The Red Sari: A Novel

by Javier Moro

  But what she is anxiously awaiting is the electoral forecast from the well-known astrologer Ajay Bahambi, who became famous when Hillary Clinton asked him to read her hand. He finally appears on screen, and with the firm, decisive tone of someone who is completely convinced by what he is saying, the bearded oracle states that the party currently in power will confirm its mandate with over 320 seats. That means a humiliating defeat for the Congress Party. The precision of the information and the man’s tone of self-satisfaction leave Sonia depressed. She is not afraid of defeat, but she is afraid of being wiped off the board and left looking ridiculous. She presses the button on the remote control viciously and switches off the television. She gets up, but before she goes out, she goes into the kitchen to give instructions. Her children and little grandchildren will be coming for lunch today. She would have preferred to meet up with them at La Piazza, the exquisite Italian restaurant in the Hyatt Hotel, as they usually do on Sundays or when there is something to celebrate. But as she does not want to stir up the controversy over her “Italianness”, she prefers to stay at home. This is not the moment to come out in a photo eating pasta.

  She waits until it is nine o’clock before she goes out. From living in India, local beliefs have rubbed off on her, and according to an MP in the party who called her this morning from Kerala, in the south, the Rahu Kalam falls between seven thirty and nine in the morning today. This is a time of the day considered inauspicious for undertaking any kind of activity. The astrologers calculate it meticulously and publish it in Hindu calendars. It is not that Sonia believes entirely in those superstitions, but you never know, the ways things are, it is best to have as much as possible on her side…

  As soon as she goes through the door that gives on to the garden, she feels the heat like a slap in the face. It is only a month until the monsoon rains come, and until then the temperature will continue to climb inexorably. She puts on her usual, large sunglasses and glances around her: the lawn is going yellow, the flowerbeds that brightened it up in February have already withered. But the shade of the big trees protects the rest of the vegetation. Today the thermometer has gone up to 43 degrees, which does not prevent a group of sympathizers from standing for hours on the other side of the wall of her house waiting on the pavement to have her darshan. But they will not be able to see her. With so many security measures, Sonia cannot do what Indira used to do, staying to chat for a while with the people who came to see her at the doors of her residence. Those were other times. Now the Intelligence Agency has let it be known there is a “permanent threat” against her and her family on the part of fringe groups and Hindu xenophobes. Sonia is used to living with that fear around her and she has had no option but to accept it after so many years and so many scares. But the hardest thing, what she will never get used to, is thinking that something could happen to her children, and now to her grandchildren too.

  The soldiers on duty in the sentry box at her residence hardly have time to salute her as her cream coloured, bullet-proof Ambassador roars out with a squeal of tyres, followed by her bodyguards in another car with a spinning light on the roof. Sonia has put the dark glass window down and makes a quick gesture with her hand from inside the vehicle, but they are going so fast she is not sure if her admirers have seen her. It is a short trip from her house to Nirman Bhawan, a complex of government buildings where the office is located where she has to place her vote. It does not take more than ten minutes, especially today, a holiday as it is election day. And it is pleasant because the wide avenues are lined with large trees that are always green, and many of them are in blossom. The city has changed a lot; it has gone from the three million inhabitants it had when Sonia arrived to over fifteen now. There are colourful petrol stations with shops, just like in Europe, large department stores, shopping centres, cafeterias, restaurants of all kinds, a range of luxury hotels, supermarkets where you can find everything you need, from Scottish smoked salmon to Rioja wine. But the central nucleus is still the same, especially when there is no traffic. It is all full of memories for Sonia. Every corner, every street, every shop: in that patisserie Rajiv used to buy his favourite dessert; in this square her friend Sunita used to live; down that street, leading to Akbar Road, she used to take the children to school; on that piece of land her brother-in-law crashed his plane… And along these avenues drove an Ambassador similar to this one on the day that changed their lives. She thought that car would never arrive. Indira’s blood soaked the velvet-covered seats, forming a huge black stain.

  That is why she feels that her heart belongs to these streets, to this city, to this country. In order to defend herself from all the slander, she has ordered posters put up in her husband’s constituency, which show different photos of her life in India, beginning with her arrival when she was Rajiv’s fiancée. “What Indian tradition have I broken?” the text goes. “As a daughter-in-law, a wife, a widow or a member of the Congress Party, what tradition have I failed to observe?” Sonia is still traumatized by the virulence of the attacks against her.

  The access to Nirman Bhawan is heavily guarded by police officers and soldiers because of her arrival. The officers at the gate greet her by putting their hands together at chest-height and murmuring the traditional namaste. They are all smiles. Hers is the only vehicle authorized to enter the premises. Outside her electoral office, number 84, familiar faces are waiting for her and a crowd of journalists, photographers and followers. “How does it feel to be an Italian voting in India?” a malicious old reporter asks her, not bothering to hide his political tendencies. “I feel Indian. I do not feel Italian, not even a tiny bit,” Sonia snaps in a hoarse voice.

  The officer in charge of her electoral table greets her with a wide smile and places a garland of carnations round her neck.

  “Some of our Congress Party colleagues told us you would come here at seven o’ clock in the morning,” he says.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I apologize.”

  “No need for that, please…” the man replies, blushing. “You are the sixteenth voter at this table… It’s a good number, Madam. It will bring you luck,” he adds as he shows Sonia how the brand new electronic voting machine works. It is the pride of Indian technology. Over a million of these battery-operated plastic boxes, the size of a small suitcase, have been distributed for the first time all over the nation—in the remotest places, on the backs of elephants — in the hope of accelerating the counting and combating fraud. There will no longer be people killed or injured in the fighting between rival political factions who accused each other of trafficking with the contents of the urns. Now a mere beep after pressing the key next to the name and symbol of the candidate chosen indicates that the vote has been registered in a control unit. In this novel way, Sonia places her vote, like just another person among the millions of Indians who will hear the same sound today during this last day of the general election. Suddenly the members of the Press turn towards an old lady who has come to vote, sitting in a chair that her relatives carry up high. She is 108 years old and is a Burmese refugee. She replies to the reporters in a trembling voice: “I have always voted for the Congress Party because they helped us emigrate to India when China declared war on Burma.” She presses the button and … Beep!

  On leaving Nirman Bhawan, on the way back home, there are so many people cheering her on that the car can barely make its way through. So she asks the driver to stop. Sonia gets out of the car and her bodyguards immediately surround her and indicate that she should get back in, but she refuses and gestures firmly at them to stand aside. She does not intend to leave without greeting the enthusiastic crowd of people who chant her name and endlessly repeat the slogans that glorify her. It is the least she can do for all those who are waiting in the blazing sun. Impervious to the nervousness of her bodyguards, she turns towards the crowd, nodding her head, putting her hands together in greeting, thanking them, smiling… everyone wants to touch her and she would like to hug them one by one, if she could. She re
cognizes the same current of sympathy that has always existed between successive generations of Indians and the members of her family, an almost electric current between her and the people, which is made palpable in an exchange of glances, sometimes a handshake, a communication that crosses all barriers.

  When she gets back in the car, she suddenly wonders if this morning’s astrologer might not have exaggerated his negative prediction. But it is a fleeting thought. She knows better than anyone that elections can be lost, even though a million people have been cheering for you the day before.

  48

  For these, the first elections of the 21st century, 670 million electors are called to vote, an electorate twice the size of its nearest rival, which would be for the elections for the European Parliament. In order to carry out this organizational achievement and to guarantee the safety of the voters, the elections have been divided into four days over three weeks, with the last day being today, May 10th, 2004. Four million civil servants have been mobilized for seven hundred thousand electoral tables in order to get results that will affect the fate of a sixth of the world’s population over the next five years. Technology has been the great innovation in these elections. In the 1999 elections there were only three television channels; today there are over a dozen that broadcast 24 hours a day, not counting the satellite channels. Five years ago there were 1·3 million mobile phones; today there are 30 million. The television has broadcast the smiles, the clothes, the expressions of exhaustion or joy or stupor of the candidates, their expectant looks and also a gesture or two that have cost a politician his popularity. But no one really knows which party will most benefit from television.

  The counting will begin on May 13th and the first results will be given out on 14th, at the end of the week, precisely thanks to the speed of the new electronic urns. But for the candidates it will be a long week. Sonia would love to go off for a few days to enjoy the cool of the mountains, but it cannot appear that she wants nothing to do with the great contest. Her colleagues in the Congress Party would not understand it if she did not stay in her place, in the capital, on the front line, defending herself from a last-minute attack, galvanizing her comrades in the party, correcting an unruly MP or so…

  Thursday, May 13th, 2004. This morning the first results are expected. In the villages, the peasants take advantage of the heat to make a halt in their labours and gather round a transistor or a television. In a country where everyone joins in other people’s celebrations, the great spectacle of democracy is experienced like another festivity, perhaps because celebrating the supreme value of the individual acquires even more value in such a densely populated place. In the numerous villages out of reach of the signal, they will have to wait for the arrival of some traveller with news; there the results may take up to two weeks to be known. In New Delhi there is great expectation in the general headquarters of the two large parties, both in the centre, where the strategies have been decided and the guidelines worked out. They are large halls with whispering air- conditioning, full of television monitors, computers, video cameras, printers and all the paraphernalia of technology. Young men in Western clothes hurry between the offices with their mobiles stuck to their ears and, as a concession to tradition, a cup of milky tea in their hands. In the Congress Party’s general headquarters, there are more journalists than party members; these are hiding in their homes, overwhelmed by the defeatist speculation on radio and television. Some of them, the more optimistic ones, wearing the famous hat that Nehru popularized, talk and gesticulate to the reporters who are awaiting the first reactions.

  Not far from there, in Sonia’s residence, the atmosphere is charged with tension. A dense silence envelops the house, decorated with objects brought from all over India, many of them tribal, exquisitely beautiful pieces of cloth and some antique paintings on glass which Sonia is very fond of. Nothing there evokes ostentation or the fact that this is the home of a special family, except the study, which is still just as Rajiv left it. The photos, in silver frames on the tables, show moments the Nehrus shared with Kennedy, Gorbachev, De Gaulle and other illustrious personages of the 20th century. And there are the famous pictures of Nehru, Indira and Rajiv, hanging in their wooden frames on the white walls. Today they also seem to have a life of their own, as though they were participating in the suspense of the moment from beyond the grave.

  Sitting on the sofas and squatting on the floor, Sonia’s collaborators happily accept a cup of tea perfumed with cardamom which their hostess offers them. They are all in an uncomfortable silence and the fact is that Sonia prefers to have the television off. She is afraid of the results and she wants to save herself the agony of getting to know the figures bit by bit. She prefers to know it all at once, when it has to be. So close to the end, she is afraid of disappointing “the family”. She knows that if she wins, it will be Sonia Gandhi’s victory and she has projected herself to the electorate as what she is, a vulnerable, sincere and bold woman; if she loses, it will be the defeat of “Rajiv’s widow” or “Indira’s daughter-in-law, the “Italian” who was not up to the circumstances and who lacked both ambition and political talent.

  A mobile rings to the tune of the Congress Party. It belongs to her friend Ambika, Secretary General of the party and the colleague who has spent the most hours with her recently. The woman puts her cup of tea down on a side table and puts the phone to her ear. She immediately gives a smile and hangs up. “Sonia, our allies in Tamil Nadu have won.” The good news relaxes the atmosphere a little. “We won’t be left looking ridiculous there,” thinks Sonia. Tamil Nadu is a large state, certainly important in the final result, but they are all impatient to know the figures for key states like Uttar Pradesh, Maharasthra or Karnataka. Sonia is bursting to know and at the same time she does not want to know.

  A few seconds later another mobile rings. “Sonia, we’ve won in Maharasthra!” another member of her team announces. The sound of the fax is added to that of the mobile phones: the machine spits out photocopies of newspapers with messages that come from several party delegations… And all with good news. In an instant the study is invaded by a cacophony of noises, sounds and fragments of conversation. Sonia is disconcerted until she receives a call on the private telephone of the house.

  “Congratulations Soniaji! We’re not only winning, we’re wiping them out. In my own name and in the name of all the members of working committee of the Congress Party, allow me give you our most sincere congratulations.”

  “Let’s not celebrate yet, we have to be prudent…” she says.

  “Yes, you’re right, but we already know the trend…”

  Sonia glances at the members of her team, with a smile that brings her famous dimples back to life, those dimples that always used to appear when she felt happy.

  “I’m going to turn on the television…” she says, getting up.

  What the screen shows is a very familiar place: Akbar Road, where the party offices are, less than five minutes from her home. Sympathizers full of fervour carry posters in support and shout slogans “Long live Sonia Gandhi!” “Long live the Congress Party!” while others light firecrackers, and dance and drink in the streets. “They called her a foreigner, but the people have given a clear response to that!” says one follower carrying a flag with the national colours, yellow, green and white. “This is a gift from the gods!” declares a well-known member of the party with tears in his eyes. That first reaction of jubilation leaves everyone amazed, but what Sonia is not prepared for is to hear a cry that emerges from among the crowd: “Long live Prime Minister Sonia Gandhi!” She is thunderstruck, as though the reality of her new situation hit her from the television screen. Stunned by the enormity of what is coming her way, she sits down on the edge of the sofa. She wants to hide her anxiety, but she is so overcome that it is impossible for her.

  “Are you all right?” Ambika asks her.

  Sonia takes a deep breath and points to her chest, as if she was starting an attack.

&nb
sp; “Shall I go and fetch your inhaler?”

  “That isn’t necessary … it’s passing now.”

  Actually she is praying she does not have an attack of asthma now. What she is feeling is anxiety, which the cries of the enthusiastic followers in Akbar Road only make worse: “Sonia Gandhi Prime Minister!”

  The presenter returns to the results. As the results are given out state by state, it is as if the voice of the different peoples of India penetrated into the study, like an echo coming from very far away, from the villages scattered over the Tibetan slopes of the Himalayas, from the mud huts of the Bishnois in the Thar Desert, from the tribes that live in the mangroves in the south, from the fishermen on their immense beaches in Kerala, from the Moslems in Gujarat who survived the recent massacres of the Hindu fundamentalists, from the millions of slum-dwellers in Bombay and Calcutta… And the voice of the people is repeated, astonishing Sonia, her collaborators, her adversaries, India, and the whole world too. A voice that defies the predictions of the experts in politics, of the television magnates and the opinion polls. A voice that rebels against the attempted domination of the masses by the media. Not a single expert has been able to guess the spectacular defeat of the party in power. In one foul swoop, the results also wipe out the credibility of so many astrologers, palm-readers and supposed magicians who have spread deceit and lies all over the country. The famous astrologer Ajay Bahambi has made a fine mess of things!…

  The initial surprise soon becomes euphoria, when the television announces that the Congress Party is about to get 145 seats, which will allow it, together with its allies, to reach the magic figure of 272 in coalition. That is, the capacity to govern. The 272 that Sonia announced prematurely in 1999, she now has. Added to her anxiety there is a deep feeling of satisfaction. And to cap this day of triumph, the news comes that Rahul has been elected as MP for the constituency of Amethi, a worthy heir of his father. A double victory which brings back into power the family most admired and vilified in India. Immediately, the cries of the crowd that has gradually approached the house and is calling for Sonia drown out the sound of the television. At the headquarters in Akbar Road, the person responsible for security calls the New Delhi police to send reinforcements to number 10 Janpath Road in view of the probable gathering of people.