‘And then what?’ enquired Nipunaka.
‘Ah! Then you shall go to Mallayrajya, draw upon your wondrous powers, and do some good old-fashioned fortune-telling!’
The court of the king of Mallayrajya was deathly quiet. All eyes were focused on the strange tantric godman dressed in black robes with a necklace of human skulls around his neck. In his right hand, he held a long staff that also had a skull tied atop. In his other hand he held a blood-red earthen pot, supposedly filled with gore.
‘O King, hear the words of the omniscient Nipunaka!’ yelled the bordering-on-insane charlatan as he mentally reviewed the intimate secrets of Mallayrajya provided to him by Sinharan. ‘Within your palace exists a room—a musty and unused chamber which remains locked most of the time. In the floor of that room lies buried the body of a Brahmin who was murdered here. Have it dug out and interred outside the borders of your kingdom. The spirit of that Brahmin continues to curse your dynasty and is an obstacle to your progress!’
Sinharan had known that his aunt had been having a torrid illicit affair with one of the palace guards—a Brahmin. Caught in the act of frenzied copulation, the guard had been murdered by Sinharan's furious cousin who had witnessed his mother's royal fornication. The son had then proceeded to bury the body in an unused storage closet for want of an alternative means of disposing of it. He had taken Sinharan's help, drawing on his sympathy and moral outrage. Two parties to the secrecy—Sinharan's aunt and her angry son—died a few years later when Paurus attacked the capital of Mallayrajya, taking the secret of the buried corpse to their pyres.
The king and his courtiers were mesmerised by the sheer audacity of the madman who stood before them. The king struggled to maintain his composure and asked, ‘Powerful guru, can you tell us where this Brahmin's body is located? The palace complex covers more than a hundred acres and finding it without divine intervention would be impossible.’
The half-crazed Nipunaka shut his eyes and started mumbling—loudly enough to be audible to most present at court—‘I prostrate myself before Bali, the son of Vairochana. I pray to Sambara, the master of a hundred magical mantras. I kneel before Nikumbha, Naraka, Kumbha, and Tantukachha, the powerful beast. O Chandali, Kumbhi, Tumba, Katuka, Saraga, I beg you, point me in the direction of those bones!’ He suddenly opened his eyes wide and with an air of hysteria shouted aloud, ‘I have it! Follow me!’
He started running wildly towards the room, the location of which had been explained in detail by Sinharan. As he approached the seventh door, situated along the west-facing passage on the second floor, he stopped. He closed his eyes once again and mustered up all the preternatural energy that he could possibly hope to gather and remarked, ‘I can feel the negative energy of the Brahmin's ghost right here. I'm not wrong! Nipunaka is never wrong! By the power of Chandali, excavate that room and get rid of Mallayrajya's worries.’
As the bones were exposed from the shovelled earthen floor, the king went up to Nipunaka and bowed to him, overpowered by the intensity of the tantric's unearthly power. Nipunaka blessed the king by smearing consecrated ash on the ruler's forehead. The king took off his sapphire necklace and offered it to the mystic, who picked it up and threw it into the grave that had been uncovered. ‘Of what use are precious gems to me, O King? If I wanted, all the world's riches could be mine but I neither possess nor desire material wealth,’ he said, meticulously though reluctantly following Chanakya's instructions to appear incorruptible. There was a hushed, respectful silence as the gathered spectators mulled over the selfless attitude of the profound master.
A day later, the king fell ill. High fever accompanied by chills and convulsions made him weak and unable to attend court. His feverish state made him delusional, too, and in his state of temporary insanity, he hurled filthy abuse at all around him. Nipunaka knew that the sacred ash applied to the sovereign's head had worked. It had contained powdered dhatura seeds, a known formula for inducing hallucinations. The worried queen called Nipunaka back to the palace. ‘Please find a remedy for the sudden inexplicable state of the monarch,’ she pleaded.
‘Do not worry, O Queen. Make the king drink a glass of milk with this unique formulation that I have prepared. You have my word that he shall be healthy by the morning,’ the artful fraud reassured her. His antidote contained powdered chitrak roots and black pepper, prepared in advance by Chanakya.
The king's remarkable recovery the next day propelled Nipunaka to godman status. This was the guru's second extraordinary achievement in two days. But there wasn't any time to celebrate. Armed mercenaries, led by a young upstart known as Chandragupta, and assisted by Sinharan—claimant to the throne of Mallayrajya— surrounded the city, and the fortified capital came officially under siege. The siege continued for the entire duration of the waxing of the moon and the city began to run low on critical supplies and provisions. At a hastily convened council meeting, the decision to launch an outright frontal assault on Sinharan and Chandragupta's forces was being pondered over, when Nipunaka made another grand entrance.
‘King! I have an important message for you,’ began the trickster, blissfully aware that the gullible Cabinet was lapping up his every word. ‘Inside the palace temple stands a statue of Kubera. The daily prayers performed by your royal priests before the deity were flawed and it is precisely for this reason that you face the threat of extinction. Rectify the fault and you shall see the enemy retreat!’
Following his orders and accompanied by a series of incantations and rituals, the earthen idol of Kubera was duly removed and allowed to melt away inside the royal lake while hymns and invocations prescribed by the preeminent Nipunaka continued. At that very moment, Chanakya ordered Sinharan and Chandragupta to withdraw their troops and retire to a hideout a few miles away from the fortified capital. As news of the miraculous withdrawal filtered in, celebrations began and nobles and commoners alike flooded the streets. As music, wine and women took over and the revelry reached its climax, Chanakya's soldiers of fortune crept back to the fortifications and stormed the unsuspecting town. It was a bloodless coup—sudden, dramatic, and smooth, typical of the Brahmin who had choreographed it all.
The coronation of Sinharan as king of Mallayrajya was magnificent. ‘Always keep your words soft and sweet, O Sinharan. Just in case you ever have to take them back,’ advised his mentor as he blessed the new sovereign.
Sinharan knelt before his teacher and said ‘Acharya, I feel guilty about what happened to my uncle and his family. I had simply exiled him after our takeover of the kingdom, as you advised. I feel terrible that he and his family were murdered by dacoits thereafter. I fear that his death will haunt me for the rest of my life.’
‘Everyone leaves the world a better place, some merely by leaving. Your uncle was one of those!’ said a victorious Chanakya as he gloated over his memory of the events of the previous day when the inhabitants of the city had capitulated to them.
‘I do not wish to burden Sinharan with the odious task of eliminating challengers to his throne,’ he had confided to Mehir. ‘I shall ask Sinharan to banish his uncle from Mallayrajya. Our effort, Mehir, must be to ensure that the former king leaves the borders of the kingdom absolutely unharmed.’
‘But is it wise to exile him? He's an ally of Paurus, and will flee to Kaikey with a view to raising troops. Paurus will only be too happy to support his endeavour. Afer all, Sinharan's ascension to the throne means that Mallayrajya is no longer a vassal of Kaikey,’ Mehir had exclaimed.
‘You're absolutely right, Mehir. And that's why I need him eliminated—but not officially. The population of Mallayrajya must love their new ruler, Sinharan. He should appear kind, fair, just, truthful and benevolent. It's vital that Sinharan's uncle be seen leaving the kingdom—unharmed and unhindered—along with his family and supporters.’
‘And then?’ asked Mehir, knowing the answer and also knowing that it was an answer that would remain unspoken.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Present Day
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The suite at the Hotel Clarks in Lucknow was cool and dark. The curtains had been partly drawn to block out the harsh afternoon sun, and the airconditioning had been set to the lowest possible temperature. Sitting inside were two men—Pandit Gangasagar Mishra and Ram Shankar Dwivedi. Dwivedi was nervous. He kept adjusting his spectacles and straightening his hair. He was dressed like any other Indian politician—white homespun kurta and pyjama— but the accessories that embellished his Gandhian outfit were not all that humble. His spectacle frames were Gucci, the pen in his pocket a solid silver Mont Blanc, his wristwatch a yellow gold Rolex, and his feet were comfortably encased in Bally loafers.
Why had the party patriarch decided to call him for a one-on-one meeting in a luxury suite, he asked himself. A trickle of sweat left his upper back and dripped down his spine in spite of the freezing room. It caused him to shudder. This was not good. Pandit Gangasagar Mishra was a cold-blooded killer when it came to politics, thought Dwivedi. What did he know? Was he being called for a dressing-down by the ABNS patriarch?
Gangasagar stared at him in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Talk, damn you, thought Dwivedi to himself. Unknown to Dwivedi, Gangasagar was wearing a woollen vest inside his kurta and sat comfortably snug, unaffected by the sub-zero chill of the room. Let him shiver, thought Gangasagar. If he's cold, he'll want to pee, and that will make him even more nervous.
‘I'm told that you're rather sociable these days, Dwivediji,’ said Gangasagar at length. ‘Everyone I meet tells me they have visited your house.’
‘It is my misfortune that you have not had the time to be my guest, Panditji, I would love to have you over for dinner,’ replied Dwivedi anxiously.
‘Let me rephrase the statement. To be precise, twentyfour of our ABNS MLAs have been observed regularly visiting your house—and please don't tell me that they came just for whisky and samosas!’
Dwivedi fidgeted some more. He took a deep breath and said, ‘I'm a loyal party worker, Panditji. Some disgruntled elements were trying to ignite a rebellion. I thought that it was my paramount duty to convince them otherwise.’
‘I'm proud of you, Dwivediji. I should have realised that these photos were doctored,’ declared Gangasagar as he tossed a bunch of glossy 4 x 6-inch photos on the glass coffee table before them. The colour drained from Dwivedi's face as he stared at the obscene photographs showing him in various Kama Sutra-inspired positions along with Eesha. He mumbled incoherently, but no words emerged.
‘Relax, Dwivediji. Don't worry. She said that you were quite good in bed,’ Gangasagar laughed maniacally as he went in for the kill. ‘I have forty-nine negatives with me—one for each month of the remaining term of this government. If Chandini is still chief minister in the forty-ninth month, all the negatives shall be returned to you, deal?’
Dwivedi nodded dumbly, his very life having been sucked out of him. Pandit Gangasagar Mishra got up from his chair. ‘Ah! One more request. Please remember that it's now in your interest to ensure that this government lasts. It shall be your personal responsibility to keep me informed if there are any murmurs of dissent, is that understood?’ he demanded before walking out of the hotel suite, turning off the air conditioner as he left.
‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ he said to himself.
Chandini was devastated. Shankar had been a breath of fresh air, her only indulgence after Geoffrey. She looked at herself in the mirror, holding back tears that wanted to breach the dam. She would not cry. It seemed that it was not in her destiny to either love or be loved. She dabbed a tissue under her deep blue eyes, flushed it down the aircraft toilet and stepped out to join Gangasagar.
The flight from Lucknow to Delhi was short but uncomfortable. Take-off had been delayed by over an hour due to a faulty auxiliary power supply unit and by the time that had been rectified, air traffic control had denied permission to leave, owing to inclement weather. Gangasagar had phoned the civil aviation minister in New Delhi to have a word put in to Lucknow's air traffic control to grant them permission to take off. The rest of the passengers on the flight were unaware that they were the lucky recipients of political largesse—a take-off that would have probably been aborted if not for the presence of Gangasagar. Chandini, Ikram, Gangasagar and Menon were seated in the front row of the aircraft. The usually grumpy airhostess had suddenly perked up and was making an extra effort to be warm and caring towards her VIP guests although her attitude of general indifference returned the moment that she reached the second row.
‘What do we expect to achieve in New Delhi?’ asked Ikram.
‘Do you remember our conversation when you had just taken over as mayor, Ikram?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Which one? There were so many,’ joked Ikram. ‘The one when I told you that we should be dogooders because we want to win the next elections. That real power lay at state level, not in local government.’
‘Yes. I do remember.’
‘Well, I want to tell you that I was wrong.’ ‘What do you mean? We hold the reigns of power in Uttar Pradesh. Our own dear Chandini is the chief minister. I, Ikram Shaikh, am mayor of Kanpur.’
‘Yes. But real power lies at the Centre in New Delhi and that's where we're all going to be some years from now. This is orientation week.’
‘But we could have had this discussion in Lucknow. Why are we going to Delhi to discuss these matters?’ asked Chandini.
‘To meet Major Jaspal Singh Bedi,’ replied Gangasagar.
‘Who's he?’ asked Ikram.
‘He's the man who will ensure that we win sixty-five out of the eighty-five Lok Sabha seats in Uttar Pradesh.’
The suave and dapper Sikh was over six feet tall. He wore a navy-blue suit, and his deep crimson turban was meticulously colour-coordinated with his pocket kerchief and tie. The double cuffs of his starched white Egyptian cotton shirt peeped the correct inch from his suit sleeves and bore solid silver cufflinks emblazoned with the crest of the Indian armed forces. His salt-and-pepper beard, moustache and eyebrows were immaculately groomed, not a single hair out of place.
Major Jaspal Singh Bedi had been born to a middleclass family in Punjab and had been wild and unruly throughout his childhood and youth. He was the leader of a gang that had perfected the art of stealing sweets from unsuspecting customers just as they emerged from popular sweet shops. Jaspal's accomplices would cause a ruckus by fighting amongst themselves. The hapless customers carrying shopping bags would attempt to intervene and resolve matters while Jaspal would courteously offer to hold their parcels for them while they did. Five minutes later the customers would have succeeded in reconciliation but Jaspal would have vanished—along with their parcels.
Jaspal's worried father had eventually requested one of his cousins, a lieutenant-colonel in the Indian Army to convince Jaspal to take up a ten-year short service commission in the army. Jaspal refused—he was having too much fun stealing sweets. The officer had called the boy to his cowshed and given him the thrashing of his life. No options were offered. Jaspal left for the Officers Training Academy in Chennai for fifty weeks the very next morning. His father hoped the army would discipline the reckless youth and give his life a sense of purpose.
It did. The discipline of army life suited Jaspal. His stint with the army empowered him with analytical thinking, planning skills, and team-playing abilities. He rapidly worked his way up from lieutenant to captain to major. Having completed his ten-year commission, he joined a small market research agency employed by the Government of India to carry out surveys of rural populations in conjunction with the ten-year population census. Jaspal had spent the next ten years mapping population demographics across India, a gargantuan task, methodically implemented by the disciplined soldier in him. He left the firm having reached the position of Country Head—Rural Research, to set up his own consultancy, which would combine two sciences that were symbiotic—polling and politics.
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‘The Lok Sabha is the directly elected lower house of the Parliament of India. Five hundred and fifty-two members are directly elected by an electorate of over seven hundred million voters, an electorate larger than that of America and Europe combined,’ began Major Bedi. ‘The reason I am here with you today is that your state—Uttar Pradesh—sends eighty-five members to the Lok Sabha. That is a significant number. Why? Because if this number were to ever be controlled by a single party, that party—even if just a regional player—would play a crucial role in forming a government at the Centre.’
‘But that dream is far-fetched, Major Bedi. Uttar Pradesh is not a homogenous monolith. It consists of people who vote based on religion, caste, gender and economic strata. One size does not fit all!’ said Menon.
‘You're right, Mr Menon. And that's the reason why a single formula will never work in Uttar Pradesh. The single formula is to have no single formula. Some seats will be fought along caste lines—Dalits versus Brahmins or Yadavs versus Banias; other seats will be fought along religious divisions—Hindus versus Muslims. Yet others may be fought on economic grounds—poor versus the rich. That's where the ABNS scores,’ explained the Major, taking a sip of water to lubricate his throat.
‘How?’ wondered Ikram, dipping a sugar-coated biscuit into his tea and taking a bite.
‘All other parties in Uttar Pradesh seem to have a core constituency. The ABNS has none,’ replied Jaspal confidently.
‘So we're screwed?’ asked Ikram slurping his tea loudly.
‘On the contrary. Your strength lies in not having a core constituency. The very criteria that is perceived as a strength in one region is usually a weakness in another. For example, if the ABNS were perceived as a party of Dalits, that would help the party in Dalit strongholds but it would be a drawback in Brahmin-dominated areas,’ reasoned Major Bedi.
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