Chankya's Chant (64 page)

‘It is claimed that this year over a hundred million rupees will get collected as offerings to the deity,’ said the premier.

‘Absolutely. I have brought here with me a few thousand rupees, which I would like you to hold in your hands before I take this offering with me to Lalbaugcha Raja on your behalf and pray for our continued success,’ said Gangasagar as he handed over a bundle of crisp thousand-rupee notes to the prime minister.

‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, for being such a good friend of my government. Man’s way leads to a hopeless end but God’s way leads to endless hope,’ said the prime minister as he handed back the cash to Gangasagar.

The horseshoe-shaped chamber of the Lok Sabha had the Speaker’s chair located between the two arms. In the pit of the chamber, just below his chair, was the Table of the House where the secretary-general, secretariat officers and recorders of the proceedings sat. To the Speaker’s right were the government benches and to his left sat the members of the Opposition. The prime minister sat at his customary seat in the front row of the government benches. Towards the left was the special box reserved for VIPs inside which sat Gangasagar. Also seated on the first row of the government benches was Chandini. Dressed in a citrus-green saree, her ensemble—together with her green eyes—blended in perfectly with the green leather of the chamber of the world’s largest democracy.

Overlooking the chamber opposite the Speaker was a large portrait of Vithalbhai Patel, the first elected president of the Central Legislative Assembly, a man who had stood for high parliamentary traditions. The face in the portrait did not seem to foresee that all parliamentary traditions were about to be broken that day.

‘The hon’ble minister for power may address the House,’ said the Speaker.

‘Hon’ble Speaker, sir, I beg to move for leave to introduce a Bill to provide for the establishment of a Central Electricity Regulatory Commission and for matters connected therewith or incidental thereto,’ said the minister for power.

‘Motion moved,’ said the Speaker mechanically.

‘Sir, I have given a notice under Rule 72 to oppose the introduction of this Bill,’ said the leader of the Opposition, rising from his seat.

‘Yes, yes. The Hon’ble leader of the Opposition may address the House,’ said the Speaker.

‘Sir, I hold in my hands over a million rupees. This money was given as a bribe by the Prime Minister to one of our honourable members to secure his vote for this Bill in Parliament. I demand an immediate statement—’

The premier’s face turned ashen as the proceedings descended into chaos. The uproar was deafening, with the Opposition members shouting ‘Shame!’ and the occupants of the government benches yelling ‘Liar!’ The leader of the Opposition, still standing with bundles of cash in his hands, screamed above the din, ‘These notes were handed over by the prime minister himself. Let the country’s investigating agencies check to see whether his fingerprints are on them or not!’

Trying to be heard above the din, the Speaker shouted, ‘I request all the members to please take their seats. There’s simply no reason why this House cannot maintain dignity and decorum.’

‘It isn’t possible to maintain decorum when the prime minister himself indulges in acts of corruption—this government is rotten to the core and this House has lost confidence in it!’ The voice was not from the Opposition benches. It was Chandini’s. ‘At this moment, all eight members of the ABNS have handed in their resignations. This administration has allowed a key operative responsible for the sabotage attempt on my helicopter and the subsequent hijack of IC-617 to walk free! Is this how we should honour the memory of the late Ikram Shaikh, who sacrificed his life for the nation?’

The members of the Opposition rushed into the well of the house and the Speaker was left with little alternative but to adjourn the proceedings. In the visitor’s gallery, Gangasagar watched the happenings and snickered. Chandini had been planning to hand in her resignation to the prime minister the previous day. He had advised her against it.

‘But you advised us to resign. Why not let us hand in our letters?’ she had demanded.

‘Because I want live television cameras present when you do,’ he had said.

‘How are we doing with Sentiosys?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘We now own twenty-five per cent of the company.’

‘Good,’ said Gangasagar.

‘I still don’t understand why we’re buying Sentiosys,’ said Agrawalji. ‘The company has shown losses for the past three years. The commissions flowing in from R&S are huge and yet we persist in throwing good money into bad deals. Why?’

‘I like the cover design of their annual report,’ said Gangasagar cheerily.

‘Did you get Chandini to agree to procuring the gas centrifuge designs from the Russians?’ asked Gangasagar. The IB director nodded.

‘And were these redrafted to resemble the Uronico plans, as I asked?’

‘Yes—beautifully and aesthetically.’

‘Did you get the RAW chief to sell the plans to the North Koreans?’ asked the Pandit.

‘They fell over themselves to buy it,’ said the director. ‘They’re under the impression they’ve acquired the plans through the Pakistani black market.’

‘And the money?’

‘Transferred to the Liechtenstein bank account number that you gave me.’

‘Good man. Your debt to me for having you promoted from police commissioner to Director Intelligence Bureau is now repaid.’

The backyard of the sadhvi’s cottage in Simla was quiet. The sadhvi—the blessed mother—sat facing a roaring fire. Opposite her, sat three prime ministers. The first was her father—the previous premier who had been forced to resign because of Gangasagar’s press leaks about his relationship with the sadhvi. The second was the man who had clambered down a rope ladder from a helicopter following Gangasagar’s advice—the former defence minister. He had usurped the prime ministerial chair only to have his government pulled down by the telecom, fodder, SEZ and petroleum scams. The third was the current prime minister—the home minister whose portfolio had been passed on to Ikram—brought down by the recent cash-for-votes scandal and just a caretaker till the next elections.

In front of the three men lay the carcass of a goat covered in black cloth, with a small idol, moulded out of dough, placed on top. Surrounding it were odd items such as lemons, nails, yellow rice and chicken bones. The sadhvi was tending the fire. ‘
Om lingalingalinalinga, kilikili
…’ she chanted as she threw mustard seeds and secret ingredients into the fire, producing strange colours, crackling sounds and odd-smelling vapours.

She nodded at her father. He dipped the old fashioned quill into a bowl containing the goat’s blood and carefully wrote ‘Gangasagar’ on a chit of paper. He then reached over and handed the chit to her. She dipped the chit into a pot of melted butter and then threw it into the fire. It burst into flames.

She sprinkled water on the dough idol and mopped it with peacock feathers while delicately placing a string around the idol’s neck. She gestured for the former defence minister to hold one end of the string while she held the other. As they both pulled, the string tightened around the doughboy’s neck like a hangman’s noose until the head separated and rolled into the fire.

She then signalled to the cash-for-votes-stung premier. With each chant by the sadhvi of ‘Om lingalingalinalinga, kilikili…’ the caretaker prime minister would pick up a nail from the pile next to him and thrust it into the torso of the headless dough idol. The sadhvi laughed and the three men smiled in satisfaction. The black magic curse was final. That machinator, Gangasagar, was to learn a lesson.

The meeting was held in the seclusion of the sadhvi’s cottage. The reporter could not believe he was sitting with the man whose reputation he had helped destroy. The sadhvi-tainted ex-prime minister offered him a cup of tea and then settled into his own armchair. ‘I requested you here to tell you that I have nothing against you. You were simply doing your job. The fourth estate must remain independent and fearless if democracy is to flourish in India,’ said the seasoned politician. The reporter shrugged his shoulders but kept quiet.

‘I’m given to understand that before you were offered the juicy tidbit about the sadhvi—the blessed mother— being my illegitimate daughter, you were out sniffing another story. A story about Chandini,’ said the former statesman, smiling at the reporter.

‘What if I was?’ asked the reporter, trying his best to appear uninterested even though his ears had perked up.

‘What if I told you that a trust fund was established by Gangasagar in Guernsey—in the Channel Islands— in order to meet the education and living expenses of a mother and her son in Grasmere in the Lake District?’

‘So? The old man’s not a brahmacharya after all. Big deal if he banged up a woman—so did you!’ said the reporter winking at the previous premier.

‘You’ve not understood the story, my friend. Gangasagar has nothing to do with the mother or child. That child belongs to Chandini—the beloved primeministerial candidate of the masses of India!’

‘And how did you get this information?’ asked the reporter, knowing full well that if someone else were to have asked him that question he would have said he was not at liberty to reveal his sources.