by Sree Iyer
But there was a setback too. Soon after the police managed to extract primary material from the hawala operator and was prepared to grill him more extensively, the police headquarters received a call from Dalda, the powerful regional party leader and Dipika’s close ally. The police had to release the hawala agent. The wheels of power had begun to move for the foot soldiers so that the top guys could not be reached. The Prime Minister had to be informed.
Prime Minister Dhillon received the news calmly and asked Mike not to buckle under any pressure. In normal circumstances, he would have asked his Home Minister to intervene and ensure that the Delhi Police were allowed to do their job, but he knew that the Home Minister would go running to Madam first. The Prime Minister made it clear to the Delhi Police Commissioner that he was not to take orders from anyone but him.
In any case, these were minor issues in front of the big moves that Dipika was plotting in the meantime.
CHAPTER 17.
The making of Maker Funtoosh Wirewala
Few lives pan out in as perfect a trajectory as Maker Funtoosh Wirewala’s did. Born into an upper-middle class family with highly placed parents can be quite the perfect setting. His father was an Indian Foreign Service (IFS) officer and mother, a psychologist. His grandfather had been a resourceful entrepreneur during the British colonial rule, supplying the government metal products used for making barbed wires. It was a successful business, but he was determined to keep his only son away from it. He wanted to give the child the best education his money could offer and to see him contribute to the new India being shaped in the post-independence era.
Maker’s father had been a bright student since school. Within months of completing college — he scored the highest in his batch and was awarded a gold medal in academics — Maker’s father took the civil services examination. By the time the results were out, India had gained independence and soon the services would be re-designated as the Indian Administrative Services. Not surprisingly, he had done exceedingly well. He loved to travel, meet people, understand new cultures, and the IFS suited his desires perfectly. Besides, of course, he was fascinated with diplomacy; he believed fervently that war was a direct outcome of failure of diplomacy. He loved dappling in the finer nuances of diplomacy and the intricate interplay of various strands of thought.
Maker’s mother was associated with one of the country’s most prestigious medical institutes and considered an authority on cognitive processes. She was among the pioneers in what has come to be known as the ‘humanistic approach’, which emphasises on the importance of subjective experiences and personal growth. As a child, she had nurtured the dream to be an airline pilot but the chances of a woman becoming one in those days were next to none. She later decided to become a model, an idea that was quickly shot down by her conservative parents.
To purge her mind of such dangerous thoughts, her devoutly Catholic Christian parents sent her off to a seminary where she could study both theology and general subjects. The rigorous discipline at the seminary, enforced by stern-looking nuns, had a bearing on her young mind that was quite different from what her parents had hoped for. Once out of the cloistered seminary, and having received her college degree, she took off on a solo exploration of the country, much to her parents’ disappointment. She then committed the ultimate act of rebellion by marrying a young Parsee who she had met over her bohemian travels across India. What was more, she even converted to Zoroastrianism. The two settled down in what was then Bombay.
It was in this exciting background that Maker Funtoosh Wirewala was born in Mumbai. His father was then posted in the UK and his mother had taken up an assignment at a local hospital. Maker’s first eight years were thus spent in the UK, where he acquired a clipped British accent, the dry English wit, and a penchant for bombastic (often offensive) words to convey the simplest of meanings. Participating in a school debate, he called his rival’s arguments “asinine” and “moronic.” The sesquipedalian choice of words would become his trademark till years later. While in public office back in India, he had once referred to vast masses of ordinary Indians as “cattle-class,” triggering widespread condemnation.
After his parents returned home to India, Maker was packed off to the prestigious Doon School in Dehradun, the hill resort in the flap of the Himalayas. He was not a particularly great student, but not dull either. In the end, he did well enough to gain admission to another reputed institution, St Stephen’s College in Delhi. By then, other facets of his personality had begun to flower. He had turned into the typical tall, dark, handsome young man that novelist Barbara Cartland described her heroes to be. His sex appeal lay in his thick black wavy hair that he tossed back with a nonchalant flourish. His green eyes and a defined jaw that went with a robust built only added on. If the girls in college sought him out, he collected many flings too, with none converting into a proper relationship.
As debating captain of his college, Maker had further occasions to not just hone his sexual prowess but also to floor his opponents with his characteristic use of the English language. Maker’s next destination was Oxford University, and he went on to do his doctorate on his favourite subject - international diplomacy.
Maker Funtoosh Wirewala wanted to change many things, but the one he could not was his name. He detested it and often complained to his parents, but they were insistent on his retaining it. They would hear nothing of the options he presented — even the compromise formula that he would keep “Maker’ and suffix it with ‘Funwire.’ It sounded more British, he explained. But they would have none of it and he remained Maker Funtoosh Wirewala.
At some point in his life, he decided to maintain a Black Book, which had names of all previous girlfriends of various capacities and tenures. He realised with some relish, as the list began to grow, that he had been eclectic in his taste. Region, religion, caste and community barriers had been broken. From Kanyakumari to Kashmir and from Gujarat to Arunachal Pradesh, he could count on at least one woman from belonging to all Indian states, that he had bedded. And his exploits extended to far beyond the geography of the Indian subcontinent.
Wherever he went, he charmed many with his rakishly good looks and the ability to turn simple English phrases into lofty thoughts. For instance, ‘The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.’ He would twist it into an instance of an early-rising member of the Phylum Chordata family having an exceptional tendency to snare its prey; au contraire, in the case of vermin, a lactose-condensed-product is usually bagged by the one coming in Numero Duo position. A bit of French and Latin thrown in for style only seemed to add to his appeal.
His Oxford credentials had helped him land a job with the United Nations, much to his delight. Among other things, there was no more need for him to travel to different countries for his romantic pursuits. Along the way, he had a couple of failed marriages as well, but that hardly slowed him down. Even when married, he had a roving eye. His stint at the UN was less than exceptional. India was not the power it would become in the years to come and its representatives were not in the inner circle of the powerful. It was a fringe player at best. Maker wasn’t, therefore, taken very seriously at the UN, though he impressed many by his flamboyance. He often tried to punch above his weight.
There was one decision Maker took, which was to give a new and decisive twist to his career. He began to cultivate Dipika and her ruling coalition, impressing them of his usefulness as an ambassador at large. The Freedom Party, readily taken in by foreign-educated Indians - many of whom had been inducted into the party and the government - gave him its fullest attention. Most of it, undeserving.
Maker was stagnating at the UN and the number of failed marriages, alimonies and parental obligations had punched a deep hole in his pocket. He needed to augment his income and for that he sounded out Dipika for a role in the government. He sold her the old story that after years of living abroad, he needed to come back to his roots, his motherland. He ticked off several boxes in the
Freedom Party’s setup – a member of the minority, foreign educated diplomat returning to serve in India, a charmer with the Lutyens Ladies… the list was long.
The party chief was willing, but there was an obstacle. He had to become a member of either the Lok Sabha or the Rajya Sabha within six months of becoming a minister. Getting him elected through a popular vote for the Lok Sabha was difficult. A safe Rajya Sabha seat was found, ‘adjustments’ made with partners who were initially unhappy at being made to back an outsider, and eventually Maker sailed through.
It was time to rake in the benefits. Maker came up with a fantastic idea for himself and for the party president as well. Why not invest in an IPL team? Dipika and her family were reluctant. They knew little about the business of the game. But Maker assured them that they would not stand to lose in any way; he himself was planning a foray in the game. The Freedom Party chief agreed after some intense persuasion, during which Maker used his famous charm to convince the family. The existing teams already had owners, so the BCCI was asked to add two new teams to the IPL fold. They would be effectively owned, through a complex ownership pattern, by Dipika and her family, and by Maker.
The IPL chief was promised ‘returns’ if he did the favour, but he refused to take the bait. He soon began to receive threatening messages on his phone, with more than a window pane at his house shattered mysteriously appearing miscreants. One day, Dipika’s son Gulab called and ‘requested’ him to be reasonable. The alternative, he added, would not be good for him. The IPL chief, finally cracked under the pressure, quit his post and relocated to a country with which India did not have an extradition treaty. Two new teams were subsequently added to the IPL, after the tweaking of some laws that governed the BCCI.
The Prime Minister had no time for cricket. But his interest in IPL stemmed from the recent briefing he had received from Mike. Maker had figured prominently in those briefings. The Intelligence Bureau chief had also received information about huge sums of money being laundered through the IPL route and that Maker had been quick to associate himself with the racket. A Canada-based socialite, Shilpa Kaul, had been identified as one of the recipients of the laundered money, meant for Maker. Once news of this association broke out in the media, Maker was forced to step down as minister and go abroad to escape the heat.
He bounced back soon enough, though. The next thing people heard was that he had married Shilpa Kaul and returned to India. Initially, he received a frosty welcome from Dipika and the party. He was held responsible for the embarrassment they had had to face after the scandal broke out. But Maker convinced them that he had acted in their interests. Had the matter not been blown out of proportion in the media, there would have been no problem.
Maker knew too much about the family’s dealings, not just in IPL but also in certain other property matters. It made sense for Dipika to keep him on her side. All was thus forgotten and forgiven too.
As unthinkable as it may have seemed to her at first, some of Maker’s charm had eventually rubbed off on Dipika as well. She dialed his number on her private phone. As much as she would have liked a dinner date in a luxury restaurant with him, it was unimaginable. “The farmhouse. Eight tonight.” Their usual code for the private location they had been meeting as of late.
CHAPTER 18.
Hard Politics takes over
The Prime Minister’s instructions to Mike were clear. Now that he had enough material that could be used to fix the likes of Finance Minister Damodaran and Dalpat Dalvi, he should make friendly calls to the Central Bureau of Investigation and the Enforcement Directorate to share the information with them. More importantly, the Intelligence Bureau chief must, off the record, share the damning evidence with the press and make it known that it could be used without disclosing the source. But the media must get the info in sensational little nuggets so that interest in the story was sustained.
Soon, the media began to carry ‘inside information’ about a deep and flourishing racket in counterfeit currency, drug trade, terror funding and IPL money laundering. Various other reports spoke of the nexus that had been unearthed by government agencies among people in high positions and the patronage that these people offered. Then there were “unconfirmed” reports, of the possible involvement of senior ministers, and one media story also mentioned Maida and Dalda in passing.
Delhi-based media houses dispatched their senior reporters to Kerala for ‘exclusive’ stories, because all information seemed to point to Kerala as the hub of wrongdoing. The media also began to question the credibility of the Dhillon government in the wake of these exposes. Public pressure began to mount on the Prime Minister to act, and the opposition parties ridiculed him ever so constantly, for remaining a mute spectator.
Dipika was at her wits’ end. She had come to know by now that the Prime Minister was behind all of this. What she could not understand was, why would he kill his own image? Although he seemed to have lately acquired a measure of independence, she could not see him rake up the courage to act against the Finance Minister. Also, he was showing no signs of quitting in a bid to salvage his reputation.
As the media and opposition pressure continued to mount, the Prime Minister called a meeting of the cabinet, where it was decided to ask the CBI to take over the investigations on the charges that were now in the public domain. Expectedly, the biggest resistance came from Maida, who was enraged that the Prime Minister should take notice of “unsubstantiated” and “baseless allegations” to order an inquiry. The Prime Minister countered him in his typical mild manner. “Damodaran ji, let there be a probe. Since you are not involved, you will come out clean. That is good for you, and good for the government.”
Soon after the cabinet meeting ended, the Finance Minister rushed to the party chief’s residence. Dipika called up the Prime Minister and expressed her displeasure, but he was insistent. He said that a CBI probe was the only way out for the government and the party to retrieve their prestige. Besides, he added, the CBI could take its own time. With general elections barely a year away, the party could benefit electorally if it was seen as acting in a transparent manner against allegations of corruption.
Dipika was highly displeased. The Prime Minister then let it be known rather clearly that there were other issues that could land the Finance Minister in trouble. This CBI probe could at least keep public attention away from those matters. Now, she sat up and paid more attention. This sure sounded like blackmail.
“What issues?” she asked, trying not to sound perturbed.
“The Foreign Investment Promotion Board (FIPB) has cleared some proposals in excess of the amount that it is authorised to do. The matter never came to the cabinet for approval. The Finance Minister’s signatures are on those proposals. Taken together, the amount runs into several hundreds of crore rupees.”
Madam slammed the phone down. She couldn’t care less about Maida’s fate, but the man was privy to information about her family’s multiple property deals, and if she was not seen to be protecting him, he could cause her a great deal of inconvenience. She summoned an urgent meeting of the party’s working committee. Prime Minister Dhillon was among the attendees. One of her sycophants said the government had acted in haste in recommending the CBI inquiry, a line that was promptly picked up by a few others. It was suggested that the cabinet reconsider the decision. As a face-saver, Maida would be asked to resign; he would be accommodated in the party as one of the vice presidents. It would be said, by way of explanation, that given the impending elections, his services were required by the party on a full-time basis. Dipika thereafter concluded the meeting.
The Prime Minister had been isolated at the working committee meeting. Even those who had endorsed the decision to order the CBI probe in the cabinet meeting had jumped ship. Jagat weighed his options. If he resigned, he would make way for someone like Maida to become the Prime Minister.
The government would not fall (he was no heavyweight to trigger a split in the party), and nothing would c
hange except that he would be left out in the cold. If he continued in his post, he would have to swallow his pride and reverse the earlier cabinet decision. His thoughts went back to the conversation he had had with Fali, who had advised him not to do anything that would bring the prime ministership to Maida.
Jagat went home from the party meeting and although it was his relaxation time, he called Mike. The brief was simple. Proceed with greater speed. He then asked his media advisor to tell the press, informally, that the Prime Minister was being brought under pressure to reconsider his decision on the CBI inquiry. Newspaper headlines the following day brought a smile on the Prime Minister’s face and a frown on Dipika’s. Matters were spinning out of control. She asked for an urgent meeting with her son. Gulab was busy playing with his poodle in his plush bedroom, even as a group of party workers sweated it out, waiting for an audience with him downstairs. He finally walked in, with hardly an apology. His mother came straight to the point and told him that he should prepare to become the Prime Minister in a few days. Jagat Dhillon would be asked to go. If he did not cooperate, he would be reminded of Ram Chandra Pal’s fate.
The Prime Minister was oblivious to this development, but he had already made up his mind. He called for a cabinet meeting. His ministers trooped in thinking that the meet had been called to rescind the earlier order for a CBI probe.
They were in for a shock. Jagat stood up, tall and firm. After a moment, he launched into an hour-long monologue on how the image of the government had suffered over the past few months. He told his colleagues that people had begun to question the government’s legitimacy on the premise that the Prime Minister was not seen to be in charge. There were snide remarks that he did not enjoy the confidence of his cabinet colleagues.