Chankya's Chant (34 page)

‘That son of a whore, Gangasagar, thought he could play politics with me, eh? Instal his pretty girl on the throne and rule by proxy? He fucked me, now I’m going to fuck his pretty little lady and have me some fun. Boys, are you ready for some group action?’ laughed Rajjo Bhaiya, and his men laughed with him—evil and menacing cackles.

Both Chandini and Shankar stayed seated, their windows shattered into shards that lay all over the seats and floor. Two .303 barrels pointed at them from each side. Rajjo’s men were in no hurry to get them out of the car. Having eliminated the bodyguards in the rear, the bike riders in the front, and the driver, they knew that Chandini and Shankar were helpless prey.

‘At the count of three,’ whispered Shankar to Chandini as he gestured for her to pick up a dagger-shaped shard of glass that lay near her hand. He was already holding one—the blood from his palm dripping on the seat. ‘One—two—three—’ he whispered and, in unison, both Chandini and Shankar thrust out their hands wildly, stabbing the two horses that stood on either side of their car.

The stallions went wild, whinnying and neighing as they bucked and reared. ‘Motherfucker!’ shouted Rajjo Bhaiya in disgust as he and his accomplices concentrated their attentions on bringing their mounts under control. The rifle barrels were withdrawn momentarily from the car’s interior. ‘Now!’ hissed Shankar as he pulled open his door and dragged Chandini out with him. He knew that the bucking steeds had bought them less than a minute.

As they stumbled out, Shankar took another stab at the horse next to him and the animal went berserk. Shankar grabbed hold of the gun that fell to the ground, picked it up, aimed for the thug’s head and fired. He wasn’t sure what he was doing but his mind and body were on autopilot. He realised that he had killed a man only when the horseman’s lifeless body fell from his horse, one foot still in the stirrup. The horse went into a crazed gallop, dragging the corpse with it into the dusty horizon.

Falling to his hands and knees, Shankar pulled Chandini down with him and they crawled under the car. He silently thanked the Government of India, which continued to insist that all officials and ministers use an Ambassador car for their official duties. Based on the Morris Oxford III of 1956, the Ambassador had changed little over the years and had the highest ground clearance among passenger cars, making it easy to slip underneath it. ‘Why the fuck don’t you come out and fight like a man, cuntface?’ yelled Rajjo Bhaiya.

‘In the same macho way that you held us at gunpoint?’ taunted Shankar. He could see the horses’ hooves and knew that they needed to act before Rajjo Bhaiya dismounted. He pulled Chandini close to him and gave her hand a brief squeeze, to comfort and reassure her that they would get out of the mess alive. He pointed his gun towards the space underneath the left side rear door and hastily told Chandini to fire a few shots, being careful to avoid the tyres. His aim was to distract Rajjo and his remaining accomplice while he crawled out below the front right door—the door to the driver’s seat.

Chandini’s shots had brought both horsemen to the rear left of the car and in that instant, Shankar yanked open the door, wildly dragged out the driver’s body, and pulled the policeman’s IOFB Mark I revolver from his holster. Standing up he aimed his revolver at Rajjo Bhaiya—whose attention was still focused on the shots from the rear left—and fired. Rajjo Bhaiya dropped his rifle and clutched his heart from which blood was spurting. He had a dazed expression on his face before the second shot caught him between the eyes.

The third horseman, realising that his master was dead, steered his horse away from the car and galloped away into the surrounding hills. Shankar crawled underneath the car once again, and held on to Chandini who was still attempting to fire the rifle mechanically although it had run out of ammunition. She was trembling as she clutched the gun. He reached out and gently unclasped her hand that had been wrapped like a vice around the trigger. He offered her his other hand and nudged her out from the under the car. Putting his arm around her, he sat her in the front passenger’s seat and then, running around to the other side, got into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, shifted the gear from neutral and put his foot on the gas. He did not lift his foot from the accelerator until they reached the government circuit house on the outskirts of Nutpurwa.

It was past 10 pm when they arrived at the circuit house, a small two-bedroom bungalow constructed by the district collector. The caretaker—a gentle, toothless old man—came out running when he noticed the car with the chief ministerial numberplate. ‘What happened?’ he asked with anxiety, as he saw Shankar emerge from the car, his clothes bloodied and soiled. ‘There was an attack on the chief minister. I need you to help me get her inside—she’s in shock,’ explained Shankar.

The two men helped Chandini out of the car, and placing her arms around their shoulders helped her up the circuit house steps and into one of the rooms. By standards of government accommodation, the house was surprisingly well-maintained. Shankar allowed Chandini to slump onto the bed and then, turning to the caretaker said, ‘Please make us some tea. And do you have a sedative? After that, I’ll need to use the phone.’

The worried caretaker nodded and headed off to get the tea and sedative but his trailing voice said, ‘The phone line’s been dead since this morning, sir. The only other phone’s five miles away!’

Shankar propped up Chandini against a couple of pillows, sat beside her on the bed, and forced her to take a few sips of the hot, sugary brew that the caretaker brought them. He then made her swallow the tranquilliser. ‘I’m not comfortable driving you back to Lucknow in this state,’ he told her gently. ‘Ideally, I’d like a police escort. If you’re hungry I’ll drive down to the village and get something to eat.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry. Let’s leave in the morning—by then the control room in Lucknow will have realised that they need to send a team here.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell the caretaker to stay awake and sit near the front porch. I’m in the room next door—’ he began, as he got up.

‘Shankar,’ said Chandini holding on to his hand and looking directly into his eyes, ‘don’t leave me. Please stay.’ It was a simple request loaded with meaning and he found himself falling in love with the tragically beautiful and vulnerable woman.

‘You were supposed to watch over her, not bloody sleep with her!’ roared Gangasagar. The attack on the chief minister’s convoy had been all over the news and they had been brought back to the safety of Lucknow under armed escort in the morning. Shankar had bathed, hurriedly grabbed a bite to eat and rushed over to meet Gangasagar. There was no point in keeping any secrets from the old man—he would find out anyway.

Shankar’s mind was whirling. He was a mess. ‘I never meant for it to happen. It was just so sudden. She needed me and—’

‘—and you obliged by performing gymnastics with her in bed?’ shouted Gangasagar.

‘It wasn’t like that at all. It was an intense, emotional, momentary—’ began Shankar.

‘Please! Spare me the details!’ said Gangasagar as he strode up and down his living room, hands clasped behind his back.

‘I—I—I think that I’m in l—love with her,’ stammered Shankar. ‘I don’t know if I can really do what you want me to. How do I watch and report on a w— w—woman that I have fallen for?’

Gangasagar smiled. It was a gentle, reassuring smile. He walked up to the chair that Shankar was sitting on, placed a hand affectionately on the young man’s shoulder and said, ‘You’re brave and honest, Shankar. I’m proud of you for telling me the truth.’

Shankar heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I suggest that you go home and get some rest. We’ll talk about how to pull you out of this assignment a couple of days later.’

Shankar fell to Gangasagar’s feet and touched them. ‘I am grateful to you for everything that you have done for me—including getting me the secretaryship. You’re my mentor, sir, and I’m ever grateful.’

‘Cheer up, Shankar. Love’s not such a bad thing, after all,’ chuckled Gangasagar. ‘Without it, neither you nor I would have been born!’

Shankar awoke early, shaved, bathed and dressed. His small bachelor’s flat smelt of coffee, a daily indulgence that required grinding fresh beans and brewing them. Ignoring the freshly-brewed coffee, he grabbed his briefcase, ran down the stairs and headed over to the bus stop. There was a spring in his step as he thought about his phone conversation the previous night with Chandini.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said.

‘Hush! You know that no thanks are needed,’ he admonished.

‘I know. Listen, about what happened between us—’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know how to say this. If it was just casual for you, I’ll understand—’

‘What are you talking about? Casual? I—’

‘I’m glad it meant something to you. I want you to know that it still means a lot to me.’

‘I think I’m falling in love with you,’ he said.

‘That makes the two of us,’ she said simply.

Shankar had reached the bus stop that lay across the street. He looked to his right and left before crossing the street. Without warning, the Tata truck wheeled up, the driver having apparently lost control of his vehicle. The massive twenty-five-tonne monster smashed into Shankar, crushing his bones into dusty death. Shankar’s mangled body lay in a mess of blood and pulpy gore as the truck driver looked in his rearview mirror and drove on.

‘I
love you,’ said Suvasini, Chanakya’s childhood crush, to Rakshas, Magadha’s prime minister, as she kneaded his neck and shoulders.

Suvasini was the ideal spark that could set off a conflagration in Magadha, Chanakya had decided. For one thing, she was sexy. For another, she loved playing games. In Magadha’s political landscape, carnal desires were paramount drivers of the key protagonists—the lustful king Dhanananda and his lecherous prime minister Rakshas.

Suvasini had a dusky quality to her skin, which made her mysterious and desirable. She could not be called beautiful in the traditional sense, but there was a particular quality in her that simply set the fertile imagination of any testosterone-bearing man into overdrive. She had curves in all the right places and this, combined with her tawny complexion, full lips, deep back eyes and thick black hair made her look tangy, saucy and sensual.