I ignored the gaggle of desperate hungry mikes magnificently, and had a chat with the party workers at the Pragati table. The envelope money had obviously reached them safely -- they were all kitted out with scarves and caps, and had massive posters of Amma festooned in their stall. They began to chant
Till the moon and sky remain,
Pushpa we will say your name
as soon as they saw me and I had to blink back sudden, stupid tears as I went into the booth to cast my first ever vote as an Indian citizen. In spite of everything, the way I'd been dragooned into standing, Amma's death, and the whole messy PR disaster I'd created, it was a proud moment. I swear I felt Amma smiling her gap-toothed grin beside me, with Bauji just a little behind her, as I pressed the button next to the pointing finger symbol where it read, in indigo blue ink, in not-very-big letters: Sarojini Devi Pande, Indian National Pragati Party.
I got my finger inked -- a messy business -- and the ink turned out to be deep blue, not black, like I'd always thought it to be. 'It turns black later,' the inker told me, smiling, not at all like he thought I was a clingy loser looking for a manly torso to cry on, and I exited the booth, feeling slightly better about the whole thing.
I posed for the press with my pointing inked finger, and then we drove back home, stopping at various booths along the way. 'Not bad,' said Ma, as we sat down to a cup of tea around eleven a.m., 'things seem to be going fairly peacefully.'
But then trouble broke out in Purana Bittora.
The area was unfamiliar to me; we hadn't campaigned there at all, and all my memories of the place were from when Zain and I were kids. I remembered it as a gracious old quarter, full of Krystal ice-cream carts and massive, gnarled neem trees. The Taj Bittora was there, and the Bittora Fort, a couple of cloth markets and the old financial district. It was the area Our Pappu had categorized as ROMP - Rich, Oversmart, Muslim People -- and it seemed they hadn't taken too well to Zain's 'mixed' dalliance with the opposition. A table of his party workers, very cocky because this was their home turf, had shouted something lascivious about me to a table of our party workers, who'd shouted back something equally complimentary about Zain and Bunty and then a major scuffle had broken out. The police - who were on full alert, the district magistrate and police chief having anticipated something like this after the funeral - had moved in and thrown pretty much everybody into the lock-up to cool their heels for a bit.
We got this news through Our Pappu, who was quite sanguine about the whole thing. 'Didi, if there is low turnout because of rioting and violence in Purana Bittora, it will help us a lot!' he said. 'Because Zain bhai is expecting a lead of eighty thousand from there! Just as long as it doesn't get bad enough for the EC to cancel the election!' Which wouldn't happen, he explained, because the people of Jummabagh and Champapul were too sensible to join in the rioting. 'Actually, they were happy when they saw your... heh heh... photu - they said we will get the best of both worlds -- and they know you both are anyways friends because you sat together at the milad-un-nabi function.'
'He's right,' Ma agreed as I gawped at Our Pappu, amazed at this total volte-face in Zain's favour. 'Poor people are always much more broad-minded than the richer classes -- they don't have time for all that hypocritical crap.'
Okay, whatever. So maybe I wasn't going to be such a washout after all. And in the rural areas, mercifully, there had been power cuts yesterday, almost all day long, so none of them had seen the damaging footage of me at the funeral. Besides, the papers got there a day late. I finally had something to thank the extremely inefficient IJP state gourmint for!
'Also, we have instructed our workers to pick them up in tempos to take them for voting early morning,' Rocket Singh told me comfortingly. 'Very early morning -- too early for them to get the news from here and there. And at the booths, we have put big-big portraits of jiji, smiling, laughing, with big marigold garlands around the frames, and we have lit agarbattis also. Doodhiya-Durguja will see you through, didi - pukka.'
Hasina Behenji phoned halfway through the day to say that the polling in Tanki Bazaar had been 'funtaastic'. And didi, there will be hundred per cent turnout here,' she shouted down the line, 'because all of Tanki Bazaar is doing an Offer! If a man comes to the house tonight with an inked finger, he gets a free ride from the ladies - a free ride on the house! All the houses are offering a free ride, so don't worry, you will definitely get Tanki!'
We had no news from Sujanpur but Rocket Singh was optimistic. 'All these years, Sujanpur has voted Pragati,' he said. 'There's no reason why they won't do it again...'
Another bit of news that totally gladdened my heart was that apparently the Hijra in the next constituency had supplied huge amounts of alcohol to the Rapist's workers. They'd been so excited about the success of their TB rally that they'd drunk till dawn and woken up too late to shepherd voters to the booths. Of course, it was too soon to say, but hopefully, god willing, Tits was screwed.
The day passed by in a total blur, the news channels showed the mandatory shots of movie stars, cricketers and top-notch industrialists sporting flashy sunglasses and standing condescendingly in queues with regular people to cast their votes, giving the we-are-like-everybody-else-only ones, and before we knew it, the sun was setting, the buffaloes were walking home and the EVMs had been packed up.
It was over.
I went into my petal room, sat down heavily on my bed, peeled off my tight cotton blouse and sweaty sari wearily. It had been a horribly sticky, stressful day and I was longing for a bath.
Fifteen minutes later, as I was standing under the scanty shower, soaping myself, my mind a thankful blank, Ma's voice came floating through the door to me.
'Oh, Jinni!' she called out gaily. Too gaily. There was definitely somebody with her. 'Zain's here! He wants to meet you! Come on out!'
***
Of course, I got the hell out of there. I yanked on my tracks and a ratty old tee and sneaked out the back door. I was in no mood to meet saakshaat saanp Zain Altaf Khan -- especially not in front of my romance-obsessed, Sarojini-Naidu-love-poem-reading mother, who, like all visiting NRIs, was obviously hoping to squeeze both a funeral and a wedding into one India trip.
I started walking really fast, almost running, actually, and didn't stop till a stitch in my side made me. Doubled up and gasping, I found myself standing right beside the Lion Bridge, looking blindly down at the Bitwa. The water passing below the bridge was a soothing grape green under the gathering clouds. The smell was tolerable, almost pleasant, in a dank sort of way. Still panting, I put my palms down flat against the cool concrete top of the low boundary wall and took several deep breaths. Then I hoicked myself up to sit on the wall.
I gazed at the water for what seemed like a very long time. The wind tugged at my clothes. Birds wheeled around me, the clouds rumbled, the scent of wet earth filled the air. The rain should have cheered me up, like the first rain is supposed to, but it didn't.
'First bhutta of the season, you want?'
He didn't wait for me to answer, just put the cob down on the wall and leapt up lightly to sit beside me, dangling his long legs over the wall.
I had a sudden mad urge to just push him in. Baazigar, I'd hiss with a demented grin, and give him one strong shove into the churning water. But then I remembered, with some chagrin, that he was a really good swimmer.
He held out the bhutta placatingly and looked at me, the familiar dark eyes full of phoney concern. Behind him, the sky suddenly darkened to pitch black. Thunder rumbled menacingly. A long crack of forked lightning rent the sky in two.
Well, why wouldn't it? After all, the super villain had just made his entry.
He said lightly, 'You know, Master Kamruddin was right.'
I didn't say anything, just snatched the bhutta and started on it. I didn't trust myself to speak just yet.
'When I was about five, she used to tell me I looked like Dilip Kumar. She told me he was this big movie star. I was really kicked about it until I sa
w a picture of him in the Sunday papers - the guy was a raddled wreck, all dyed black hair and shiny shoes! Every time she saw me, she'd put one bony finger under my chin, lift it, and proclaim my Dilip Kumarness to the world. It used to embarrass the hell out of me.'
I chewed on my bhutta and continued to say nothing. It was really good, not too soft, crisp, and with just the right amount of nimbu masala.
'She gave me all these fat lifafas full of cash on every birthday,' he continued. 'And Jinni, I'm not sure I remember this right, but I have a distinct memory of sitting in her lap and being fed puri and halwa by hand. By hand. D'you have any idea when that could've been?'
I shook my head.
He looked out at the river and said, with wonderfully simulated sincerity, his voice pitched just right, 'I'm really sorry she passed on. She was a great lady.'
In reply, I tossed my meticulously-picked-clean bhutta core into the river.
He leaned forward, laying a large warm hand over mine. Wow, that one hug at the funeral sure had made him cocky.
'Jinni?' he said gently. 'Your mum told me you may have nicked out the back door. So I followed you. I hope you don't mind, did you want to be alone?'
I turned to look at him at last.
'Bet she didn't tell you,' I said, my voice trembling, 'that I'm onto you.'
He went very still.
'Sorry, what?'
'I know,' I said slowly, so he would get it, 'that Tawny and you are hand in glove. How could you keep accepting money from him for your campaign fund? Shortcut himself told me, so don't bother to deny it!'
He frowned. 'Shortcut?'
'Shafquat ul Haq,' I said tightly.
He didn't look particularly guilty at this accusation, just mildly exasperated.
'So?' he asked.
'You knew he was betraying Amma,' I said heatedly.
'So?' he said again, his fine nostrils flaring.
'Didn't it bother you that Tawny is from the Pragati Party?' I demanded. 'That he was doing something ethically wrong by backing another candidate against his own party's official candidate?'
Zain shrugged.
'Well, if it didn't bother him, I really didn't see why it should bother me,' he said matter-of-factly. 'He was giving me funds - no strings attached - and all he wanted in return was that I should defeat you. Which I wanted to do, anyway. There was nothing underhand about that!'
'That's what you think,' I said hotly. 'He'll make you sit quietly while he screws the tribals in Durguja!'
'Jinni, I have a plan for that, believe me.'
'You could've warned me,' I said and instantly wished I hadn't. It sounded pathetically Nave.
He shot me this very dirty look. 'Yeah, just like you warned me that you weren't going to withdraw.'
I flushed.
'But you betrayed the IJP's trust!' I said.
He did the lazy eyebrow raise.
'How?' he asked, reasonably enough.
I made a small, frustrated noise in my throat. 'Tits got those pamphlets printed!'
'Says who?' Zain demanded.
'Nulwa--' I started to say, then stopped. I didn't want to blow my sources but it was too late.
'Young Nauzer,' said Zain icily. 'You've been getting pretty thick with him...'
I ignored this extremely ignorable remark. 'You knew Tits and Tawny got them printed, didn't you?'
Zain sighed. 'Well, maybe I suspected.' Then he turned to look at me, his dark eyes earnest. 'But I didn't know they were going to do it.'
I laughed. 'I'm sorry -- but that I don't believe.'
A long silence.
Except for thunder.
Except for lightning.
Finally, he shrugged, looked at the river tumbling below us, and said, 'Look, I'm tired of these games. You met me so sweetly yesterday. We'd been fighting, I had no idea what kind of reception I'd get, Bunty said I was crazy to go to the funeral... but when you met me like that, I thought, wow, she's glad to see me, she values this relationship too! I thought we could put this whole stupid election behind us and move on to something good. I was...' he hesitated, his face twisted, 'well, I was ecstatic'
'I'm sure you were ecstatic when you saw the picture in today's paper,' I muttered resentfully, hugging my knees.
He looked at me in total disbelief.
'Whoa! Don't you dare pin that one on me! I wasn't the one who fell into your arms in public and cried a river!' His voice softened, as he added musingly, 'It felt really nice, by the way. Made me feel like this strong, silent rescuer guy.'
I didn't say anything. Bad mistake. Because his voice promptly grew deeper, more intimate. 'I wanted to scoop you up right there in that stupid temple, and carry you out and make love to you forever. I have no idea how I restrained myself.'
'It's not a stupid temple,' I muttered, looking anywhere but into his disturbingly warm eyes.
'Okay,' he said, looking amused, and tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. 'Clever temple.'
'And anyway,' I continued, 'what kind of sicko sociopath has thoughts like that at a funeral?'
'You're twisting my words,' he said mildly.
Then he added, his voice a husky caress, 'No sweet, clinging hugs for me now that we're all alone in the rain, Jin?'
I sucked in air so fast I almost choked. 'Are you nuts?' I hissed, outraged.'I don't trust you! Not for a moment! You've just admitted that you've been lying to me all along. I hadn't managed to piece it together at the funeral, unfortunately. I was feeling lost and lonely and you showed up, oozing fake concern... and now,' I swallowed convulsively, blinking back sudden tears, 'now, I'll probably lose the election because of that one stupid, stupid gesture.'
He flinched. His eyes, so warm a moment ago, became unreadable. The wind had died down a little, and in the whipping stillness that remained, his voice finally rang out, low and steady and furious.
'Fine. If we're getting into trust, let's just go over it once from my point of view, shall we?' His accent had gotten all clipped, never a good sign. He held up his hands and started ticking off on his fingers. 'You took money from my uncle. You said I'm homosexual and that I'm dating Bunty Sisodia and we have orgies at the Taj. You claimed my father was an indiscriminate, incestuous lecher and that my family has robbed the people of Bittoragarh for centuries. You boasted that you were having an affair with me in order to get some guy you -- or maybe one of your drivers? -- ran over, admitted into my hospital. And oh, I nearly forgot, you tried to get me disqualified by planting a whole lot of your illegal campaign money into my vehicle. So please could you tell me why I should trust you?'
I bit my extra large lower lip. Damn. I'd forgotten all about my foiled attempt to get him disqualified. And all the mean things Amma and I had said about him during the campaigning. So maybe he had a point there. But I hadn't run over anybody! How dare he think so?
'Look, Zain,' I said, trying to fight the constricted feeling in my chest. 'I know I said some pretty nasty things - we both said pretty nasty things! But--'
He flung up one imperious hand.
'No, Jinni,' he said, in that same quiet, clipped voice. 'Enough is enough. I know you're devastated about losing your grandmother but frankly, I've had it. Just too many unforgivable things have been insinuated here. Obviously, re-igniting this... this thing, whatever this thing is, was a bad idea. I blame myself. I've been an idealistic, nostalgic idiot. It was nine years ago that I saw you last and, frankly, nine years won't be soon enough not to see you again.'
And with that, he leapt off the wall, the same one we used to run along when we were kids, and strode away in the rain.
***
The next few days passed in a blur. Ma and I endured the four day ceremony somehow, and then took the train back to Delhi like a couple of physically and emotionally wrung-out rats. The driveway of the house on Tughlaq Raod was knee deep in floral tributes to Amma, but when we finally waded through them and managed to enter the house, the phone was ringing - it was the CPWD,
telling us very gently but firmly that the house had to be vacated within three months. It was a Grade A Lutyens' bungalow, bang in the heart of Delhi, and many cabinet ministers, Supreme Court judges and party general secretaries had been lusting after it during the thirty years that Amma and Bauji had occupied it. Very often, during that depressing monsoon, as I sat in the verandah, straggly haired, having my very own staring-at-the-jamun-trees crisis, just like Amma, I would see white Ambassadors slowing down on the road outside and random VIPs leaning out to count the number of bedrooms and trying to assess the state of the loos, like burglars casing a joint.
'Vultures, all of them,' said Ma in disgust. 'I tell you, this whole political system sucks. Jinni, promise me, if you win you'll keep your dignity and never stay in these stupid, crumbling, termite-ridden, bandicoot-overrun, anthill-infested houses.'
I tried to tell her that as a first-time MP I would be lucky if I was assigned a tiny flat somewhere, but she wasn't listening. She was too busy losing it because we were having to pack up the whole house.
Amma had been a compulsive hoarder. The furniture in the house was mainly CPWD, thankfully, so that wasn't a big deal -- but there was an entire room full of photo albums and every single issue of Bauji's firebrand pre-independence newspaper Azaadi. There were three cupboards full of saris and four full of expensive shawls, seventeen cane chairs that Bauji had woven in prison, and an entire garage full of gifts the two of them had received from visiting dignitaries from all over the world.
Gudia aunty, who would've been of great help in sorting through the garage, had mysteriously melted away. Or rather, she'd decided that now that Amma was no longer around, there was no need for her to hang out with horrible, accusation-hurling me. Besides, she couldn't stand Ma. Or maybe she'd just decided that our ship was going to sink and had sensibly deserted it.
Ma spent an entire week going through the stuff. Every now and then I'd find her weeping over some old article of Bauji's or a photo of Amma with Golda Meir or something. But mostly, she just grumbled about how much junk there was.
Battle for Bittora Page 32
