Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  Karan frowned down his brother and finally spoke. ‘Look, the situation is not ideal, I agree. We would be starting off on a weak footing if we give in to Sukanya even before the government is formed. But what is the option? If we don’t stay in power, we can’t pursue the investigation into Baba’s death.’ Like all of Radhika’s ideas, Karan had internalized this one, and now believed it to be his own.

  ‘It’s all for the best, really,’ Radhika added with false cheer. ‘Sukanya will believe that she has won this round. And we will be able to form a government. How does it matter who is called Prime Minister? As long as it stays within the family, it’s fine.’

  Asha’s mind was in a complete whirl by now. ‘How does it matter who is called Prime Minister?’ That’s probably the only thing that matters. ‘As long as it stays within the family?’ Since when had she become a full-fledged member of this family?

  As she looked at her brothers and sister-in-law—fake smiles plastered to their faces as they offered her their congratulations—Asha was reminded of another woman who had been appointed as a dummy Prime Minister by a powerful cabal who thought that they could control her. It hadn’t taken Indira Gandhi long to show those men of the syndicate who was the real boss. That she was no ‘Gungi Gudiya’ (Dumb Doll) but a political operator who could run circles around them.

  But giving no hint as to what she was really thinking, Asha smiled and accepted the congratulations of her step-family. She hugged Radhika. She shook hands with Arjun. She muttered her thanks to Karan.

  The game was only just beginning.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As a child, I never felt more alive than when I was reading. And I read everything, plundering the bookshelves stocked by my father’s and grandfather’s love of reading. It helped that as the youngest child, I had minimal supervision. So reading ‘grown-up’ books of any kind was not a problem at all.

  Thus it was that I dipped into George Bernard Shaw’s plays; the novels of Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and George Eliot; Frederick Forsyth and Alistair MacLean thrillers; biographies of assorted royals and world leaders; and even the odd romantic novel that my older sister had snuck into the house (I owe my life-long devotion to Georgette Heyer to her!).

  That love of reading is what led to my love of writing. For that I must thank my parents, who smiled benignly when I ignored my homework because I was engrossed in a book instead of upbraiding me. And especially my mother, who took me to the library every Saturday so that I could stock up on books I would devour over the course of the following week.

  Sadly, they are not around any longer to read this book of mine, even though it would never have been written without the love of literature (both high-brow and very low indeed) that they inculcated in me. For that, I will remain ever grateful.

  This book would also never have been written if it wasn’t for David Davidar, my editor and publisher at Aleph. I was in the middle of writing an entirely different book (which I will, with luck, finish soon), when David called and asked if I had a political novel in me. We met, talked, and then talked some more. And I realized that—after many years spent covering Delhi politics, and from my vantage point at the fringes of what people love to call ‘Lutyens Delhi’—I did have such a book within me. Well, it’s out now. But it would have never been in a bookstore anywhere near you, if it hadn’t been for David Davidar.

  So thanks, David, for all the encouragement, the kind words, the critical feedback, and yes, those dark reminders that I had passed my deadline. For a time there, you went by the monicker ‘Father David’ in my household because I lived in mortal dread of you. But if it hadn’t been for those stern emails you sent me, I would be still be stuck at chapter 12. So, you have my eternal gratitude for getting me across the finish line.

  Special thanks also go to Aienla Ozukum, Aleph’s Managing Editor, for an amazing copy-edit. She went through my manuscript with a magnifying glass, picking up errors that I had missed after several readings (and who was also the only one who clocked that I love using the word ‘clocked’ a bit too much). Thanks Aienla, for your valuable suggestions and for cleaning up my copy. Any mistakes that still remain are, of course, my fault entirely.

  And then, there’s the man who makes it all possible: my husband, Vir Sanghvi. If I hadn’t started working in Sunday Magazine under his editorship, I would never have become a political journalist in the first place. I wouldn’t have covered a few general elections, I wouldn’t have seen so many politicians up close, and I wouldn’t have gained a degree of familiarity with Race Course Road that allowed me to write this book.

  I also owe him thanks for the many, many, many times he read my manuscript, sometimes risking his life to give me suggestions (yes, sadly, I do not take well to criticism). Sorry for snapping at you, Vir, on so many occasions. In hindsight, your insights made the book much better. So, thank you for your patience, your understanding and your unwavering support as I went through my wobbly periods.

  But most of all, thank you for your love and your belief in me. I couldn’t have done this if you hadn’t had my back.