Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  'Hello, it's not that far-fetched,' I said, just a little piqued.

  'Oh, I know you played together when you were kiddies,' she tittered. 'But a romantic involvement? That's just bizarre.'

  I put down the tea strainer and looked at her.

  She hadn't actually come out and said that Zain was hot and ex-royal and foreign educated and rich, while I was this unhot, uncouth loser. But she'd totally implied it. She had. It was there in the toss of her head, in the gleam in her watery eyes, in the curl of her thin upper lip.

  I saw red. I was overworked and underlaid and bitter and messed up, but that's no excuse. I should've known better.

  But I didn't.

  'Oh, I don't know, bizarre things happen,' I said coolly, looking her straight in the eye. 'I mean, why would you wear my bra? That's pretty bizarre - but you're wearing it, aren't you?'

  I regretted the words the moment they were out of my mouth.

  She looked stricken. Her large watery eyes filled up like enormous goldfish bowls. Her enormous nose wobbled. She turned an extremely unattractive shade of puce, gave a weird grunting sob, flung down the paper and blundered away, not to be seen for the rest of the day.

  I remained standing in the kitchen, appalled.

  How could I have been so unkind?

  I knew that she couldn't control her kleptomania, that she had a hysterectomy at twenty and that her husband had left her and not even for anyone else. I knew the whole sad story. And still I'd snapped at her, me with my perfect life and my famous grandmother and my intact ovaries and my alleged ex-royal admirer.

  I sucked.

  I sat down on Joline Bai's kitchen stool, picked up the quilted tea cosy and pulled it over my head.

  I should just stay put here, I told myself gloomily. Inside this nice, dark tea cosy tent. I'll inhale this stale smell and keep my stupid mouth shut and emerge after six years, when both this election and the next are safely over...

  ***

  The tea revived Amma.

  She took a long sip and sat up, her eyes all beady-bright.

  'Bhai, only Top Brass can save us now,' she declared. 'Sarojini, we had better make sure everything is on track for the rally...'

  Oh, not again. We'd already discussed the arrangements for the TB rally some fifty times. It was all Amma talked about now. She'd made up her mind that the only way to change the hawa once again was to give the teeming masses of Bittora a solid dose of Top Brass charisma.

  I told her, 'Amma, we all know the arrangements by heart.'

  'Phir se batao,' she insisted. 'Tell us again!'

  Ufff.

  'The TB will first be addressing a rally in Tiloni,' I rattled off, 'to give Tits a solid headstart against the Hijra. Then he and his daughter will drive over to our constituency, bringing Tawny and Tits with them. Our Pappu will be driving the Sumo containing Top Brass, you and Tawny, while Tits and I will follow in the one behind. Our Sumo will be driven by Jugatramji. Munni and Rocket Singh will follow in a third Sumo, travelling with some important Top Brass aides, who go everywhere he goes. A garland of fragrant roses and pure, finest quality jasmine, weighing forty-seven kilos and costing one lakh rupees has been organized for you, me and TB to be photographed in. Full-page spaces have been taken in all the Bittora papers for a photo the next day. The podium is fully air-cooled, the chairs are of the finest leather and the catering is being done by the Oberoi group, arch rivals of the Taj Bittora. There is even to be, for the first time in Bittora, a fine, almost invisible, state-of-the-art mosquito netting set on the podium, to keep the mossies at bay'

  I stopped, a little out of breath.

  'Good, good.' Amma nodded. 'It all seems good. And if TB wants to go to toilet?'

  'A fancy porta-toilet has been ordered from the guys who supply them for the most expensive Bollywood outdoor location shoots,' I informed her.

  'Excellent!' She grinned. 'Now...'

  Just then, Our Pappu, Munni and Rocket Singh trooped in, copies of the 'Neck to Neck or Necking' piece in their hands, eager to commiserate and confabulate. I quickly deflected them.

  'What's the latest on the rally, team?' I asked brightly. 'Everything under control?'

  Munni frowned. I could tell that she wanted to drop in on the journo who'd written the article and make him eat about two thousand copies of it. After dipping them in hydrochloric acid.

  'Didi...' she began, her voice strident.

  'Let's just talk about the crowds for the rally, Munni, okay?' I said pleasantly, cutting her off.

  The protuberant, doll-like eyes blinked.

  'Okkkay,' she said, adjusting rapidly. 'So then... the crowds. Let's discuss tempos, buses, fetching, dropping, clapping at the right time - all that.'

  They all started talking together. We had to have a big showing tomorrow. If the crowds failed us, Amma's nose would really be cut - but apparently, everything was under control. Money, drivers, diesel, people, everything seemed to be in place.

  And that's when Jugatram rushed in, all dramatically, and said in a low, fast, double-oh-seven type whisper, 'Jiji, baby, Zain baba is also having a big rally day after tomorrow.'

  Amma sniffed, unimpressed, very much the M to his James. 'So what? He can't compete with our rally. Top Brass is coming to our rally.'

  Jugatram shook his head. 'Didi, just listen, pay attention! You know that movie, Jeevan Apnaa Saara, Sanam? Which was shot at the Bittora Fort?'

  'Yes, I do, Jugatramji,' I said impatiently. It was this totally cheesy movie. About a princess and an auto-rickshaw driver. They fall in love and elope in the auto, and are shot dead by her autocratic brother in the end, leaving behind a curly-haired baby to be brought up by the girl's jilted, good-hearted ex-fiance. It had been a super-duper hit. 'What about it?'

  'Zain baba became great friends with the stars when it was being shot,' said Jugatram. 'So now...' He paused.

  'So now what, Jugatramji?' we chorused.

  He shrugged and said, his shoulders drooping, 'So now, Salmon Khan is coming for Zain baba's rally.'

  ***

  11

  I woke up on the day of the rally with a sense of foreboding. There was a hard knot in my stomach and a dull ache between my eyes. It's today, a voice whispered inside my head. The rally to which no one will come.

  I groaned, threw off the covers and got out of bed, while the buffaloes stamped their way down the street, blowing and lowing, their bells ding-dinging softly.

  I sipped my bhainscafe gloomily in the aangan, with no one but Ponky for company. Amma was already at her snaan, Gudia aunty was still sulking at me and the crack team obviously had a million things to do today. Even Joline Bai wasn't around. She was probably getting a facial and a manicure to look pretty for Salmon Khan.

  We had all tried to convince Amma to cancel the Top Brass rally, pleading that it would be career-destroying for her if the TB showed up and the crowd didn't, but Amma was adamant. She insisted that we were panicking for no good reason, and that it just was a case of calling a bluff and making the other guy blink.

  'Arrey, no Bollywood actor-shaktor will have the gurrrts to hold a rally on the same day as a TB rally!' she had declared, with typical Praggu delusion. 'They also know whose gourmint is coming! They know that if they get too big for their boots, TB can get them put into jail like this, because of some chota tax evasion or drug addiction or immorality or something else! Wait and see, once that Salmon finds out who is coming here tomorrow, he will cancel himself!'

  Such had been her confidence that I'd fallen for it, even sleeping well last night. But now it was morning, and I was convinced the people of Bittora had been up since five, pumping iron, stripping down to their waists and pushing their hair back in wire hairbands, getting ready for the wonder and the weirdness that was Salmon Khan. And who could blame them? Bollywood stars hardly ever came to Pavit Pradesh. It was just too far out.

  But Our Pappu bounced into the aangan, brimming with confidence. 'Hello, didi!' he said brightly
. A shiny silver digital camera, suspended from a nylon cord, was bouncing against his chest, which, in turn, was encased in a horrid blood-red and Burnol-yellow checked bush shirt. 'What can I do for you? What is your wish? Anything you want! I will do anything! I will do everything!'

  'Err... nice shirt, Pappu,' I said faintly.

  'Thenks,' he grinned. 'Aisa hai ke, I want to look smart in the photu with Top Brass, na!'

  He seemed very confident that huge hordes would show up for our rally, and insisted that everything was under control. He wasn't at all fussed about Salmon Khan and said, large-heartedly, that there were more than enough people in Bittoragarh to fill two measly maidans - Company Bagh, where our rally was, and the Purana Bittora park, where Zain's rally was supposed to be held. He also reassured me that Bittora had seen Salmon before, when he'd come for the Jeevan Apnaa Saara, Sanam shooting. So he wasn't that big a deal, really.

  Which did make me feel a little better.

  'But tell me the truth, Pappu,' I asked him. 'If you had a choice - who would you rather go and see?'

  He frowned. 'As Pragati Party MLA, of course I would want to see TB,' he said finally, 'but as common man, perhaps Salmon bhai would be my choice... But don't worry, didi, their rally will definitely go housefull, so all the extra people will come for our show!'

  Fortified with this tepid reassurance, I went to my room to get ready, taking a vigorous mugga-balti bath and slipping into a white sari with an orange and pink border and a firoza blue blouse. I slipped the tri-coloured Pragati Party scarf around my neck, ruffled my hair until it regained its Bombay rosebudness and sighed at my reflection in the mirror.

  My life was such a mess! My grandmother - my only blood relative who gave a damn about me, because my mum obviously didn't - was barely speaking to me. My oldest friend had turned out to be a complete snake. My career was on hold, my reputation was in shreds, I badly needed a haircut, and I was reduced to depending on the bloody Pragati Party Top Brass, an entity I've always felt vaguely resentful of, to bail me out of the sorry mess I found myself in.

  Tawny uncle had told Amma that the TB would be speaking at eleven in Tiloni and would arrive at Begumbagh by one. They'd be here forty whole minutes before driving on to the three other constituencies they would be speaking in today. Obviously, they too, were trying to pack in as much as possible on the last day of campaigning. So we set off for the venue at twelve, to get the crowds nicely stoked with music and dancing and a couple of fiery speeches.

  My spirits rose when Jugatram drove us into the Company Bagh grounds - the place was packed. Amma and I walked triumphantly down the aisle towards the podium, amidst deafening cheers, and took our places behind the long white table. Our name cards had been placed at the two extreme ends of the table. I was next to TB junior, Amma was next to TB senior. Tawny uncle's name card had been placed bang in the middle.

  I quickly realized Our Pappu wasn't the only one who wanted a photo with TB. Almost as soon as we sat down, a perspiring old man in a wheelchair pounced on me, crying eagerly, 'Didi, I want a photu with Top Brass. I am HIV-positive! You must make sure I get a chance!'

  'Okay, okay,' I promised sympathetically.

  A truculent looking dude in a turban roughly swung the wheelchair out of the way. 'I want a photu with Top Brass,' he said aggressively. 'I won a bronze medal in the 1992 National Games! For wrestling,' he added, flexing his muscles.

  'I am a Kargil widow,' said a thin reedy voice from behind the bronze-medallist. 'My husband laid-down-his-life-for-thee-country. I demand a photu with Top Brass.'

  They circled me and started yelling threateningly, all at once. Which was when Munni sailed in and told them to beat it.

  I would have expected them to start lashing out at us, but they took it rather well. The guy in the wheelchair actually got up, folded the wheelchair, and limped away. Probably to Zain's rally where he might have better luck with Salmon Khan.

  Meanwhile, Amma had popped two silver-coated elaichi pods in her mouth and was smiling at the crowd benignly. She looked perfectly composed, if a little pale, not at all like someone whose moron granddaughter was out to destroy her life's work and reputation. I felt a sudden, fierce urge to hug her. Maybe sensing my glance, Amma looked up just then, caught my eye, and winked, flashing her gap-toothed smile. I smiled back, and then Rocket Singh launched into a long speech, extolling the virtues of me, Amma, the TB and the party. I tuned out, looking dreamily at the three garish red rosebuds surrounded by the inevitable morpankhi in the brass vase in front of me, sure that everything would be fine now. The crowd was here, they hadn't ditched us for the Salmon Khan gig, and soon the Top Brass would arrive. I thought idly that I should be revising my speech, but I'd learnt it by heart and there was tons of time yet. Besides, the Oberoi catering team had just sent up the first tray of refreshments from their mobile kitchen and it smelled divine. Sucks to you, Maruti Zain, I said to myself as I bit into a crisp, delicious canape. Bet you aren't serving anything half as fancy at your rally. I took a long luxuriant pull at my Pepsi, safe in the thought that there was a fancy porta-toilet parked right outside. Campaigning like this was a piece of cake.

  Behind me, people were scurrying about, giving the busy ones. Munni and Rocket Singh, staggering under the weight of the forty-seven kilo, one lakh rupee garland, were at the base of the podium. I could smell the roses and jasmine from my seat on the podium. Our Pappu, looking nervous but extremely excited, was talking to a little knot of workers, his spiffy digital camera still dancing against his chest. Probably telling them about how he was going to escort Top Brass to the venue, I thought snidely. Then I frowned. Hey, how come Pappu was still here? He should've left to receive TB at the border half an hour ago. Were they running late?

  I turned around to ask Amma why Our Pappu was still here, when I saw Gudia aunty rush up from her place in the front row to whisper something into Amma's ear. Amma heard her out, her face set. Then she nodded and beckoned me, and hissed, 'It's your speech now, Jinni, get up and make it.'

  I looked at her, perplexed. 'Already? What about Top Brass, Amma?'

  She said, her voice unnaturally calm, 'Tawny's rally was running late, so TB decided to fly here instead of driving. But now the helicopter haj engine troublej. They won't make it in time, Sarojini. They are not coming. Now go and make your speech.'

  ***

  I don't remember a word of what I said that day. I'd revised my speech so many times, I probably just rattled it off like Rajul rattling off the five times table. My palms were clammy with ice-cold sweat, my heart was sick for Amma. The crowd, plied with alcohol and snacks, clapped at the right moments and cheered me gamely. The only bit of my speech I do recall, word for word, is the bit right at the end, where I had to say pretty much this:

  'Beloved, respected brothers and sisters, it is with great regret that I have to tell you that our great leader and his daughter who were coming to meet you today, will not be able to make it. The young lady took ill and had to be rushed back to Delhi. They send their deepest love and regrets to you and beg you to forgive their absence and hope that you will vote for the progressive, democratic Pragati Party so that we can all make progress. Jai Hind.'

  There was a stunned silence when I sat down, as though the crowd hadn't quite internalized my last remark - and then they started muttering. Ominously. The news of the no-show seemed to sweep through the rows of seated people and across the grounds like the shadow of a huge cloud rolling in and blotting out the sun. Then the thunder started. Roars. Boos. Hoarse cries.

  Our Pappu appeared like a genie behind my chair. 'Didi, chalo,' he whispered urgently. 'Jiji and you had better get out of here.'

  He whisked Amma and me off the podium even as the hired dancers came on to sing a funny, anti-Zain parody. They didn't make it past the third line of the song. The crowd started throwing things at them and the dancers, instead of exiting like sensible people, chose to stay on stage and hurl abuses at the crowd instead.

 
I marched out quickly to the Sumos with my head down, letting Our Pappu and Jugatram lead the way, while the dancers pleaded cordially with the crowd (Sit down, maadarchod, Show some class, behenchod).

  Engine trouble, my ass, I thought bitterly. Karan Sethie was right, this party was a joke. We were all at the mercy of the whims and fancies of the Top Brass who acted like some kind of pre-independence royalty. He must've just thought that Bittora was a lost cause, so why bother showing up. Or that the weather was too hot. Or that Salmon Khan was coming, why risk going and being photographed in an empty ground.

  The moment we were back in the Sumo and honking madly to get through the chaotic parking lot, Gudia aunty burst out, 'What is this, madam, this is just not done! They owe you an explanation!'

  But Amma remained silent, head bowed, saying nothing. Nothing at all. She looked like she wasn't hearing a word Gudia aunty was saying. She looked every bit of her supposed eighty-seven years.

  'Leave it, Gudia aunty,' I said hesitantly. (She still wasn't talking to me.) 'Amma doesn't want to talk. Let her be.'

  'She always wants to talk,' Gudia aunty snapped at me. She reached out and shook Amma's shoulder. 'Say something, madam!' she beseeched. 'You're scaring me.'

  'Duck,' said Amma suddenly, very loud and clear.

  I frowned. 'What?' I asked. 'Why should I duck?'

  She shook her head impatiently. 'Duck,' she repeated. 'We need Duck.'

  'To eat?' I asked, puzzled.

  She shot me a baleful, completely exasperated look and glanced beyond me at Gudia aunty, who gave a sudden loud, dying-turkey gulp and gasped, her voice all panicky, 'Oh, madam, do you want your doctor?'

  Amma nodded. 'Duck Saab,' she said faintly, looking at Gudia aunty gratefully. 'We want aawar Duck Saab.'

  Then she fell forward and we noticed how laboriously she was breathing. And the nightmare really began.

  ***

  'Didi, coffee.'

  I took the proferred cup of bhainscafe and cradled it between my hands, blowing on the yucky thick skin on top. I might as well drink it - it would be the first thing to go into my stomach since the Oberoi canape I'd had at noon.