Asha had always known that this news would upset her father. But she hadn’t bargained for the tsunami of fury that her father unleashed on her. He raked up every transgression of hers, from being expelled from boarding school because she was caught smoking by one of the teachers to the time she had been arrested when the police broke up a party where coke and ecstasy had been guests of honour. That particular incident had taxed her father’s influence to its limits, but he had succeeded in hushing it up.
That was when she had accepted self-exile in London to get away from it all. Her father had pulled some strings to get her a job in an art auction house. One of his NRI benefactors had found her a flat in Belgravia. And Birendra Pratap had set up an arrangement through which her rent was paid by wire transfer from his Swiss bank account, while another generous amount was sent to her lawyer’s account so that she could live in the style to which she had been accustomed.
After a few months of homesickness, Asha had taken to life in London like the proverbial duck to water. A few introductions from rich and influential friends of her father was all it had taken for her to become a part of what Sunny always derisively referred to as her ‘Tatler Tory’ set, peopled by moneyed aristocrats who were forever partying, shooting or hunting. And slowly but surely, she had built a life far away from home.
In the beginning at least, Sunny had seemed to fit in seamlessly with her London life. Even though he had spent his life hanging out with mega-rich NRI kids like himself, he respected Asha’s decision to steer clear of them. Instead, he made an effort to charm all her posh English friends. And when Sunny was determined to charm, there was no resisting him.
Slowly but surely they had settled down to a life of coupledom. They would meet after work for dinner and drinks with friends. The weekends would be spent at one sprawling country estate or another. And after three months, they were practically living together in Asha’s apartment.
Asha still had crystal-clear recall of the first moment she realized that this was not going to work. Six months ago, she had come back from an evening of drinks with her work friends to find Sunny pacing the floor in her apartment. Where had she been, he’d demanded to know. He’d flown back early from a work trip in Paris to surprise her. And she hadn’t been there. Where had she gone? And with whom?
As he raved and ranted, she could see the worst of her father in his face. Here was the same possessiveness. Here was the same belief that she owed him explanations. Here was the same anger and rage at being thwarted. Here were all the things she had come to London to escape from.
They had made up after that showdown, but things had gone downhill from that point. Why wouldn’t she agree to marry him? (Because she wasn’t ready to be married; and she wasn’t sure he was the right man.) Why didn’t she wear the 10-carat ring he had given her? (Because it looked vulgar and ugly.) Why didn’t she give up her silly little job and spend more time with him? (Because she valued her hard-won independence and freedom too much.)
Of course, she had never actually said any of this stuff out loud. Instead, it had just festered in her brain, feeding her discontent and resentment, as the constant fighting and arguing wore her down. And then had come that cataclysmic afternoon that she still could not bear to think about.
It was after that that she had announced that this was over. Sunny hadn’t really believed her to start with. He had treated it as just another of their ‘fights’ that would soon blow over. When he had finally realized that this was different, he had broken down completely.
He had begged. He had pleaded. He had cried like a baby. But when she refused to change her mind, his face had hardened.
‘You will regret this one day,’ he had shouted, as he exited her life.
And then, there was her father shouting quite as angrily as Sunny had. As his recriminations got more and more bitter, his voice had grown louder and louder. So much so that she feared that he would have a heart attack if he went on like this.
So, she had hung up on him, saying coldly, ‘I’ll talk to you when you are willing to listen. This is clearly going nowhere.’
And now, her father was gone too. She would never be able to pick up the phone and speak to him. She would never get a chance to put things right between them. She would never get a chance to say ‘sorry’.
THREE
Life had assumed a certain dream-like quality for Karan Pratap. It didn’t seem real that the cold corpse lying on the autopsy table at AIIMS was his father. It didn’t seem real that he had just been sworn in as the new Prime Minister of India in a hurried ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhavan. And it certainly didn’t seem real that he was now the head of his family.
Driving back to Race Course Road, he blanked out the background noise of Madhavan Kutty who was trying to brief him on God alone knows what. He desperately needed one moment alone to take in the enormity of today’s events. He didn’t believe for a moment that his father had dropped dead because of natural causes. But he also didn’t have a clue as to what might actually have happened. And how was he supposed to move forward in the complete absence of any facts?
The car pulled up at the portico of Number 5, Race Course Road. With a gesture Karan commanded Kutty to stay in the car. ‘Go on ahead to Number 7. I’ll join you there in half an hour.’
The main door to Number 5 was open and he could see Radhika waiting for him in the shadows. He entered the hallway, heard the main door shut behind him, and fell into her embrace. She was still in her exercise gear, and as he breathed in the mingled scents of her sweat and perfume, he felt he was home at last.
The two of them had found each other while still teenagers and had been pretty much inseparable ever since. Nobody could understand the glue that bound them together. The silent, almost grim Karan Pratap, the homebody whose idea of a good time was staying in and watching a DVD box set. And the vivacious, perky Radhika, the social butterfly who flirted her way through every party she attended (and God knows she attended a lot of them). On the face of it, the two of them had almost nothing in common except their boarding-school background. And yet, they were the most solid of couples.
The two of them clung together for a long moment, both weeping silently. Finally, Radhika broke away to ask, ‘Have you eaten anything since morning?’
Karan shook his head. ‘I’m really not hungry.’
Radhika would not be deterred. Holding his hand, she led him through the main drawing room to the spartan dining room that lay beyond. The table for ten was laid for one, with a big bowl of tomato soup and some garlic toast placed in the centre. She poured out a couple of ladle-fulls and handed him a piece of bread. As the first spoon of soup went down, Karan realized how famished he was.
‘Are the kids asleep?’ he asked. ‘How have they taken it?’
‘They’re devastated. I have never seen them like this before. Poor Kavya was trying to be all brave and grown up but Karina just went to pieces. I just put them down for the night half an hour ago. They wanted to stay up to see you, but I thought you’d already had such a tough day…’
‘And Amma, how did you cope with her?’
‘Amma? That was a total nightmare. She went completely hysterical. I didn’t know what to do so I called Dr Gupta over. He gave her some sort of sedative, and she finally fell asleep. I’m just waiting for Asha to arrive so that I can hand over charge to her.’
Oh God! Asha! Neither he nor Arjun had even thought about calling her with the news. How could they have forgotten about her so completely?
Even as he asked himself the question, the answer was staring him right in the face. They had forgotten about her because they didn’t want to remember her in the first place. She was a living reminder of how their father had moved on so effortlessly from the death of their mother, her birth a proclamation of the fact that they had not been enough for Baba. That he had needed to fill a gaping hole in his life with a new, drop-dead beautiful wife, and then, a daughter who was her stunning mother’s spitting image.<
br />
A daughter whom he doted on. A daughter who was forgiven all her trespasses. A daughter whose every whim was indulged. A daughter who was given responsibilities she didn’t deserve. A daughter whose advice he valued much more than he did the opinions of his two sons.
‘When is she arriving?’ he asked Radhika. ‘We should go over to Number 3 when she does.’
‘Never mind Asha,’ responded Radhika impatiently. ‘Tell me about your day instead.’
Karan was only too happy to put his half-sister out of his mind. And as he began relating the events of the day to Radhika, Karan felt his tension fall away, the way it always did when he was in her presence. What was it about her that made him feel that everything was possible?
By the time he had finished his second bowl of soup, and unburdened himself to his wife, Karan felt far more equipped to take on the world. He headed out towards the car, and then changed his mind. Dismissing the driver, he decided to walk to Number 7 to clear his head, his security detail following close behind. Many important decisions had to be taken tonight. And he was the one to take them now that Baba was gone.
From a distance, he could see Kutty pacing up and down the portico of Number 7, while talking animatedly on the phone. He hung up hurriedly when he saw Karan and escorted him inside. But instead of heading to the conference room, where the Prime Minister usually held his meetings and met the Cabinet, Kutty led Karan to the drawing room instead.
This was set up exactly as the drawing rooms in Number 3 and 5. There was the same government-issued, red-and-brown Kashmiri carpet on the floor, on which sat a large, glass-topped coffee table. This was ringed by three four-seater sofas, upholstered in an unexceptional shade of beige, with four silk cushions standing to attention on each. The fourth side of the square furniture arrangement featured two high-backed armchairs, with a smaller glass-topped table placed between them. The focal point of the room, however, was the canvas hung on the wall facing the door, featuring a fearsome portrayal of Kali.
Arjun was already there, slumped on the sofa, looking suspiciously like he had taken something. God alone knows what cornucopia of drugs his brother had stashed away in his bedroom. Anyway, this was not the time to worry about that.
Karan settled down in the straight-backed chair that was usually reserved for his father. This used to be Baba’s signal that he was ready for business. And now it would be his.
Kutty was already ushering in a three-man delegation. Suresh Shastri, the Director of the Intelligence Bureau (IB), Anil Bhalla, the Chief of the Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW) and Arunoday Sengupta, the National Security Advisor (NSA).
Suresh Shastri, head of the agency that was directly responsible for providing intelligence inputs relating to the Prime Minister’s security, was looking thoroughly shaken. The truth was that there had been no indications that a plot to assassinate Birendra Pratap was brewing. There simply was no intelligence that pointed to a possible bid against the PM’s life. But that wouldn’t stop people from asking for his head on a platter.
Anil Bhalla felt that he was on slightly stronger ground. He had only taken over as R&AW chief a couple of months ago. So, nobody could realistically hold him responsible for the agency’s lapses, when he had barely settled into his office. And in any case, he consoled himself, his agency was only responsible for monitoring threats abroad. Gathering intelligence within India was the IB’s responsibility. He didn’t envy Suresh Shastri today.
Both Shastri and Bhalla had already been berated by Arunoday Sengupta, the quiet, cerebral National Security Advisor (NSA), a veteran of the Indian Foreign Service (IFS). Madhavan Kutty, PS to PM, had joined his voice to Sengupta’s, the simmering rivalry between the two men suspended during a moment of national crisis.
The last man to combine the offices of Principal Secretary and National Security Advisor in his person had been Brajesh Mishra, who had effectively functioned as a Deputy Prime Minister to Atal Behari Vajpayee. Since then, the post had been split into two, with an IAS officer serving as PS to PM while an IFS officer became NSA.
With two competing centres of powers in PMO, a little internal strife was inevitable. But Birendra Pratap, who thrived on pitting his favourites against one another, was happy with this state of affairs. So, despite Kutty’s many entreaties to revert to the Vajpayee-Mishra formula, the late Prime Minister had refused to do so.
The three men, Shastri, Bhalla and Sengupta, who were meeting the bereaved sons for the first time made the usual consolatory noises. Karan acknowledged them with a nod, while Arjun remained sunk in a stupor.
An awkward silence ensued. Karan looked up enquiringly at Kutty, who gestured discreetly towards Arjun. Ah, of course, they couldn’t brief the new Prime Minister while his brother, who was not part of the government—and, therefore, not entitled to receive classified information—was present.
‘Arjun, could you give us the room, please?’ said Karan.
Arjun looked up vacantly at him, his dilated pupils giving him the look of a startled deer. ‘What?’ he muttered finally. ‘You want me to leave?’
Karan looked at Kutty, who took the hint. He went up to Arjun, raised him up gently and propelled him out of the room. Arjun, after initial resistance, made no protest.
The four men sat in silence and waited for Kutty to return. He was back in a couple of minutes to take his customary chair to the right of the Prime Minister, and the meeting began.
▪
The first-class cabin began stirring when Delhi was still an hour away. The crew started serving breakfast and the smell of reheated airline food filled the air. Asha felt like she was going to throw up any moment.
She hadn’t slept for a second, despite the Ambien she had popped the moment she boarded. Instead, her entire life had played on a loop in her head for the duration of the flight. Memories tumbled around, both good and bad. The time her father had spent the entire day trying to teach her how to ride a bike. The time he had arrived at Welhams, his face like thunder, to pick her up after she had been expelled. The time he had taken her for a father-daughter bonding trip to Paris, where she had raided all the boutiques on Rue Faubourg Saint-Honore, with him walking behind holding her packages.
The time she had first played a part in his election campaign in Bharatnagar, soon after her sixteenth birthday. She still remembered the pride shining on Baba’s face when she had made her debut political speech at a village chaupal, addressing the women and children, while the men sat a respectful distance away. The day he had fired his constituency election manager in a fit of anger and appointed her in his place instead. She had been filled with trepidation at the thought that she might fail him. But Baba was having none of that. ‘Believe me, darling,’ he had said. ‘You can do much better than that nincompoop in your sleep. You have politics in your blood.’
But for all that, thought Asha, Baba had never allowed her a career in politics herself. He was happy to put her in charge in Bharatnagar, where she could nurture his constituency, do all the backroom work, plot strategy with his party workers, address election meetings and the like. But the only ones who would be allowed to stand for a seat of their own were his sons, Karan and Arjun. Baba had made it clear that as a daughter her place was on the sidelines.
Asha felt a rush of the same bitterness she had experienced when first confronted with this double standard. But she pushed the feeling aside. Thoughts like these now felt like a betrayal of her father.
Instead, she threw her mind back to Counting Day in Bharatnagar in the last general election. Thanks to her campaigning, Birendra Pratap’s victory margin had increased by more than 80,000 votes. His face ablaze with jubilation, Baba had picked her up and whirled her around as if she were a child of six rather than a grown woman of twenty-four, cackling loudly at the look of alarm on her face.
But no matter how hard Asha tried to concentrate on the good times, the memory of their last phone conversation kept bopping up, reducing her to floods of tears. She couldn�
�t bear the thought that that particular exchange was the last one she would ever have with him. If only life came with a do-over button…
Asha stepped into the loo to splash her face with cold water and try and reduce the puffiness of her eyes. It was no use. Despite her best efforts, her face told the story of her grief only too clearly.
So, when the doors finally opened, despite the late hour, Asha slipped on her sunglasses before she stepped out. There was a small party gathered at the gate of the aircraft to receive her: airline staff in uniform and some plainclothes men from the protocol division. Asha searched in vain for a familiar face. She hadn’t really expected her mother to be there; she knew Sadhana Devi had been sedated and kept under observation by her doctor. But neither of her brothers had turned up to receive her. Nor had Radhika, who was usually more sensitive to Asha’s feelings than the Pratap Singh sons.
There was, however, a large SPG contingent in place, looking more tense than usual as they awaited their new charge. Asha felt a red rage descend on her as she looked at them lined up in their ill-fitting suits and their badly-concealed weapons.
What was the need for this security? What was the point of these men? They hadn’t managed to keep her father alive. Baba had died on their watch. So, why did they think they could keep her safe?
Suddenly, a feeling of utter and complete desolation descended upon Asha. What was the point of it all, she wondered. With Baba gone, she really didn’t have any family to rely upon. She was on her own, surrounded by strangers who didn’t give a damn about her.
But none of that showed on Asha’s face as she walked briskly towards immigration, trailed by the protocol officers and her SPG detail. Her mask of composure firmly in place, she headed out of the airport and into her car. Her PSO took the seat in front, while the rest of the SPG contingent got into two other cars (clearly her detail had been doubled after the assassination). And then, with sirens blaring, the convoy took off for Race Course Road.
Race Course Road: A Novel Page 5
