Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  ‘That is neither here nor there, Jay, and you know it. If they are leaked—and that is a big “if ”—then they won’t be leaked by us. I simply won’t stand for it. We are better than this. We don’t play dirty no matter how hard things get.’

  Rajiv could see his brilliant strategy being smashed to a million pieces. So, against his better judgement, he waded into the argument between husband and wife. ‘Can we all just calm down here and think rationally…’

  Never, in the entire history of the world, has anyone who is asked to ‘calm down’ ever actually done so. Today was no different. Malti turned her full fury on Rajiv, ‘Calm down? No, I am not going to calm down. I am appalled that you would even think of bringing something like this to my husband. What on earth were you thinking?’

  Anisa, who had until then put up a good pretence of being somewhere else entirely, immediately jumped to her boss’ defence. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we would be failing in our duties if we didn’t bring something like this to your attention. It is our job to keep you informed. What you do with the information is entirely up to you.’

  Anisa’s earnest speech had the effect that Rajiv’s admonition didn’t. Malti finally calmed down enough to take a breath. And then, after a beat, she apologised to Rajiv: ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. But as the mother of a young daughter, this is a sensitive issue for me.’

  Rajiv waved away her apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. But at the risk of offending you again, I must repeat that we need to be realistic about this. This kind of thing is bound to leak, whether we like it or not. But if it leaks after the election, then it may be too late for us.’

  Malti narrowed her eyes. ‘Let me get this straight. Are you actually suggesting that we leak these pictures in the hope that they destroy Asha Devi and hence, the LJP?’

  By the look on Rajiv’s face, it was clear that this was exactly what he was suggesting. But he knew Malti and her strait-laced morality well enough not to respond. Instead, he looked at Jayesh in mute appeal.

  Jayesh stepped in gamely to smooth tempers. ‘Of course not, darling. Rajiv is not suggesting anything of the sort. But, as Anisa said, it is their job to bring all such information to us. And then it is up to us to decide how we want to use it.’

  Malti looked long and hard at her husband. ‘Well, Jayesh,’ she said, after a beat. ‘Have you decided how to use it?’

  Jayesh hesitated for a nanosecond. ‘Yes, I have. You’re right. We are better than this.’

  With that Jayesh reached over and took Malti’s hand in his. The husband and wife smiled a truce at one another, while Rajiv sat back to contemplate what might have been.

  ▪

  Completely oblivious to how close her political career had come to annihilation even before it had taken off, Asha Devi was closeted in a strategy meeting of her own in 3, Race Course Road.

  It wasn’t a very large group. Like her father, Asha preferred to keep her circle of trust very tight. So, there were only a few people in attendance. There were the two party general secretaries who had been the closest to Birendra Pratap and were favourably inclined towards his daughter. There was the chairman of the campaign committee of the LJP, the man in charge of deciding and coordinating the schedules of all the major party leaders. And, of course, there was her newly-minted mentor, Madan Mohan Prajapati, flanked by Harsh Gulati, her campaign manager, who had been loaned to her by the Defence Minister.

  Over the past month or so, Asha had come to rely completely on Madan Mohan’s advice on all political matters. She knew that he had been one of Baba’s closest friends, so it was easy to trust him implicitly. And she was grateful that he had stuck up for her against her brothers. If it hadn’t been for Madan Mohan putting her name forward at that parliamentary board meeting, she wouldn’t be playing such a starring role in the LJP election campaign—or even standing for election herself.

  The cynical politician in Asha knew that at some level Madan Mohan had been motivated by the desire to get back at Karan, who he believed had stolen the job that was the Defence Minister’s by right. Also, he probably thought that if he helped Asha now, in her hour of need, it would stand him in good stead in the future. Like any other canny politician, Madan Mohan believed in forward planning.

  But like her father, Asha had a rather pragmatic streak to her. Whatever his reasons may be, Madan Mohan had decided to throw his considerable weight behind her. And she didn’t want to enquire too closely into his motivations. It was enough that he had put his entire personal office at her disposal, going so far as to send one of his most trusted men, Harsh, to helm her campaign. What’s more, he had assured her that money was not an issue, when it came to her and Amma. If they ever needed anything, all they had to do was call him. Thankfully, she hadn’t had to do that so far, but it was comforting to know that the option existed.

  Ever since the LJP campaign went into full swing a month ago, Asha and Madan Mohan had been meeting—either one-on-one or in a group like today—every four days or so to discuss how the campaign was going, how Asha could improve her profile even further, how she could make more friends within the party organization and how she could interact much more personally with the cadres all over the country.

  It was Madan Mohan who had ensured that whenever Asha addressed a rally—whether it was in Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh, Karnataka or Punjab—there was always some time set aside in her schedule to meet the local leaders and foot soldiers of the LJP. It was very important, he explained to her, to make personal connections with the people on the ground. They were the ones who campaigned from door to door, dealt with the everyday concerns of the people and brought out the vote come election day.

  It was Madan Mohan who had set up small dinners at his house, where Asha could meet senior leaders of the party in private. He knew that Asha, with her dimpled smile, her quick wit and her radiant beauty, was hard to resist in person. And that even those LJP leading lights who had sworn loyalty to Karan would be won over by his sister, if only they ever met her. And sure enough, with every such evening, the number of Asha’s admirers in the party grew larger.

  Today, however, Madan Mohan had a different agenda to discuss at the meeting of Asha’s core group. He thought that this was a good time for the LJP to expand its footprint in Tamil Nadu, which had until now been the bastion of the two Dravidian parties, the DMK and the AIADMK. After the death of Jayalalithaa, the AIADMK had lost considerable ground in the state, and the DMK had been weakened after its own succession battle. Also Birendra Pratap’s assassination had hit the Tamil people—always an emotional sort—deeply. And they may well be in a mood to reward his party as a consequence.

  If Asha scheduled a few rallies in the state, it was very likely that she could win a considerable chunk of votes for the LJP. And she had plenty of time to do so; Tamil Nadu went to the polls in the fifth and last phase. Asha saw the point immediately and turned to Gulati to ask him to make a note of it as the meeting disbanded.

  Then, it was time for her next appointment. Vidya Fernando had already been waiting in the anteroom for twenty minutes so it wouldn’t do to delay her any further.

  Of late, every meeting with the Fernandos tended to turn into a battle of wills. And every single time she tangled with them, she was grateful once again that the sturdy and somewhat surly forty-year old, Harsh Gulati, veteran of a hundred political skirmishes, was by her side.

  JVF Associates had realized through their internal polling that Asha was connecting with the people in an unprecedented fashion. And wanting to make the most of a good thing, they were weighing down her schedule every week with more engagements than she could possibly handle.

  Today, Asha was determined to go head-to-head with Vidya and restore some sanity to her schedule. She had briefed Gulati accordingly so he was already in attack-dog mode.

  So, even before Vidya could pull out her trusty spreadsheet, he announced, ‘I have gone through Ashaji’s schedule that you mailed t
o us. And I am afraid you need to cut down at least three stops on it…’

  He didn’t get any further. ‘You can’t be serious,’ Vidya expostulated. ‘We are weeks away from the first phase of polling. There is no way we can cut down Asha’s engagements. We need to do as many meetings as possible. And everyone needs to pitch in…’

  ‘Really?’ interjected Gulati. ‘Then why is it that you have Ashaji down for an average of six meetings a day while Arjunji does only about a couple?’

  ‘Look, these kinds of comparisons make no sense. Surely, you have been in politics long enough to know that. Ashaji is connecting with the masses in a big way. She is pushing up our poll numbers wherever she has a meeting. We would be foolish if we didn’t capitalize on her popularity.’

  Asha had heard enough. She switched off the TV, which she had been browsing on mute. (Honestly, there were times when she thought that that was the only way to watch Indian news television!)

  ‘That’s all very flattering Vidya,’ she interjected, walking up to join them at the table. ‘But honestly, I am getting burnt out with all this travel. There are days when I don’t even know which city I am waking up in.’

  Vidya was instantly all charm and accommodation. ‘Oh, I understand completely. It must be insane being on the road all the time. After all, you have been used to campaigning in Bharatnagar. This must be a huge change.’

  Huge change didn’t begin to describe it, thought Asha. The truth was that as the pampered daughter of a feudal lord, she just wasn’t used to working so hard. And she certainly wasn’t used to the dak bungalows and dingy little hotels she often had to spend the night in. Moreover, after the initial novelty of addressing giant crowds who seemed to adore her had worn off, the task of repeating her stump speech half a dozen times a day had begun to seem tedious as hell.

  And then, there was her mother. Sadhana Devi had still to emerge from the near-catatonic state that her husband’s assassination had left her in. The only person who could pierce the veil of grief that cloaked her was Asha. She was the only one who could persuade Amma to eat, get out of bed, have a shower, get dressed or even take a walk on the sprawling lawns of RCR. But every time Asha spent a night away from home, she came back to find that her mother had retreated right back into her silo of sadness.

  That was the main reason why Asha wanted a schedule that allowed her to come back and spend the night in RCR or Bharatnagar, depending on where her mother was. After all, Narendra Modi had managed to campaign all over India, keeping up a punishing pace, while returning home every night to sleep in his own bed in Gandhinagar. If he could do that, why couldn’t she?

  In fact, Asha believed, that was the only way to ensure not just her mother’s sanity but also her own. But she was damned if she was to going to admit that to Vidya. The Pratap Singh women didn’t serve up their grief as spectator sport.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Vidya, plastering an insincere smile on her face. ‘I understand that you want me to address as many meetings as humanly possible. But the way you guys have organized the schedule is insane. You have me criss-crossing the country, going to three different states on the same day. Why can’t you organize it so that I do six to seven meetings in one state, come back home at night and then head out again the next day?’

  ‘Yes, I hear what you are saying but try and see it from our point of view as well. The dates for all these rallies have been fixed way in advance. Changing them around is not going to be possible.’

  Asha Devi sighed and prepared to cede ground. But she had reckoned without Harsh Gulati.

  ‘No,’ he said forcefully. ‘That is not good enough. If Ashaji says she needs the schedule changed, then you and I have to sit down and change it. Her needs are more important than anything else. And if you can’t change the schedule to suit her, then she just won’t do the meetings at all.’

  Oh dear, Asha thought to herself, Harsh had gone too far this time. She steeled herself for pushback from Vidya. But, to her astonishment, it never came. Instead, Vidya gathered up her papers, muttered, ‘Let me see what I can do,’ and beat a hasty retreat.

  Harsh waited for the door to close before erupting into a huge cackle. ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he mimicked Vidya in a high falsetto. ‘You’ll do exactly what we tell you to. That’s what you are paid for.’

  And, just as she did every day, Asha sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Madan Mohan for having sent Harsh Gulati into her life.

  It felt good to have someone in her corner. Hell, it felt good to finally have a corner of her own.

  NINE

  As part of Karan Pratap’s mission to recast himself in his father’s mould, he had decided that he would campaign just as Birendra Pratap had done: in a Toyota minivan decked out as a faux-medieval ‘rath’, a nod to the kind of chariot that mythological heroes had ridden in Indian epics.

  It was, in fact, to evoke that mythological past that L. K. Advani had embarked on the first Rath Yatra in modern India. The year was 1990 and Advani, the architect of the Ayodhya movement—whose avowed aim was to build a Ram Mandir where the Babri Masjid then stood—had travelled across the country in his rath, whipping up public sentiment wherever he went, and leaving fractured communities and riots in his wake.

  But despite that rather unpleasant history, political leaders across the ideological spectrum had since adopted the Rath Yatra model of touring the country and taking their message to the people. As road shows went, these had a particularly Indian flavour, with much song and dance, colourful banners lining the roads, while the crowds pushed and shoved, showered flowers on their netas and shouted slogans in their favour.

  Over his long political career, Birendra Pratap had excelled at this sort of stuff. Standing tall at the front of his rath, with just one solitary security guard behind, him, he would stop every few minutes to address a few words to the crowds, accept the flowers proferred to him, throw a garland or two back into the crowd and grin as the people in that section vied to catch it. He would lead the sloganeers, belting out pithy little one-liners on his megaphone. And if he saw a cute child, he would swing him on to the rath to give him a little ride, even as his proud father jogged along.

  Karan, unfortunately, did not have the same deft touch with the crowds. But even so, four minivans had been converted into raths and deployed in Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan and Bihar, the states where the new Prime Minister was supposed to do the bulk of his campaigning.

  Today, Karan Pratap’s rath was winding its way through the streets of Lucknow, with five stops scheduled before they took a lunch break. The crowds were massive, stretching as far as his eye could see, and there was an absolute sea of party flags waving wildly in the breeze. His neck was collapsing under the weight of all the garlands that enthusiastic party workers had placed around it, and the sickly-sweet smell of marigolds was making him slightly nauseous. But he knew that it would cause grave offence if he took them off, so he soldiered bravely on, waving and smiling, smiling and waving, until his jaw ached and his shoulders cramped with the effort.

  Thankfully, his stump speech was short and simple and took no more than ten minutes to deliver. It began with an invocation to the late Prime Minister, his much-loved father, detailing the many policies Birendra Pratap had launched for the poor, to whom he had dedicated his truncated life. It then segued into Karan’s own grief at the loss of his father, and how his only mission in life was to make Birendra Pratap’s unfulfilled dreams come true. Then came the actual pitch for votes, introducing the local candidate, praising him for virtues he did not, in fact, possess, and flashing the party symbol so that everyone knew which button to press on the voting machine.

  It wasn’t the most stirring of addresses. And Karan, not the most eloquent of speakers at the best of times, had so tired of it by now that he rattled it off by rote. But somehow, in the noise and confusion of a cheering crowd, it seemed to work just fine.

  As his rath started moving again at a pachydermal pace a
nd Karan went back to his ‘smiling and waving’ routine, his PA (and shadow on the campaign trail), Vikram Sinha, drew up close behind him to whisper in his ear. Their next stop was lunch at the home of local industrialist, Shivpal Chowdhury, who had contributed crores to the LJP coffers over the years. And this time, as always, Chowdhury wanted payback. His sugar mills were in trouble, having run up against environmental regulations, and he needed the government to sort things out.

  Sinha had barely finished his briefing before Karan’s cavalcade trundled to a stop in front of a huge iron gate, behind which ran a gravelled pathway that led to Chowdhury’s home. Karan walked to a waiting Mercedes S Class car, which was to transport him to the house, which was a fair distance away from the main entrance. Sinha clambered in after him, while his PSO got into the front seat. The rest of the SPG contingent followed close behind in an open-top jeep.

  Karan finally threw off all the garlands and began massaging his sore neck as he scrolled through his phone.

  The four militants who had crossed over the border into Kashmir had been exterminated in a shootout in Kupwara. The GDP figures for the last quarter were disappointing, with the graph showing the same downward trend. (But he could live with that. The economy was not really going to be a factor in this election.) And the data from last week’s internal polling was in: the LJP was holding on to its lead.

  Radhika had sent a picture of Kavya and Karina splashing around in the pool, their mouths wide open in silent peals of laughter. Karan felt his spirits rise; he hadn’t seen his daughters laugh like this since Baba passed away. And then, came that familiar pang of guilt; he hadn’t been there for them as they coped with their first experience of death.

  His crazy schedule as Prime Minister meant that he spent large chunks of the day at the PMO in South Block. And most days, by the time he got back to Race Course Road, the girls had already been fed, bathed and put to bed. Weekends were the only time he got to spend some quality time with his daughters but as the campaign heated up, even that luxury had been denied to him. Most weekends now saw him perched on one rath or the other, in one state or another, as he made a pitch to the voters.