by R. SREERAM
For there was a time like this once, a long time ago, when India was a land of prosperity. When the world came to us to buy, not to sell; when the king of a European nation was desperate enough to send his men to find an alternate route to our shores. A time when we didn’t realize how blessed this land is.
And then we became complacent and greedy, and the world tore what we had into pieces and distributed it amongst itself. Our kings fought amongst themselves and brought in outsiders to settle scores, and then these outsiders themselves became our overlords. We threw off that yoke at the stroke of midnight, 1947 . . . and we thought we were going to write our own destiny.
And we kept thinking we were the ones writing it.
We thought we had won independence. We thought we were building everlasting things our way, the Indian way. We thought the Indian model of development would make the world respect us again. We played statesmen and prayed for global peace.
And today, we stand on the cusp of ridicule.
Like a young man who realizes the lessons of a wasted past, I stand before you now, naked with shame. I will not pass the buck and blame it on the policies of those before me, for they must have still seen some justification in their infinite wisdom; nor do I wish to plead helplessness and blame our situation on circumstances beyond our control.
Like a son in front of his mother, I now stand before you and take the blame for all that has gone wrong, and ask not for your forgiveness, but for your blessings. I may not be able to erase those wrongs, but I can assure you that I will not allow them to continue to happen. I will not ask my conscience to be silent anymore – rather, I will ask it to be the loudest voice I hear.
But I cannot move mountains alone. We can, together, but I cannot do it alone. That is why I make this request of you, with my hands folded, that as difficult as the next few days may be, please remember that we are charting a new path to success – and any path that you travel for the first time will have its share of challenges and dangers.
For even on the path we are in, there are dangers – infinitely dangerous. We have terrorists coming at us from the north and the west. We have the red corridor of terror from south to east. Our infrastructure is not developing at the pace needed to meet our requirements. People are afraid to walk to a police station or to a government office to ask for help. Are our banks safe, our bankers honest? We have floods and drought in the same year. And riots that require only the slightest pretext to flare up and out of control.
What are the values we are teaching our children? We do not show respect to law, or to women, or to our neighbours or to a fellow citizen on the street. Accident victims die because those who want to help are too scared of being drawn into the courts. Malls are starting to outnumber hospitals and schools, and the disparity in wealth is reaching alarming proportions.
On a typical day, in our daily lives, we break the laws. We disrespect our fellow beings. And we do all this because we want to survive . . .
But there is a thin line separating survival from scavenging, and we are perilously close to it. How much longer would it take for us to descend into chaos? How much longer for India to cease to exist, to dissolve into the fiefdoms of old where even life – and not just living – could not be guaranteed?
Because we have already started to be apathetic. We do not care, we do not even hope, and most of us do not even take the smallest steps to create the India of our – and our forefathers’ – dreams. What is the point, we ask ourselves, and live each day waiting for things to get better by themselves.
I cannot wait. I do not want to wait. I do not dare to wait.
And therefore, with immediate effect as of two-thirty this afternoon, and in accordance with Part Eighteen and Article 352 of the Constitution, I am declaring a national Emergency. The government under Shri Kuldip Razdan has been dismissed, and the Parliament suspended indefinitely. I am hereby assuming all executive powers to govern the Republic of India.
13
16th September, 2012. New Delhi.
It was the perfect time for a commercial break.
The lights came on as soon as the incumbent – and perhaps the new emperor? – completed his sentence and stared into the camera. His expression and body language was perfect, which was understandable for such a good actor – or was that my cynicism talking?
‘Break for ninety seconds,’ Sharmila shouted from her station. The make-up lady rushed back towards GK and resumed fussing over him. Nelson joined them with a new set of papers – the script for the next half, I assumed.
‘News channels need time to think up their Breaking News captions,’ Jagannath told me in his usual sotto voce style. ‘And DD’s TRPs should be through the roof by now.’
‘Don’t bet on it – I am sure NDNN will be piggy-backing the telecast on their screens, along with Sardar and Desai ready to jump in with their commentary as soon as there is a moment of silence,’ quipped Richa, sidling up to us. She had a big grin on her face, evidently the excitement of being in the spotlight in what should be an epochal episode. ‘The other channels would be doing their own shtick as well. CNN-IBN, NDTV, Times Now . . .’
‘And the gap helps you build the anticipation for the next part,’ I guessed aloud.
Jagannath nodded, pleased. ‘Precisely. But it also serves another purpose. If we go non-stop, a lot of the points GK’s made so far, and the ones he is about to, it will wash over the heads of the people, because there is only so much . . . RAM, if you will, that the human brain can hold before it needs to store it away.’
He gestured to the two men who were deaf to the rest of the world. ‘It’s the same thing that Nelson’s doing with GK. We are rushing this through, but breaking it into steps so that GK needs to remember the key highlights of only a few points at a time, but without having the space to think up major objections to any of them. I’m sure you appreciate the fact that he is not only announcing an Emergency, but also the national manifesto for the next few years.’
‘And you should be flattered,’ Richa added. ‘Some of the phrases have been lifted straight out of your book.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied wryly, secretly pleased that she remembered. Some of those phrases had sounded familiar, but then, these could also have been clichés overused by the news channels and commentators of the day.
‘Of course, you also came across as a rather obnoxious and stubborn prick the longer the controversy dragged on.’ There was a short bark – a guffaw cut short – from Jagannath, but Richa’s eyes were gleaming as she said it. I did not know how much she meant it, and though I cared, I did not dare ask if she was really serious. It was not an assessment I disagreed with, for even my mother had called me after one of the later shows and – as mothers are wont to do – criticized my choice of shirt and words even as she soothed me that the other guests wouldn’t know good writing even if they sat on it.
‘So what’s next?’ I thought it safer, much safer, to change the subject. ‘When are you grilling him?’
‘Next up is a list of all the laws that are going to be changed,’ Jagannath answered before Richa could reply. ‘Once that is done, we break for about ten-fifteen minutes. Then Richa gets her shot.’ He grinned. ‘I am reconsidering that, however. If she makes him look too bad, then I’m afraid the coup will be over before it even started!’
24th April, 2012. New Delhi.
The three of them drove back in complete silence, arriving at the major-general’s residence outside the city just over an hour later. Raghav had considered suggesting evasive measures, but it made no sense to take that extra effort when he was sure that their pursuers, if any, would also know the location of the Qureshi’s home. He had left his vehicle back at the mall, an arrangement he was not comfortable with, but he had had little choice in the matter if he wanted to have an audience with the major-general. And it was now imperative that he get on the same page with the others.
Beyond the teaser about INSAF, however, he had revealed precious litt
le on the way. His attitude had irked the major-general, who had bristled at the suspicion that his vehicle was bugged, but it was a small price to pay for security. Major-General Qureshi understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.
The major-general led them into his house and into his study, eventually settling them into facing couches that occupied one corner of his room.
‘This room is safe,’ he said. ‘I sweep it personally every day.’
‘For bugs,’ Raghav explained, noticing the confused look on Richa’s face. ‘Mics and transmitters?’
Richa nodded gratefully. It was a matter of context, for she did not come across such terms with such interpretations daily, to mean what it did in his world, the world that he and the major-general shared . . . I am in waaaay over my head, she thought before she could stop herself.
Stop it! Listen. Participate. Question. You know you are better than the others, so prove it.
‘Nothing that I say leaves this room,’ Raghav cautioned, and the major-general understood that it was directed more at Richa than himself. ‘It’s off the record, and believe me when I tell you that we are no worse off than anyone else at killing to suppress what we want to hide.’
‘The public has a right to know –’ Richa began.
‘The public has a right to know jack-shit,’ the major-general’s voice was like a crack of thunder, startling her. ‘There are things, Ms Journalist, that should not be in the public realm. Do you know how many men, good men, we’ve lost because “the public deserves to know”? Kargil. 26/11. Kashmir. Just because every Tom, Dick and Harry with a microphone wanted to show off their bravado, this country has lost men because the enemy was aware of what we were doing.’
Richa suppressed the urge to point out that she was a reporter, not a journalist. Not the right time for semantics . . .
‘The major-general’s right,’ said Raghav, not unkindly. ‘There are things in motion right now, plans that have taken years to put together, and we cannot afford a leak. The reason I helped you today was because you were being made a scapegoat for reporting someone else’s crime, and you did not deserve it. But I’d throw you to the wolves in a heartbeat if that’s what it took, because what you are in the middle of – what we are all in the middle of – it’s something worth it.’
Knowing full well what she was risking, Richa shook her head. ‘I am of no use here if I can’t contribute in one way or another. I owe you for saving me, but that’s personal – I also have an obligation to my profession, and to myself as a reporter.’
Raghav held up a hand. ‘You can contribute, but only in a way we deem fit. And by that, I mean what INSAF decides. You will air stories others don’t want to touch, or have been threatened off touching. You might spread disinformation if and where we think that’s necessary. You might end up questioning your own ethics . . .’
‘If you want to leave,’ interrupted the major-general, ‘there’s the door. I can have a cab waiting for you at the gates in five minutes.’
Richa looked at the two men and made her decision. Stories that others don’t want to touch, or have been threatened off . . . that was the clincher.
And, she thought, if I’m already a target, I might as well choose a side and get on with it. The known devil, against an unknown danger . . . but . . .
‘On one condition,’ she said.
‘Name it,’ said Raghav before Qureshi could intervene.
‘I want to be the one to break the ViFite story. I’ve put far too much effort into this one to give it up.’
‘And if I say no?’
She held his gaze before turning to their host. ‘In that case, Major-General, I shall take up your offer of a taxi ride.’ She turned back to Raghav. ‘If I can get this far alone, I can cover the rest of it myself too.’
‘You aren’t that indispensable,’ Raghav pointed out. ‘There are others – with better networks – who would do anything to sit where you are sitting right now.’
The barb stung, but she refused to back down. ‘Yes, they would,’ she said finally, ‘but I wouldn’t.’
Raghav thought for a few seconds. ‘And nothing that we discuss today leaves this room?’ he repeated.
Her answer was immediate. ‘Nothing.’
Raghav looked to the major-general for help. Qureshi’s eyes had narrowed, but his lips seemed to twitch a little at the corners. Then he nodded. ‘She stays. And you are going to tell me who you really work for.’
Raghav smiled at his directness. ‘Do you still think I work for Powerhouse?’ He turned to Richa, amused by the surprise on her face. ‘Sound travels in a small car,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I heard him telling you that.’
‘Where does INSAF come in?’ Qureshi persisted.
‘I work for INSAF,’ Raghav replied. ‘Not Powerhouse. We didn’t want you following up on ViFite because we already had an investigation in place. Your . . . involvement could have fouled that up for us.’
‘He means me,’ the major-general said, pre-empting Richa’s indignant protest. He turned back to Raghav. ‘And you believe that you could have gotten to the truth a lot faster than a major-general?’
Raghav held up a hand, placating the challenge. ‘Oh, you would have gotten to the root as fast as us. But I meant what I said when I first met you. You still don’t know who you are dealing with. We do. And we didn’t want you taking on the one enemy you wouldn’t have been able to beat.’
Richa thought the major-general would explode but it was only his eyes that indicated the anger within. His voice was as calm as it had ever been as he asked, ‘So you were protecting me?’
Raghav was equally unapologetic. ‘We tried to, yes. If you had turned it over to us, your wife would still be alive today. Powerhouse would not have come after you. They would have lost the trail and we would have taken them down later. You and Richa would not be in the mess you are today.’ He shot a pointed look at the major-general. ‘They were able to transfer the defence secretary Yugi Krishnamachari within a week. How long do you think you could have held out?’
16th September, 2012.
For the rest of their lives, people would remember what they were doing as those fateful words were uttered, ‘National Emergency . . . government . . . dismissed . . . Parliament . . . suspended . . .’
For a majority of the nation’s citizenry, it was in front of television sets wherever they could find it. If they did not have one at home, it was at the neighbour’s, or at the neighbourhood barber-shop, or even at the local dealers’. The less fortunate ones – and the ones not really keen on seeing the president’s face one more time – resorted to radios and FM transmissions for a recast.
For the temporary inmates of the Julius Room at the International Conference Centre in Ghaziabad, the earlier announcement – which many had put down to too many fingers of whiskey and scotch – became a reality twice repeated through the screens arrayed on the stage. That had been a private telecast, and could have been a final attempt by the ruling coalition to flex its muscles; this, declaring on national television, was an entirely different cup of tea. The veterans had lived through the 1975 Emergency, but the young blood of those days no longer coursed through their veins. Their older, wiser, cholesterol- and diabetes-laden blood now demanded rest and some harmless power-mongering, not war against the might of the nation. They sighed in unison, perhaps exhibiting a genuine sense of unity for the first time ever.
For the spooks watching the Julius Room, enlightenment came much later, in the form of stewards and bell-boys who were bribed to reveal something that they could have found out for themselves by walking outside and mingling with the crowds on the streets.
Gyandeep Sharma, despite the shock of seeing GK at the helm of the Emergency, remained stony and resolute. He had not expected the president to be part of INSAF’s Kalyug, but then again, GK had always had the cockroach’s ability to survive. For the Indian head of Powerhouse, nothing mattered anymore. His network was ruined, the work of a l
ifetime reduced to nought in a morning’s madness, and he had neither the energy nor the drive to recover his lost influence. His niece would have to rebuild his empire and earn her inheritance.
For Major Nawaz Qureshi, the deserted roads meant little relief as he escorted Leela Sharma to the INSAF safe-house in Andheri. The decoy vehicles that had been dispatched earlier reported tails, but had been left unmolested so far – and in a few more minutes, as soon as the actual cargo reached the bungalow in Andheri, the deception would be revealed to the trackers, hopefully adding another spanner into their works. The subterfuge was a necessary mask. Despite the veil of secrecy around the operation, he was always worried about a leak; even if nothing leaked, he was still worried about Powerhouse regrouping itself and sending out a team to recover the heir apparent to their kingdom. The radio inside his vehicle alternated between the secure band used by his team and one of the news stations that was airing the president’s speech.
For Mr Karamchand Patil, the announcement – witnessed amidst a sombre crowd of fellow party members at their HQ in New Delhi – seemed to be the final nail on the coffin that held his prime ministerial ambitions. He knew the way the world worked, and irrespective of how the coup fared, the next winner would be the disposed government, buoyed by the sympathy of such an unfair dismissal. The Indian body-politic preferred to mete out punishments on their own terms, and would reinstate Kuldip Razdan merely to have the pleasure of properly voting him out of power. He wondered if there were any quiet states he could retire to as a governor.
For Kuldip Razdan, the act itself was not a betrayal as much as the words with which GK had announced his ascendance. Without mentioning it outright, he had challenged the entire political and judicial might in the country – and Razdan was more than a little pleased to think that his bête noire had overreached himself by going against the might of the Pandits. It was all very well to preach from the pulpit, but real governance was full of conflicting compulsions that eroded even the best intentions. And when that happened and GK gave up, Razdan would be ready to stake his claim once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the group captain relaxing visibly. You wait, my fellow Kashmiri, the just-deposed prime minister thought. I’ll be back.