Chankya's Chant (13 page)

The reporter let go of the doorknob and silently gestured for the girl to grasp the handle while he brought the camera to his eye. He whispered, ‘At the count of three, fling open the door—one—two—three!’ As she flung open the door, he clicked the camera once intuitively. He then searched for the cavorting couple, directed the viewfinder towards them and clicked again. He wanted to take a third but knew he would not have time. The chief minister yelled for his security. ‘Guards!’ he shouted, ‘catch this impudent dog!’ But it was too late.

The reporter’s exit route through the servants’ entrance had been predetermined in collaboration with the maidservant while the guards were discreetly seated in the chief minister’s Ambassador car in the driveway to the house.

The reporter heaved a sigh of relief as he emerged into one of the dark alleys that ran northwards from the house. He picked up pace as he began planning his story for his editor and the next morning’s paper. He thought about the photographs captured on his roll of film. He laughed to himself.
The only fucking difference between erotica and porn is the lighting,
he thought to himself.

‘He has resigned!’ cried Gangasagar triumphantly, ‘I knew that we had to play the man, not the ball.’

‘You mean the balls,’ said Ikram wryly.

‘That too,’ said the excited Gangasagar, ignoring the joke. ‘With his resignation, his party will be in disarray. The left jab that we have just thrown must be followed in quick succession by a right uppercut. It will ensure that the party is unable to recover and regroup,’ he said, popping another paan into his mouth.

‘Who’s the next most powerful person after the chief minister of the state?’

‘The state’s home minister,’ said Ikram.

‘And what’s the home minister’s job?’

‘Maintaining law and order.’

‘What happens if law and order deteriorate?’

‘His colleagues would be reluctant to project him as their alternative candidate.’

‘Ikram, as mayor, you have direct access to the police commissioner, don’t you?’

‘Rascals like me, and the cops, always have a direct connection,’ laughed Ikram. ‘What exactly do you want done?’

Rajjo Bhaiya sat in the driver’s seat of his rugged Mahindra jeep, wiping his bushy black moustache. In his hand he held a steel mug half-filled with
thandai.
The first half of the mugful of iced milk—flavoured with almonds, sugar, fennel, rose petals, pepper, cardamom, saffron, and a generous lacing of white poppy seeds— was already swirling inside his belly. Under trial in twenty-six criminal cases including several of murder, assault and possession of illegal weapons, Rajjo was a member of the state assembly. A confidant of the chief minister who had been caught with his pants down, Rajjo was the other ugly secret of the state’s political underbelly.

Sitting next to him was the police commissioner, an old chum who had specifically asked for the meeting in this isolated location. He could not be seen conversing with Rajjo—supposedly the enemy. The indignant press and a gullible public would never accept the reality that Rajjo and the police chief owed their respective occupations to one another. Men like Rajjo were criminals in civvies and, quite often, cops were simply criminals in uniform. The police commissioner was determinedly picking his nose. Midway through his exploration he realised that his throat was itching and he gurgled a deep, guttural cough, brought the offending lump of phlegm to his mouth and spat it out on the ground. Picking his nose and clearing his throat were his favourite hobbies, it seemed.

‘The little cuntface has asked me to investigate all pending cases and to make an example of you,’ said the police commissioner at last.

‘Has he fucking lost his mind? Doesn’t the motherfucker understand that it will hurt the party’s own position? I’m a prominent member of the ruling party, aren’t I? How’s this going to help him win elections?’ demanded an enraged Rajjo.

‘At this moment the state home minister’s bigger priority is to show his colleagues that he has balls. Once his own position is secure, he’ll start worrying about the party’s performance!’ said the commissioner, successfully plucking a nose hair that was irritating him.

‘In that case I’ll show the pussyface what I’m capable of,’ shouted Rajjo, throwing the rest of the thandai onto the soft ground outside the open jeep door.

‘There’s one way you could send him a signal without declaring open hostilities that would lead to a complete breakdown of law and order,’ suggested the police commissioner helpfully.

‘And what’s that?’ grunted Rajjo.

‘You could challenge him politically. Hold a rally in his constituency. That should shake him up a little.’

Rajjo smiled. Two of his front teeth were gold. He flashed what he thought was a winning smile and said, ‘Who made you into a paper-pushing police commissioner, eh? You should have been a minister— and I don’t mean the praying kind!’

‘I told him not to hold that rally, sir. I explained that it could cause a law and order problem. He assured me he would reconsider his decision. Obviously he didn’t,’ explained the police commissioner to a worried home minister of Uttar Pradesh.

‘So the whorebanger thinks that I will simply accept his outright rebellion?’ shouted the minister. ‘I’m worried that he’ll have the entire party in disarray. Arrest him today!’

The minister was rocking his chair furiously. ‘Worry is like a rocking chair,’ thought the police commissioner to himself. ‘It keeps you busy but gets you fucking nowhere.’ He cut short his musings and spoke up.

‘That may not be wise, sir. He has a considerable following from his own caste. They see him as a Robin Hood of sorts. We would be playing into his hands by arresting him,’ said the police commissioner conspiratorially.

‘I’ll end up appearing weak and indecisive if I don’t arrest him. How’s that going to look? You bureaucrats never have to worry about fighting elections. For you, survival means hanging on until retirement; for politicians like me survival is about making it till Sunday morning!’

‘I understand your sentiments, sir. May I make a humble suggestion?’

‘Go on,’ said the agitated minister.

‘Why not round up his known associates instead? We’ll release them on bail later. It will send a signal that you will not tolerate insubordination, and yet you’ll stop short of lashing out at him directly. You’ll take the wind out of his sails, sir. He won’t have a leg to stand on.’

The home minister of Uttar Pradesh smiled. He was an old man of seventy-five. His teeth had been replaced by dentures, which moved in every direction other than the one he wanted. Giving the police chief a denture-inspired grin he said, ‘Why the fuck aren’t you in politics? God knows you’re devious enough.’

He had stopped rocking his chair.

‘Look at these warring criminals, my friends. They say that they’re serious about your safety and security. The truth is that they’re busy protecting each other—your safety be damned!’ exploded Ikrambhai to the sound of applause.

‘Why is that rascal, Rajjo, free to roam about in spite of twenty-six pending criminal cases?’ he thundered. There was applause.

‘Why is he allowed to thumb his nose at the home minister by roving around the home minister’s own constituency? Doesn’t it tell you that they’re thick as thieves?’ There was louder applause.

‘Why is this home minister protecting known criminals? Our efficient police commissioner has rounded up hundreds of Rajjo’s associates. In each instance, he has been pressured by his political masters to release these men on bail. Why shouldn’t we demand the resignation of this spineless creature that dares to call himself home minister?’ Thunderous applause and hoots of approval followed.

‘You have made an instant hero out of Ikram,’ commented Agrawalji. ‘He could quite easily be a claimant for the position of chief minister if the ABNS performs decently in the elections.’

‘That’s precisely my problem,’ said Gangasagar. ‘He’s not the right man for the job.’

‘Are you mentally unstable, Ganga? You’ve created him from scratch. Now when he’s on the verge of capturing the reins of power in Uttar Pradesh, you want him to back off? Unbelievable!’ muttered Agrawalji.

‘Have you heard of atropine?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘No. What is it?’

‘It’s a poison. It is extracted from a plant called Deadly Nightshade.’

‘You plan to poison Ikram, Ganga? Isn’t that overdoing things?’

‘I’m simply telling you that this dangerous poison— atropine—is also used as an antidote to nerve agents. Even though it’s a poison, it can fight a bigger menace when it’s used in small doses.’

‘So Ikram is the poison that’s to be used in small doses?’

‘Unfortunately, he’s now past the expiry date on the label.’