Sultan of Delhi: Ascension

by Arnab Ray

  ‘Indeed. The past is better forgotten.’

  ‘Give me Dubey.’

  ‘What makes you think I have him?’

  ‘Because now that I think of it, I haven’t seen that rat for a while. So he must be hiding somewhere. Give me that swine, I will make him answer for what’s happened, and you and I can move along as friends.’

  Arjun sat quietly, the coffee circling his mouth. It didn’t seem as strong now – as a matter of fact, it had a rather pleasant, blunt aftertaste.

  RP understood the silence. ‘Aaah, I get it. Dubey came to know a bit too much about you too. So you have already taken care of him. Fine.’

  He was right. Dubey was the kind of man you didn’t trust. But that was not the only reason he was dead. Dubey had made it personal. He had made Arjun dig and then had spat at him while he was doing so. Now he was in a ditch in his own little hole. Somewhere.

  ‘So let’s make a more pleasant offer,’ RP said, leaning back and pointing to the door. ‘Send your secretary for a night to my farmhouse, you know that cute girl with the nice…’ – and RP curved his palm to indicate her behind – ‘who came in just now.’

  Arjun took another long sip while RP went on smiling. ‘That’s the way my father used to do business. Seal the deal with a laddoo, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You talk about your father a lot.’

  ‘That I do. Daddy was a great man.’

  Arjun kept his cup down sharply on the table and stood up. ‘I am sure he must have been. But right now, main tera baap hoon.’

  RP sat stunned by Arjun’s sharp change of tone. No one talked to Ranvijay Pratap like that, no one had had the balls to.

  Till today.

  He started to say something but Arjun lifted his finger and he stopped, his mouth still open.

  ‘Go home. Take a shower. Think about what I said. If you want to continue to go on about how great a man your daddy was because he used to treat people like the soles of his shoes…well… that’s your choice. If you want to show me disrespect, by showing my people disrespect, like you just did, that’s your choice too. But know what will happen if you do.’

  RP was breathing hard, gasping for words.

  ‘There is only one law in this town from now on. Be my friend and I will shake your hand. Be my enemy and I will twist it clean off. Aur jab haath nahin rahega na, RP sahib, na kha sakoge, na dho sakoge, na hila sakoge. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important people to attend to. The door is straight down the hall, and then take a turn to the right.’

  The following Tuesday, a card was delivered to Arjun’s office, with an original painting by one of India’s rising artists along with a hamper of expensive sweets and dry fruits.

  It was an invitation to RP’s sister’s wedding.

  For Arjun Bhatia and family.

  Part Three

  11

  1993

  Arjun Bhatia hated turbans, and he hated them even more when they came in shocking pink. Right now, he was putting as much time as he could between him and the turban. Not that he could push it off forever. Preeti would send him further summons, and then he would have to walk from the rear wing of his house through the long passage, over to the front and then again to the main lawn, smile, do namastes, shake hands, be polite and hospitable, while his hair, or whatever was left of it, would mat wet with sweat underneath that heavy pink turban. At least that Punjabi DJ from London, with the Jamaican extensions in his hair, would not be blasting away the peace of his lawns as he had yesterday and the day before.

  Thank goodness for small mercies.

  ‘It’s bass, papa, not thump-thump-thump and you feel the rhythm here, in your heart,’ Riti had said in that American accent of hers which made Arjun so proud. She had been in ‘the foreign’ for ten years now and people said, hearing her talk, that she did not sound like an Indian.

  ‘There is no melody, no peace in this, not like Rafi…and even Kishore. It’s too loud and it’s too crude.’ He had little patience for what passed for music today. He had heard that new song on television, the one that everyone was talking about that asked ‘Choli ke peeche kya hai?’ and while Arjun considered himself permissive for his age, his ears had turned red at the innuendo and he had thumbed the remote with violence.

  Crude. Yes. He liked that word. Much of today’s world could be described by that. And loud.

  It definitely described the two men in front of him right now. Father and son. Crude and loud.

  The father. Manoj Karnik. He had started out as a small-time union leader, picketing locked gates, pumping fists and waving banners. Arjun had seen his potential back in ’76, when they had first met and talked, over paneer parathas and tea, and then his rise up the ladder had traced the phenomenal arc of Arjun’s own ascension. The reed-thin man with a broken chin, a mild stutter and a dirty-grey white shirt, was now, more than fifteen years later, obscenely obese, a cabinet minister, a real estate baron, sugar mill king, and the proud owner of bank accounts from Switzerland to Cayman Islands. Legs splayed at an angle on the couch, in inappropriately tight trousers he seemed to have outgrown in the past hour, generously flashing his gutkha-stained teeth in a parody of a smile, Manoj Karnik brought to Arjun’s mind the image of a huge toad, waiting to flick out its wet tongue at any opportunity flying about.

  The son. Rishi Karnik. Slick hair pushed back, a cloud of Clive Christian perfume, gym muscles straining against a tight shirt, three buttons undone to display a large gold cross nestling in the foliage of chest hair, he had tried to break into Bollywood as an action star, but after three flops, had gone into the safer business of being a cricket bookie, running a network that ran through Pakistan and Dubai. He was part of Sudheer and Mohan’s group and the only reason he was here, rather than outside on the lawns with the rest of the gang, was because what they were discussing concerned his future.

  It was not particularly polite to be holed up in a room on the day of your son’s engagement ceremony, pink turban or not, when guests had already arrived. Arjun knew that, and in a previous life, he would have been at the gate, greeting the new arrivals and shaking hands. But if he had learned one lesson it was that humility was a weakness in the city, and the bigger the asshole the more people knelt to kiss it. He had earned his reputation well over the years and it behove well for him to come outside at the very last minute, and acknowledge the most important with a word and the less important with a glance. Not that he minded doing business, but the Manoj Karnik problem seemed neverending, with the man refusing to see reason, getting on his nerves. And so this session was needed, father, son and himself, all in the same room.

  Vantor, the American energy company, was setting up one of its mega power plants in Karnik’s state. One of its conditions of investment was a financial guarantee from the state government. If Vantor made a profit, it would take the cash. All of it. But if they lost money, the state government would have to reimburse the loss with its own tax-earned revenue. The whole arrangement sounded unfair to Arjun. But then the more unfair a deal, Arjun had understood over the years, the better chance it had of going through. Vantor had approached Arjun to oil the deal through the pipes of the government, which had required, among other things, passing a bill that allowed foreign investment in power. Once that had been done, Arjun had introduced Vantor to Karnik. His party ruled the state with an absolute majority and it seemed like there would have been little problem getting the required green light.

  Except there had been. The chief minister, Raman Kulkarni, once a Karnik loyalist, had gone rogue. Not without reason though. Kulkarni was on the payroll of the biggest industrialist family of the country, the Mehtas. They had their own plans for setting up a mega power plant and the last thing they wanted was Vantor in their backyard. As if being allied with the enemy was not bad enough, there was bad blood between Raman Kulkarni’s son and Rishi Karnik. Raman Kulkarni’s son was a major Bollywood financier. His movies were doing considerably better than Rishi Karnik’s
ever had, and to make matters worse, Rishi’s actressgirlfriend had slept with Raman Kulkarni’s son for a role in his upcoming movie and that had made it all very personal.

  Arjun had a solution to all this, one that he was absolutely sure would work. Raman Kulkarni no longer wanted to be the chief minister, Delhi was where his eyes were. So Arjun would make him a central minister through the nominated Rajya Sabha route. A Karnik rubber-stamp loyalist would be made the chief minister, who would then sign on the Vantor dotted line. The kickback that was being paid by Vantor to Karnik would be split 70–30 with Raman Kulkarni. The Mehtas, who happened to be Arjun’s clients, would be provided preferential shares in the Indian subsidiary that Vantor would set up and Sudheer, Arjun’s eldest, would sit on the board of directors. That way everyone would be happy.

  The only problem was that the Karniks refused to negotiate with the Kulkarnis.

  ‘I understand what you are saying, Arjun ji, but what to do? Respect is everything. And Kulkarni disrespected me.’ Manoj Karnik rubbed the side of his cheek contemplatively. ‘After what he did, go behind our backs to the Mehtas, I thought he would at least have the decency to come crawling to us begging for forgiveness. I mean what was he before I gave him his throne? Just a…’ Manoj Karnik was going to use an expletive, but then looked at Arjun, who was frowning in anticipation, and thought better of it.

  Rishi piped in, ‘Uncle, I have talked about this to Sudheer and Mohan. We have a plan. I have some friends in Dubai. They specialize in giving special treatment to movie producers that don’t play nice. They can make some calls, and we can get a shooter over from Uttar Pradesh, and maybe that son-of-a-bitch Raman would see reason then. We won’t kill his son, just break a few bones. It would serve him right.’

  Arjun sank back into his seat, shook his head disapprovingly, and lowered his voice when he spoke. Those who had known him for years, like Manoj Karnik, knew exactly what that lowered tone meant.

  ‘Beta, you are my son’s friend, so allow me the privilege of dispensing some advice. First of all, I don’t know what happened between Kulkarni’ s son and your girlfriend, nor am I particularly interested. All I can say is that your girlfriend has every right to be with whom she pleases and for whatever reason she wants and if you take that as an insult to your manhood, to the extent that you would consider calling in a shooter, and in the process putting at risk a deal worth crores, then you are, forgive my words, a fool.’

  ‘But uncle, I did not say murder. I said…’

  ‘It’s bad manners to interrupt when elders are speaking.’ Arjun smiled a most unfriendly smile. ‘Second, my sons – and forgive me for I have indulged them a bit more than I should have, and you can thank your aunt for that – are not really the people you should be taking advice from. Maybe advice on movies, perfumes, sports cars, fashion…but not these things. Not yet, anyway.’ He then turned his eyes towards the father. ‘It’s only out of respect for our relationship that I am sitting here, getting late for Sudheer’s engagement ceremony and earning the anger of my wife, trying to convince you of what I think is good for everyone. If you believe you want to handle it your own way, then go ahead. But I will warn you what’s going to happen if shots are fired. The Mehtas will come after you with everything they have, and both of us know what they have.’

  ‘I will expect you to manage the Mehtas,’ said Manoj Karnik. ‘You do their business for them, they listen to what you say. And I have no problem reaching a deal with the Mehtas. They are good people. Just not Kulkarni.’

  ‘But why should I manage the Mehtas? If people do not respect my advice, why should I help them out? Respect is everything, were you not saying that a while ago?’

  Arjun stood up, brushing the side of his waist. ‘It is said that friendships, like apples and medicine, have expiry dates. I don’t like to believe that, but lately I seem to be getting too old to understand the world. But please forget all this unpleasantness on such a nice day. I hope you will be staying for dinner and to bless the happy couple.’

  Manoj Karnik controlled over thirty MPs in the Lok Sabha and a state and crores of rupees and acres of land. But even after all this, he knew that once Arjun withdrew his friendship, it would be days before he would be done wiping his own blood off from the floor. He looked at his son. Rishi was staring at the marble floor, not making eye contact. Because both of them, the father and the son, knew the rule of the town, they had seen it enforced all these years.

  Be my friend and I will shake your hand. Be my enemy and I will twist it clean off.

  The conversation wrapped up in five minutes. Things would be as Arjun wanted.

  Except, of course, the pink turban.

  ‘A little to the side, please, yes sir, yes, turned to the side like this.’

  The pink turban was proving to be a bigger steam bowl than he had thought it to be. There were the photographers and the men with the video cameras, shining their big hot lights on him and then there were the yards of cable snaking around, and they had already tripped a cabinet minister as he had come to pose with Arjun. Everyone wanted to have a picture taken with him, judges to generals to cabinet secretaries to ministers, for proximity with Arjun Bhatia, even if it was ‘in the same photo frame’, was cold, hard currency in the corridors of Delhi. Which meant Arjun Bhatia was posing almost every minute. Sometimes strangers would put their arms around him a bit too familiarly, drawing him close by the shoulder, and there had been times, in other parties, when he had asked the cameraman to not take a picture. But today was his son’s engagement ceremony, today these were all his guests, and today he could not say no. So there he was, flashing smiles into the camera, the warmth of the smile in direct proportion to how comfortable he was with having his photograph taken with the man next to him.

  But this frame was going to be special.

  For he had his two sons on either side.

  Mohan on his left. Sudheer on his right.

  ‘Where is Riti?’ Arjun asked Sudheer. ‘I haven’t seen her all

  evening.’

  Sudheer brushed away some crumbs of food from his royalblue sherwani. ‘I haven’t seen her either. Have you seen her, Mohan?’

  Mohan shook his head.

  ‘To the front, yes…say cheese.’

  Arjun placed his arms around the shoulders of his two boys

  and looked ahead, straight into the camera.

  It was a beautiful October evening. The day had been hot for this time of the year, but now there was a cool breeze blowing across the lawns, caressing away the dry heat with the fragrance of flowers. There were close to five hundred people on the guest list, and yet they seemed to be dwarfed by the sheer expanse of the impeccably manicured lawns, criss-crossed by gravel paths where not even a little pebble was out of place, and a swimming pool, illuminated bluish-green from inside, that had been been installed a few months ago by a design firm from France, so grand that it had led to the Bhatia residence making it to the cover of Good Living magazine, published from New York. The guests were milling around in small clumps in front of the enormous stage that had been constructed for the couple. There had been dancing on the stage yesterday and the day before, a concert by two of Bollywood’s biggest playback singers on Tuesday and, right after the engagement ceremony today, there was going to be a qawwali concert by Fatah Ali Shah and his troupe, especially flown in from Lahore for the evening.

  Arjun craned his neck to see if he could find Riti in the crowd. He had wanted her to be in this picture. But the flash of the cameras was blinding. He knew he could not afford to look distracted, not here, not now, for his every action, every smile, every snub, every frown ended up being dissected in the gossip circles of Lutyens, and Arjun knew that only too well.

  He wrapped his hands around his eldest’s head and gave him a kiss on his forehead.

  A smattering of applause and more flashes of cameras followed. On cue, Sudheer bent down, which for him took some effort, bouncing against the tyres of fat that ringed his
waist, and got about knee length before Arjun terminated the attempt at a pranam, and gave him an embrace, a pat on the back and smoothened his hair. Sudheer then turned to the right to bend down again for his mother and Preeti’s spontaneous show of emotion, Arjun knew, was genuine. Unlike his. But he joined in the applause as was expected of him.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t like your sons, I mean they are your sons…’ he remembered Preeti having said so many times.

  ‘That’s not true. I love my sons more than my life,’ he would say, knowing that was perhaps not the whole truth. ‘It’s because I love them that I want the best. I just don’t think Sudheer and Mohan are doing the best they can for themselves, that’s all.’

  ‘Not doing the best they can?’ Preeti would ask. ‘Sudheer runs companies, has his own foreign car dealership, he owns so many foreign cars. His friends are all important people. How many twenty-five-year-olds do you know who have achieved this much? And what about Mohan? He is two years younger, and even he has his own companies. He also has his foreign car, the import-export garment business is doing very well, you told me that yourself. Boys their age are standing in line at government offices to get jobs paying five thousand a month and look at our sons. Yet you…’

  Arjun could not tell Preeti that the companies his sons ran were fronts for money laundering, the directorships in companies they had were because that was the payment for Arjun’s services. Nor did he want to remind their mother that each of their ‘foreign’ cars were paid for by him and that Mohan’s export-import business, which Preeti was the most proud of because their son would be seen in the Milan fashion show, was how some Italian clients, whose investments he looked after in India, channelled their payments through to Arjun.

  So all he said was, ‘First of all, Sudheer is not twenty-five, he is going to be thirty in a year. And the thing is that they don’t take responsibility. That’s the problem. They behave like teenagers, partying and racing their cars and God knows what else.’