‘Did you meet the former police commissioner?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Yes. He's a crack shot—I'd told him that it should be her right side, not left. Too much risk of her heart being in the vicinity,’ explained Menon.
‘Sometimes I wonder whether the girl has a heart,’ murmured Gangasagar, ‘she reminds me so much of myself. Did you also tell him that you didn't want the bullet to actually pierce her but only graze her?’
‘I did. He told me that there were no guarantees on that one, though. We'd asked him to shoot near an open microphone so that the shot would be heard. He performed well—he's waiting for you to put in a word so that he gets a fresh assignment in New Delhi.’
‘Yes, I promised him. She doesn't know anything, does she?’
‘No.’
‘How many times has the scene been replayed on Doordarshan?’
‘Around fifty times.’
‘Get the press photos of Chandini's head being cradled in Anjali's lap. Put it on posters with the slogan—I am willing to shed every drop of my blood in the service of my people. Have thousands of posters printed and plastered over the city. I want her to be a martyr without having died!’
‘But the doctor will be letting her leave pretty soon. She doesn't require hospitalisation—it's a surface wound only,’ argued Menon.
‘Get the doctor over here. I want him to announce that she's being kept overnight for observation.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing else. Never tell a lie unless it's absolutely necessary.’
‘Should he reveal that she's in no danger?’
‘He should say that she's out of danger, but only tomorrow morning. There's a significant difference between lying and delaying the truth!’
‘Uncle Ganga, stop fussing over me. I need to get up, leave this miserable hospital and get back to my election rallies,’ she protested.
‘Chandini. You're not going back to any election rally. Battles are won or lost before they are ever fought. This one has already been won.’
‘So I do nothing till polling day?’
‘Ah! You shall be busy. I have arranged an aircraft that will take you from here to Tirumala. From Tirumala you shall proceed to Goa, and onwards to Ajmer. The same aircraft will then take you to Amritsar and you'll be back here in three days.’
‘But why am I going to all these places? There are no elections being held in any of them!’ she argued.
‘In Tirumala you shall bow down before Lord Venkateshwara and make the Hindus happy. In Goa you shall light a candle at Bom Jesus and make the Christians happy. You shall next go place a chador of flowers at the Dargah of Moinuddin Chisti in Ajmer, making the Muslims happy. Finally, you shall offer prayers at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, making the Sikhs happy. After you have made everyone happy, they will make you happy—by electing your party to government.’
In Mumbai's hip Bandra suburb sat the homes of Bollywood's rich and famous. Bollywood siren Anajali's home was a beautiful palatial sea-facing house, guarded by a massive iron gate and tight security. She needed the last. Not because she faced a threat, but because of the very special friend—Somany—who visited her most nights.
After her emotional speech in support of Chandini at the rally, Gangasagar had taken her aside. ‘You are endowed with special gifts,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘many people have told me that both are spectacular.’
Nothing flustered the old man. ‘Yes, I understand that. But I was talking about your ability to express yourself—to influence people and their emotions. Have you ever considered joining politics?’
‘I would love to sit in Parliament, but I don't have the patience for elections. Alas, I'm resigned to my fate as a Bollywood sex symbol.’
‘Not necessarily. Because of the public support you brought us, we shall soon be in government in Uttar Pradesh. We shall be happy to nominate you to the Rajya Sabha—the Upper House. You get to sit in Parliament, and that too without undergoing elections!’
‘And what's the catch? You're not one of those dirty old men, are you?’ she smiled.
‘My dear Anjali. I'm a dirty man—but not in the field of love. Only politics. And all politics is dirty. Clean politics is an oxymoron.’
‘So what is it that you want from me if not a cuddle?’ she asked, her eyes twinkling.
‘Let's just say that I'll call in the favour whenever I need it. In the meantime, do continue to have fun with your special nocturnal friend.’
‘And it now seems clear that the Uttar Pradesh assembly elections are likely to throw up an unclear mandate with no single party being able to form the government on its own,’ droned the news anchor. Agrawalji, Ikrambhai, Menon and Gangasagar were seated in Agrawalji's living room watching the polling results as they were flowing in.
‘I thought you said Chandini would become chief minister,’ said a visibly worried Agrawalji. He had spent millions financing the ABNS and was seeing his investment being washed down the drain.
‘I never said that Chandini would become chief minister. I said that the ABNS would hold the reigns of power.’
‘How in heaven's name are you so damn flippant about such things, Gangasagarji?’ exclaimed Ikram.
‘Menon, how many seats does the Uttar Pradesh assembly have?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Four hundred and three,’ replied Menon.
‘And how many of those seats are with the ABNS?’ ‘One hundred and sixty.’ ‘So we're forty-two short of the halfway mark for a majority, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any party in the state that has won more seats than the ABNS?’
‘No. The next highest has ninety-nine.’
‘And as per the Constitution of the country, the governor of the state must invite the leader of the party that has obtained the maximum number of seats in the assembly to form a government. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘The problem, of course, is that if the governor invites the ABNS to form the next government, we would need to entice opposition MLAs to cross over to our side.’
‘So what?’
‘They'll want cabinet berths. Our own members will be deprived of positions. We'll have disciplinary problems.’
‘So you don't want the governor to invite us?’ asked the perplexed Agrawalji.
‘If we don't produce adequate letters of support from MLAs of other parties, he'll have to ask the next largest party to try cobbling together a government.’
‘Yes, but if they need to reach the halfway mark they'll need a hundred and three allies in addition to the ninetynine MLAs that they already have. They would need our ABNS MLAs to get a working majority in the house.’
‘Suppose we offer them our entire strength?’ asked Gangasagar quietly.
‘What? Are you out of your fucking mind?’ yelled Ikram.
‘My price for ABNS support is that I want each and every cabinet berth for my MLAs. All the portfolios—home, finance, revenue, industries, human resources—must be allotted to us. They can have their chief minister.’
‘And what happens to Chandini?’
‘She waits for the government to go into paralysis.’
‘Paralysis?’
‘What will their chief minister do when all his decisions get stalled? All the portfolios shall be with us.’
‘But what if the paralysis prompts the governor to ask New Delhi to step in and impose President's Rule?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘The governor won't ask for President's Rule.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the president will advise him against it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the prime minister will not recommend it to the president.’
‘And you have direct access to the prime minister of India?’
‘Well, almost.’
The sadhvi was dressed in a simple, pale saffron saree and chose to remain barefoot. Around her neck was a string of rudraksha prayer beads.
She was a beautiful woman, and not in the physical sense alone. True, she was fair-complexioned, shapely and her smiling face was framed by her open shoulder-length hair. But these aside, her face reflected deep spiritual contentment. Her presence was almost magical—radiating quiet confidence and divine serenity.
She sat on a comfortable sofa facing a large picture window that framed a rose garden. It was summer and the searing heat of New Delhi was kept at bay by the quiet hum of air-conditioning within. To her left sat the prime minister of India, on an armchair slightly lower than the sadhvi's sofa—in deference to the sadhvi's enlightened soul.
‘What is bothering you, child?’ she asked him.
‘I'm rather worried, blessed mother,’ he replied.
It was ironic. He was sixty, and she barely thirty, but she insisted on addressing him as ‘child’ and being addressed as ‘mother’. Anyone listening in on their conversation would have laughed but their conversations were always entirely private. The prime minister's secretary was not allowed to make any entry either in the official entry log or in the prime ministerial diary.
‘I know—I can tell. A mother always knows when her child is in trouble,’ she commented softly.
‘The situation in Uttar Pradesh is confusing. The ABNS emerged as the single largest party. The governor had asked us—informally—if he should invite them to form the next state government. We felt that there were sufficient grounds not to invite them.’
‘Such as?’
‘They did not have a clear majority.’
‘Neither did your party—you had fewer numbers than them!’
‘But they did not even attempt to muster letters of support from legislators outside their party. They made it painfully easy for us to convince the governor to invite the second-largest formation—our own party—to form the government.’
‘So what seems to be the trouble? Aren't you happy that your party is in government in Uttar Pradesh?’
‘At what price? We had only ninety-nine legislators of our own. The balance hundred and three had to be pulled in from the ABNS to get a working majority. None of them wanted any monetary reward, only ministerial berths.’
‘And you obliged?’
‘Yes. But it meant making the cabinet gigantic—sixty members! The entire cabinet—with the exception of the chief minister—is drawn from the ABNS. The tail is wagging the dog!’
‘And this troubles you?’
‘O blessed mother, we shall soon have a revolt within our ranks in Uttar Pradesh. Our own MLAs—who have been denied cabinet positions to accommodate the ABNS—are up in arms.’
‘Do you believe that your state government in Uttar Pradesh will fall, child?’
‘Yes, blessed mother, I do.’
‘And what will be the implications of this elsewhere in the country?’
‘State elections are due in several states over the next year. A problem in Uttar Pradesh will send out a very negative signal to the rest of India. It will suggest that our party is not in control of things.’
‘What are your political options, child?’
‘I'm damned either way. If I don't do anything, we'll have a rebellion, the government will fall and the Opposition will slide easily into power. If I ask the president to declare President's Rule—government by New Delhi—I'll be called a traitor to the Constitution, a backdoor manipulator.’
‘Come over here, child,’ she commanded suddenly. He rose and walked over to her and knelt before her.
She placed a hand on his head and chanted some prayers fervently, with her eyes closed. A minute later, she opened her eyes and directed, ‘Your answer will be with you by tomorrow!’
‘But blessed mother—’ he began.
‘Sshh!’ she admonished him, placing a finger upon his lips. Her touch was electrifying. ‘Haven't I guided you correctly in the past?’ she asked.
He nodded quietly.
‘Then do as I say!’ she instructed.
CHAPTER NINE
About 2300 years ago
A special camp had been set up along the border of Gandhar. Luxurious tents, overflowing with food, wine, perfume, musicians and dancing girls, were buzzing with activity, the event managers desperately keeping up with the demands of Ambhi. He certainly knew how to throw a party. ‘Alexander is no less than a god who shall help me crush that devil—Paurus! Alexander's welcome to Gandhar should reflect his exalted status,’ said Ambhi to his new ministers—handpicked loyalists who had no ties to his dead father.
The cacophony of marching drums and bugles accompanied by the ominous stomping of thousands of feet was deafening. The Alexander war machine marched like a swarm of killer ants ready for a feeding frenzy. As their feet trampled the ground, the dull vibration of the infantry's advance sounded a sinister warning to those who ventured near. The main body of the army had traversed the Khyber Pass while a smaller contingent directly under the command of Alexander had taken the more circuitous northern route, capturing the fort of Pir-sar in a victory that had eluded the great Heracles before him.
Hearing the approach of the Graeco-Macedonian monster, Ambhi's camp fell into a silent hush. The Gandhar musicians stopped blowing trumpets and beating drums, the dancing girls stopped gyrating their bellies and hips as the music ceased. The sound of the approaching Macedonian army was dull, a bit like the lumbering tread of a giant that shook the earth each time it placed another foot forward.
‘Maybe we've been duped,’ whispered one minister excitedly to another. ‘Isn't it possible that we've dropped our dhotis in humble obeisance only to be raped?’ His colleague gestured for him to shut up. Both of them would be roasted on the skewers that were being used to cook meat for the flesh-loving visitors if Ambhi heard them. He silently muttered a few expletives as he maintained a plastic smile for the benefit of his monarch.
A special platform had been constructed at a huge height. It was to be used by the two leaders to be seen embracing one another in order to send out a signal of their mutual friendship to the men. Ambhi climbed the stairs that led to it, to get a better view of the approaching behemoth, slightly out of breath. His eyes were bloodshot from excessive drinking, though his physique continued to remain fit and firm. His face had a permanent scowl that looked even more menacing when he smiled or flashed his teeth. He was always attired impeccably, with colour-coordinated turban, dhoti, wrap, slippers and jewellery. If his outfit was of a reddish hue, his jewellery would consist of rubies or pink diamonds; if his clothes were green, the jewels were emeralds; if his ensemble was blue, the gems would be sapphires; of course, diamonds went with any colour. Ambhi squinted as he tried to gaze into the distance. All he could see was what looked like a gathering storm in the distance. It was actually the dust being kicked up from the earth as Alexander's phalanxes marched inexorably to the beat of the drummers.
After an interminable wait, Ambhi could eventually discern the infantry wearing protective bronze armour, including bronze leg-guarding greaves and helmets with cheek guards and decorated with plumed crests of horsehair. All of them were carrying bronze and leather shields, long spears and shorter swords. Flanking the infantry on either side was the companion cavalry of around three thousand, which had been divided into groups of two hundred each. The horses seemed oversized and well-fed, each animal draped with thick felt over its sides. The beasts were armoured with breast and head plating and their riders, wearing bronze cuirasses, shoulder guards and Boeotian helmets, carried xystons and shorter curved slashing swords. Alexander's army was a sight to behold. Ambhi gulped nervously and wondered whether he had bitten off more than he could chew.
Quite unexpectedly, there was silence. The drums and bugles ceased. Alexander halted his battalions and rode up to Ambhi's camp alone. ‘Horse shit! Why are these things not choreographed in advance,’ Ambhi muttered to himself as he ran down the stairs frantically to mount his own steed and ride towards the Macedonian divinity. Both horses slowed towards the final stretch, each of the riders not
wishing to appear over-eager. Ambhi was wondering what Alexander would say to him.Ambhi, I think you're a great big bloodsucking leech. I don't need you to fight my battles for me. Fuck with someone else?
Trailing behind each rider were four or five other horsemen—bodyguards, interpreters, scribes and advisors. At length, when they drew up before one another, Alexander spoke first. ‘Ambhi. I think you're a great—’
Ambhi broke out in a cold sweat. Was Alexander about to humiliate him?
‘—friend of Alexander. I too extend my hand of friendship to you. Together we shall create a formidable alliance!’ declared Alexander through Sasigupta, his Afghan lieutenant who was playing interpreter. Ambhi heaved a sigh of relief. It was working out as planned—his moment of triumph. A grand alliance with the greatest warrior on earth!
Ambhi was at his humble best. ‘Why should we battle one another, O Alexander? It is evident to me that you do not wish to rob us of our food or water, the only two necessities of life for which intelligent men will feel compelled to fight. As for wealth, I have more than I can possibly use and I shall be happy to share it with you, O fortunate one!’
Both men having dismounted, Alexander embraced Ambhi and jokingly said, ‘Do you think that your courtesy, charm and impeccable manners will prevent a fight between us? You're mistaken. I shall fight you, O Ambhi, to determine who can be a better friend and I promise you that you shall not have the better of me!’
The Jhelum was in full flood. Monsoon winds had lashed the Punjab landscape mercilessly, and the men and their equipment were soaked. An endless stream of thick muddy water flowed down the hills and made it impossible to walk even a few steps without slipping. There was water everywhere—in the river, in the rains, in the Macedonian army's food, in their tents, even in their cooking fires! Damn the water!
Worsening the situation, Alexander kept insisting that they move several miles up and down the riverbank each day so as to keep the other side guessing about the possible crossing point. The brilliant military strategist in Alexander knew that every move made by his forces stationed on the right bank of the Jhelum was being shadowed by Paurus's troops on the left bank. He also knew that the massive Kaikey forces—fifty thousand infantry, five thousand cavalry, three hundred war chariots and over two hundred war elephants—vastly outnumbered his.
Chanakya's Chant Page 15
