‘A channel differentiator? Have you been asleep on the job for the last few years? We don’t need a channel differentiator. You know why? Because I am the fucking channel differentiator.’
Gaurav looked around the table belligerently, almost as if asking if anyone was mad enough to challenge him. Hardened by numerous such outbursts, everyone knew from bitter experience that it would not do to say anything at all at such moments. Silence was always golden at the NTN news meeting.
Ashutosh Rawat, for his part, took a minute to think of his mortgage payment, the EMI on the Honda Accord he had just bought, his daughter’s boarding school expenses and the family holiday to Bangkok coming up soon. And then, he swallowed the insults that had been stewing inside him for years, and replied mildly, ‘Yes, I know that, Gaurav. We all know that. I was just talking about packaging that you could work with.’
‘Nobody cares about packaging,’ snapped Gaurav. ‘The only reason people watch this channel is because they know I will tell them the truth. And they look to me to answer all the questions that the nation wants answered. Because I am the only one who believes in News Over Views.’
As usual, Gaurav managed to capitalize his trademark phrase—and the channel’s motto—by laying emphasis on the last three words.
‘So, what do you think our first debate should be about tonight?’ asked Ashutosh. ‘You know, to make sure we emphasise News Over Views.’
Gaurav shot him a sharp, suspicious look, checking to see if Ashutosh was making fun of him. Then, clearly deciding that he wouldn’t dare, Gaurav went on, ‘I think we have already conclusively proved that it was the Pakistanis who assassinated the Prime Minister. So, if we are going to take the story forward—and take the lead yet again—we need to discuss what happens now. What are the government’s options? How can Karan Pratap best avenge his father’s death? Should we conduct a surgical strike on Pak terror camps across the LoC? Should we try and take out a high-value target of theirs in retaliation? How do we respond?’
This was too much for the mild-mannered political editor of the channel, Raghav Chandra, a veteran of a dozen newsrooms and the author of several highly regarded books on foreign policy. Raising his unruly eyebrows, he asked quietly, ‘Isn’t that upping the ante a bit too much? Even if the allegations against Pakistan are true—which is by no means certain—surely the government should first raise the matter at a diplomatic level? If they really do believe that Pakistan killed Birendra Pratap, then a good first step would be to shut the mission in Islamabad, not send a drone to bomb Lahore.’
‘See, this is the problem with India,’ fumed Gaurav. ‘We are too scared to stand up for ourselves. You can be sure that if the American president had been killed, by now the US Air Force would have bombed Rawalpindi back to the Stone Age.’
‘And in any case,’ continued Chandra, as if he hadn’t been rudely interrupted, ‘what is the evidence that Pakistan did assassinate the PM? The IB has confirmed that Birendra Pratap was killed by a poison pen. That is not a method favoured by the ISI.’
Gaurav laughed unkindly. ‘You really believe that the ISI can’t change its tactics so that we don’t see its hand behind this? How naïve are you? Unbelievable!’
Ashutosh hastily intervened before Gaurav’s mood deteriorated further. ‘Okay, then it is agreed that at the top of the hour we will discuss what the government’s response to Pakistan should be. I’ve already booked General Atiya Khan for half an hour; he will join us on link from Karachi. Should we go with General Tripathi from the Indian side, or do you want someone different?’
The discussion then veered towards practicalities. Who to book for which slot? Which of the guests should be on the studio panel? Who could join the discussion through an outside link? And slowly but surely, Gaurav’s temper calmed down. By the time the meeting ended, he was again in a positively cheery mood.
As everyone slunk away, Gaurav asked Raghav and Ashutosh to stay back.
Once the door had closed behind the others, Gaurav asked, ‘So, who can get me a meeting with Asha Devi? I’ve heard from my sources that she is going to join politics any moment now. And I want to score the first interview with her when that announcement comes.’
Both Raghav and Ashutosh stayed silent, each looking at the other to speak first.
‘Oh, come on,’ snapped Gaurav. ‘Surely you know someone who knows someone who knows her?’
This had always been a sore point with Gaurav. He saw himself as an ‘outsider’ in what he referred to as Lutyens’ Delhi (misprouncing ‘Lutyens’ every single time so that people would know just how much of an outsider he was). He had grown up in Patiala, gone to college in Chandigarh, so he didn’t have the network of friends and contacts that Raghav and Ashutosh (both of whom were Delhi born and bred, and from all the ‘right’ schools and colleges) had in the capital. And even after all these years as a fully paid-up member of the city’s media circuit, in part because of his natural reticence and reserve, he hadn’t managed to crack the inner circle of Delhi high society, a close-knit group of people who had all grown up together and were wary of new entrants.
So, Gaurav did not know anyone who knew anyone who knew Asha Devi. But even so, he had managed to learn that she was going to join politics—which is more than either of these losers had managed.
But did they know anyone who could get through to her? Once she announced her political debut, Gaurav wanted to be the first to interview her.
▪
The atmosphere in Manisha Patel’s edit meeting was very different. In complete contrast to Gaurav’s overweening confidence in his own wisdom, Manisha Patel was feeling very conflicted about the run order of her nine o’clock show.
Instinct told her that she should open with a human-interest story. After the saturated news coverage of the Birendra Pratap assassination over the last couple of weeks, she felt that the audience was looking for a little respite from the doom and gloom. So, she had put together a package on the late Prime Minister, using rare archival footage to tell the story of his political journey. It had turned out rather well, even if she said so herself. She had run it for the morning edit meeting, keeping a close watch on the faces of everyone in the room. With the exception of Anand Guruswamy—who everyone agreed had a heart of stone—there hadn’t been a dry eye in the house.
The bits that had gone down particularly well were the clips of Birendra and Sadhana Devi playing with a young Asha in the foreground of their ancestral haveli. If only she had a clip of an adult Asha with her parents to juxtapose against that image. But despite the best efforts of her research team, she had failed to unearth any such footage. It was almost as if Asha had turned into the Invisible Woman from the time she turned eighteen. There was just no evidence of her in the research library.
And yet, Manisha knew perfectly well that Asha had been a very visible and high-profile part of the Delhi social scene during her college days. She herself had attended several parties in which Asha had been seen doing cocaine, getting drunk out of her mind, and on one memorable occasion, dancing on tables.
And then there was the time when Asha had posed topless, wearing only a fetching pair of black lace leggings, to promote the work of a fashion designer friend. The pictures had been used in an international glossy magazine with Asha’s face cropped out.
But two months later the uncropped version had mysteriously turned up in a package dropped off at the magazine that Manisha had then worked for. There had been high excitement among the troops at the thought of the prospective scoop; the male journalists had duly drooled over the picture; the editors had gone into a huddled conference. And the next thing Manisha knew, the photograph had been pulled from the newsroom never to be seen again.
Clearly, Daddy had pulled some strings to preserve his little girl’s privacy. God alone knows how many times he had done that. And how lucky had Asha been to grow up in a world before social media went berserk. If she got up to any such shenanigans now, the pictures would b
e all over Twitter before you could say ‘retweet’.
But would a human-interest story work at prime time when the other channels were doing all that macho posturing and warmongering? Was she putting herself in danger of being dismissed as a ‘woman’ anchor who did ‘soft’ stories while everyone was getting on with the job of reporting ‘hard’ news? And even if she was, should she care?
Of late, Manisha had begun to wonder if she had made a mistake in trying to win by playing by the rules set by the men. Sure, she had had no choice in the beginning when she was a plucky little reporter, working on stories deep in the rural interior and at the nation’s borders. And for a time it had seemed to work. She was certainly the most recognizable female face in the media now.
But somehow she hadn’t been able to bring the magic along when she made the transition to the studio. In here, when she railed at the world’s ills, she was dismissed as hysterical. But when Gaurav did the exact same thing, he was hailed as the voice of an angry nation. Manisha could have taken the criticism in her stride, if it hadn’t been for the fact that it was also reflected in her ratings. For the past year, there hadn’t been a single week when her show was the top-rated one in that time slot. Hell, there were weeks when she didn’t even rate second or third.
Clearly, playing by Gaurav’s rules wasn’t working for her. She needed to affect a paradigm shift in how she presented the news. And she needed to do that fast. She was turning forty next year, and there were several female anchors nipping at her heels at AITNN, all of them hungry for the prime-time slots she had made her own.
So, sitting in that edit meeting, as the others argued around her, Manisha Patel made a decision. From now on, she would play to her strengths. And her primary strength had always been human interest stories. And what better human interest story than that of the young girl, banished from her home for numerous infractions, who comes back to mourn her dead father, and then finds herself sucked into the very world she had been ejected from.
Asha Devi’s was a story worth telling. All Manisha had to do was convince Asha that nobody could tell it better than her.
Manisha picked up the phone and dialled a number. A lazy voice answered and drawled, ‘Where have you been, darling? I haven’t heard from you in ages!’
‘Oh, just been travelling madly,’ she replied lightly. ‘Listen, I need a favour…’
Varun Kapoor laughed. ‘Of course you do. When do you ever call me, except when you need something?’
Manisha thought of protesting and then decided it would be a waste of time. Both Varun and she knew the rules of the game. You scratch my back, I will scratch yours.
‘Haha,’ she laughed awkwardly. ‘You got me there. But listen, Varun, I need to get in touch with Asha. I wanted to give her my condolences but the number I have for her doesn’t seem to be working. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?’
Varun Kapoor, host of innumerable parties where, fuelled by champagne and cocaine, Asha had run completely wild, was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well, let me see what I can do.’
And with that, Manisha had to be content.
▪
Asha stepped out of Number 7, Race Course Road, her mind in a complete whirl. Her driver stepped forward to open the car door for her. She climbed in on autopilot and then clambered out again. She could not think straight with the hulking presence of the SPG in her car.
‘I’ll walk,’ she said tersely to no one in particular, and set off at a brisk pace. Her PSO immediately fell into place behind her.
Should she do this? Join politics, stand from her father’s constituency, campaign for the party, set herself up in competition against her brothers?
Could she do this? Could she give up the life she had spent so many years building and start afresh all over again?
It had taken Asha time to settle into her new life in London when she first moved there three years ago. It wasn’t just homesickness that weighed her down. It was also the sense that she was missing out on all the political excitement—that she thrived on—taking place back home in India. But slowly those feelings had passed and Asha had begun to luxuriate in the freedom and space that London allowed her.
Her London home suddenly flashed in front of her eyes. A two-bedroom flat in Belgravia, done in muted tones of grey and white, with her favourite purple orchids providing the only splash of colour. The sense of relief she felt when she came back home from office, shut the door behind her, poured herself a glass of red wine and just sank on the couch to enjoy the sound of silence. If she came back to India, she would never ever have that moment of peace again in her life.
Suddenly, all the things that she had taken for granted in London became markers of a better life. The freedom to roam the aisles of Waitrose, picking up the ingredients for a small dinner party at home. Packing a picnic basket and spending the afternoon reading a book while supine on a blanket in Hyde Park. Driving out to the country over the weekend to spend time at one English stately home or the other.
It had been a good life. A happy life. But could she go back to it knowing that she was needed back home? And then, with a start it came to Asha that she didn’t know if she could, in fact, go back to her London life at all.
For starters, who would pay for it? The flat she lived in was leased by a mysterious entity headquartered in Zurich and paid for through Baba’s Swiss bank account, which he had inherited from his father (when India became independent in 1947, her grandfather—like many feudals at that time—had transferred a large chunk of his money to Switzerland, hoping to keep it out of the clutches of the Indian tax system). Did she even have any rights to the apartment, given that her name was not on the lease? The entire arrangement had been set up by her father, and she hadn’t paid the slightest amount of attention because she took her father at his word that she didn’t need to worry her pretty little head about it.
Her salary at the art auction house was an embarrassing pittance that wouldn’t even cover her taxi fare and hairdressing expenses. She had only been able to live in the manner to which she was now accustomed because of the monthly payments that were routed to her lawyer’s bank account every month by her father. Would that money still come through now that Baba was not there to give instructions? And if it stopped, how could she possibly finance her lifestyle?
In fact, what would she do for money even if she came back to India? The only person who was au fait with the labyrinth of companies that controlled Baba’s money was Karan. And the only person who understood how it all worked was Arjun. Would they be as generous towards her as her own father had been? And anyway, the very thought of being dependent on her half-brothers was abhorrent to Asha.
As Asha turned around the bend, she could see her mother sitting on a rocking chair on the veranda of Number 3, Race Course Road, while one of her maids poured tea for her. Even from that distance, she could see that Amma’s face seemed drained of all life. She looked less like a living, breathing woman and more like a study in sorrow.
What was she thinking of? How could she possibly abandon her mother in these circumstances and head back to London? Karan and Arjun would drive her out of Delhi in a trice, exiling her to the rambling family haveli in Bharatnagar.
And what would Amma do for money? She had never as much as balanced a cheque book in her life. Every month, her father had handed over a fat wad of notes to her for her ‘kharcha’. And if she went shopping, she used an add-on card attached to Baba’s account. How would she manage now? Had Baba left her any money? Hell, had he even left a will? Probably not, given how superstitious he had been about drawing one up.
By now, Sadhana Devi had noticed Asha in the distance. She raised her hand and waved. Asha waved back, but instead of going ahead to join her, she turned around to walk back to 7, RCR.
Consulting her mother on whether she should join politics was pointless. Not just because she didn’t have much use for her mother’s opinions but because it was clear that she had no cho
ice in the matter. If she was going to survive, if she was going to protect her mother, she had no option but to become a player in this game.
If life was a game of chess, like her father always said, then it was better to be the queen than a pawn.
SIX
A week, they say, is a long time in politics. And a month, Karan Pratap thought to himself, was an absolute age. As he drove to the PMO for the first time ever as Prime Minister—the SPG having finally downgraded the threat level—he flashed back to when his father had made the same journey for the first time.
How excited he and Arjun had been to ride with Baba in his official car, as he drove the short distance from Rashtrapati Bhavan to South Block after his swearing in! He remembered the staff lined up from the entrance right until the PM’s cabin, all of them clapping loudly, as Birendra Pratap walked to his office for the first time.
Today, they would be lining up for him.
But Karan Pratap’s entry into the PMO was an altogether more sombre affair. The staff were in place as always to greet the new entrant, but in place of the enthusiastic applause that had greeted his father, a sober silence was all that was offered to him. And, as a recently-bereaved son, he would have expected nothing else. Nodding to the familiar faces in the line-up, Karan walked quickly to his office, and Kutty—who was, as always, close on his heels—shut the door behind him.
Karan had barely settled down at his desk when Kutty announced that it was time for another intelligence briefing. Why did they call it ‘intelligence briefing’ wondered Karan, when they never ever had any intelligence to brief him with?
He had lost count of how many meetings he had had in RCR with the top intelligence officers of the country. They arrived with reams of reports and thick files that they officiously read from, briefing him on the progress of the investigation into Birendra Pratap’s assassination. And at the end of this thoroughly unsatisfactory exercise he was no closer to finding out why his father had been targeted and by whom.
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