Madan Mohan thought about this for a moment, and then decided to let it go. What harm would it do anyway if Arjun sat in on the meeting? In all likelihood he would have no memory of what was discussed the following day.
Once everyone had sat down, Karan didn’t waste any time on small talk. Greeting everyone with a cursory namaste, he began the meeting. He had already held informal consultations with many people in the party and the government. And he was convinced that they needed to bring the general election forward. They could not afford to wait for another year. He needed the legitimacy that a general election mandate could give him.
What did they think? Was the party ready for an election? Was the country in the mood for one?
Madan Mohan sneered inwardly. Karan wanted ‘legitimacy’ through a ‘mandate’ of his own? Who did he think he was fooling with all this big talk? Everyone seated around the table knew that he wanted to go to the polls as soon as possible so that he could capitalize on the death of his father. That he feared that if they waited, the sympathy wave engendered by Birendra Pratap’s assassination would fade. But of course, nobody would come right out and say so.
The finance minister was the first to speak. Karan Pratap, she declared, had taken the words out of her mouth. She was convinced that the LJP should go to the polls as soon as possible so that they could get a proper mandate for the new PM.
Karan turned to his home minister. What did the security scenario look like? Were they in a position to hold elections in a few months? Would the Election Commission agree? Or would the commissioners cite security concerns and insist on sticking to the original schedule?
No, responded the home minister, the Election Commission could not do that. Once the cabinet passed a resolution asking the President to dissolve the Lok Sabha, the Election Commission would have to initiate the process for holding the next general election. And if it were held in several phases, as was usual these days, then there would be no problem with security. There would be enough time to deploy security forces to different parts of the country.
Karan nodded in affirmation and then brought the two party general secretaries into the conversation. How were the LJP’s coffers holding up? He knew that they had spent a lot in the last assembly elections in Maharashtra, but by now they should have made up the shortfall. He knew that two prominent Mumbai industrialists had made significant contributions since then. So, how did the money situation look?
Even though Karan had addressed the party officials directly, they deferred to Madan Mohan when it came to answering the Prime Minister. Birendra Pratap had made Madan Mohan the moneyman of the party, and nobody knew better than him how the LJP’s finances looked at any moment.
Today, the Defence Minister recited the figures off the top of his head. The state party units across fifteen states had raised enough money to be able to fight the general election without any financial aid from the central office. But there were a few states, some in the south and others in the Northeast of India, whose accounts could do with a few inflows.
As Madan Mohan began talking in tens of crores, Karan could feel his eyes glaze over. He had never really had a head for figures; in fact, the very mention of numbers bored him to death. He could see that Arjun, who had spent a few years as a merchant banker and understood money, was paying close attention to Madan Mohan as he specified where the LJP money was invested and what returns they could expect from it. As long as Arjun didn’t raise any objections to Madan Mohan’s spiel, Karan was fine with it too.
It was the external affairs minister who zeroed in on the most important bit of preparing for an election. ‘I know that Birendra Pratapji assigned you the task of coordinating the ticket distribution across the states,’ he said to Karan. ‘But now that you are Prime Minister, you will not be able to devote that much time to the party. We need to assign that duty to someone else.’
This was the moment Madan Mohan had been waiting for. He looked discreetly down at his Gucci loafers as he waited for his chamcha-in-chief to suggest his name. And sure enough, the HRD minister piped up from the corner: ‘I think Madan Mohanji would be the best choice for that. Nobody has been with the party longer than him. And he knows every party worker in every state and mohalla. Nobody else has his depth of knowledge.’
Madan Mohan allowed himself a half smile and a modest gesture of disavowal. But his mouth tightened with fury the next instant as Karan demurred: ‘No, no, we cannot expect Madan Mohanji to take up such an onerous task. He is the Defence Minister. He doesn’t have the time to devote himself to party matters.’
Much to Madan Mohan’s anger, several of the parliamentary board members started making noises in agreement. He felt his temper rise as even the party general secretary whom he had had appointed chimed in with his two bits (‘Yes, sir is far too busy…’). If this asshole thought he could get away with siding with the PM against Madan Mohan, he had another think coming.
But suppressing his rage, all Madan Mohan offered was a mild, ‘Well, Karan Pratapji, I don’t mind taking on extra work for the party. It would, in fact, be my honour to do so.’
Yeah right, thought Karan cynically to himself. It would be your ‘honour’ all right if every Member of Parliament in the next parliament owed his ticket to you rather than the Prime Minister.
‘Thank you, but I would not dream of inconveniencing you in any way. Arjun has already volunteered his services and I have accepted.’
Ah yes, of course. The heir had put the spare in charge so that he could retain control over the ticket distribution process.
But, astute political animal that he was, Madan Mohan realized that this fight was over, and he had lost. He needed another line of attack if he was going to keep his relevance in the party. So, as he had rehearsed the night before, Madan Mohan launched into a little speech.
‘After the tragic demise of our leader,’ he intoned solemnly, ‘it is time for all of us to work our hearts out for the party. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that Asha beti should be brought into the party fold too at this time. She was Birendra Pratapji’s strongest campaigning asset when he was alive, and her presence on the election trail will do wonders for the party.’
There was a moment’s uneasy silence in the room. Every single person present knew that there was no love lost between the two brothers and their half-sister. They also knew that while Birendra Pratap had doted on his daughter, he had restricted her political participation to the family constituency. It had never been part of his plan to allow Asha Devi to join politics full-time and emerge as a rival power centre to her brothers.
But now that he was dead, how were things going to play out? Would Karan Pratap manage to keep his sister out? Would Asha be willing to join politics? Would her mother let her? And why was that wily old political operator, Madan Mohan, throwing his weight behind her? What did he know that they didn’t?
All these calculations were whirring through the heads of all those present. But, not knowing where their best interests lay, they stayed silent.
Even Karan seemed to have been struck dumb by this blow out of the left field. It was left to the usually taciturn Arjun to respond.
‘Uncle,’ he said, addressing Madan Mohan like he had as a child, ‘that is not an idea that Baba would approve of. You knew him for practically his entire life. You know he never wanted the women in the family to enter politics.’
Ah, so he’s finally sober, Madan Mohan thought bitterly. Pity he only manages that feat once every week. And pity that he’s chosen this moment to find his voice.
But before Arjun could go any further, Karan stepped in, in full big-brother mode. ‘I’m sorry, Madan Mohanji,’ he said firmly (not for him the infantilizing ‘Uncle’). ‘That is simply not going to happen. Asha is our sister. Baba has left us with the responsibility of getting her married and settled in her own house. We can’t go against his wishes and ask her to join politics.’
Madan Mohan felt hysterical laughter rising withi
n him. Asha Devi getting married and settling down in her own house? That little slut who ran around Delhi in tiny tiny clothes, while coked out of her tiny, tiny mind? The wild child who had to be shunted off to London, so that she didn’t embarrass her father any more? She would get married and settle down? And at the behest of her ‘brothers’ who loathed her and had spent years trying to erase her from their family?
Like that was ever going to happen.
Of course, Madan Mohan said nothing of the sort. Instead, he responded mildly, ‘Well, it is only a suggestion. But why don’t we ask Asha beti what she thinks of the idea? She is a grown-up now. It really is up to her to decide what she wants to do. But I do believe we should give her the option.’
All the Cabinet ministers whom Karan had rubbed the wrong way at one time or another saw their opportunity to weaken him and jumped right in. Yes, they should definitely ask Asha Devi to join. She would be a brilliant campaigner for the party. And she was right here in Race Course Road, at Number 3 with her mother.
Why didn’t they simply call her over and ask her?
▪
Across town, in another Lutyens’ bungalow, a similar war council was in progress. It was a smaller group, though, that had gathered in Jayesh Sharma’s home office to take stock of the political situation post the assassination of the Prime Minister.
Jayesh took his customary position at the head of the long conference table, with his PS (and confidant) of many years, Kalyan Abhyankar, sitting to the left of him. To Jayesh’s right sat Rajiv Mehta, veteran pollster and political strategist, head honcho of the absurdly-named Poll Vault, whose claim to fame was that he had never run a losing election campaign in his life. Next to Mehta sat his ever-faithful number two, Anisa Ahmed, her auburn head bent over a laptop on which she was viewing polling data, seemingly oblivious of the fact that her sari pallu had slipped to reveal a generous flash of cleavage. Averting his eyes with an effort, Jayesh wondered idly if Rajiv and Anisa were an item. They certainly seemed joined at the hip, he chuckled silently, if not anywhere else.
Opposite Ahmed, on the other side of the table, sat Jayesh’s number two, the cerebral but low-profile Sanjeev Satyarthi, who could never quite conceal his antipathy to Mehta, whom he regarded as an untrustworthy johnny-come-lately, a gun for hire, who could be lured away by a rival entity at any moment. To register his protest at Jayesh’s embrace of Rajiv, Sanjeev had taken to maintaining a sullen silence at all meetings at which Mehta was present, speaking only when spoken to, and sometimes not even then.
At one level, Jayesh understood Sanjeev’s suspicion. Rajiv Mehta had started his career with Jayesh’s father, Girdhari Lal Sharma, when he had been leader of the party. Fresh from an Ivy League college in America, he had tried to introduce the hoary old-timers of the SPP to the wonders of computer technology and how they could use sophisticated polling to sharpen their message to the electorate. Needless to say, it hadn’t gone well.
Mehta had slunk off to nurse his bruised ego and lick his wounds and then re-emerged as a corporate beast. He had taken his polling skills to multinational corporations and large Indian industrial houses, helping them market their products and services, and making a huge fortune for himself in the process.
Ironically enough, the reason behind Rajiv’s re-entry in the political sphere was the late, unlamented (in these quarters at least) Birendra Pratap Singh. Always a political animal at heart, Mehta had been very taken by Birendra Pratap when the LJP emerged on the national arena as a crusader against corruption, with Singh cast as the Strong Middle-Aged Man who would make India a superpower in super-quick time. Carried away by the missionary fervour Pratap exuded in his rallies, Mehta had sold his company (for an enormous profit, ensuring that he need never worry about money again) and started a new venture: Poll Vault. His first (and for a time, only) client was Birendra Pratap, whose political rise Rajiv plotted with dogged devotion.
At the last general election, it had been Mehta who had supervised the distribution of tickets, formulated the campaign strategy, played a crucial role in fundraising and provided the polling data that helped the party understand the caste combination and demographic mix of every constituency. To be fair to Rajiv, he had done so because at that point he genuinely believed that Birendra Pratap had what it took to shake up the system, weed out corruption and initiate the institutional reforms that would kick-start the economy.
Within a year, he had come to understand that he had got it completely wrong. And when Birendra Pratap’s promise to give Mehta a pivotal role in the administration did not come through even two years into the government’s life, Mehta decided to jump ship.
It helped that Jayesh Sharma was close at hand, with a lifeboat at the ready, to whisk him around to the other side. The two men had remained in touch over the years, exchanging Diwali hampers and New Year greetings. So, when a disillusioned Mehta crossed over he could kid himself that he was, in fact, coming home. And that’s how Mehta had found himself back in the SPP.
Now firmly in place as Jayesh principal political strategist, Rajiv had been reasonably confident that he could defeat his former client. Things had been going badly for the government over the past year—there had been a series of losses in the State Assembly elections, the Maoist insurgency was picking up steam, financial scandals were breaking out with alarming regularity. And Birendra Pratap, struggling to keep a fractious party together while running a disgruntled nation, had begun to look like a sad old loser—even more so when confronted with the vibrant youthfulness of Jayesh Sharma and his team of baby-faced babalog.
But now it was clear that the work of months had been wiped out in an instant. What Birendra Pratap could not have managed to do while he was alive, he would achieve in death: get the vote out for his party, and place his son in Race Course Road—this time in his own right.
So, what could they do to rewrite this script, asked Jayesh.
‘Well,’ replied Rajiv, ‘you’re probably not going to like this. But the answer to that is: nothing.’
‘You’re right about that,’ snapped Jayesh. ‘I don’t like that. Doing nothing is not an acceptable strategy.’
‘I never said that we should do nothing,’ responded Rajiv mildly. ‘I said there was nothing we could do to change the script. Emotions are running too high now. If we try and play politics in this hyper-charged atmosphere, it will only backfire on us.’
‘What do you suggest I do, in that case?’ asked Jayesh.
‘I think you need to take the high road,’ said Rajiv. ‘Go on TV, pay a fulsome tribute to Birendra Pratap. Announce that you are postponing all your election rallies as a mark of respect for the late Prime Minister. Extend your condolences to his family. Pay a visit to Race Course Road to meet his wife and children. Appear genuinely sorrowful.’
This avalanche of advice proved too much for Kalyan Abhyankar. ‘I am sorry, Jayesh,’ he broke in, startling everyone with a rare show of spirit. ‘But I disagree. Yes, you should pay tribute to the Prime Minister and condole with his family. But shouldn’t we also make the point that India is a democracy not a dynastic system of government? How can Karan Pratap take over from his father? We are not a hereditary monarchy.’
Anisa Ahmed had begun shaking her head is disbelief halfway through this little outburst. ‘No, Kalyan, that is a terrible idea. This is not the time to attack the government or Karan Pratap. He has just lost his father in the most traumatic of ways. And whatever you may think, it is the LJP which has elevated him to Prime Minister, as they have a right to do.’
A heated argument broke out as Kalyan defended his position (‘I am the politician on this table, not you,’ he scoffed at Anisa) and Rajiv pushed back hard (‘If you pay us good money to strategize, it is good sense to listen to us as well’). Things got so animated that at one point even Sanjeev Satyarthi was provoked into breaking his self-imposed vow of silence to add his voice to Kalyan’s. And just when it looked like Rajiv was about to burst a blood vessel, the d
oor opened and Malti Sharma put her head through it.
‘Now what on earth has got you people so animated?’ she drawled in her trademark style, eyebrows arched in mock surprise. It was amazing how her mere presence could calm tempers down.
While the others struggled to get their blood pressure under control, Jayesh quickly brought her up to speed. Malti listened with the air of a judge listening to a legal argument in court, nodding occasionally and not saying a word. It was only after both sides had had their say that she make her opinion clear: Rajiv Mehta was right; Kalyan and Sanjeev were quite wrong.
And as always, Jayesh listened to her.
▪
Oblivious to the fact that she was creating consternation at Number 7, Race Course Road, Asha was huddled on her mother’s bed, both of them riffling through old family picture albums. Sadhana Devi was weeping quietly as she went through photos of her as a young bride with her handsome husband, and then pictures of the infant Asha nestled between them.
There were photos of Asha’s first birthday, with her proud father holding her up so that she could blow out the candles. Her mother stood beaming by her side, flanked by her two stepsons, who didn’t look at all impressed with the attention being showered on their half-sister, and registered their protest by staring mutinously at the ground. There wasn’t one shot in which the brothers broke out a smile.
The question that had plagued Asha all her life rose up to confront her again. What would it take for her brothers to love her as they would have loved their own sister? She could understand their antipathy to her mother. No child wants to see his mother replaced in his father’s affections. And by any standard Baba had remarried in an obscene hurry.
But how was any of this her fault? She hadn’t asked to be born into such complicated family circumstances. If anything, she was as much a victim as them. Why couldn’t her brothers see that? Why couldn’t they sense her longing for their love and approval? Why didn’t they see that she was family, blood of their blood?
Race Course Road: A Novel Page 8
