Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  A long silence followed.

  He was right, of course. That was it, exactly. I hadn't known how special it was either. At sixteen, I'd thought that the next guy I met would be nicer. Older, taller, Canadian, whatever. But none of them had really matched up.

  I didn't say anything, just shifted in my seat a little and regarded his slightly aquiline profile as he drove steadily through the darkness. I knew my face was wearing the smug expression you see on the face of a Sarojini Nagar Market T-shirt seller when you don't buy a tee, claiming it's too expensive and then come back, red-faced and perspiring, after two hours of rootling through a gazillion stalls and say sheepishly, 'Woh T-shirt phir se dikhana, bhaiyya.'

  'Don't ask me the obvious question, Jinni Pande,' he said warningly.

  'I don't need to,' I answered, reaching across and tweaking his rather large ear smartly. 'I know that now you know how special this is.'

  He groaned.

  'I know no such thing,' he protested. 'I have a bevy of trophy girlfriends, don't you read the papers?'

  'Your life has a gaping hole right in the middle of it, that only I can fill,' I said triumphantly.

  'Listen, Rajindar Nagar,' he said, looking right at me, really hassled now. 'Stop putting words into my mouth!'

  'Oh, let's not talk about your mouth,' I told him huskily, reaching over and touching it lightly. 'It's wayyy too distracting.'

  Then I giggled. Snorted, actually.

  He looked away again, shaking his head.

  'If I didn't have Jugatramji on my tail,' he said ruefully, 'I'd stop this car right now and let you have it.'

  'Your tail?' I guffawed.

  He choked.

  Hah! Rumi would've been proud of me.

  I fell asleep after that, cuddling up to a sweatshirt he produced from somewhere. I dreamed that as I slept, he put out a hand every now and then and touched my cheek. I don't know, maybe he even did.

  When I woke up, the sun was rising over the Lion Bridge on the Bitwa. And the winking lights of the rest of the Sumo convoy were coming up on our left. I caught a flash of Our Pappu glowering at me as he whizzed past with a snoring Munni, totally ignoring the cheery wave Zain gave him.

  'Well, we're back,' Zain stated the obvious as he pulled up outside Saket Bhavan. 'Hopefully, all this high drama will end once you withdraw. I can't wait to meet you without that dude looking daggers at me, Jinni.'

  'Yeah...' I replied.

  Before I could say anything else, Jugatram came up and started giving Zain a verbal report card on his driving. 'Not bad. Speed achhi thi, par you should not use brakes to slow down, you should use gears,' he said sternly. 'Also, overtake karna hai toh bas overtake karo! Don't waffle about! What did I always say? Lead, follow or get out of the way. I think there is too much air in your back tyres also...'

  Zain gave him a patient hearing, lounging against the Scorpio, looking exhausted but tranquil. He mouthed a bye at me as I walked past the two of them and opened the green gate.

  'Bye.' I waved back, smiling sweetly as I shut the gate. And if you believed any of that withdrawing bullshit I fed you tonight, you're a bigger fool than I ever took you for, Zain Altaf Khan!

  ***

  Ballot Boxing

  Number 22 in a series of reports from Lok Sabha

  constituencies around India

  Withdrawal Pangs

  Yesterday was the last date for the withdrawal of nominations for the first phase of the fifteenth Lok Sabha elections. High drama marked the offices of magistrates across four states in north India. And nowhere was the drama more intense than in Bittoragarh, the high-profile constituency which is home to the redoubtable Pushpa Pande the shady Dinanath Dwivedi and Zain Altaf Khan, the new face of young, election-sawy India.

  Rumours were thick that Sarojini Pande, Pande senior's granddaughter, was withdrawing her nomination. Spokespersons from the IJP camp, Bunty and Duggu Sisodia, gave statements, hinting that they were expecting her to withdraw in Zain's favour. Our sources say that both the Sisodias were even in place, close to the offices, to accompany Pande when she went to tender her withdrawal officially. 'Ms Pande knows she can't possibly beat the nawabzada,' they asserted. 'She vowed to withdraw and even campaign for him, since they are childhood friends, and she knows that constituency unke haathon mein mehfoos rahegi - he will take good care of the constituency.' Much was made of a close friendship between the twosome's grandfathers.

  But Sarojini never showed up. Instead, very unexpectedly, Vir Singh, the venom-spewing wonder from Begumbagh, drove up and withdrew. Speaking briefly to press people outside the offices, Vir Singh said, 'Yes, it is true, I am withdrawing. There is no coercion-worshon. It is because we are having too little time to do preparation... that is all. KDS Party jindabad. Jai Hind.'

  When asked if he was going to campaign for anybody now, Singh merely spat, swore and slunk away.

  Hardly had the drama of this withdrawal subsided, than another contingent drove up to the electoral office. Lucky journalists were shocked to see emerging from the unmarked vehicle, not the petite, fresh-faced Ms Pande, but the portly Dinanath Dwivedi instead.

  'Dwivediji! Dwivediji!' the reporters shouted, thrusting mikes and cameras into his face. 'Are you withdrawing?'

  'Nahin,' replied Dwivedi, in his classic understated style, 'hum yahan facial karane aaye hain.' He shouldered through the mass of reporters and emerged fifteen minutes later, looking exceedingly grim. When pressed about the reason for his withdrawal, he said, 'We are giving no statements! You people have done enough damage already! First, you made that tampered tape with our footage - talking all lies about our attitude towards our Muslim brothers. Then you printed a photo of us making motion. And now you are trying to trap us again. Please let us go, we are just a humble servant of the people of Pavit Pradesh.'

  And with that, he too, drove away.

  The press waited agog for the arrival of Sarojini Pande, thinking that now, Zain Altaf Khan would have a virtual walkover into the seat. Local experts, however, were quick to point out that if Sarojini did not withdraw, she had more to gain from the two withdrawals than Altaf Khan. 'Dwivedi was essentially going to weaken some Pragati Party loyalist groups,' they explained. 'Pragati will gain all that back now. And both Dwivedi and Vir Singh had followers amongst the Brahmins of Begumbagh. Now those votes will definitely go to Sarojini.'

  After the offices closed, and the no-show was confirmed, journalists thronged to the gates of Saket Bhavan, the Pande residence in Begumbagh, where they were greeted by an extremely smug grandmother and granddaughter duo. Asked if they knew about the two withdrawals before they happened, both demurred.

  'We are so busy with our own campaigning, who has time to see what all the others are doing?' said Pande Sr. 'It's good that Dwivedi has bowed out; who knows, one day he may even be received back into the Pragati Party with full honour...'

  On Vir Singh, she said tolerantly, 'He is young, he will get many turns to stand, we are so old, let us see our granddaughter win before we die.'

  When queried, Pande Jr said, 'Yes, I think our chances look a lot better, the battle lines have definitely cleared. It's just Zain and me now, and I'm looking forward to a close finish.'

  When asked if there was any truth to the rumour that she was supposed to have withdrawn today, Sarojini replied unhesitatingly, 'None whatsoever.'

  ***

  He was already online when I switched on my laptop that night. I'd kind of expected him to be.

  You evil evil person.

  I grinned. I was on top of the world.

  That would be me, I wrote back cockily. How's Dugguji?

  Apoplectic, he wrote back.

  I giggled.

  Tell him, I wrote, that he can have his money back really soon- it was just a question of liquidity. I'll drive over personally and drop it off.

  He doesn't want your money, he wants your blood, Zain wrote. So you doled out the contents of his suitcase to Vir Singh and the Peel-Eater, d
id you?

  I gurgled with laughter. Of course not! Whatever gave you such a sick, twisted idea?

  Jinni, I salute you, he wrote. You are truly an opponent to be feared and respected.

  I giggled some more. Then he wrote:

  You know, I knew there was something a little off-key last night. You were much too... nice.

  More fool you, I wrote back. I can't believe you actually thought I would pack up and go home that easily. Don't you know me at all?

  I guess not, he wrote. Didn't you mean anything you said?

  I stopped giggling abruptly. Then I wrote, I meant some stuff.

  Good, he wrote back. I meant some stuff too. Now go away and let me think about how I'm going to crush you.

  I couldn't resist writing, In your arms?

  No, you maniac, came the exasperated rejoinder. In the election.

  ***

  10

  It was like Amma had received a second lease of life. She was glowing, looking way younger than her official eighty-seven and unofficial seventy-four years, there was a spring in her stride, and her cheeks were russet-red like apples.

  She'd been really kicked by the way I handled the liquid oxygen crisis. It was supposed to be a sign or something, that her cunning polly blood flowed in my veins. She even called Ma and gloated about it, causing Ma in turn to phone me and enquire if I realized that I was slowly, inexorably turning into Arun Govil.

  'And soon all the Good will go and you will be pure Evil,' said my mother virtuously. 'Don't say I didn't warn you.'

  'Ma, I have to do whatever I can to win this thing,' I told her earnestly. 'It's vital.'

  'Why?' she asked. 'Will Zain make such a horrible MP? Do you have to save Bittora from a fate worse than death or something?'

  'Look, you're not here!' I snapped. 'You have no idea how high the stakes are!'

  'How high are they, Jinni?' she asked mildly.

  'They're very high! Our family legacy, Amma's political future, her standing, her aukaat is at stake, okay?'

  The moment the word was out of my mouth I knew I'd made a mistake. She pounced on it at once.

  'Aukaat?' Ma hissed slowly, vengefully, the way environmentalists hiss 'disposable diapers', personal trainers hiss 'cellulite' or Indian censor board officials hiss 'liplock'. 'Wow, I haven't heard that word for a while. So basically, it's all about aukaat. Is that what you're saying, Jinni?'

  I squirmed uncomfortably. 'Sorry,' I muttered. 'Silly word to use, I know.'

  'It's not just a silly word!' Ma said vehemently. 'It's an evil, egotistical word - it means proper place. It pigeonholes people, stacks them higher or lower in an extremely rigid social pecking order. It's--'

  '--a word that sums up everything that's wrong with India today,' I finished tiredly, rolling my eyes. 'I know, Ma you've only said that like a million times. But things are tough here. You can't understand it sitting over there.'

  'You know what?' she said cryptically. 'I'm starting to think so myself.'

  And then she hung up.

  Whatever. At least my grandmother seemed proud of me.

  The Rapist showed up the next day, lugging a small suitcase half full of liquid oxygen.

  I said hello as nicely as I could, and crossed my arms firmly across my chest, trying not to think about how his fond father had asked me to marry him.

  'Hello!' he replied brightly. 'Please tell, how can I help you? Papa has sent me for that only!'

  Yeah, right. Papa must've figured that we had half a chance because Vir Singh and Dwivedi had thrown in the towel, that was all.

  'Arrey, no need ya, Titu,' I assured him breezily. 'Tell me how we can help you. How's it going inTiloni?'

  Amma came in just then and he dived for her feet. She patted his head with uncalled-for violence and ordered him to sit down and give us the news. He sat down obediently, fixed his eyes on my chest and started talking.

  'Mood is very positive!' he informed my breasts. 'All are saying Pragati can get two-third majority and form the government at the centre without anybody's help even!'

  I nodded, smiling brightly, knowing this wasn't as good news as it appeared to be. Because if the party did really well, but we lost here in Bittoragarh, we couldn't blame it on a 'trend' or an IJP wave or anti-incumbency or anything. It would be our very own personal screw-up.

  Amma didn't seem very impressed either. 'Arrey, what do you know?' she replied rudely. 'Who ij saying? All thoj survey people? They alwayj get it wrong!'

  'Papa is saying,' Titu said doggedly to Amma's breasts. Really, the guy was unbelievable.

  Amma snorted, making it clear she didn't think too much of Papa.

  Titu cleared his throat self-importantly, and locked large lustful eyes with mine. 'Shall I give you some really big news?' he said.

  'What?' I asked uneasily.

  'Top Bra is planning--' he began.

  'Top Brass,' I corrected him, slightly blown away by the vision he'd caused to spring to my mind. 'Top Brass, Titu.'

  'Call me Tits,' he said invitingly.

  I choked.

  'Top Brass,' said Titu, picking up the thread again, 'is planning a rally in Tiloni...'

  'That ij not fair--' Amma started.

  'And Bittoragarh!' finished Titu with the air of one delivering Christmas to the Durguja orphans.

  'Really?' Amma exclaimed delightedly. 'Are you sure? Pukka? How do you know?'

  Titu shrugged modestly. 'Daughter-of-Top-Bra told me. She's taking special interest in this state, you know, Ammaji.'

  'Is she also coming?' Amma asked breathlessly, while I suppressed a groan. My grandmother is like the Pragati Party Top Brass Groupie Number One.

  'Ya ya,' said Titu sweepingly. 'It's all done! Arranged! They will call you from Top Brass's office anytime, today, tomorrow! Ammaji, their charisma is electrifying! You will be bundling out that good-for-nothing kebab cook for sure!'

  Amma beamed. 'See, everybody is coming around because the hawa has changed,' she crowed. 'The two withdrawals have turned the tables in aawar favour! Arrey bhai, Titu,' she said, turning to him impulsively, 'come campaigning with us today! We have eleven public meetings in Begumbagh. Come - send home a good report to Papa!'

  I glared at her, exasperated. Just because she wanted to show the Begumbagh types that Tawney's son was under her thumb, I would have to spend a whole day with the Rapist.

  I smiled politely at Tits, willing him to refuse.

  He hesitated, somehow managed to tear his eyes away from my neckline and nodded. 'Okay, chaliye,' he said obligingly.

  ***

  We swept through the eleven public meetings as smooth as butter, and I was pleased to see that Titu was starting to look less lecherous and more impressed. And this was Begumbagh - the stronghold of the snooty GOBS aka Greedy Oversmart Brahmins and Seths - where Amma was traditionally known to be not-so popular. Titus eyes widened when Vir Singh and Dinanath Dwivedi joined Amma, Munni and me at the podium and said glowing things about my youth and cleanness and about how much Pandit Madan Mohan Pande had done for the country. (They couldn't quite bring themselves to say nice things about Amma, though.) Amma behaved most cordially, and didn't make one rude comment about lauki-ka-chilkas the whole day. I was very proud of her.

  In the evening, Titu went into a huddle with his cell-phone for a while, and then slunk away, declining our invitation to stay for dinner, saying he had to hurry back to Tiloni.

  'I can't believe he had the gurrts to come here!' said Munni, shaking her head as we sipped our evening tea. 'After being so uncooperative before! Chalo, at least he brought a little oxygen. Why did he come anyway, jiji?'

  'He came to tell us that TB is fully behind us and is positive we will win,' said my grandmother regally if not entirely truthfully.

  The crack team left soon after, and Gudia aunty said, as we headed upstairs to sleep, 'Jinni, I'll drop off Dugguji's money tomorrow. I'm going to tell him that we were just about to withdraw, like you'd promised, but when Vi
r Singh and Dwivedi withdrew, we changed our mind, thinking that perhaps now we may stand some small chance of victory. So thank you, but no thank you.'

  'You think he'll buy that?' I asked sceptically.

  'No,' she said serenely. 'But he'll pretend to buy that. And one hundred per cent, they'll dream up some dirty way to get back at you.'

  'You're right,' I replied gloomily. 'I wonder what it will be.'

  ***

  All around the country, things were getting dirtier as India hurtled closer to the first stage of the elections. The news channels were full of it.

  A leading Muslim cleric standing on a KDS ticket in northern Pavit Pradesh had taken up the agenda of the Hyderabadi maulvi. He went around exhorting all Allah-fearing Muslims to marry and impregnate Hindu women and turn all of India slowly Muslim. The EC cameramen, who were lurking about everywhere during this election, recorded it, and now the EC had slapped a show cause notice on the guy, but not before his remarks sent shockwaves through the state. There were rumblings within the supposedly 'purged', newly 'secular' IJP, which was angered at these anti-Hindu sentiments and was doing a lot of sword-rattling of its own, making incendiary remarks and cracking down on 'mixed' families, wherever it could find them in rural PP.

  And because the EC had banned large, colour-coded political party buntings, flags and posters, there was a lot of confusion. A prominent Pragati Party leader had strutted into a large public meeting in a north Indian state, surrounded by gun-toting security guards, stood on the podium and delivered half a speech, filled with stinging criticism of the IJP, before the booing of the crowd alerted him to the fact that he was in the wrong public meeting. He had to flee to his car, leaving half his entourage behind, even as irate IJP supporters pelted him with empty water bottles. This particular incident had affected me deeply, because I sometimes got the sneaking suspicion, when I watched tapes of Zain's speeches, that some of his workers looked rather familiar. They were probably organizing rallies for both of us, I thought uneasily, and earning large sums of money all round.