Chankya's Chant (18 page)

‘Mr Chairman, it has been said that married men live significantly longer than single men. This in itself should be an argument in favour of women in the workplace. Their mere presence would increase the longevity of their male colleagues. But I’m also given to understand that while married men live significantly longer than single men, they’re apparently a lot more willing to die.’

There was laughter from the audience. ‘And that’s one of the reasons that when a man steals your wife, there’s no better revenge than to let him keep her,’ she said. There were even more laughs. She knew that she had the male audience—which constituted the majority— firmly by their balls.

‘As a woman from India, I can tell you that a woman’s intrinsic value depends entirely on what she’s compared with—men. The solution to greater equality does not lie in artificial legislation to prop up women’s salaries. It lies in changing the very basis of the comparison. There are some jobs to which men are better suited than women—let’s pay the men more there. And conversely, there are several jobs to which women are better suited than men—let’s pay these women more. But who should decide how much either gets paid? Not a bunch of paper-pushing bureaucrats in Westminster! That would be the equivalent of telling my honourable opponent to have a team of ten rowers instead of eight!’ she said as she sat down to thunderous applause and left Geoffrey wondering whether he had been used or abused.

She smiled at him demurely. He seemed smitten.

‘They’ve announced the elections,’ said Gangasagar triumphantly, ‘they had no bloody option. The ruling party is split right down the middle. The Uttar Pradesh home minister and Rajjo Bhaiya’s dispute has achieved what we could never have achieved ourselves!’

‘Our victory is certain,’ said Agrawalji, stuffing another spoonful of the delectable malai-makkhan—saffronflavoured cream lovingly whipped from hung butter— into his eagerly awaiting mouth. The light and fluffy soufflé vanished as it hit his tongue, teasing his taste buds.

‘The only certainty in life is death,’ said Gangasagar slipping back into one of his philosophical moods, ‘and I plan to be the death of this present regime.’

‘But you wanted Ikram out of the way,’ began Agrawalji leaning back contentedly as the confection settled in his belly.

‘There’s no one in this world who cannot be defeated or cheated,’ said Gangasagar taking another gulp. They were seated on the steps of Thaggu Ke Laddoo—an eatery of Kanpur—famous for its desserts. The owner’s grand-father, Thaggu, had acquired his name by using sugar—an item to be boycotted as per Mahatma Gandhi’s directive—to produce his world-famous sweets. He had been branded a thug, hence the name Thaggu.
Aisa koi sagaa nahin, jisko humne thaga nahi
—there’s no one, not even a family member, who hasn’t been cheated by us— was the motto of the eatery, a line that epitomised the swagger of Kanpur and its politics.

Gangasagar was merely a reflection of it.

‘They’ve announced the elections,’ said Chandini triumphantly, ‘they had no bloody option. The rift between Elizabeth and Victor left no room for compromise in the presidential race.’

‘You are supposed to sit still for a portrait,’ complained Josephine. Her art teacher had asked her to do an oil-on-canvas as her next assignment. Josephine put down her paintbrush, a welcome relief from the struggle to complete a portrait of someone who could never sit still. ‘Both candidates claimed foul play, right? The grapevine’s been abuzz with charges of electoral misconduct.’

Chandini nodded. ‘Victor Walsingham, our twentythree- year-old sociology student at Merton College, formally won the election in November for the summer term of the Oxford Union. He defeated Elizabeth Lytton, a twenty-one-year-old politics and law major at Balliol College, by 961 votes to 656,’ explained Chandini excitedly. ‘Victor, who had served as the Union’s treasurer, was disqualified and forbidden from contesting again by a university tribunal after Elizabeth complained that he’d organised an eve-of-poll get-together for thirty-five people in a specially reserved room, in violation of Union regulations that banned campaigning.’

‘So who won eventually?’ asked Josephine, wiping her brushes.

‘Neither. Victor’s group accused Elizabeth, the Union’s librarian, of breaking with tradition by requesting a London barrister—from her own father’s firm, Lytton, Tryon & Yarborough—to represent her. She was expecting that she would be declared president by default, but the Union ordered a new election instead,’ said Chandini.

‘Why don’t you contest instead?’ asked Josephine.

‘I can’t do that. Both Elizabeth and Victor are my friends,’ said Chandini.

‘That’s the problem with friends in politics,’ said Josephine.

‘What’s that?’

‘Friends come and go. Enemies accumulate.’

‘I’ve figured it out,’ declared Gangasagar.

‘What?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘Section eight, subsection three of the Representation of the People Act.’

‘What?’ asked Agrawalji again, even more confused.

‘It says that a person convicted of any criminal offence shall be disqualified from the date of such conviction and shall continue to be disqualified for a further period of six years.’

‘But Ikram has no convictions. Everyone—including you—knows that he’s a don but he’s managed to steer clear of convictions. His friend, the police commissioner, ensures that.’

‘Ah! But what if the home minister of Uttar Pradesh were to be enlightened on the devious scheme by which the police commissioner ignited the fire of discord between him and Rajjo Bhaiya?’ asked Gangasagar mischievously.

‘It would be man overboard,’ said Agrawalji, ‘but such a situation wouldn’t help the ABNS either, Ganga. The party would lose its main candidate—Ikram.’

‘You’re right. That’s why Ikram must understand that he can continue to exercise power through a nominee who is not barred from contesting elections under the law.’

‘And who would that be?’

‘Who better than a daughter?’ asked the naughty Gangasagar.

Agrawalji laughed.

‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah
,’ said Gangasagar.

‘He’s decided not to contest,’ said Chandini deliriously to Josephine, ‘Victor’s decided to throw his weight behind me instead.’

‘Why?’ asked Josephine, happy for her friend.

‘He thinks I’m a frail and nervous little girl from a poor third-world country. He’ll be able to control me and run the Union through me.’

‘Poor sucker,’ chuckled Josephine, ‘he should ask Geoffrey.’

They were sitting at a table in the Eagle & Child, Oxford’s favourite watering hole where the likes of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien had met to discuss literature, love and life. A memorial plaque on a prominent wall bore signed photographs and autographs of theirs with their inebriated affirmations that they had drunk to the landlord’s health.

The affair had blossomed instantly after her demure smile at the end of the debate. Geoffrey had hesitantly asked her out, not sure whether it was acceptable for an Indian woman to date. She had been hoping that he would ask her and agreed instantly.

After several hours of uninterrupted conversation and a few bottles of wine, they both fell quiet. She thought to herself,
a man on a date wonders if he’ll get lucky but the woman already knows
.

Hurrying back to Geoffrey’s bachelor pad, they had melted into each other’s arms almost as though they had been created specifically for this one single moment. He kissed her and she kissed him back even harder. It was almost as though she wanted to consume him and, in turn, be consumed by him.

The next morning when she awoke, he was in the kitchen, brewing tea and frying eggs. They ate breakfast in bed and then decided that some mistakes were simply too delicious to make just once.