Even in a city crawling with celebrities and models, the Prajapatis stood out. So, as they entered the restaurant to take their customary table by the window, every eye swerved to get a good look at them, the men getting a load of Komal’s endless legs while their wives/girlfriends leched at her blood-red, crocodile-leather Birkin bag.
The restaurant manager came bustling up to greet the Prajapatis, who had been known to order first-growth wines for lunch, running up a tab of 30,000 euros without batting an eyelid. But today Sagar was sticking to sparkling water (Perrier not Pellegrino) though Komal was quite easily persuaded to order a glass of the Laurent Perrier Rosé.
Just as the bread service was starting, Sagar’s phone buzzed. Unknown number, it said. Mindful of the fact that mobile phone usage was frowned upon in this mecca of fine dining, Sagar whispered a soft ‘hello’ into the phone. He listened quietly to the man at the other end, and then hung up, his hands shaking as he disconnected the call.
Komal raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘That was Dubai,’ explained Sagar. ‘The French have traced some of the money to Al Shahad Bank. One of my contacts just called to say that a team of investigators is sitting with the bank chairman.’
‘What happens now?’ asked Komal, a vein throbbing in her Botoxed forehead. ‘I think we should call Tayaji and ask him what to do.’
‘No, we can’t do that.’
‘But what will happen to us, Sagar?’
‘Nothing will happen. We are not Indian citizens. We haven’t broken any laws. Nobody can touch us.’
Unfortunately for Sagar Prajapati, he was proved wrong in less than sixty seconds. There was a minor kerfuffle at the door, and then the general manager of the hotel strode in, followed by a group of black-suited men.
‘Monsieur Prajapati,’ he bent down and whispered discreetly in Sagar’s ear. ‘These gentlemen would like a word with you.’
One of the men flipped open a card and stuck it under Sagar’s nose. Agence Francaise Anti-Corruption. The man standing behind him produced another paper and laid it on the table. And there it was: an arrest warrant in the name of Sagar Prajapati.
Sagar felt his limbs turn to jelly as he pushed back his chair to stand up. Komal, tears running down her cheeks, jumped to her feet to hold him up as he seemed to collapse. And surrounded by a phalanx of suit-clad men, the Prajapatis exited the stage on which they had played starring roles for so long.
And as always, every eye in the house turned around to follow their progress.
ELEVEN
For the second time that day, Madan Mohan Prajapati was summoned to Race Course Road. He had just finished his abstemious dinner (two ragi rotis, moong dal and sabzi, as prescribed by his latest dietician) and was looking forward to his last cup of masala chai when his secretary whispered the news in his ear.
Madan Mohan’s first instinct was to refuse to go. What could that little upstart, Karan, do if he refused to turn up? Fire him from the ministry? Force him to resign from parliament? Not bloody likely. The last thing Karan Pratap Singh needed was a public scandal—and what would look like an admission of guilt—so close to the next rounds of polling. Madan Mohan was safe until the elections were done and dusted.
But if he was safe, what was the harm in answering the summons to RCR? It may, in fact, be a good idea to do so. It would give him an insight into how the Prime Minister was responding to the crisis, how far the French investigation had progressed, and whether it had identified any Indian agents involved in the deal.
Letting out a huge belch as he staggered to his feet, Madan Mohan decided that, all things considered, it would be politic to go visit the Prime Minister. And to tell that insolent little puppy exactly where he got off.
Things didn’t exactly go according to plan. For one thing, when Madan Mohan was escorted into Karan Pratap’s study at 5, Race Course Road, there was a little delegation already in attendance. Madhavan Kutty was positioned at a discreet distance behind the Prime Minister’s desk, scrolling through his phone. Seated on the couch on the right were Anil Bhalla and Suresh Shastri. Arunoday Sengupta was standing beside Karan Pratap, bending over his left shoulder as he took him through some files.
After his initial start of surprise, Madan Mohan fell back on his usual bluff politician manner, calling out greetings to all assembled. None of the greetings were acknowledged; and nor was Prajapati himself. None of the men in the room so much as made eye contact with him. Despite himself, Madan Mohan began to feel the first glimmerings of worry. This was not looking good.
Things were about to get worse. Karan nodded curtly towards the chair placed in front of his desk, and as his Defence Minister sat down carefully, he slid a piece of the paper towards him wordlessly. Madan Mohan picked it up and began to read. It was an official letter from the Agence Francaise Anti-Corruption informing the Indian government that Sagar Prajapati, the nephew of the Indian Defence Minister, Madan Mohan Prajapati, had been arrested in Monaco after a significant portion of the bribes paid in the L’Oiseau deal were traced to an account in Dubai that was linked to his liaison firm, PP Consultancy.
Madan Mohan could feel his heartbeat increase with every word he read, until he was convinced that everyone in the room could hear its unsteady thud. Even with his face bent over the letter he could feel Karan Pratap’s eyes boring into him. He had known that Philippe and Pollet had been arrested, but this was the first he was learning of Sagar’s arrest. Why had nobody informed him of it as yet? And how come it hadn’t hit the press?
The Defence Minister read through the letter once again, trying to buy himself time. Then finally, he put it down on the table and tried hard to compose himself before he spoke. Denials needed to come from a space of innocence to be believed. And he needed to get there before he said a word.
An uncomfortable silence reigned for a minute. The career bureaucrats knew better than to speak up at a time like that. And Karan Pratap, who had never forgiven Madan Mohan for his ‘mentoring’ of Asha, his endless promotion of her within the party organization, his talking her up in the media, wanted the man to stew a little.
A couple of minutes of this was more than Madan Mohan and his frayed nerves could take. ‘I am shocked, Karan Pratapji,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘I am truly shocked. I could never even imagine that a member of my family could be involved in something like this. I am so ashamed! How can you possibly forgive me?’
Karan was gobsmacked. The man had more gumption that he had given him credit for. Even with his guilt staring his smack in the face—it really couldn’t hit closer home that having your nephew arrested for bribes taken for a deal struck by your ministry—the man was protesting his innocence.
Seeing that the Prime Minister had been struck speechless, Arunoday Sengupta gamely stepped in. ‘But surely, Madan Mohanji, you must see how this looks for the government? Nobody is going to buy the story that your nephew acted on his own, and that you had no knowledge that he was profiting off a deal struck by your ministry. Quite frankly, it beggars belief.’
‘But I swear on my son’s head, I had no idea that my nephew was up to this kind of mischief. If I had known, I would have given him up to the authorities myself. I have been betrayed. And that too by someone I brought up as my own child after my brother’s death.’
At this, much to embarrassment of everyone present, Madan Mohan began crying loudly, tears rolling down the crevices of his bulbous cheeks.
Karan was now at his wits end. The carefully-crafted speech he had rehearsed, asking for Madan Mohan’s immediate resignation from the government, was now about as useful as an overcoat on a tropical island.
Kutty chose this moment to make his presence felt. ‘I believe you have some additional information on this case,’ he said to Anil Bhalla, raising his voice slightly to be heard above Prajapati’s loud sobs.
‘Ah yes,’ said Bhalla, approaching the desk with a folder. He opened it to the page that showed the incorporation details of PP Consulting. The list of dire
ctors began with the names Parthasarthi Prajapati and Lata Prajapati, Madan Mohan’s son and daughter-in-law.
Karan Pratap finally spoke. ‘Madan Mohanji, I am sorry but your position is completely untenable. Your son is listed as a director on the company that has got kickbacks on the L’Oiseau deal. I am afraid I must insist that you resign as Defence Minister immediately.’
‘But, but, but,’ spluttered Madan Mohan, ‘just because my son and daughter-in-law are listed as directors doesn’t mean anything. They are not involved in the day-to-day running of the company. Sagar just needed some trusted names so he put them there. They don’t even live in Dubai, for God’s sake. They live right here in Delhi.’
‘Er, yes,’ said Suresh Shastri. ‘That’s right. They live in Delhi. In fact, a few months ago they moved into a house in Jor Bagh, which is registered in the name of a company called Shanti Kush Corporation. The Enforcement Directorate (ED) red-flagged that transaction and it has since traced the payments for the house to an account in Dubai that is operated by a lawyer who works for PP Consulting. I have all the papers right here.’ He patted a file that was resting on his knees.
Madan Mohan’s tears dried up magically. The jig was up. Now, it was just a question of saving face, getting the best possible deal for himself and living to fight another day. He took the pen that Kutty was holding out, tore off a sheet from the writing pad on Karan’s desk and prepared to write his resignation.
▪
By the time Madan Mohan’s resignation letter was released to the press, Gaurav Agnihotri had finished his two-hour marathon nightly show and was halfway home to his newly-purchased luxury apartment in Vasant Vihar (all paid for ‘in white’, he proudly proclaimed to anyone who cared to listen). But the moment the news alert popped up on his phone, he instructed his driver to turn right around and head back to the studio.
This was too important a newsbreak to be left to the hapless junior who had been rostered to read the midnight news bulletin.
Gaurav worked the phones in the twenty minutes he had in the car and managed to rustle up a panel of sorts. He instructed his chief of bureau, Attar Hussain, who was waiting for his car on the office porch, to stay back for the discussion. Aarti Saxena, the former managing editor of a national newspaper, lived a short distance away from the news studios in Noida and agreed to come in if she was paid double her usual fee. The LJP refused to depute anyone—no, not even on an OB link—to defend the disgraced former Defence Minister. Clearly, the party had decided to hang Madan Mohan out to dry.
That just left the SPP. On an impulse, Gaurav dialled the mobile number of Jayesh Sharma. It would be a coup if he got him to make a comment, even if it was just on the phone.
Fully expecting a minion to answer the call, Gaurav was startled to hear Jayesh’s distinctive voice say, ‘Hi Gaurav! How are you doing?’
Gaurav didn’t waste any time on social chitter chatter. ‘Am good. But have you heard the news about Madan Mohan’s resignation? I am going on the air in about fifteen minutes. Can I call you for a comment on the phone?’
‘Yes, I just saw the news flash. I would be happy to comment. But why do you want to do it on the phone? If you send an OB van, I would be happy to appear on the programme.’
Gaurav couldn’t believe his luck. This would make the show. Hurriedly hanging up on Jayesh, he called his production head to check where the nearest OB van was. As luck would have it, the one stationed at RCR to film Madan Mohan’s arrival and departure after meeting the Prime Minister was still in the vicinity. It would take the crew ten minutes to get to Jayesh’s bungalow and another ten to set up. By the time Gaurav sat down behind his desk, miked and made-up, the connection to Jayesh Sharma had been established.
Gaurav started off the show in his usual overblown style. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, outrage dripping from every syllable, ‘we have breaking news for you today. And it is very bad news indeed. The Defence Minister of India, the man who is in charge of our brave armed forces, has today been forced to resign because of his involvement in an arms scandal.’
‘This is a black day in the history of this country,’ Gaurav went on, his voice rising higher. ‘A government that came to power saying that it would stamp out corruption is now neck-deep in scandal itself. And as an Indian, let me tell you, that makes me feel ashamed. Ashamed, I tell you.’
Gaurav paused to take a breath and then began in more reasonable tones, ‘We have with us today, Mr Jayesh Sharma, leader of the SPP, who is appearing exclusively on our channel to speak to the people of India about this development.’
As Gaurav said these words, the screen split into two. One section had Gaurav sitting behind his desk, wielding a pen in his hand as if it were a sword, jabbing it at the screen to make his points. The other had Jayesh Sharma, sitting in his study with a large picture of his late father behind him.
Gaurav plunged straight in. What did Jayesh make of the Defence Minister’s resignation? Was it not tantamount to an admission of guilt?
Jayesh had his sound bite ready. ‘That’s not for me to say, Gaurav. It is for the courts to decide guilt. All I can say is that the guilt has to go all the way to the top. There is no way a minister can get away with something like this without others higher up in the government being aware of it and being complicit in it.’
Gaurav was tired of this mealy-mouthed nonsense. ‘Others higher up in the government? Why don’t you just come out and say what you have been hinting at all day? That you believe that the late Prime Minister Birendra Pratap Singh, was also involved in this deal? Why don’t you come out and name names? What are you afraid of?’
‘I am not afraid of anything. But as the leader of the Opposition, I can’t make irresponsible claims that are not backed up by evidence. All I can do is lay my suspicions in front of the people of India and ask for a free and fair investigation into this scandal.’
‘Well,’ responded Gaurav, ‘you already have that. Prime Minister Karan Pratap Singh has already announced that a SIT will be set up to probe the allegations of corruption in the L’Oiseau deal. Don’t you think that the Supreme Court of India can monitor a free and fair investigation? Are you casting aspersions on the honesty of the highest court of the land?’
Jayesh could feel his temper rise. He had done Gaurav a favour by agreeing to appear on his show. The least the chap could do was treat him with some deference. Hell, he would even settle for normal decency. Instead, Gaurav was needling him, the way he had throughout the election campaign.
So, Jayesh’s reply was rather testy. ‘Please do not put words in my mouth, Gaurav. I said no such thing and you know it. I have the highest respect for the judicial system of the country. And if you just want to distort and twist my words then I have nothing further to say to you.’
With this, Jayesh started to get up from his chair and began removing the earpiece that was carrying Gaurav’s voice to him.
‘No, no, no,’ said Gaurav, panicking at the thought of losing his star guest. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I am just asking questions. There is no reason to get so upset. I am just doing my job.’
Jayesh, who had never had any intention of walking off the show, allowed himself to be mollified. Subsiding back in his chair he responded, ‘And I am doing mine. So, please ask your questions. Don’t attempt to answer them on my behalf.’
‘Some people would say, Jayeshji, that you are dragging the late Prime Minister into this controversy just for some political mileage. The next round of elections is just nine days away and you are playing politics to gain some traction at the polls.’
Jayesh cut right in: ‘Playing politics? You say that as if that is a bad thing, Gaurav. Of course I am playing politics. I am a politician. And it’s my job to win elections for my party. But I am doing so by telling the truth to the Indian people, rather than spewing lies like some others do. I’m keeping the people of India informed of what their elected representatives are up to behind the scenes. It’s called making
the government accountable for its sins. And the reason I have to do this is because you people in the media have completely abdicated your responsibility in this regard…’
He got no further before a furious Gaurav interrupted. ‘Please, Mr Jayesh Sharma, please! I am warning you, do not attack the media on my show. Don’t attack journalists who are doing their jobs. Please don’t get personal like this.’
But Jayesh was not one to back down either. And the memory of the many times Gaurav had torn into his padayatras still rankled. So, he gave back as good as he got.
‘You are the one who is getting personal,’ he shouted back at Gaurav. ‘You are the one accusing me of being a cynical politician. You are the one attacking me day and night on television. And if you can criticize me day in and day out, then I can criticize you too. Or do you believe that the media is above all scrutiny?’
And then, they were off: exchanging barbs, trading insults, each shouting to be heard over the other. Just another day on Indian news television.
When Jayesh had finally had enough and signed off, the screen cut back to the studio, where a panel sat waiting to discuss the latest political developments.
Gaurav turned to his panellists and smirked. ‘So, what did you make of that little performance? Do you think Jayesh Sharma really believes that Birendra Pratap was guilty? Or is just some political melodrama he is staging to win a few votes?’
Aarti Saxena shook her head. ‘Well, if you ask me Gaurav, Jayesh is making a big mistake by going after Birendra Pratap in this manner. We Indians are sentimental people. And we don’t like it if anyone attacks someone who is no more. We respect the dead in India. We don’t accuse them of corruption.’
Race Course Road: A Novel Page 20