his father’s chair, who took over from him as Prime Minister and party president, and who is now trying to lay down the law to me just as Baba did.

  Sorry, Karan, you are no Birendra Pratap, she said to herself. And if Birendra Pratap is going to be replaced by anyone, then why not me?

  But the politician in Asha knew that it would be impolitic to appear too eager. So, all she said was, ‘Madan Uncle, I am very honoured that the party has thought me worthy of this. But my brothers are right. I need more time to think this through, to talk it over with my mother…’

  ‘Well, why don’t we ask Sadhanaji to join us, in that case?’ asked Madan Mohan.

  Her mother. Her beautiful, foolish, broken mother, in this room teeming with resentment, anger and political intrigue. No, it simply would not do.

  ‘Amma is not up to seeing anybody right now,’ Asha said firmly, ‘If you need
an answer right away, I will go and consult her.’

  With that, while resolutely avoiding her brothers’ eyes, Asha Devi left the room.

  ▪

  The morning news meeting at NTN started off tamely enough. Gaurav Agnihotri was in a better mood than anyone had seen him in for a long time. He had even gone so far as to congratulate his team for a job well done last night. ‘We killed the competition, we absolutely killed it!’ he crowed from his seat at the head of the table.

  There were a few nervous smiles raised at that. But the wariness persisted in all those eyes ranged around the conference table. Everyone knew that Gaurav’s mood could darken in a minute, and at the slightest of provocations.

  Today’s provocation came six minutes into the meeting. Discussing the run through of the prime-time news bulletin, the channel’s managing editor, Ashutosh Rawat, brought up a topic that AITNN had covered in their prime-time slot last night: dynastic politics. The channel had done a twenty-two-minute package about the many dynastic successions over the last few decades in this part of the world: Indira and Rajiv Gandhi, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Benazir Bhutto, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and Sheikh Hasina…

  ‘I thought that we could also include something like that package in our 9 p.m. debate,’ said Rawat. ‘Maybe something on all the Prime Ministers who have been assassinated in this region, and how their countries were affected by it. It may make a change from the usual…’

  He got no further. ‘Make a change?’ expostulated Gaurav. ‘Why the fuck do we need to make a change? Do you not know that my show has been the top-rated show in the country for the last 432 weeks? That our ratings are more than double that of our nearest competitor?’

  ‘No, Gaurav. I mean, yes, Gaurav, I do know that,’ mumbled a miserable Rawat. ‘But that’s not what I meant. I just thought that we could do something different tonight as a sort of channel differentiator…’