Race Course Road

by Seema Goswami

  They were off to the RCR private auditorium in the Panchvati Complex to watch Batman v Superman, they trilled happily. ‘It’s in 3D, Daddy,’ said Karina excitedly. ‘And we have our own 3D glasses with our names on them. Come and see!’

  Well, thought Karan, there were worse ways to while away the time until all the exit polls were over and done with. Pulling on a tracksuit, he headed out with his daughters to watch a superhero movie while the rest of the country considered his fate.

  He got back in a couple of hours to find Arjun and Radhika waiting for him in the Number 5 drawing room. The glum looks on their faces came as no surprise to him. He had known for the last few weeks that the numbers were not looking good. His internal polling showed that both the L’Oiseau story and Asha’s photo scandal had affected the party’s prospects.

  But clearly Arjun, who had seen the same numbers, hadn’t quite believed their own polling. ‘It’s not looking good, Bhaiya,’ he said tersely. ‘We’ve just lost momentum with each new phase of polling. It doesn’t look like we’ll get a majority on our own.’

  Radhika, ever the optimist, chimed in, ‘Listen, these are just exit poll numbers. They get them wrong all the time. Let’s wait till tomorrow morning for the actual results.’

  Karan nodded in agreement. ‘Look Arjun, whatever is going to happen will happen. Don’t obsess over numbers now. Don’t you have a party or something to go to?’

  Arjun flushed. ‘I don’t party every night, you know,’ he said defensively. ‘And in any case, I am not in the mood now.’

  ‘Okay. Then join us for dinner and let’s talk of something else. I really don’t want to discuss the election any more.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Radhika. ‘Shall I phone Asha and ask her to join us? I’m still a bit worried about her…’

  ‘Phone Asha? Why would you want to phone her, Bhabhi? She’s the one responsible for the mess we are in now,’ said Arjun, all his past resentments boiling over. ‘If she had just kept her fucking clothes on, we would not be in this mess!’

  Radhika was struck dumb by this sudden outburst. This was not the laidback, chilled-out brother-in-law that she knew and loved. So, it was left to Karan to step into the breach. ‘Really, Arjun,’ he said exasperatedly. ‘There is no need for such talk.’

  By then, Radhika had recovered the power of speech. ‘Arjun, please don’t use such language about your sister. And have some charity in your heart. How would you feel if something like that happened to you?’

  Arjun, who lived in fear of just such an eventuality, snapped, ‘But it hasn’t happened to me, has it? Or to Karan bhaiya. Or to you, for that matter. That’s because we all know better than to strip naked and pose for the camera. It’s common sense really. But then, when did Asha ever have any common sense?’

  ‘Okay, so she made a mistake,’ said Radhika, in conciliatory tones. ‘But that’s done and dusted now. It’s no point beating up on her. We are her family. We should stick by her.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Arjun. ‘Why should we stick by her? Because of her antics, we have lost the edge we had at the polls. We would be well on our way to an absolute majority if it wasn’t for all the seats we lost in the last phase.’

  Karan was torn between agreeing with Arjun and standing up for Asha.

  It was strange how his feelings for his half-sister had changed. The resentment and anger he had felt towards her when she was a spoilt little madam living a gilded life in London had disappeared to be replaced by compassion and pity for the wreck she had become. In her vulnerability, in her shame, she had broken through to his heart. He had seen the faces of Kavya and Karina in her reddened eyes and quivering lips and his core had melted. And now, he could no longer find it in himself to feel that same anger and resentment towards her.

  But why hadn’t Arjun experienced the same change of heart towards Asha? Why was he still so full of rage and bitterness? Why didn’t he feel the slightest degree of sympathy or compassion for his sister? Could it be because he had no kids of his own? Was it because he couldn’t see his daughters’ reflected in Asha’s eyes and wonder how he would feel if this had happened to a child of his own?

  Arjun was looking at him expectantly. ‘Well, am I right or not? Wouldn’t we be home and dry if it wasn’t for that girl and her dirty pictures?’

  ‘You may be right about that, Arjun,’ said Karan, after a pause. ‘But what’s done is done. And I agree with Radhika. It’s no point beating ourselves up over what might have been. We have more important issues to worry about.’

  Radhika looked startled. ‘What other issues? What could be more important than that?’

  Karan, who had not discussed the investigation into his father’s assassination with Radhika until now, thinking that she already had enough on her plate, finally filled her in on the latest findings of the IB. She listened quietly as he went through the entire sequence of events and paled at the mention of Madan Mohan’s name.

  How could he be so philosophical about it all, she asked her husband. If he knew that Madan Mohan had conspired to kill Baba, how could he let him off the hook? Forcing him out of public life wasn’t enough, surely? The man should be in jail!

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I have been telling him, Bhabhi,’ said Arjun, glad to have finally found an ally.

  Karan confessed to being at his wits end. Sunil Shastri had briefed him on the matter just yesterday. The two arms dealers, Gopi Goyal and Akshay Trivedi, whose conversations had been recorded, were already in CBI custody. They were being questioned by some of the Bureau’s best interrogators, but had so far refused to crack.

  Clearly, they were far more afraid of what Madan Mohan could do to them than they were of the might of the Indian state. So, aided by the superexpensive lawyers they had hired, they had clammed up entirely. And without flipping them, there was really no way of getting any dirt on Madan Mohan.

  They still hadn’t found the Cayman Bank papers that had led to Madan Mohan’s falling out with Birendra Pratap, even though they had searched every place they could think of. It was possible that Baba had given them to a trusted person for safekeeping but they had no idea who that person might be. Without that evidence, it would be hard to prove Madan Mohan’s motivation for conspiring to kill the Prime Minister.

  And while the case against Trivedi could stick once the investigating agencies tracked down how the poison pen had found its way into India, the connection to Madan Mohan was tenuous as best. All that was proven was that Trivedi had been in touch with someone who was using a phone SIM bought by PP Consulting in Dubai. That firm belonged to Madan Mohan’s nephew, and his son and daughter-in-law were listed as directors.

  So what? That did not prove a) that Madan Mohan was using the phone and b) that whoever was on the other end of the line from Trivedi was a part of the conspiracy.

  The only way to prove a case against Madan Mohan was to get Trivedi—or Goyal—to turn approver. And that would only happen under government pressure. But if the government changed, and Jayesh Sharma became Prime Minister, would he investigate Birendra Pratap’s assassination with the same alacrity?

  Everyone knew how the investigation into Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination had fared after Narasimha Rao took over. There had been no progress for years until his distraught widow, Sonia, had addressed a public meeting in Amethi asking that the investigation be expedited and her husband’s killers brought to justice. It was only after that public embarrassment that the Rao government had followed up on the investigation—and even then, in a rather lackadaisical manner.

  Karan feared that something like that could happen to the investigation into his father’s assassination as well if he didn’t make it back to RCR. And he couldn’t bear the thought that Madan Mohan may get away with murdering his father.

  So, no matter what it took—bribes, inducements, blackmail—he had to get enough MPs on his side to reach the magic 273 mark. He had to make sure that he spent the next five years in Race Course Road
as Prime Minister. That was the only way he could ensure that Madan Mohan paid for what he had done to Baba.

  ▪

  Unlike Karan Pratap, Jayesh Sharma could not tear himself away from the television. Barricaded in his study with Kalyan Abhyankar, Rajiv Mehta and Anisa Ahmed, he was feverishly switching between channels to keep up with all the exit poll results. The numbers differed so widely from channel to channel that he didn’t quite know what to make of them.

  Rajiv, however, was quietly confident of his own internal numbers. The SPP, he maintained, would get between 200-220 seats in this election. Jayesh desperately wanted to believe him but kept telling himself not to. It was best to keep expectations low. That way, you did not risk disappointment. And in such scenarios, there was always the danger of believing what you wanted to believe rather than holding out for the truth.

  A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Ram Chander, the major domo of the Sharma household, who wheeled in a drinks trolley, laden with several bottles of single malts, vodka, rum, and a solitary bottle of Tanqueray No Ten, the favourite tipple of Malti Sharma.

  Rajiv and Anisa exchanged a speaking glance. It looked like Malti would be joining them—the first time she had ever done so since the leak of Asha’s pictures. Clearly, there had been some thawing in the ice-cold relations between husband and wife.

  It had taken all of Jayesh’s persuasive powers to get Malti to this point. He had accepted the silent treatment uncomplainingly for a week, believing that this would give his wife enough time to cool down. Only after that initial flush of rage was over, did he attempt to mend fences. And being Jayesh Sharma, he went for the grand gesture.

  Malti’s biggest indulgence in life was not designer handbags or diamond jewellery. It was signed first editions of her favourite authors. She had already built up a respectable collection over the years. But she was missing one prize. And that was her all-time favorite author, Joseph Conrad.

  So, Jayesh had sent word to all his contacts in the old book business in London and New York to track down a first edition of Lord Jim or Heart of Darkness. All of them had come up blank on that request, but one antiquarian book dealer had managed to rustle up a signed first edition of The Secret Agent.

  A quick call to the Air India manager in New York, and the book was on its way to Delhi, hand-carried back by a member of cabin crew. Jayesh’s driver had been waiting at the airport late at night to pick it up and had delivered it to his boss first thing in the morning.

  That was how Jayesh had been able to surprise Malti at breakfast. She had woken up late that day so he was halfway through his omelette when she arrived. The kids, who usually formed a buffer between them, had already left for school. She had sat down in her usual chair in silence and pulled the pile of newspapers towards her. That’s when she had noticed that they were weighed down with a gift-wrapped package, with her name on it.

  She had waited until she poured out her first cup of coffee to tear open the wrapping. And then, she had gasped, her mouth involuntarily relaxing into a smile, her eyes widening with delight. She had read the small note he had enclosed with it. ‘To my darling wife, It’s only words, and words are all I have…Your loving husband, Jay.’

  And then, much to Jayesh’s horror, she had burst into tears.

  He had thrown his chair back in his haste to get to her. He had taken her in his arms. And the two of them had sat entwined together for a long time, their tears intermingling.

  Finally, Malti had raised her head to say, ‘I can’t bear it when we fight.’

  ‘Nor can I, my darling. So how about we don’t?’ said Jayesh, covering her face with kisses.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ sobbed Malti.

  ‘Don’t cry, baby,’ said Jayesh. ‘I promise you I have done nothing wrong. Nothing that would make you ashamed of me. Please believe me.’

  And because she wanted so badly to believe him, Malti had.

  But as she entered the room today, to watch the fag end of the exit poll programming, Malti was not in quite such a credulous mood. Yes, she agreed, they seemed to have done better than anyone had ever predicted. But even if they got past the 200 mark, and the LJP fell short of 273 seats, there still wasn’t a clear path to government formation for the SPP. It would take a miracle to see Jayesh in Race Course Road.

  Nobody quite appreciated this dousing with cold water, least of all Jayesh, who had been revelling in the praise such political hacks as Manisha Patel were bestowing upon him. But it did serve to bring them back to reality. They put the TV on mute and began preparing for the rigours of results day.

  It was agreed that Jayesh and Malti would stay at home and watch the results till around noon, by which time all the trends would be in. Only then would they make an appearance at the party office. Kalyan and Sanjeev Satyarthi would be stationed at the party office from early morning, keeping up the spirits of the workers, and giving sound bites to all the TV crews in attendance. Rajiv and Anisa would stay at their war room at the Sharma bungalow, monitoring social media and trying to tailor the narrative to the advantage of the SPP.

  Tomorrow was going to be a long day, sighed Malti. So, maybe it was time they all went home and let Jayesh have a good night’s sleep. God alone knows when he would next have such an opportunity.

  Taking his cue from Malti, Jayesh finished what was left of his single malt in one big gulp. Putting the tumbler back on the table with an audible thump, he said good-naturedly, ‘Chalo, chalo, bahut ho gaya. Bhaago, bhaago!’

  And like good little children, they quickly drunk up and left.

  ▪

  Across town, in another Lutyens bungalow, Madan Mohan Prajapati was watching the results of the exit polls with mounting glee. If these numbers were accurate, then they would create the ideal situation for him to step in and split the LJP.

  He knew from the few messages he had exchanged with her in the past few days that Asha had still not been told about his involvement in her father’s murder. Karan and Arjun were keeping that information to themselves for now. But even if they did take Asha into their confidence, he had his excuse ready. The brothers were making him a scapegoat because they hated him for supporting their half-sister.

  No, he could manage Asha. And once he had her on his side it would be child’s play to wean away a 100-odd LJP MPs. He was sure that he could get around thirty or so to defect because of their loyalty to him, another thirty could be won over by being promised plum jobs in Asha’s government, and the rest could simply be bought over.

  After that, it would just be a question of getting Didi Damyanti and Sukanya Sarkar to support this breakaway group, and Asha Devi would be the new Prime Minister of India, with more and more LJP members defecting to her side.

  That would teach those insolent pups, Karan and Arjun, to treat him like shit. The memory of his last meeting with the Pratap Singh brothers flashed in his mind’s eye yet again and his face flushed with anger. They may have forced his hand and pushed him out of public life, but he wasn’t done with politics as yet—not by a long shot.

  But that was Madan Mohan’s little secret. For public consumption, and to placate Karan and Arjun, he had put out a mealy-mouthed statement announcing that he was retiring from public life for health reasons. And he had been torn between annoyance and relief when the news had been met with complete indifference by the media.

  Clearly, Madan Mohan Prajapati was already seen as a has-been, a man with a glorious future behind him. And journalists saw no reason to waste any time or energy on a political figure they had written off after the L’Oiseau scandal and the arrest of his nephew, Sagar Prajapati, by the French investigators.

  It had been generally agreed that there was no way Madan Mohan could come back from something like that. So, his retirement announcement was really a non-story, which could be dismissed in a few hundred words on page sixteen and a passing reference on the news bulletins.

  But while Madan Mohan’s ego had been bruised, his panic had abated
. He was canny enough to realize that this lack of interest was to his advantage. He needed to stay under the radar until he had matters under control yet again.

  His priority at the moment was to ensure that Akshay Trivedi and Gopi Goyal didn’t flip on him. And he was pretty sure that he had achieved that.

  Both the Trivedi and Goyal families had received a few phones calls from a Dubai number that had put the fear of God in them. So long as Trivedi and Goyal shut up, the voices at the other end said, they would be safe. But if they opened their mouths to implicate Deepak Sethi and Madan Mohan, they would not live long enough to go on trial. As for their families, well, they were sitting ducks as they went about their daily business without any protection. It would be the easiest thing in the world to make them disappear off the face of the earth.

  Both Trivedi and Goyal had worked long enough in the arms business to know that they needed to take these threats seriously. If they wanted to live—and to safeguard their families—then silence was the only option available to them, no matter how many years they spent in jail as a consequence.

  Every evening his CBI mole would make a WhatsApp voice call to Madan Mohan to brief him on what Trivedi and Goyal had said—or, more accurately, not said—in the course of the day’s interrogation. And so far, the two men were sticking with the script.

  Trivedi denied all knowledge of the ‘Korean kalam’. He had been so drunk, he said, that he didn’t know what he was saying. As for Goyal, he protested that he was so used to Trivedi spewing nonsense when he was hammered that he had paid no attention to what he said. And that’s where the investigation had stalled.

  By now, Madan Mohan had got a handle on the French probe into the L’Oiseau kickbacks as well. He had arranged for his nephew to have the best legal representation that France had to offer. And the crack team of lawyers had more than earned their stratospheric fee by getting Sagar Prajapati bail at his first hearing.

  With Sagar back home in his palatial apartment on Rue Montaigne, it was much easier to keep tabs on him. Madan Mohan had installed one of his most trusted retainers, Chowdhury Ranjit Singh, in the spare bedroom in an attempt to keep his nephew honest (or should that be dishonest, he chuckled). Sagar’s each move was monitored, his calls screened, his visitors vetted. So, there was no fear of him turning approver and selling out his uncle any time soon.