I sat there, getting angrier and angrier, while the object of my indignation sipped his Pepsi and conversed courteously with the old men to his left.
After a while, a long row of children, all dressed in white, trotted onto the stage. They were followed by an old gent with a bright orange beard and a harmonium. Somebody adjusted the mikes, and they launched into a slow but soulful milad-un-nabi classic.
They sang well and were met with enthusiastic applause, but just as they got ready to file out afterwards, Zain leaned forward and called out in his deep, pleasant voice, without even a trace of Winchester marring his chaste Urdu, 'Will you sing one more song with me?'
The children nodded, wide-eyed.
He leapt up, strode lightly across the courtyard to the stage and commandeered the harmonium from the old man with the orange beard. He strapped it to himself and then, standing with his legs planted wide and his head thrown back, flashed that quick, infectious grin and flooded the courtyard with the jaunty, lively strains of 'Aao bachchon tumhe dikhaaen jhaanki hindustaan ki'.
Of course, it was disgustingly cheesy, but what else do you expect from a guy who calls his hometown his mother?
Still, I had to say this for him. The mood did change instantly.
And I'm pretty sure it wasn't just me, though I'm a total sucker for patriotic songs from the fifties. I start blubbering the moment small children raise their piping little voices and bravely lisp out any one of them, and this particular song is number one on my tear-jerker list. Sure enough, I could instantly feel the beginnings of ugly, nose-reddening, free-flowing, snotty bawling coming on. And no way would that go down well in Pavit Pradesh. People wouldn't go, So sweet, she's so naram dil, she's crying. They'd think, Ufff, just look at that amateur loser, she'll never be tough enough to nail all the thugs, fundamentalists, rapists, murderers and vigilantes running amuck in this place. Better not vote for her, the weakling.
But tonight, the ruff-and-tuff Bittora types seemed to be as sentimental as me. The kids sang away lustily and soon the mummy-jaans joined in. By the time we hit the first vande-mataram, vande-mataram', the singing had swelled to about a thousand throats, and the vibrations seemed to shake the ancient courtyard. The dipping and whirling series lights seemed to twinkle brighter and the very air seemed to pulsate with something I couldn't quite define, but which hung over us all, huge, hopeful and brimming with promise.
As Zain's deep, not-very tuneful voice led the singing into the third stanza, the lyrics of which nobody else seemed to know, Our Pappu sidled closer to me and hissed, 'This is Indian Idol or what? What cheap band-baajaa tack-tricks, Sarojini didi! He is trying to steal your thunder.'
'Don't worry, Pappu!' I replied, still clapping away. 'Just get me the mike before he finishes singing.'
He scurried off and managed to get hold of a hand-held mike... so that right after the song got over and everyone was standing around, looking all pumped up and teary, I spoke into the sudden hush that had fallen: 'Wah! What wonderful singing! Children, today, I, Sarojini Pande, granddaughter of sabki jiji Pushpa Pande, give five lakhs to your school building fund and promise to secure CBSE recognition for all the Muslim schools in Bittoragarh.'
There was a startled silence. Like something seriously out-of-syllabus had happened. But then a thunderous applause broke out in the courtyard and the maulvi saab came forward, took both my hands in his, squeezed them hard, and declared that I had his vote.
***
'Hey, you pretended in Delhi about your Urdu being bad!' I said, trying for a casual note.
We had been ushered into the 'VIP' area, a deserted shamiana of the most lurid colours possible. Huge plates of food sat before us. I picked up a flimsy white plastic fork, stared hopelessly at the mound of fluorescent orange biryani on my plate, and resigned myself to losing this particular contest to Zain.
'I wanted to make you laugh,' he said shortly, picking out large sticks of cinnamon from his biryani and chucking them aside in a business-like manner.
I looked at him uneasily. His accent had gotten all clipped, the way it used to get whenever he got into one of those brooding moods I used to dread when I was a child.
But I wasn't a child any more.
I sat a little straighter and pointed an accusing fork at him.
'You're manipulative,' I said.
He flashed me a quick, derisive look.
'And you're not?' he enquired mildly, shovelling the rice into his face at a rate I could only admire. He swallowed, his eyes not even watering, and said, 'Is this how you're planning to win the election, by the way? By handing out large sums of money left, right and centre?'
'Well, you know, what to do,' I answered coolly. All of us don't sing as well as you.'
His lips tightened, but all he said as he pushed away his plate was, 'A word of advice. The EC goons taped you. They'll be after you if you go around making these donation announcements so publicly. Watch out.'
'And a word of advice to you too,' I returned, feeling slightly sick and clammy because I knew he was right. And also because the extremely spicy biryani on top of the bhainscafe was playing havoc with my system. 'I don't know if you picked the right song tonight. It may have a bit of a backlash. Lose you some votes. It was probably a bit too nationalistic for tonight's audience.'
He flicked a glance at me, his fork arrested halfway to his mouth.
'Really,' he said. And what would you even begin to know about tonight's audience?'
I shrugged. 'Oh, I know enough. I learnt everything I know right here in Bittoragarh.'
'At your grandmother's knee?' he returned. 'Give the Muslims money, they will give you votes? That totally figures.'
Oops. Touchy subject. But he was still talking.
'For your information,' he said, 'the people of Jummabagh will take the money you give them, but on polling day, they will go in there and vote for me.'
'In which case,' I said, banging down my glass, 'they will prove that they essentially are a treacherous race.'
The silence that followed was positively murderous.
A little unnerved, I said, 'Look, I find this idealistic we-are-all-one-big-Indian-nation attitude rather thick coming from someone who's standing on an IJP ticket.'
He slammed his glass down hard and said, his eyes blazing, 'And I find your cynicism revolting, considering it's coming from the nation's only so-called secular party.'
'Okay,' I said, my voice wobbling a little. 'Since I'm so revolting, I'll just say goodnight to you right now. Happy milad-un-nabi.'
'Oh, typical!' he said, throwing his hands up in exasperation, 'Let's take all this extremely personally, shall we?'
'And you're not being personal?' I shot back. Are you honestly going to claim that all this isn't happening because I locked you into a cupboard, what, nine years ago?'
His eyes shuttered over. 'Goodnight, Sarojini.'
'Goodnight, Zain!' I snapped back immediately.
'Altaf Khan,' I added for good measure.
Silence.
Neither of us made a move to leave.
'Pande,' he said after a pause.
A little snort of laughter escaped me.
He flashed me the quick, contrite grin I knew so well.
I grinned back.
He put a hand to his heart and staggered back into his red plastic chair. 'Whoa. Smile impact.'
He was doing it again. The just-kidding voice with the disturbingly serious look in his eyes. I looked uneasily around the hall.
'Look, Kaka Nagar,' he said peacably. 'I'm sorry I gatecrashed your party. It was stupid, but I just wanted to see you so badly.'
'Well, next time just call, okay?' I said primly as I stood up, desperately trying to pretend that the change in tone hadn't caused my heart to thud madly against my ribs. 'And it won't cost my campaign fund five lakhs. Now, good night.'
He looked up. 'Don't go,' he said simply. 'God knows when I'll get to meet you again.'
Which was so true t
hat I sat down again, a depressing, leaden feeling settling into the pit of my stomach. Around us, the celebrations continued, people ate and drank, lurid qawaalis blared muddily from massive speakers.
Chehra chhipa liya hai kisi ne hijab mein
Ji karta hai aag laga du naqab mein...
Finally, I said, 'How can you possibly get along with all those sicko Hindutva types?'
His lean cheeks flushed. But all he said was, 'You've been in Canada far too long. The party's changed. It had no option but to change. And anyway, at least they aren't hypocrites. I abhor hypocrites.'
Stung by this snide reference to Amma and by his pompous choice of words (I mean, abhor?. Who the hell says abhor?), I said heatedly, 'You're just some stupid kid! Don't you get it? They're using you! They just want you to be their token Muslim boy in parliament. Surely you realize that?'
He shrugged. 'So? As long as I can bring progress to Bittora, I'm game. I'll make damn sure it's a mutually exploitative relationship, never fear.'
I shook my head. 'It's just so disorienting to see you in the IJP.'
His jaw tightened.
'Quit worrying about me,' he advised, 'and start worrying about your ex-party man, Dwivedi.'
'Oh, I know,' I said gloomily. 'He's standing as an indy just to shaft Amma. God, talk about harbouring a snake in your bosom!'
Zain set down his glass.
'Can we please not talk about your bosom?'
I blushed bright pink.
'Okay,' I said happily. 'Though it's quite something, huh?'
'Yes,' he agreed, sounding a little strangled. 'Yes, it's something all right.'
There was an awkward silence.
Then he asked, 'How's Saket Bhavan?'
'Huh? Oh, the same,' I said with a shrug. 'The lights keep tripping, and there's a huuuge beehive in the garden.'
His eyes lit up.
'I love that place,' he said. Are you staying in the old petal room, then?'
'Yes!' I laughed. 'And my campaign office is in Bauji's petal room.'
'Hey, wow,' he said and he really did sound impressed. 'That is so cool. Bauji's study was always out of bounds for us brats! Are those ducks still around?'
I frowned.
'I have no idea, actually,' I admitted. 'Maybe Ponky ate them.'
'A dog of peculiar but broad-minded tastes,' Zain remarked drily.
I giggled.
And almost inhaled a whining mosquito, which was bhinnn bhinnaoing right in front of my nose.
'There are tons of them circling over your head,' Zain said, raising one arm and waving it about graphically, as I blew my nose and spat. 'Moving in a giant, cyclonic formation. Bittorawallahs would say you'll have a very big wedding.'
I grabbed some yellow paper napkins from the table and waved them about vigorously above my head, hoping to scatter the swarm. 'God, I hate these bloody mossies,' I said fervently.
His face tightened, almost imperceptibly.
'Mosquitoes, I mean,' I said hastily.
At this inopportune moment, Our Pappu bounded in, all bright-eyed and smiley faced, obviously determined to get me out of this highly irregular tete-a-tete as fast as possible. He shook hands with Zain, and informed him in one 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 his service. Then he turned to me. 'Didi, let us go,' he said with sunny firmness. 'Early start tomorrow.'
'Of course, Pappu!' I replied. Then I turned back to Zain. 'Well, goodnight, then,' I said graciously. 'Nice meeting you.'
He nodded formally. 'Likewise,' he said, his expression unreadable.
I stood up, folded my hands into an elaborate namaste, and made my way out of the function, a grinning, nodding Pappu scurrying in my wake.
***
Our Pappu was very tight-lipped the whole way home. I think he was trying to make some kind of point, but I didn't particularly care. I was too busy playing back my conversation with Zain in my head and wondering if there was any truth in what he'd said about the IJP not being as dreadful as I, brought up in a hardcore Praggu home, had always assumed it to be.
At least, that's what I was trying to focus my mind on. Unfortunately, it kept looping back to all the non-intellectual elements of our conversation - like how he'd said Don't go with that glowing look in his eyes and how sinewy his forearms had looked below his rolled-up sleeves. And how he apparently couldn't bear to talk about my bosom because it was so oomphy. Surely that meant I wasn't the only one constantly flashbacking to that night at the wedding, right? Right?
Of course, Amma managed to pull me out of this happy haze the moment I entered the front door. She was still awake, huddled with Gudia aunty in her bedroom, discussing the depleting levels of oxygen in the Milton hotcase.
I hurried to her room and told them about my evening as matter-of-factly as I could. She pursed her lips when she heard that Zain had showed up so soon after she left. 'Bhai, it ij obvious,' she declared. 'He can't face us. He doej not have the gurrts.'
Gudia aunty gave a low involuntary moan the moment she heard about my five lakh donation to the Jummabagh school, but Amma wasn't too hassled. 'Doejn't matter, Gudia,' she said. 'The fellow was being over-smart. Singing and all. Of course Sarojini had to give him a tit!'
'Excuse me?' I looked at her, dumbfounded. 'I had to give him a what?'
'A tit,' Amma repeated patiently. 'Arrey bhai, you had to give him a tit for his tat, no?'
With that, she heaved herself out of bed and walked into her loo.
Really, sometimes when I think that Amma has travelled all over the world and met Bill Clinton and Margaret Thatcher, my blood runs absolutely cold.
The sound of a mineral water bottle cap turning and the familiar reek of Absolut reminded me that Gudia aunty was still in the room, hyperventilating. According to her, our campaign was in danger of death by asphyxiation.
'We need more oxygen to buy out those two spoilers,' she fretted feverishly, as she bent down and placed the bottle back on the ground next to the bed. Her blouse fell away from her shoulder, and I caught a flash of light purple and did a double take. Was she wearing my bra? 'I've tried to catch hold of Mr Suleiman, but he's just not taking my calls. I think he's avoiding me.'
'Why would he do that?' I asked soothingly, even though I could think of at least seven good reasons, including the fact that he didn't want to be robbed of his underwear. 'He's the AIPC General Secretary for Pavit Pradesh! Surely he'd want Amma to win?'
Gudia aunty shook her head.
'Jinni, Tawny Suleiman may not be all that thrilled about a Pande dynasty taking root right here, so close to his own turf. You in Lok Sabha, madam most probably in the Rajya Sabha... Have you ever thought about that?'
'He's my grandmother's oldest friend and ally,' I reminded her coldly, thinking, and that's probably the reason you dislike him. You can't stand people being closer to Amma than you are. Wow, was she complicated.
She looked at me with obvious dissatisfaction.
'Madam is right,' she said, you are just like your grandfather.'
I flushed. 'I'm very proud of my grandfather,' I retorted. 'In fact, I'm proudest of my grandfather.'
'Oye hoye!' Gudia aunty sniffed. 'Madam is fifty times the politician he was.'
'You never met him,' I pointed out. 'Besides, he wasn't a politician, he was a freedom fighter.'
'Oh, I know you think I'm just an outsider who knows nothing of your family ideals,' she said defensively, her voice trembling. 'But let's be practical. The fact remains that we need at least two more bursts of oxygen to see this campaign through. A big chunk now, to buy off the spoilers, and one more towards the end, for polling day. We'll need to give kits to workers in every booth across the constituency. Two hundred booths in all. Five workers per booth. They'll need food, money, T-shirts, petrol money for buses to ferry people to and fro, maybe even a little extra money to buy out voters on the day itself... s
o that's at least a thousand a day to each worker, ideally two thousand - that's twenty lakhs straight. Just for that one day.'
'Fuck,' I whispered, stumped.
'Also,' she continued, 'we should have money to buy alcohol, at least one bottle per voter, and distribute it on the eve of voting day.'
'But if people get drunk they'll be too hungover to come and vote!' I pointed out.
Gudia aunty's smirk got smirkier. 'So we distribute the alcohol, not amongst our supporters, but amongst IJP supporters,' she said. 'By the time they stagger in to vote, somebody else will have already voted for them.'
'Booth capturing?' I asked, round-eyed.
She looked at me impatiently. 'Of course not,' she said mildly. 'Why would you say that?'
'Doesn't anybody out here vote without asking for money?' I asked, almost desperately.
Gudia aunty thought about it. 'Well, they do in Sujanpur,' she offered finally. 'We always sweep in Sujanpur.'
'Because of the good work Amma's done?' I asked hopefully.
'That also,' she replied evasively, 'but it's mostly because they all think Top Brass's mummy is a goddess. They think ki if they don't vote for Pragati it won't rain and their crops will fail and they will all die. So they vote.'
Served me right for asking.
'But there's no need to panic,' Gudia aunty muttered, more to herself than to me, as she glugged from her bottle of Himalayan and wiped her mouth. 'I mean, we've been promised a lot of oxygen. It's just that it isn't here yet. It's a question of liquidity. We are in dire need of liquid oxygen.'
I couldn't resist saying, in a nasal Ajit-the-gangster voice, 'Liquid hume jeene nahin dega, oxygen hume marne nahin dega.'
'Exactly,' she said in a preoccupied voice. 'After your donation tonight, I have only three lakhs left, Jinni.'
Battle for Bittora Page 15
