Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  The car drove into the porch of Chowdhury’s house and Karan stepped out, his politician’s smile pinned to his mouth. He groaned inwardly as he saw a welcoming phalanx of dhoti-clad men, all of them wielding—what else?—marigold garlands like offensive weapons. Not more fucking garlands!

  But he accepted them gracefully enough, as Chowdhury shook his hand and the assembled photographers recorded every micro-expression for posterity. And then, it was time to greet the ladies of the house, who simpered demurely as they stole glances at him from under their downturned lashes. Finally, he was escorted into a large dining room, where a long table had been set for two. Clearly, Chowdhury didn’t want to waste time on social niceties that a meal with the entire household would entail. He intended to get down to business as soon as the Prime Minister sat down to eat.

  Karan collapsed into his chair, grabbed a paratha from the pile set in the centre of the table, and began making his way through all the dals and sabzis in the little katoris arranged artfully around his thali, as he prepared to pay the price for the thirty crores that Chowdhury had put into the party fund.

  As the saying goes, he reflected bitterly, there is no such thing as a free lunch.

  ▪

  After nearly a month of addressing sparsely attended rallies, where his reception had been, at best, lukewarm, Jayesh Sharma had decided to change tack. He had announced grandly that as the candidate of the ‘common man’ he would from now on focus his campaign on the ‘aam aadmi’. And he would do so by undertaking a padayatra through the country, walking all day and late into the night to find out the concerns of the man and woman on the street and how he might best help address them.

  Of course, this wasn’t—strictly speaking—a proper padayatra, which would have involved walking from one part of the country to another. There simply wasn’t time for that kind of thing during an election campaign. So Jayesh would fly into the city of his choice every morning to walk through its streets interacting with the crowds that the local party organization had rustled up, accompanied by a dozen camera crews (because if it didn’t feature on the nightly news, it might as well not have happened at all) and then drive to a nearby rural area to walk and talk some more.

  But what had started as a gimmick—and a way to prevent all those embarrassing comparisons to Asha Devi and her rally performances—had turned out to be a blessing a disguise for Jayesh. After years, he was actually coming face-to-face with common people, and both sides found that they were pleasantly surprised in the other.

  All those sullen, silent faces at his rallies had been replaced by smiling, open visages as he walked through the streets in his white kurta-pyjama, paired with a tricolour scarf and battered white sneakers. Nobody could quite believe that a neta was really walking the dusty streets, stopping by roadside chai stalls for a cup of tea and a chat, and inviting himself to lunch when he liked the look of what was cooking in the kitchen. So it wasn’t long before the crowds began turning up on the streets on their own, without a helpful nudge from the SPP cadre.

  As for Jayesh, he finally felt that he was connecting with the pulse of India, away from the fishbowl of Lutyens’ Delhi. He listened as small-scale industries workers told him about their run-ins with the local authorities. He sympathized with farmers who were struggling to pay off their loans. He commiserated with those who had lost jobs because of the slowdown of the economy. He listened as housewives complained of the rise in the price of gas cylinders. He dandled babies on his knees. He posed for selfies with hordes of giggling teenagers.

  Wherever he went, he was trailed by a line of compliments.

  ‘Bilkul bhi politician nahi lagte.’ (He doesn’t look like a politician at all.)

  ‘What a lovely smile he has! You don’t realize how handsome he is on TV.’

  ‘Oh my God! those dimples! He looks like a Hindi film hero.’

  The local media outlets, which never had much access to national-level politicians, were over the moon as they followed Jayesh in close proximity. He always had a smile and a sound bite for them as he set off, he allowed them to film through the day, and nothing was off-limits—not even those moments when he was heckled or asked awkward questions.

  If anything, Jayesh seemed to welcome these encounters, using them as an opportunity to prove that nothing rattled him—and that he could remain unfazed no matter what was thrown at him.

  On one occasion, a group of aggressive young men gathered around him as he entered a rougher part of town in a remote corner of Rajasthan (where the SPP was in power). They had no jobs, and with the slowdown in the economy, there was no prospect of getting any in the near future either. What was his economic plan, anyway? His state government had failed spectacularly in securing their livelihoods. What could he possibly offer them that would make it worth their while to vote for him?

  As the cameras moved in for a close-up, Jayesh realized that this encounter had the potential to turn very ugly. There was only one way to disarm these angry people. And that was to agree with them. So, he folded his hands in apology and asked for their forgiveness for having failed to help them until now.

  ‘I am sorry that we have let you down so badly,’ he began. ‘From now on, though, I promise that things will change. But I can’t change them on my own. I am the first to admit that I don’t have all the answers. I need your help if I am going to make a difference. How about we sit down, have a cup of chai and exchange some ideas?’

  And just like that, Jayesh Sharma had his photo opportunity of the day. Jayesh sitting on the floor, surrounded by a circle of young men, all of them vying with one another to give him the benefit of their wisdom. Jayesh had his secretary take notes all the while, to indicate just how seriously he was taking their suggestions. And soon enough, the rage faded, and the angry young men were transformed into smiling selfie-seekers, looking to immortalize their brush with fame and power.

  Just another day on the campaign trail. And yet another hard-fought win for Jayesh Sharma.

  ▪

  There was one person though, who did not approve of Jayesh Sharma’s new campaigning style at all: Gaurav Agnihotri. And being Gaurav Agnihotri, he didn’t make a secret of it. One segment of his prime-time news show was devoted to covering the election campaign. And every night, without fail, Gaurav would run footage of Jayesh walking through narrow lanes as he greeted people in yet another small town or village.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, just see the state of those roads, those houses,’ he would sneer, looking straight into camera. ‘Jayesh Sharma and his party have done nothing for the people of this country except make sure that they remain rooted in poverty. The only time they remember the people is when it is time to ask them for their votes. It is shameful, I tell you. Utterly shameful!’

  The days Jayesh stopped by at a Dalit’s house to break bread with the family came as a bonus to Gaurav. ‘So, the young Prince of India had nothing better to do today than snatch the bread from the mouths of the poor and downtrodden! Doesn’t he know that these people literally live from hand to mouth? And feeding one extra mouth means that one member of the family goes hungry!’

  On one occasion, a brave panellist was foolhardy enough to interject at this point. ‘Well, you know, Gaurav,’ said Jyoti Chopra, hesitantly, ‘I have covered a lot of his tours. And he doesn’t actually eat the family’s food. The party brings in food for the entire household and then Jayesh sits down and eats with them.’

  Gaurav had gone ballistic at this revelation. ‘What? I don’t believe this! You mean to say that this is all a fraud. He doesn’t even eat their food? He is too high and mighty to eat their dal-roti? He has to bring in his own puri-sabzi? That is just shocking! He is just cheating the people of India. What a hypocrite! It is shameless, I tell you, absolutely shameless!’

  His panellists had learnt their lesson that day. From then on, nobody dared to intervene when Gaurav went full throttle at Jayesh Sharma. Instead, they nodded along, and those who really did like their
monthly retainers from the channel, gamely joined in with their own putdowns of Jayesh.

  Not that Jayesh was the only one who got the sharp edge of Gaurav’s tongue. He was far too canny to attack the sitting Prime Minister, but targeting his younger brother was as good a way as any to buttress his claims to ‘neutrality’. And it didn’t help that Arjun had decided to go the Hells Angels route and conduct his entire campaign by motorcycle.

  The very first day he headed out with a bunch of his bike buddies, he came up against the wrath of the Election Commission. Oblivious of the model code of conduct, which stipulated that not more than ten bikes could be used in a procession or a rally, Arjun Pratap set off with as many as thirty bikes trailing after him.

  Clad in the regulation white kurta-pyjama (the unofficial uniform of every Indian politician), with a tricolour scarf draped around his neck, Arjun—with his usual disregard for his rules—had eschewed the mandatory helmet in favour of a pair of dashing aviator glasses. His bike buddies (some local officials of the LJP and some of his louche Delhi friends out for a bit of political tourism) were dressed in an identical style and had formed a sort of triangular formation behind him. The first line had ten bikes, the second had eight, the third had six, and so on. It had to be said that it made for an impressive picture. And the crowds who lined up to watch their progress certainly thought so.

  But the moment the footage was flashed across news channels, all hell broke loose. And leading the charge against that ‘spoilt young brat’ was Gaurav Agnihotri. He lectured the Election Commission about its failure to stop the mobike rally (the hapless, overworked poll observer had taken until the evening to crack down on Arjun Pratap). He pulled out unflattering footage of Arjun from over the years—falling about drunk in nightclubs, cuddling up to under-dressed and over-made-up women, posing bare-chested for a men’s magazine—to make the case that he was a ‘society type’ who didn’t understand anything about India.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is what is wrong with India,’ Gaurav thundered. ‘The children of those in power think that they have some sort of divine right to rule, even if they don’t have even a basic understanding of the lives of ordinary Indians. What does this “socialite” know about socialism? He’s driving a Harley-Davidson through villages where people can’t even afford to buy a cycle!’

  The only person (other than Karan) whom Gaurav didn’t dare to criticize was Asha Devi. One, because it was clear that she was doing just great on the campaign trail, drawing in cheering crowds that just got bigger and bigger. Two, because she didn’t have a track record in politics that he could attack. And three—and most importantly—because he was still holding on to the hope that one day soon he would score an exclusive one-on-one with her. That would be TRP gold, and to get there, he needed to tread softly.

  ▪

  Malti Sharma, for her part, had managed to avoid the wrath of Gaurav Agnihotri by the simple expedient of flying below the radar. She had decided to restrict her campaigning to her husband’s constituency, Khewat, a seat he had inherited from his late father, thus freeing up Jayesh to concentrate on the nation-wide campaign.

  Malti’s was a no-fuss, no-drama campaign, in keeping with her cool, controlled persona. She had devoted enough time and energy to Khewat to be familiar with each gram sabha and every panchayat head. She knew their names, she remembered how many kids they had and what they were called. She had attended their weddings, paid her respect at their funerals and celebrated with them at the birth of their children.

  Over the years, she had used Jayesh’s constituency fund to set up schools, bring electricity to remote villages, start primary health centres that actually worked, gift bicycles to the young school-going girls so that they didn’t have to drop out of class. She had set up vocational training centres where girls could learn to sew and embroider and boys could train to become electricians, plumbers and car mechanics (or vice versa; the programmes were strictly gender-neutral). She had set up scholarship funds so that the brightest kids could be sent off to college in the big city to study the subject of their choice. She had put together a pension fund so that every Khewat resident above the age of seventy got a monthly stipend of one thousand rupees paid directly into their Jan Dhan accounts.

  So, Malti Sharma was not worried about her husband’s re-election prospects. Khewat owed them, and owed them big. And it would pay up when the time came to collect.

  But she was concerned about one thing: that Jayesh’s victory margin should be higher than it was the last time. That would prove once and for all that he was unbeatable in his bastion, whatever the political wave that was overwhelming the rest of the country.

  Which is why she was putting in a fourteen-hour day, seven days a week. She set out in the morning after a light breakfast of idlis and coffee, with a packed lunch of roti and sabzi just in case she had to eat on the run. Sitting in the front seat of her Honda jeep so that her face was visible to all those standing by the sides of the road, Malti resolutely refused to wear sunglasses no matter how scorching the sun. She knew how important it was to make eye contact with people. And to listen to them, rather than just talk at them.

  Her meetings were organized in the chaupals of villages, with stringed cots—or khatiyas, as the locals called them—set about in a circle. The village elders occupied pride of place, with their wives and daughters sitting on the floor beside them. The sight always rankled with the feminist within Malti. But a long stint in politics (and the law) had taught her to choose her battles. So, she ignored the sexist seating arrangement and instead made sure that the women’s voices were always heard in her meetings.

  Malti didn’t bother to do anything so uncouth as to actually ask for people’s votes in these sessions. That was taken for granted. Khewat had always voted for Jayesh Sharma. And it would continue to do so. Instead, she laid out her future plans for the betterment of the area. And because she had actually delivered in the past, the people believed her.

  Radhika Pratap Singh, on the other hand, had a major credibility problem when she went out campaigning in her husband’s constituency of Sultanpur. For one thing, she was a virtual stranger in these parts, having made at best a couple of trips every year to the area, even though she and her husband, Karan, were listed as residents. But the Pratap Singh haveli in Sultanpur, a beautiful but wildly inconvenient house to live in (being impossible to heat in the winter or cool in the summer), was not Radhika’s natural habitat. She needed to be near shops and a hairdresser at all times. So, she only ever visited Sultanpur on special occasions (like the launch of a welfare scheme) and under duress at that. As a consequence, she hadn’t built any kind of relationship with the residents.

  This time, though, she had been stationed in Sultanpur for nearly two months, with just weekend sorties to Delhi to spend time with Kavya and Karina and to restore her own sanity. These gave her a chance to have a bit of a lie-in, and take the girls over to Lodhi Hotel, where they could splash about in the pool supervised by their nanny, while she headed to the spa for a bit of me-time. A massage, a blow-dry, a manicure and a pedicure later, Radhika emerged feeling more like her usual self, and far more equipped to cope with another horrendous week in Sultanpur.

  Last weekend, though, her campaign schedule hadn’t allowed her to make the run for Delhi, and Radhika was going stir-crazy as a consequence. And it didn’t help that she could see that even though she was trying her best—as she always did for her husband—she wasn’t really connecting with the electorate.

  There were, of course, several reasons for that. The first was that no matter how hard she tried Radhika could never quite shake off the ‘memsahib’ persona. She may slip into as many handloom saris as she liked, but that highlighted hair (which swished glamorously just below her shoulder) and French manicure marked her out as an urban sophisticate in a rural constituency.

  Then, there was the language problem. Having grown up in an English-speaking household in Bombay, Radhika’s grasp of Hindi
was rather weak, to say the least. So her staff had taken to writing her speeches in Roman script, which she would read out in her Anglicized accent, in a stilted style, consistently emphasizing the wrong words, while her audience gawped uncomprehendingly.

  And then, there was the fact that she simply wasn’t a natural politician. Kissing babies and hugging old ladies just didn’t come easily to her. And when she tried to do it nonetheless, the lack of sincerity and warmth showed.

  To be fair to Radhika, she knew all of this instinctively. And her way to try and improve was to model herself on Asha. But no matter how hard she tried to emulate Asha’s common touch at her gram sabhas and mahila sammelans, the act simply didn’t take.

  Today, Radhika’s first stop was at a maternity clinic, meeting young mothers, maternal nurses and midwives, and discussing her plans for how to improve the health of both child and mother. The speech went off well enough and then it was time to meet and greet.

  Radhika took a good look at the assembled mothers and chose one whose child looked the cleanest (no runny nose, check; no dirty hands, check; no oily hair, check). She walked across and greeted the mother and then held her arms open to the baby. He chuckled delightedly, plump cheeks crumpling into dimples, and almost jumped into them. As Radhika cuddled him, she felt a sudden, sharp pain at being separated from her own daughters for so long.

  The sentimental mood didn’t last long. She felt a suspicious wetness spreading around her waist and looked down to see that the baby had peed all over her.

  Election campaigns. God, how much she hated them!