Race Course Road: A Novel

by Goswami, Seema

  The man’s sheer chutzpah took Karan Pratap’s breath away. Did he really think he could get away by blaming shadowy figures on the margins of the arms trade world? Surely he realized that the finger of suspicion pointed directly at him? Or was he deliberately feigning ignorance?

  In any case, there was no way Karan was going to let him get away with this. ‘I’m sorry, Madan Mohanji,’ he said firmly, ‘but there is no way you can be involved in this investigation. It is your ministry that is under scrutiny. And so, by extension, are you. How on earth can someone who is a suspect be allowed to conduct an investigation into himself?’

  Madan Mohan exploded into anger. ‘Suspect? You are calling me a suspect? How dare you? I have dandled you on my knee when you were a little boy. And you have the temerity to call me a suspect? On what evidence are you making these charges against me?’

  Karan felt his own temper rise. Keeping a tight control on his voice, he responded as mildly as he could. ‘There is no evidence as of now. That is why we need an investigation. But given that you were Defence Minister when the deal was signed, you will also be the target of this investigation. That’s just common sense. I really don’t see why you are getting so agitated.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why I am so agitated,’ shouted Madan Mohan. ‘You are levelling charges against me. You are accusing me of corruption. Without any proof, I may add. If your father was alive…’

  ‘If my father was alive,’ cut in Karan, ‘he would have wrestled your resignation out of your hands or dismissed you from the cabinet. You should be grateful for the fact that I am doing nothing of the sort.’

  ‘I am supposed to be grateful to you for that?’ snapped Madan Mohan. ‘I am supposed to fall at your feet that you haven’t actually ordered my arrest on the basis of some cock-and-bull story the French have fed you.’

  ‘If it is a cock-and-bull story,’ responded Karan, as patiently as he could, ‘the truth will come out soon enough. I am going to announce the appointment of a Special Investigation Team, monitored by the Supreme Court, to look into the case later today. I just called you here to give you a heads up.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you that I welcome that. It will give me an opportunity to clear my name. Which is more than you have done!’

  Karan finally lost his temper. ‘I have done more than enough for you. As did my father. But you should understand that no one is above the law. Not even you.’

  ‘Oh, I understand that all right, Mr Prime Minister. But there’s something you should understand as well. Don’t ask questions to which you don’t know the answer. You may get quite unpleasantly surprised.’

  ‘What do you mean? I really don’t have time for this cryptic shit. If you have something to say, just come out and say it.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll leave it for you to find out the hard way,’ said Madan Mohan, as he flounced out of the room, his dhoti trailing forlornly behind him.

  ▪

  Jayesh had the latest Ed Sheeran hit blasting through his earphones as he pounded the treadmill in the makeshift gym he had set up in the outhouse of his bungalow. God knows he had notched up thousands of miles in all his padayatras but there was a special high in running uphill on the treadmill at top speed. The sweat poured down his face and back and trickled down his calves. It felt as if all the toxicity of the campaign was being leached out of him.

  Of course, he would have to head back on the election trail tomorrow—and the entire rigmarole would start afresh. But Jayesh intended to make the most of his day off. He had already made a lunch reservation for four people at Wasabi, and was looking forward to having a meal with Malti and the kids. And, of course, he was looking forward to that whitefish carpaccio.

  In the mirror in front of him, he saw the door to the gym slide open to reveal Malti on the other side. Jayesh slid his earphones out and pressed the pause button. This had to be serious. Malti never intruded into his man cave. She always said it was about respecting his privacy but he had a sneaking feeling that it was the smell of testosterone-infused sweat that kept her away.

  ‘Jay,’ she said, beckoning him to the house. ‘You have to come and see this.’

  Hastily wiping off his sweat, he followed her to their bedroom, where the TV was set to AITNN. Manisha was on the screen, recapping for the ‘benefit of those who have just tuned in’. Jayesh watched with mounting glee as she took the viewers through the story so far. The rumours that had swirled around the L’Oiseau deal a year ago. The arrests made by the French today. The revelation of the money trail that would probably lead back to India—and to Madan Mohan Prajapati.

  Except that the buck couldn’t possibly stop with him. The way the Indian government operated, there was no way this kind of deal could have gone through without the active cooperation or connivance of the Prime Minister. If Madan Mohan was guilty, then so was Birendra Pratap. If there was corruption at the heart of the government then there was no way the Prime Minister could be clean.

  Here, finally, was a way to make a dent in that sympathy vote, just in the nick of time before the next round of polling. If he could play up this story for the next few weeks, making anti-corruption the main plank of his platform instead of the economy, then who knows how many minds he could change. But for that to happen, the dirt had to besmirch the lily-white reputation of the late Birendra Pratap himself.

  Jayesh debated his options. He could go on one of the TV channels and have his say. Or he could call one of the news agencies over and give an interview to be disseminated across the media. But neither of these options was high-impact enough. To create a great bang, he needed to hold a press conference. Every newspaper and TV channel would turn up to cover it. There would be saturation coverage. And by the time he was done, it would be clear that Birendra Pratap wasn’t quite the saint that his children and party made him out to be.

  Just under two hours later, Jayesh was ensconced on a cane armchair on his lawn, with a long table jammed full of microphones separating him from a phalanx of hacks. There were about ten rows worth of seating and then behind it was the scrum of the TV cameras still cameras, and those latecomers who had failed to grab a plastic chair.

  It took his press secretary, Mahesh Namby, a good five minutes to quieten everyone down. Only when a semblance of order prevailed did Jayesh begin reading out his statement. ‘Today is a sad day for our country, and for all of us who love it. A government that came to power on the promise of wiping out corruption now stands accused of making millions of euros as kickbacks on one of the largest defence deals ever.

  ‘Instead of safeguarding the interests of our brave armed forces, who defend our country with their lives, the Birendra Pratap Singh government chose to profit off them. It is clear that this kind of corruption cannot flourish in any government unless the rot goes right up to the top. And I have no hesitation in saying that I have zero faith in any investigation mounted by the government. There should be a SIT set up, under the supervision of the Supreme Court, and the case should be placed on fast track so that the culprits can be identified and punished.’

  Jayesh put his papers down to indicate he was done. ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

  As always, the entire media contingent began shouting as one. Jayesh shot a look at Namby, who immediately took charge, calling on individual reporters to ask their questions.

  ‘Sir, do you think Madan Mohan Prajapati should resign as Defence Minister until his name is cleared?’

  ‘It is not my job to advise the Defence Minister of the country on how he should conduct himself,’ responded Jayesh curtly. ‘All I can say is that if I were in his position, I would retire from public life until I had cleared my name. After all, even Lal Krishna Advaniji did that when he was charged in the Jain hawala case.’

  ‘Jayeshji, your father was also charged with making money from kickbacks on a defence deal when he was Prime Minister. He didn’t resign from office. So why do you expect Madan Mohanji to do so?’

  ‘Try and pay atten
tion,’ Jayesh snapped. ‘I never said I expected Madan Mohanji to resign. I said that if I were in his position, I would do so. As for my father, well, if I had been old enough at the time to advise him, I would have asked him to step down as well until he was cleared. And, just to remind you, the corruption charges against him were never proved.’

  ‘Jayeshji, you said earlier that corruption like this can never happen unless the rot goes right to the top. Are you saying that the late Prime Minister Birendra Pratap Singh was involved in this deal as well?’

  ‘I do not have any evidence to support that,’ said Jayesh, choosing his words carefully. ‘And I certainly would not want to malign the reputation of a man who is no longer here to defend himself. But given the way government functions, it would be extremely unusual for a Prime Minister to have had no knowledge of such a deal.’

  ‘So, are you saying that Birendra Pratapji knew about the deal? And that he allowed Madan Mohanji to make money? That the late Prime Minister either knew about the deal or turned a blind eye to it?’

  ‘No, I am not saying anything of the sort. I am saying that it would be extremely unusual for a Prime Minister to not know that something like this was going on within his government.’

  ‘Do you think Birendra Pratap Singh’s role in this deal should be probed as well?’

  ‘I think everyone who had even a tangential involvement with the deal should be probed. Members of the armed forces, members of the armed forces committee, the Cabinet Committee on Security (CCS) that approved the choice of aircraft and gave the go-ahead to the deal, those in charge of the defence ministry, the Defence Minister himself. And yes, even the Prime Minister. Nobody is above suspicion in such circumstances. And certainly nobody is beyond the reach of an investigation.’

  Having made his point, Jayesh abruptly stood up, ignoring the many other questions being shouted at him, and walked back briskly into his house. Rajiv Mehta and Anisa Ahmed were waiting for him, laptops at the ready. While the rest of the country obsessed about the L’Oiseau story, Jayesh and the Poll Vault team sat down to focus on how to win over the next few phases of polling, now that it looked like they were in with a chance.

  The SPP’s poll pitch would have to be redone entirely. The social media cell of the party would have to be briefed on how best to attack the LJP on the issue of corruption. New campaign videos would have to be shot to draw attention to the L’Oiseau scandal, with particular emphasis on how Birendra Pratap—and by extension his children, who were his political successors—was as corrupt as they come. New campaign slogans had to be minted, new parody songs composed.

  There was so much work to do. And less than ten days to do it before the next round of elections rolled around. They simply did not have a moment to waste.

  ▪

  In one corner of Bharatnagar, Jayesh’s press conference had gone down like a lead balloon. Asha Devi had just hung up on an exceedingly agitated Madan Mohan—who was still apoplectic at the thought that Karan Pratap had accused him of corruption—and was heading down to the dining room to have lunch with her mother, when Harsh Gulati came pounding down the corridor, badly out of breath for having walked up two floors.

  ‘TV, now,’ he huffed, drawing her back into her sitting room and turning on the set. And there was Jayesh Sharma, sitting on the lawns of his bungalow, laying into her father. Of course, the smarmy bastard was far too canny to come right out and accuse Baba of being corrupt. But with every mealy-mouthed innuendo, he damned her dead father as a common crook.

  By the time the press conference ended, Asha had lost her appetite for anything other than retaliation. ‘This is just unacceptable,’ she said angrily to Harsh. ‘I have to go on TV and defend my father. I cannot allow anyone to besmirch his reputation in this way. What is wrong with this Jayesh Sharma anyway? Doesn’t he have any common decency? Doesn’t he know that in our culture we do not defame the dead?’

  Harsh Gulati looked thoughtful. ‘I am not sure that would be a good idea, Ashaji. If you go on TV and start defending Birendra Pratapji, all you will do is give the story legs. What may have died down in one news cycle will live on for three more. I think we should maintain a dignified silence and let the people evaluate Jayesh’s behaviour on its own merits.’

  ‘And what if the people conclude that we are not defending Baba because there is truth in those allegations?’ asked Asha. ‘I am not prepared to sit back silently while my father is charged with corruption.’

  ‘Well, the allegation is really being levelled against Madan Mohanji. It is only Jayesh who is trying to drag your father into the mud. If we respond to him, we just give his charges further credence. My advice would be to stay quiet; the story will peter out by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Do you really think that Jayesh will allow it to peter out? You clearly don’t know the man. He will keep stirring the pot every single day. He will build his whole campaign around it. We will hear of nothing else but arms deals, bribes and corruption until the last vote is cast. He will smear my father every day. Jayesh Sharma is a desperate man. And desperate men make desperate moves.’

  ‘In that case,’ ventured Harsh, ‘why not allow Karanji to respond to the allegations? He is, after all, the Prime Minister. And this arms deal falls within the ambit of the government. It is not really a party matter.’

  ‘No,’ said Asha firmly, ‘if I am going to project myself as the true successor to my father, then I need to take the lead in defending him.’

  Harsh Gulati was at his wits end by now. He knew, deep in his gut, that allowing Asha to get embroiled in this controversy was a bad idea. At some level, those allegations of corruption were bound to rub off on her. But how does one deter a determined daughter who is hell-bent on defending her dead father?

  In desperation, he said, ‘Well, we are in Bharatnagar for two days. It will be impossible to get a news crew here in time. Also, every minute of your schedule is blocked off for campaign meetings and election rallies. You really don’t have the time for this. So, why don’t we plan a press conference when we are back in Delhi?’

  By then, Gulati hoped, Asha’s temper might have cooled and better sense would prevail.

  Asha was having none of that. ‘This is the twenty-first century, Harsh. It is the age of social media. I don’t need a news crew to make my case to the world. All I need is an iPhone and a working Wi-Fi network. And as it happens, I have both.’

  In ten minutes, Asha had changed out of her jeans and linen shirt and was back in her politician’s uniform. In deference to her image as a grieving daughter, she chose a stark white Chanderi with a muted silver border. The only make up she allowed herself was a smudge of kajal, a neutral lip gloss and a tiny red bindi.

  Covering her head with her pallu, she began speaking into the camera of the iPhone held aloft by a miserable Harsh Gulati. ‘My fellow Indians,’ she began, ‘I am talking to you today not as a politician or even as a public servant. I am speaking to you as a daughter. As a daughter who lost her father to a vile act of violence. And now, just this afternoon, there was yet another despicable attack on my father, even though he is no longer here to defend himself.

  ‘But while he may be gone, I, as his daughter, will not allow his good name to be sullied by those who would try and derive political mileage by falsely accusing him of crimes that he did not commit. My father was committed to rooting out corruption in Indian public life. And his record on this issue speaks for itself. I am absolutely confident that those who accuse him of wrongdoing will be shown up as the liars they are as the investigation into this matter progresses.

  ‘Until then, I urge you to join me in my efforts to preserve the memory of my late father. And to tell those who are flinging mud at him in the hope that it will stick, that they will never succeed. And shame on them for trying.’

  Within minutes of this video message being posted on Twitter, it was RTed a few thousand times. Asha’s official Facebook page, which also ran the video, got more traffic in twenty
minutes than it had had for the last twenty days. And the WhatsApp forwards took on a life of their own. Within twenty minutes, the video had been viewed over a million times.

  It didn’t take long for all the news channels to pick up the video from social media and begin running it incessantly. Jayesh’s press conference was pushed down the running order as Asha’s face dominated the headlines yet again.

  And just like that, without ever mentioning Jayesh Sharma by name, or even referring to the L’Oiseau scandal, Asha Devi took control of the narrative and ran with it.

  ▪

  Just as Asha Devi’s video was going viral on social media in India, Sagar Prajapati and his wife, Komal, were settling down for lunch at Le Louis XV, the 3-Michelin-Star Alain Ducasse restaurant at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo in Monaco.

  Sagar was still a bit shaken by the events of the day. The phone in his luxury suite at the Hôtel de Paris had rung at the unearthly hour of 6 a.m. It was his executive assistant alerting him to the arrests being made in the L’Oiseau deal. Sagar, who had only gone to bed a few hours earlier after attending the fortieth birthday party of a friend, staggered across to the living room and switched on the TV to see the latest developments.

  Visuals of Michel Philippe and Pollet being arrested and taken into custody in handcuffs had scared the living daylights out of him. If they decided to sing, he was in for the high jump. He had moved the money around as instructed, routing and re-routing it, but in these days of hacking and cyber warfare, no banking transaction was truly secure—not even the ones that operated on the basis of numbered accounts and proxy beneficiaries.

  He was tempted to call his uncle, Madan Mohan, in India and ask for his advice. But he knew that was an exercise fraught with danger. You never really knew who would be listening. No, it was better to wait and let Tayaji reach out to him. Until then, it was best to get on with the day as usual.

  Thus it was that Sagar and Komal Prajapati took the elevator down to the lobby to make their lunch reservation at Le Louis XV at exactly 12.15 p.m. They were a good-looking couple, he standing at 6 feet 3 inches and she grazing 6 feet in her four-inch heels. Sagar was dressed in the European leisure uniform of chinos and a linen shirt while Komal, a former supermodel, wore a chiffon dress that left her caramel legs bare mid-thigh downwards.