‘We can't afford a confrontation with China, madam. We have always believed that China has unlawfully occupied around fifteen thousand square miles of our territory ever since they invaded us in 1962. Beijing, on its part, claims Arunachal Pradesh—in our north-east— as their own. Diplomatic relations between the two nations are critical.’
‘I shall meet the ambassador, but on my own terms… after I'm done with my trip,’ said Chandini.
‘Your trip? I didn't know that there was anything on the agenda for the next two days.’
‘There wasn't, but there is now. Please arrange an aircraft to take me to Gaggal.’
‘Gaggal?’
‘The airport near Dharamsala. In the state of Himachal Pradesh.’
‘Dharamsala? You can't possibly go meet the Dalai Lama. The Chinese ambassador will be extremely upset.’
‘Yes. And once he's adequately rattled, I shall have my meeting with him.’
Lodhi Road in the heart of Lutyens’ Delhi was home to the famous Lodhi Gardens. The tombs of the Mughal emperors Humayun and Safdarjung marked its eastern and western limits. Headquartered there, the Research and Analysis Wing—RAW—was not an agency but a wing of the Prime Minister's Office. This allowed it to remain outside the purview of the Parliament's budget allocations even though it was rumoured to employ over twelve thousand agents. The chief of RAW reported directly to the prime minister of India.
Earlier in the morning, the chief—known by the unpretentious title of Secretary (Research)—had left his office on Lodhi Road and driven in his chauffeured white Ambassador car through the gates of South Block. He was to brief the prime minister and the minister for external affairs on an assignment. It had been the brainchild of Chandini.
‘Have we made progress?’ asked Chandini eagerly as the RAW veteran settled down in the chair facing the premier's desk.
‘I am happy to inform you that Makhmud has been arrested,’ said the RAW chief to Chandini.
‘Arrested? By whom?’ asked the prime minister.
‘The Chinese authorities in Xinjiang,’ he replied.
‘I thought that Makhmud was our agent operating in Pakistan,’ said the premier.
‘That's true, sir,’ explained the chief, ‘but Chandiniji's suggestion was that Makhdum be prepared, briefed and transferred to the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of the People's Republic of China.’
‘And you're happy that he's arrested?’ asked the premier. The RAW chief smiled at Chandini. He then looked at the prime minister and said calmly, ‘He didn't know that he'd be arrested. He was sent there to liaise with Uyghurs, but we ensured that the Chinese were tipped off.’
‘And what has been achieved by this arrest?’ asked the confused prime minister, wondering whether he should have allowed Chandini to directly coordinate an assignment with RAW.
‘As you know, Makhdum is Pakistani and is one of our secret assets in Karachi. He acts as a militant cleric and trains jihadis who operate in Kashmir,’ said the man from RAW.
‘We pay agents who train thugs to infiltrate Kashmir and cause death and destruction?’ asked the naïve prime minister.
The RAW man spoke up. ‘If I may, Prime Minister, I would like to address your concerns. For years we have known that Pakistan finances and trains terrorists to cross the porous border between India and Pakistan. These trained mercenaries enter Kashmir and give impetus to acts of terrorism. Makhdum—and others like him—are RAW's moles within these jihadi groups. We know that Pakistan will continue to send these jihadis anyway. It's useful to have spies within their outfits.’
‘But what does this have to do with Xinjiang?’ asked the prime minister.
‘The Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region is claimed by the People's Republic of China as an integral part of China. The Uyghurs are the local Muslim population who are fighting to break away from China. They're demanding independence,’ explained Chandini.
‘And what have we achieved by sending a strategic asset to Xinjiang and having him arrested?’ asked the prime minister.
‘Lots, actually. The Chinese have been supporting Pakistan's anti-India stance in recent years. China sees Pakistan as India's enemy and, of course, “an enemy's enemy is a friend”. Chinese support for Pakistan has also crept into the Kashmir debate, with the Chinese often supporting the Pakistani claim that the conflict in Kashmir is a homegrown freedom struggle and is not financed and encouraged by Pakistan,’ said Chandini.
‘But that narrow view could dramatically change if China finds that Pakistan is also financing other Islamic movements—especially the one in Xinjiang,’ said the RAW chief, eager to get back into the conversation.
‘So why did we get Makhdum arrested?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘Given that he's a deep undercover RAW agent, he's truly viewed as a jihadi himself. He has a rich resumé, having personally been the recipient of largesse from the Pakistani intelligence establishment. He was sent by us to Xinjiang to liaise with other Islamic militants and to assist them,’ explained the RAW chief. ‘He did not know that he would be arrested. Now that he has, he'll be interrogated by the Chinese MSS—the ministry of state security—and his Pakistani establishment links will become known to the Chinese. The Chinese will not be as supportive to the Pakistani cause now.’
‘But what if Makhmud is killed?’ asked the PM.
‘That's the price we pay for Kashmir,’ explained the Secretary (Research).
‘I'm assuming that my meeting with the Chinese ambassador next week and my visit to China the week thereafter should be extremely warm and cordial. After all, both nations have common issues!’ exulted Chandini.
The Great Hall of the People, running along the western edge of Tiananmen Square, covered an area of one point eight million square feet. The political hub of Beijing, the Great Hall had hosted many historic meetings, including a famous one by US President Richard Nixon. The northern part of the building contained the State Banquet Hall that could seat over seven thousand guests.
The hon'ble Indian minister for external affairs, Chandini Gupta, arrived in Beijing on Sunday morning, starting her three-day official visit to China. It was Chandini's first-ever visit to China and during her stay there, Chandini would meet with the Chinese premier as well as top legislators—besides holding talks with her counterpart. Chandini would also attend a ceremony marking the establishment of a joint China-India medical team to handle natural disasters. She would then deliver a speech at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, a Beijing-based government think-tank. Talking to Xinhua News, Chandini said that she came to China ‘with an open mind to hold free and frank discussions on all issues of common interests with a view to shaping a relationship that befits our two countries and our future generations.’
The Chinese foreign minister hosted a banquet in her honour on the last night of her trip. Also attending the banquet were Chinese party and state leaders. The national flags of China and India had been hung in the hall, and the banquet began with the military band playing the national anthems of the two countries. The Chinese minister arose from his chair and welcomed Chandini and her official delegation. He went on to say, ‘Even though China and India had their fair share of differences, the sagacity and wisdom of the Hon'ble Indian minister for external affairs has resulted in greater understanding and appreciation of issues of common concern to our two great nations.’
Chandini smiled graciously. The Chinese minister thought that she was basking in his compliments. She was actually thinking about Makhmud and his perfectly timed arrest. Chandini returned the compliment by raising a toast to her host. She quoted, in his honour, two lines from a poem by the great English poet John Dryden, ‘A man so various he seemed to be, not one but all mankind's epitome.’ The minister thanked her for the kind words. He might not have been as gracious if he had read the rest of Dryden's poem left unread by Chandini.
It said, ‘A man so various he seemed to be, not one but all mankind's epitome; stiff in opinions, al
ways in the wrong; was everything but starts and nothing long; but in the course of revolving moon, was chemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon!’
‘The leader of the Opposition on a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, Mr Speaker, sir. Relevance. My question was put to the minister for external affairs regarding the IndoChina détente. The answer by the Hon'ble Prime Minister is not relevant—’ began the leader of the Opposition.
‘The leader of the Opposition shall resume his seat. The prime minister has just begun his speech and he is indeed relevant,’ the Speaker cut him short.
‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The question put forth by the leader of the Opposition is incorrectly framed—’ argued Chandini.
‘The minister for external affairs is debating the issue. Does the hon'ble minister have a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.
‘My point of order is that disorderly points of order are being taken up by the leader of the Opposition,’ said Chandini as the Opposition benches joined her in the joke.
‘The minister will resume her seat, please,’ said the Speaker indulgently. The girl was a star.
‘The girl's a star,’ said his wife as she watched the recorded debate on Lok Sabha Television. ‘You'd better watch out, she may become more popular than you. The diplomatic victory she pulled off in China has made her visibility soar!’ The Prime Minister nodded as he sipped the bubbling antacid from the glass in his hand. Lok Sabha sessions always gave him indigestion and caused his stomach ulcers to act up. His wife was right, as always. Gangasagar's stunning victory in the Uttar Pradesh elections and Chandini Gupta's equally stunning coup in China had made them a potent combination. He would have to play his cards carefully.
‘Sir, we seem to have a problem on our hands,’ said Menon uncomfortably.
‘What is it, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, looking up from his morning papers.
‘Hameed—the waiter—you know, the one who gave us access to the magistrate. He wants more money.’
‘But hadn't we paid him for getting the magistrate to issue an arrest warrant for Ikram?’
‘Yes. He wanted more, though.’
‘Didn't we pay him some more for having the warrant withdrawn when Ikram renounced the chief minister's post?’
‘Yes. But the magistrate has tired of him and found himself another pretty boy. Apparently, Hameed's in financial distress.’
‘What, specifically, does he want more money for?’
‘For keeping quiet.’
Ikram had just finished Friday afternoon prayers at Jami Masjid, Lucknow's largest mosque. Ikram was a bit of a hero here. He had helped hundreds of people with little things—a job recommendation, a school admission, sorting out a property dispute, advancing cash for a daughter's dowry. Ikram was no less than a Robin Hood amongst the regular Friday worshippers at Jami Masjid.
Prayers over, Ikram wandered over from one of the fifteen arched domes of the yellow sandstone mosque in the heart of Lucknow into its massive open courtyard, fifty thousand square feet in size. He was instantly surrounded by a gang of adoring fans. He noticed a dark young man gazing at him. In fact, he was pretty darn certain that the boy had followed him into the mosque too. Not one for pleasantries, Ikram beckoned him, ‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Out with it!’ The young man glanced furtively around him, almost like a frightened mouse facing a cat. Ikram asked his acquaintances to leave them alone for a moment.
‘Sir, I've heard many wonderful things about you. It's because of your reputation as a fair and compassionate man that I have plucked up the courage to meet you. I have some information that could be of interest to you,’ said the young man.
‘Information, eh? What sort of information?’ asked Ikram.
‘Sir, please promise me that you won't hurt me when I reveal it to you—’
‘Why on earth should I want to hurt a pretty boy like you?’ Ikram asked sarcastically.
‘Sir, I needed the money and, in the process, ended up hurting your interests. By Allah, I swear I never meant to—’
He broke down, weeping.
‘Son. Why don't we start at the beginning, eh? What's your name and what do you do?’ asked Ikram, putting an arm around the youth's shoulders.
‘My name's Hameed and I used to be a waiter at the Golden Gate bar in Kanpur…’
‘And what's your connection to me?’
‘I used to be the gay lover of the magistrate who issued an arrest warrant against you.’
‘Ah. I see,’ said Ikram scratching his chin.
‘Gangasagarji's secretary, Menon, approached me to have the warrant for you issued and then subsequently cancelled—I did as he asked.’
‘But if you're so influential, why are you in this pitiable state? You seem to have fallen on hard times.’
‘I gave up my job as a waiter—it was more lucrative to fix cases. But then Pande—the magistrate—tired of me and dumped me.’
‘And what do you want from me?’ asked Ikram.
‘I am told that you recently got a job for Rashid, a member of your Friday congregation, at R&S Aviation. Could you put in a word for me also?’
‘And why would I want to do that? You helped the Brahmin fox, Gangasagar, trick me out of the chief minister's post!’
‘But sir, I would be at close proximity to all key politicians—including Chandiniji—because R&S Aviation provides aircraft and helicopter charters to various government departments. I can be your eyes and ears. As you know, in politics the only relevant currency is information,’ pleaded Hameed.
Ikram scratched his chin while he thought about what Hameed had just said. At length, he said, ‘Go meet Rashid. Tell him I sent you.’
The steward wearing a dark grey uniform was on his way to the restaurant. Being a flight attendant for government-chartered aircrafts was a no-win job—one was anonymous if one performed one's tasks well and handed out ignominious treatment if one didn't. The fact that he was attached to the aviation company that handled the ministry of external affairs’ choppers and airplanes was an even greater pain. The ministry operated several aircraft for the bigwigs—both visiting and homegrown. The big cheeses could not afford to lose a single moment of their oh so precious time and needed to be ferried on the multi-million dollar machines so that they could be in time for their spoilt children's birthday parties. The pompous hotshots never even thanked him—he was just a nameless, unacknowledged and overlooked lackey who cleared their used tissues and candy wrappers from the interiors of the craft. But it was still better than being the gay lover of a sub-magistrate.
Thanks to Ikrambhai, Hameed would now be able to rise in his mother's esteem. She was so difficult to please. She was always humiliating him about his humble position and meagre pay. She would constantly compare him with other members of his family who had been more successful, more enterprising, more achieving. He'd had enough. He needed to move on with his life and R&S Aviation—the private air charter company servicing the ministry of external affairs—had been just the right opportunity at the right time.
‘Good to see you again, my friend,’ said the nice man—Rashid—who had initially interviewed and appointed Hameed upon the instructions of Ikrambhai, as they sat down and ordered some tea. ‘Your confirmation letter is ready and waiting,’ began the man as they sipped their tea. ‘I just need a small favour from you before we can move forward.’
The minister for external affairs was expected at a conclave in a hotel near the Taj Mahal, in Agra, with a visiting delegation of Russian businessmen within a few hours of her arrival, and the Bell 400 Twin Ranger helicopter was ready, awaiting her. Pre-take-off checks had been completed and the pilot had received clearance from Air Traffic Control to take off in five minutes. Several minutes before her Ambassador car with the red cherry light on the roof appeared, a fleet of police cars— lights flashing and sirens blaring—surrounded the chopper. Policemen jumped out of their vehicles and quickly took Hameed, who was standing by, into cus
tody. The baffled pilot abandoned his chopper and climbed down, wondering what the commotion was about.
One of the policemen drew the pilot's attention to the filler cap. The pilot reached out and opened the cap in order to refit it correctly but still couldn't understand the reason for the fuss. It was only when the cap came off that he saw the pebbles and gravel in the filler neck. It was debris that could have been fatal. It would have allowed the chopper to take off but would eventually have entered the gearbox and cut power, thus bringing down the machine and its ministerial occupant. Lights still flashing and sirens still blaring, the cops handcuffed Hameed and bundled him into one of the jeeps and sped off. The pilot did not notice that the number plates on the police cars were not government series and the rifles that they held were not standard police issue.
The man who had appointed Hameed—Rashid— looked at the happenings through his binoculars from a safe distance. It was time to leave.
‘Hameed could not have planned the sabotage by himself. Someone else guided and influenced him. We must get to the bottom of it,’ said Agrawalji worriedly.
‘No one messes with Chandini and gets away with it, Menon!’ hissed Gangasagar as he turned towards his secretary. ‘If anyone thinks he has the balls to fuck with me, I want his balls!’
‘Hameed was appointed to his post on the recommendation of Ikram, it seems,’ said Agrawalji.
‘It was Intelligence Bureau men, dressed up as cops, who were sent to grab Hameed. Hameed must now be made to talk—he can tell us who wants Chandiniji out of the way. Shall I tell the director of the Intelligence Bureau to make him talk?’ asked Menon.
‘No. I have asked the director to pass Hameed on to Sachla Devi—she'll do the needful,’ said Gangasagar.
Chanakya's Chant Page 27
