Amma pursed her lips. 'Your mother haj said see is not coming. So you have to come and campaign for us, Sarojini.'
Just like that. I was expected to drop everything and come running just because India is going to the polls for like, the fifteenth time and because my grandmother says so.
Feeling cornered, I pushed back my chair as far it would go and plunged my hands into my hair. Raking my fingers through my suddenly throbbing head, I said, my voice sounding unconvincing even to my own ears, 'Amma, I'm a big girl now. It was okay when I was little, the elections always happened in my summer vacations, but now I have work to do; anyway, I wasn't expecting this, you said you'd retired!'
There was a long silence.
Then an insistent, gnarled little hand closed over mine. It felt warm and pulsating and vibrantly alive.
'Pleaj,' she said. 'Last time. We will be dead before the next elecsun anyway.'
I sniffed. 'No such luck! You'll be rattling around campaigning when you're a hundred and ten!'
She grinned. 'Arrey bhai, so maybe you are right,' she relented. 'But come no, beta, this time we have lot of oxygen, bada maja aayega, it will be fun.'
I looked into her girlish, grey-flecked old eyes, and the magic word reverberated in my head over and over again.
Elecsun.
You know that word association game? You say a word to me and I say a word back to you instantly and it's supposed to reveal deep dark secrets about how I think? Like hot and chocolate, and rock and star, and moron and Rahul Mahajan? Well, if you said election, I would instantly reply party time.
When I was a child in Bittora, the excitement used to be so thick you could bite it with your teeth. Raised voices, singing and sloganeering, no proper bedtimes, people coming and going any time of the day and night. The smell of freshly printed posters and rose-chrysanthemum-tinsel garlands. An edge to Amma's voice I never heard at any other time. Eating sweets and being praised as pretty-girl, clever-girl in house after house. Folding my hands and prettily lisping Vote for PP! while everybody applauded. And the best part - driving down dusty roads, waving to the populace from the sky roof of a custom-made jeep, band baja blaring from specially-sanctioned-by-the-traffic-police loudspeakers.
Oh, I do realize, being grown-up now, that it is gruelling and chaotic and horribly stressful and heartbreaking and possibly heart-attack inducing. But I also know that the only thing worse than taking part in a Lok Sabha election is not taking part in a Lok Sabha election.
Nobody here needs to know, a little voice in my head whispered. You can just sneak out and be back in three weeks' time. You've got a month's leave that you haven't used, anyway. They won't have a clue where you've been. You could even do some work off your laptop. Besides, you haven't gone back to Bittora since you were sixteen.
I looked up at Amma and grinned. So wide I could almost feel the ends of the grin meeting at the back of my head. It was a wonder the top half of my head didn't fall off.
She grinned back.
Then she fished out a rather spiffy looking BlackBerry, peered at it short-sightedly and punched the speed dial with panache.
'Driver saab,' she said in a cat-that-got-the-cream voice, 'gaadi nikaaliye. We are leaving for the airport. Now.'
***
2
'What news?'
I stopped chewing on my hair, shook my head and sighed. 'Nothing,' I said.
For an entire week now, we'd been biting our nails and holding our breath, waiting for the list of Pragati candidates from Pavit Pradesh to be announced. And it wasn't just Amma and me. A large contingent of obsequiously smiling men with neady oiled and parted hair, dressed in blinding white, were crowded into the front verandah of the house at Tughlaq Road, pressing up against numerous framed photographs of Amma and Bauji shaking hands with famous dead people.
And they weren't just confined to the porch. They were spilling into the three-acre garden, napping under the jamun trees, stinking up the loo in Amma's little office annexe, demanding endless rounds of chai, sweet biscuits and matthri, and every now and then sending up lusty chants of
Give tikkit to Pushpa jiji,
Winning elecsun will be eajy!
'We are losing time, didi,' fretted the MLA from Jummabagh, who'd been introduced to me by Amma rather vaguely as 'Aawar Pappu'. The moment we met, Pappu informed me, in a single, well-constructed sentence, that he was MLA-Jummabagh, a science graduate, a bachelor, an only son, a trained yoga instructor, from a business family, and totally at my service. Jummabagh is one of the eight assembly segments that make up Bittora constituency. 'All the other states' tickets have been announced! We will get very little time for campaigning. Others will get a head start.'
'Well, the IJP hasn't announced its list yet either, Pappu,' I told him comfortingly.
He didn't look convinced. 'Didi, you don't understand! Dwivediji had been preparing for almost a year! He was so sure he would get the seat. Now he will not get it - and god knows if the people he sweetened will still vote for Pragati Party!'
'I don't see why they shouldn't,' I said. After all, he'll have to come along and campaign for Amma, won't he?'
Our Pappu shook his head vehemently, the silver studs in his ears flashing. 'Not Dwivediji! He will stand against jiji on another ticket, just wait and see!'
I felt a little queasy. It was bad enough contemplating how shattered Amma would be if she didn't get the ticket! I didn't even want to start thinking about how shattered she would be if she got it, and stood, and lost. That too, to the peel-eater.
'Ummm, so d'you want some tea?' I asked in a bid to quell the rising panic in my belly.
He nodded eagerly. He loved tea. They all did. They could drink it any time.
'Just a small half cup, didi,' he said. 'And then we will do one more chakkar of the AIPC office - to check if there is any news.'
I nodded gloomily and went in to order the tea. I was beginning to dread the little chakkars to the All India Pragati Committee office at Akbar Road - all kinds of weird rumours were emanating from there. In order of appearance they were:
The big movie star Salmon Khan, nicknamed thus because he wore either salmon pink shirts or no shirt at all, was going to stand from Bittoragarh - he'd shot his superhit film Jeevan Apnaa Saaraa, Sanam there and the people loved him.
The ticket was going to Pushpa jiji - it was all done.
Top Brass wanted a young candidate and they were going over a list of all the Youth Pragati members from PP with a fine toothcomb.
Top Brass's daughter was going to stand from Bittora - she had stayed at the Taj property there once and had become enamoured of the place.
The Salmon Khan rumour was true!
Dwivedi had visited TB's house in the dead of night, toting a suitcase stuffed with over a hundred crore in cash for the party fund, and clinched the ticket.
Pushpa jiji's hopes were history.
Top Brass had approved Pushpa jiji's name and left to kick off the campaigning in the south. Immediately, one of the AIPC general secretaries had dropped her name and replaced it with that of his brother-in-law.
TB had returned, reviewed the list and rejected the name on grounds of nepotism.
Pushpa jiji had visited TB's house in the dead of night toting a suitcase stuffed with over two hundred crores in cash for the party fund, and clinched the ticket.
The search for a youthful, Muslim-friendly face was on. Pushpa jiji's chances were bleak.
I hurried to the kitchen in search of Amma's ancient cook-cum-housekeeper Joline Bai, who was even more grumpy than usual because of the strain the Bittorawallahs were putting on her kitchen. I found her in the vegetable garden, yanking out a massive, fish-belly white radish from the gooey grasp of the thick chyawanprash-like soil. It looked like the dismembered arms of some long-buried corpse. I hailed her with a cheery demand for tea, which she acknowledged grudgingly with a short grunt.
Joline Bai doesn't approve of me. She thinks I have too many newfangled
notions about housekeeping, simply because I sometimes protest mildly about living in a house ridden with termites, overrun with large-as-small-dogs bandicoots and under siege by red killer ants.
She's Lutyens royalty, Joline Bai. Her family has lived in the quarters of the great white bungalows for years, since before independence in fact, flourishing in the criss-crossing service lanes behind the grand, tree-lined boulevards. They've been drivers, dhobis, cooks and sweepers to prime ministers, home ministers, the Pragati Party TB, even presidents! She's a big snob, of course, and had been extremely upset when Amma had her fall from grace four years ago. It was like Amma had let her down personally. Now, of course, she was on tenterhooks just like the rest of us, but too snooty to let it show.
As she stumped past me to make the tea, breathing heavily, I caught the smell of last night's mutter-mushroom emanating from her grubby checked apron.
'Where's Amma, Joline Bai?' I asked politely.
She plodded towards the kitchen, ignoring me, but deigned to point one dead-white radish in the direction of Amma's bedroom.
I trotted along to Amma's boudoir, which faced the garden and was done up in an overabundance of pink and peach floral prints. Amma was stationed behind her large wooden desk, reading newspapers from three different states.
Enormous gift boxes full of dry fruit, chocolate and seriously fancy, gold foil-wrapped gujia were stacked up like walls all around her, almost obscuring her from view. It was her Holi haul, and a good one - definitely a far cry from Diwali last year when the peoples offerings had dwindled ignonimously to a single eighty-rupee Kurkure gift hamper.
As I peered at her through the rising walls of gilt and cardboard, I was reminded bizarrely of the scene from Mughal-e-azam, when Akbar gets Anarkali walled up with bricks to die.
She looked up when I entered, her light eyes all sharp and bird-like.
'What newj?' she asked.
'I don't know, Amma,' I said a little waspishly, though of course I knew what she meant. 'You're the one reading sixteen newspapers!'
God, I was so sick of that question! Everywhere I went, people were going What news? at me. The Bittorawallahs outside, Amma inside, the sweeper, the gardener, the milkman, the security guards. Everybody wanted to know if Amma had got the ticket. We were all working ourselves up to a hysterical fever pitch of anticipation - all on the basis of some vague conversation Amma had had with TB over nine days ago. It was quite pathetic, really.
'What exactly did he say, Amma?' I'd pressed her over a million times. 'Did he promise you the ticket?'
'Arrey bhai,' she would answer vaguely each time. 'We think so he promised us.'
'You think so he promised you?' I would groan. 'What does that even mean?
She would shrug evasively. 'He said, We need your presence and wisdom, Pushpa jiji. Are you willing?'
'But that could mean anything!' I would cry. 'It could mean he wants you to campaign for Dwivedi!'
'Oh no, we don't think so,' Amma would reply, serenely enough. But somehow, her eyes never looked too confident.
Now I waded through the strewn newspapers and gift boxes, plonked myself on her fluffy rose-print bed and helped myself to the plate of fried paranthas, mixed fruit jam and mango that was just sitting there, looking neglected.
'Amma,' I asked, my voice heavy with trepidation. 'You're okay, na?'
She threw me an irritated look, then picked up a large, hairy mango heart and started sucking on it, her expression inscrutable.
'We are fine, Sarojini,' she said as she ate. 'PP list hajn't been announced yet, that ij all.'
'I know, I know,' I said fretfully, 'but listen, everybody is saying it will be announced today, definitely. The IJP list will be announced tonight too. They can't possibly delay it any further. The date for withdrawal of nominations has already been fixed. At this rate, you may not have even three clear weeks for campaigning!'
'Oh, it might take longer than that,' said Amma vaguely, infuriating me. 'It ij a big state - Top Brass is approving every name personally, so list will take time. Stop eating aawar parantha.'
And with that, she picked up her plate and wandered into the garden while I gazed after her uneasily, listening to the chants of Give tikkitto Pushpa jiji!'from the garden, worried that she would be in for a huge disappointment tomorrow morning and hoping she would be strong enough to deal with it when it came.
***
'Jinni! What news?'
It was Gaiman Tagore Rumi.
He'd called, or at least he claimed he'd called, to tell me that the Harpic Kitaanus had been approved, even praised, by the client.
'No news,' I told him irritably, as I rummaged through my old clothes cupboard, searching in vain for frumpy salwar kameezes to go campaigning in.
'Didn't Ammaji get the ticket?' he asked, point blank.
Huh? I couldn't believe the big sticky nose on the guy!
'What makes you think,' I asked him a little scornfully, 'that Amma even wants a ticket? She retired five years ago.'
'C'mon, Sarojini,' he said knowingly. 'I've met your grandmother. There isn't a retired bone in her body!'
'Don't call me Sarojini.'
'See, I've been thinking,' he burbled on blithely. 'If Ammaji does get the ticket, and you go campaigning for her and stuff- I'm assuming that's why you've applied for a month's leave - I could tag along and shoot lots of pics. For an exhibition, you know. Titled Battle in Buttora. I googled Buttora, by the way - it looks awesome.'
'It's Bittora.,' I snapped. God knows what the pevert had been googling. 'And if she does stand - which, of course, she may not, because she adores her retirement too much - it won't be some kind of rustic-exotic poverty tourism trip where you can strut around taking pictures! It will be serious business.'
'Hah, so she is standing,' he said smugly.
'Rumi, it isn't that easy!' I said, exasperated. 'Other people want the ticket too.'
'So kill them,' he replied blithely. 'Order their assassinations. Or, if you aren't too squeamish - which you're not - do it yourself.'
'This isn't Rajneeti,' I told him crossly. 'Now go away, I'm clearing out my wardrobe.'
'Be sure to throw out that tatty nylon bra then,' he shot back at me. 'The one with the frayed strap that keeps showing from under your shirts. And Jinni, one last thing. I did your tarot cards last night - watch out for frenemies.'
I frowned. 'Whatcha talking about now, Rumi?'
'Enemies who pretend to be your friends,' he said earnestly. 'You know, like Harry Osborn is Spidey's frenemy - there's a total sexual undercurrent going on there, of course...'
'Rumi!' I hissed. 'Do you mind? I'm doing something!'
'It's a political term, Jinni!' he insisted. 'India and Pakistan are frenemies. Steve Jobs and Bill Gates are frenemies. Observe all of Ammaji's friends carefully... one of them could be a frenemy. Isn't it a nice word? I like saying it, you've got to roll the Rs in a sinister fashion... frrrrrrrrenemy! Sounds like frrrenum - that's a tiny fold of skin just below the penis.'
'I know what a frenum is!' I groaned, totally grossed out. Then I cut the line and tossed the phone onto the tangled heap of clothes on the bed and sighed.
The tension was totally getting to me.
Outside, Our Pappu and his gang of merry Praggu men were busy chanting for the benefit of the news channel vans parked outside the gate.
Give tikkit to Pushpajiji,
Winning elecsun will be eajy!
Meanwhile, Amma, displaying magnificent disinterest, was shut up with a home-delivered Shahnaz Hussain beautician, getting a thorough servicing.
I decided to tell Pappu and his gang to go do their sloganeering somewhere else. Or at least think of a new slogan.
'Dekhiye, Ammaji is very old,' I called out to them from the front verandah. 'She is trying to take rest. So why don't you-'
But before I could finish my little piece, an oldish gent sidled up to me and said in a hoarse whisper, 'Excuse me, beti, but my grandson's w
ife is not letting him consume.'
I blinked rather bemusedly and said, 'Consume what?'
He looked at me like I was a moron.
'Consume the marriage, of course! She is claiming that he is repulsive to her. She is claiming mental torture and dowry demands. It is not true! She is just after our two-crore property in Titotia. We want her to be told point blank that we Varmas are a decent family and that if she does not chup-chaap, very nicely, let him consume, then the marriage will be annulled because of non-consummation.'
I sighed. Part of the problem with staying with Amma at Tughlaq Road was that people were constantly dropping in with random problems. God knows how they expected Amma to fix them.
Still, I knew the drill.
I held out my hand. 'Gimme the file,' I said, all business-like.
'Thank you,' he said. He whipped out the inevitable file, handed it to me and scurried away, satisfied.
I folded my hands to the rest of the contingent and told them they were welcome to stay there, but quietly. Then I went into Amma's boudoir and chucked the file down next to an array of Shahnaz products.
She stopped getting her face massaged long enough to peer at it blankly.
'What newj?' she said.
'Mr Varma's granddaughter-in-law,' I informed her, 'is not letting her husband consume.'
'Good for her,' Amma said wearily, picking up the file and tossing it into a conveniently placed laundry basket. 'Sarojini, tonight we shall be attending a wedding.'
I looked up in surprise. I would've thought she would be too on-edge to attend a wedding. 'Okay,' I said. 'Whose?'
'Mixed marriage hai,' she said with a disapproving shudder. 'Civil ceremony ho gayee, and tonight is the walima - like a recepsun. See what we can give as a good gift.'
So Joline Bai and I went into Amma's immense, dusty store room and rummaged through the mountains of ugly stuff that people are always giving her. There were all these sandalwood elephants and camels of decreasing size walking in single file, grinning brass idols, a whole stack of Kerala urlis, ungainly silver tea sets, tons of melmoware crockery and a number of synthetic furry blankets in zip-locked bags. I started sneezing immediately.
Battle for Bittora Page 3
