The breakdown of his resignations was roughly as follows:
Over irritations caused by colleagues in the Flyover Fast-Track: 37
Over being offered a share of a corrupt deal: 15
Over anti-Muslim legislation (such as renaming streets in Delhi so as to have distribution of Muslim and Hindu names proportional to the respective populations, or the establishment of a Hindu Holocaust Museum that declared that nearly 10 million Hindus had been massacred by Muslim invaders): 6
Over not being offered a share of a corrupt deal (these were those rare deals where every single member of the party was involved—why should he have been left out? Didn’t he have thirteen children to educate?): 2
Over snide remarks directed at him about family planning: 2
What would happen after he sent in his letter was routine. He’d take a day off from work. He’d ignore phone calls and refuse to clear files. The Super Prime Minister—Mrs. Rupa Bhalla—would call him up and say, What is the matter? Then, when Rakesh explained, she’d cajole and weep and invite him to dinner and request him to stay. Let’s reach a compromise, she’d say. He’d decline. She’d beg, the small knot of her hands quivering on her gargantuan thigh. He’d be terrified. He’d stay. It was crucial that everything have the clap-till-you-drop predictability of an encore at a concert.
More often that not, the problem was fixed.
Now Rakesh sat in his office at the Ministry of Urban Development and fiddled with the ragged papier-mâché box that contained his sixty-two letter-headed missives. This was the first time he was actively searching for a reason to resign. He simply wanted the day free to talk to Arjun.
He pressed his buzzer.
There was a cough behind him. Mr. Ahuja turned around.
Sunil Kumar, answerer of buzzes, token drone of the bureaucratic beehive, purveyor of chai: Sunil Kumar stood before Mr. Ahuja in a perfect, diligent slouch.
“Bring me chai,” said Mr. Ahuja.
“Yes, sir. Also, there is a file for you from the Ministry of Minorities.”
Then he disappeared. After a few minutes, he returned, sans chai.
“The file?” Mr. Ahuja asked Sunil Kumar, staring out the window.
“The file is in your office only.”
Sunil Kumar was shouting but neither Mr. Ahuja nor he noticed. Years of working together had guaranteed them an equivalent deafness.
“It is not here, yaar. Otherwise I wouldn’t call you,” Mr. Ahuja said, speaking into the glass. It was suddenly as if he were at a huge rally—perched upon a pedestal four stories high, suave and sage-like in a giant, bulletproof box. The only flaw in the design was that the audience happened to be inside the box with him. He couldn’t be saved.
“Sir, you are looking sad,” Sunil said. “Besides, it is bad when the nose of a great man is touching the window, no?”
“What?”
“Sir, are you seeing that bird on your table?” He pointed to a small curio on Mr. Ahuja’s table, a tiny silver bird reposing perilously, almost magically, on the sharp tip of its beak—the remainder of the torso suspended in air like a seesaw waiting to drop. “Well sir, the nose is a great man’s center of gravity as well. And so sir if you are pushing against the window, then perhaps it is showing some deeper sadness.”
“You talk such nonsense. Are you trying to be a poet like Vajpayee? Now give the file.”
“Which file?” Sunil asked.
“You just said you had given it to me. Now you’re asking which file?”
“Sir—”
“The file from the Ministry of Minorities!” Mr. Ahuja yelled, turning around now. His nose felt sufficiently frozen.
“Oh sir.”
“What?” Mr. Ahuja asked. “What?”
“It is under the bird’s beak only.”
It was. He knifed open the envelope with his thin index finger and took out a poorly cyclostyled one-page document. It was a bill entitled Diversity of the Motherland Act. The bill, buttery in his hands, paper-cut thin, see-through in the muted light, to be voted on ten days from now, was a pernicious almost-fascist document, calling for the compulsory registration of all Muslims “for reasons of diversity and national security”—a document Mr. Ahuja recognized because he had so vehemently opposed it at the cabinet meeting two weeks ago.
The author? Vineet Yograj. The head of the infamous, eponymous Yograj Commission. Perfect. This was all he needed. Vineet Yograj was his nemesis.
Mr. Ahuja usually dictated his letters on the move, but today he sat down at his desk and rattled away at his keyboard.
Dearest Shrimati Rupa-ji:
I hope this finds you in the best of health and wealth. I decided to write to you in the eleventh hour about our fellow party member Vineet Yograj—a man towards whom I harbour, if you recall, the same level of affection I feel for the Pakistani cricket team, George Bush, and the advent of the tiny triangular wedge of hair grown by men between the age of twenty-one and thirty-one under their lower lips. I apologise in advance for ranting; more is to follow; in the course of this letter I may well resign; heaven help us if I do.
Etc. Etc.
Firstly, I would like to address the Diversity of the Motherland Act. I am so moved by this communal anti-Muslim document that as a companion I suggest the following—A bill to legalise betting over the outcome (i.e., death toll) and frequency (i.e., when) of Hindu-Muslim communal riots in India and to achieve this by allowing for the trading of Riot Stocks. Let us call this the Riot Stock Exchange Bill. If we are going to kill people, let us at least make money off it!
(Enclosed)
On the subject of money, three days ago I discovered that the Honourable Secretary Vineet Yograj had harnessed the loose morals of several key individuals in the Urban Ministry using chains made of gold and was awarding contracts for flyovers to the DharmaLok Company, run, as you are aware, by his son-in-law Vir Pranam Bakshi, former alleged rapist. The DharmaLok Company is best known for its exquisitely substandard materials, gross overcharging of the Ministry and a standard rate of dividing the surplus “funds” between good members of the PWD (20%) and Vineet Yograj’s family (80%). Worse, it seems that I have acquired such a reputation for honesty and associated evangelism that Yograj didn’t even see fit to offer me the standard Ministerial share of 5% (I am joking, of course!). If he had, I would of course have taken the black-money and not come true on my end of the bargain. Furthermore, I would have been able to intervene before my wonderful Cabinet Secretary for Urban Development added a full twenty-five extra flyovers for the corridor near Rohini—two to be constructed over primary schools, three over Heart Institutes, and one over a—yes—another flyover (this is not Shanghai!).
Of course, there is also the problem of Yograj’s social behaviour, which, I must admit, as a long-standing member of this party, I find disturbing. When not engaged in petty corruption that could ruin the future of an entire city—the country’s capital, that too—he is well occupied by the pursuit of making a complete and utter ass of himself at social gatherings, on TV shows, and at weddings. His favourite and most detestable move is to introduce himself as the “Hony. Secretary” of the party. “Hony” not “Honorary.” You will be surprised how many people know the English word for randiness that I am covertly referring to; one MP from a province of U.P. who is good friends with Yograj and who I will not name was the first to point it out. I think it is unfortunate that the whole country is having a hearty laugh at the expense of one of our spokespeople.
Then there is the issue of the Grandfatherly Peck he was found giving to children under the age of five. No additional description by me can further fertilize the field day the newspapers had.
Finally, are you aware that he has brought about a motion to change the symbol of the party?
(The original party image for the KJSZP [H2O2] Party was a bar of soap with an inverted, spiky bottle-cap pressed under it. The image was one of cleanliness, improvisation, urban thrift—of keeping your soap elevated
above the sink so as to prevent it from slowly dissolving away at the point of contact. Unfortunately, during the Kargil War, it was discovered, in a random survey, that most people simply thought the contraption was an overturned, defeated battle-tank. Further, because wars in India generated universal patriotism—there was no question of being peace-mongers for Pakistan—volunteers for the party over the years had been taught to stick posters upside-down, keeping the tank erect. Ready for firing as it rolled about on its soapy wheels.)
The new symbol he is suggesting is a flyover with a cow stationed under it. Not only is this a personal affront to me, but it is also a major misunderstanding of our goals: one, we do not want to encourage cows to seek any kind of housing—whether temporary or permanent—under flyovers, and two, has Mr. Yograj forgotten that nearly 80% of this country lives in the villages and has never seen this much vaunted flyover?
The point, quite simply, is that Yograj is not a country-man.
Worse, Yograj is not a party-man.
Which is why I will not tolerate Yograj’s presence in the party one more minute. I do hope you will take the needful action; it is long overdue; I have asked you before. This should be a fairly straightforward process. I have clear proof that Vineet Yograj has interfered in the Flyover Fast-Track Project. Therefore, I am hardly out-of-line in asking that action be taken against him. Indeed, I am ready to give up everything for this cause.
For instance, my Minister-ship.
Please accept my resignation.
Your Humble Servant,
Rakesh Ahuja.
Something had happened in the writing: Rakesh felt transformed. His vital signs were skyrocketing. He slapped his blue chair into a violent swirl and watched it dervish to a stop. He knew his resignation letter to the Super Prime Minister (SPM) had gotten out of hand. His rage had edited out everything but the most forthright expressions of rudeness (I do hope you will take the needful action; it is long overdue; I have asked you before). Just like frowning itself can generate sadness in a person (rather than vice versa), the act of resignation had flexed Mr. Ahuja’s latent musculature of revenge, heightening his sense of disgust not only with Yograj but also with the SPM, Rupa Bhalla. Yes, it was she Rakesh was most disappointed in—Yograj was scum, he expected nothing better from him—but the SPM had encouraged his more idealistic tendencies and then stood by as his Flyover Fast-Track was summarily junked.
When she’d come to power, she’d given him his portfolio of choice—the Ministry of Urban Development—and routinely congratulated him for running a “tight ship.” Rakesh too was overjoyed, foolishly energetic, puffing up his chest on his stupid tight ship. He had spent years studying sustainable design as a hobby, and his suppressed civil engineering knowledge had thrummed out in straight, thick, confident lines from the left-brain when he came to power.
He was unusual in that respect: a minister who actually had a skill-set that rivaled that of the engineers doing his bidding. In his first months, down in the mosquito-haunted basement of the PWD building, he had laid out the Delhi Master Plan, smoothed the predictably yellow document with two formless, coral-trapping paperweights, and superimposed his vision on it with the lightest of 2B pencils. This was his bid to defeat fifty years of slipshod Delhi Development Authority planning with one grand gesture; he transferred all the civil servants that argued with him; he bullied his witty Under Secretary into excavating the secrets of the ancient bureaucracy. He greeted truant employees with giant pay-cuts. He threatened to resign when needled with political interferences. The newspapers and magazines—India Today, The Times of India, The Hindu—all those publications that hoped for a great, intellectual, middle-class hero, trumpeted his virtues. For them, the suave black-haired minister was the new Lutyens. He was an antidote to the sleepy ninety-year-olds who ran Parliament. He wore a suit and tie and had an IIT degree and was proficient with e-mails and the Internet and had an American brashness about him that made him seem like a holdover from Rajiv Gandhi’s technocratic cabinet—only with bigger, better brains. He certainly had a plan. He wasn’t waiting for the forced trigger of an Olympics or Asian Games to get the city stenciled into shape. He wasn’t stacking half-hearted terraces of tar over the city for temporary respite. He was building a system that seemed positively futuristic, a brilliant aside to the National Highway he was also implementing. Tracks of elevated road adding extra brio to the tired Ring Roads. Gurgaon and Noida brought within twenty minutes of IIT campus by a miracle. Squat malls zoned in the space left free beneath the cacophonous, if numbingly constant, roar of traffic on the flyovers.
Individually taken, each flyover was a work of architectural genius (shaped like tigers, elephants, bicycles, and even a rhino), built at such an unusual elevation that beneath it one could create tiny cities—malls and gardens and fairs massively shadowed by concrete.
Reality was the ultimate bulldozer. Political pressures and jokers like Yograj had contorted the plan into a shape that was far from perfect. The paper model in Rakesh’s study at home presented a severely shrunken idea of the problems that awaited Delhi. Yes, traffic would be eased, but too many flyovers were being erected, the city was being randomly suffocated with concrete, the horizon had collapsed under a view of second-floor balconies and clotheslines fluttering with underwear, every politician in Delhi wished to distract his disappointed voters with a giant, noisy, jing-bang of modernity, the flyover. For some reason, no one doubted the sandstone sexiness of an overpass. People believed in them with a preindustrial innocence. They earnestly put up with months of noise and pollution if it meant fast transit in the future.
Only, of course, transit wouldn’t be much faster. It’d just be an uglier city.
Now Rakesh bitterly perused the e-mail. He’d suppressed his disappointment over the Flyover Fast-Track because he knew that idealism itself was a sort of political immaturity. Sending in such a fiery resignation would curtail his chances of advancement in the party. The SPM would not tolerate such blatant rudeness. She was more goddess than woman. It was a ritual in the party to drink the rosewater she’d used to clean her feet. During cabinet-shuffle-time ministers and MPs pitched tents in her garden to stress their loyalties. So what if the party was at an all-time low. So what if it was losing all the state polls and its popularity rating was dismal. He ought to soften his language. He ought to remember that this e-mail was written specifically with Arjun in mind….
What the hell—he pressed SEND.
“Darling, I’ve resigned,” he said to Sangita on the phone. “Tell the children I’ll be coming home for lunch. But don’t tell them I’ve resigned, obviously. You know how they become when I tell them. They will want to know everything. Then they’ll cry. You’ve raised true drama queens.”
“Okay, ji.”
Mrs. Ahuja was blasé. She had good reason to be.
Mr. Ahuja put down the phone, his head spinning. There was the question of what he would say to Arjun about Rashmi. For a decade, Rashmi had been receding from his memory. She had become a swirl in the sink, a hot-blue flame that appeared on a gas stove, the smell of a tissue as it took away ribbons of snot, the static in someone else’s cell phone, a pencil of memories sharpened into nothing. Words: Darling, Kanjeevaram, Tragic Eyes. But last night, his pajama drawstrings dangling down in a huge comic bow, Rakesh had needed her body. He had needed her entire being to be transposed swiftly beside him—hologrammed over and around Sangita’s pregnant form, a dose of beauty to undo his embarrassment—but she was gone. And it was Arjun’s fault that he had had this revelation. It was Arjun’s unawareness that killed Rashmi once and for all.
CHAPTER 6
WHO DIED?
ARJUN WAS SECRETLY PLEASED to hear from the guard that his father was coming home for lunch. This meant a later meal and more time to organize the concert. He kicked off his shoes and watched the insoles pop on the front verandah of the house. The house—12 Modi Estate—was a squat bungalow that always smelled of the rainy season, its many a
wnings and verandahs making it a haven for loiterers, right-hand men, chamchas, servants, maids, shawl-sellers, bored bodyguards; Arjun walked past the walkie-talkie wielding lot.
The door of the house opened into a massive wind tunnel of fans and gray floors. The drawing room was congested with kids—its horrible maroon color scheme gave it the aspect of a dingy beauty parlor. Neither Mama nor Papa had good taste, Arjun realized. They had no interest in decoration. Instead, a flood of giving had besieged the Ahujas since Mr. Ahuja made minister, and the house had been furnished with favors—the mismatched sofas and oddball paintings and the giant statue of a naked British boy in the front saying more about the taste of the givers rather than the takers. Because, as Arjun knew, his Papa took everything. He was blissfully indiscriminate. Eventually, he begged these favor-seekers for fungible essentials, and so baby products and creams and clothes came pouring in like predated dowry. The toys and clothes for the older children Mr. Ahuja made a point to donate to slum-dwellers so his brood could stay clear of being spoiled—they are at high risk of becoming brats, he’d told Arjun. Of course, he made his children do the giving; giant feasts were organized in the back garden where local sweepers and workers were ladled food from five giant containers by the Ahuja children—an Ahuja meal on a larger scale, basically.
Arjun wondered if Mr. Ahuja wanted babies only so he could eat away at the endless supply of gifts and sweets and food.
He found the theory highly plausible.
He was humming a song and washing his hands in the bathroom when Mama knocked on the door, peered in, and said, “Have you seen? He died.”
Family Planning Page 4
