9

It was a week later that Asha Devi and Sukanya Sarkar finally came face to face. And in the space of those seven days, the Jamia Nagar disaster had become an even bigger story.

Ashraf Mehdi, the young student who had live-streamed the entire episode on his Facebook feed, had become a national celebrity, doing the rounds of TV news channels to give a first-hand account of being an eyewitness to the raid that had gone so wrong. The families of all those who had perished when the building was blown up by the suicide bombers were out on the streets every day demonstrating against the government and asking for justice for their dead relatives.

The media were clamouring daily for some heads to fall in the security establishment. How could things go on as usual, they asked, when there had been such a monumental failure of intelligence? Surely there had to be some accountability. Somebody in the security agencies should take responsibility and quit. And if not, the Prime Minister should assign blame and fire all those responsible for this disaster. If Asha Devi failed to do that, the TV anchors fulminated, then she had no business occupying the highest office of government.

So, Asha was even angrier a week later than she had been on the day of the raid. The constant attacks from the media, most of them holding her personally responsible for the Jamia Nagar disaster, had worn her down. Firing Suresh Shastri, the head of the IB, would have made her feel a little better. But she had been advised against it by both Arunoday Sengupta and Madhavan Kutty, the two arch rivals coming together to press that point upon her. Doing that at this juncture, they explained to her, would make it seem that the security forces had screwed up. And they couldn’t afford to let that impression take hold while they tried to do some damage control.

This meeting with Sukanya Sarkar was part of that damage control exercise that her private secretary, Nitesh Dholakia, had drafted for her. Given that the Poriborton Party numbers were keeping the government afloat, it was imperative that Asha keep Sukanya in good humour – no matter how much it went against her grain.

So, swallowing the anger that had been simmering within her ever since Sukanya had hung up on her on the day of the raid, Asha had invited Sukanya over to Race Course Road for breakfast. Finally, her mother’s talent for putting on a breakfast buffet for champions would come to good use, she thought.

And sure enough, as she led Sukanya through to the dining room, the sideboard was groaning under an array of dishes. This time, in keeping with the tastes of the guest of honour, Amma had included some Bengali dishes as well. So along with the idlis and vadas, the puri bhajis and poha, there was some Calcutta-style singara and nimki, along with some aloo dum served with a side of fluffy luchis.

But Sukanya didn’t give the spread even a cursory look. ‘I will have one boiled egg and one toast,’ she announced to one of the bearers in attendance, as she settled down on the dining table. ‘No butter,’ she shouted fiercely at his retreating back, ‘no butter.’

The bearer nodded nervously as he scurried to the door. But Sukanya had one more request. ‘Also, you get me some tea with little bit milk and one spoon sugar. Just one spoon, okay?’ The man scuttled off, looking more petrified than Asha had ever seen him.

Asha helped herself to two idlis and some green chutney as they sat and waited for Sukanya’s order to be delivered. Once her abstemious breakfast had been served, Asha nodded dismissal to the waiting staff and the two women got down to business.

But even before Asha could give voice to the many resentments boiling up within her, Sukanya disarmed her completely. ‘Look, I am sorry I lost my temper with you that day,’ she said brusquely, ‘but you must understand, I was under a lot of pressure.’

As was I, thought Asha to herself. But voicing that thought seemed churlish given that the great Sukanya Sarkar—the woman who had a reputation of never backing away from a fight—was actually apologizing for her behaviour. Nor did it seem right to counter this apology with a laundry list of complaints—though God knows hers ran into several long pages.

So, Asha did the only thing she could. She responded graciously. ‘That’s okay Sukanya di. I can understand. It’s been a difficult time for all of us . . .’

Sukanya didn’t allow her to complete her thought. ‘Yes, yes, this is what I am saying also. It is difficult time. But now we need to come together and do better.’

‘Of course,’ responded Asha. ‘I am open to any ideas you may have.’

And ideas Sukanya had aplenty. First off, she wanted IB chief Suresh Shastri’s head on a platter. Next, she wanted Asha to set up a Supreme Court of India-monitored Special Investigation Team (SIT) to delve into the Jamia Nagar operation and assign responsibility for its failure down the line. And finally, she wanted Asha to set up an Inter-Services team to investigate the Kautilya Mall terror attack; that was the only way, declared Sukanya, to get any answers to all the questions they had.

Asha nodded along even though she didn’t agree with all of this. She would get her home minister, Savitri Shukla, to push back on this in due course. And who knows, with the passage of time, Sukanya’s focus may shift to other issues as well, obviating the need for another head-on confrontation.

But, as Asha was to soon discover, Sukanya was already ready to move on other matters. And one among them wasn’t good news for Asha.

Canny politician that she was, Sukanya Sarkar had saved the worst for the last. As she drank up the one cup of tea that she allowed herself every day, she announced that she wanted West Bengal to be declared a Special Category State. In response to Asha’s incredulous stare, she reeled off a number of reasons why this made sense.

Bengal was a border state, she argued, and one which had always had security issues. Over the last year, the infiltration problem had got even worse, and the state was finding it hard to cope with its current resources. In addition, there was considerable agrarian distress after the cyclone that had hit the coastal areas a few months back. The state needed extra help from the Center if it was to recover and get back to normal. Industry needed extra sops as well if it was to be wooed back to Bengal; and the return of industry was imperative to create new jobs.

The only way to accomplish all this, argued Sukanya, was to proclaim Bengal a Special Category State. And she hoped that Asha would make the announcement in the next few weeks.

Asha was dumbfounded. She had been worried about meeting Sukanya’s demands, but even she hadn’t seen this coming. How could she possibly give Special Category status to Bengal when states that were far less prosperous did not have it? And if she did give it, what answer would she give to those states that had been petitioning for this status for decades—and had more of a legitimate claim to the title and all the support that came with it?

But the moment she said all of this aloud, Sukanya came back at her with a barrage of figures and statistics to prove that Bengal was much worse off than any other state in the Indian union. As she flagged under this onslaught of numbers, none of which made any sense to her, Asha felt more inadequate than she had ever before.

If only she had asked Alok Ray to be here at this meeting, she thought ruefully. He would have known exactly how to respond to this. She could almost hear him drawling in his droll way, ‘Madam Chief Minister, there are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.’

She only realized that she was smiling when Sukanya stopped mid-flow to ask crossly, ‘What is so funny? Are you laughing at me?’

Asha rushed to assure the CM that she would never dare do such a thing. But she could barely begin to admit to herself just why she had been smiling. The truth was that the very thought of Alok Ray had been enough to bring a smile to her face. And that wasn’t something Asha was at all happy about.

* * *

As this meeting ended, another was beginning a few blocks away. Satyajit Kumar had finally got an appointment with the Dalit Morcha supremo, Didi Damyanti, though the invitation didn’t extend to breakfast. A cup of coffee or masala chai was as much as Damyanti was ready to offer him.

As he was escorted into the Lutyens bungalow that Damyanti called home when in Delhi, Kumar reminded himself to keep calm, to not lose his cool no matter how bad the provocation. If his party was to revive, he needed this alliance with the Dalit Morcha to fight the state elections in Bihar. Together, the two parties would have the numbers to take on Asha Devi’s LJP in a two-to-one battle. But if there was a three-cornered fight, then the LJP would be home and dry with no problems at all.

At the end of the day, it was all down to electoral arithmetic. And he needed Didi Damyanti’s support to ensure that the numbers made sense for him and his Samajik Prajatantra Party. If he didn’t succeed in winning her over, then it was game over. The election was already lost to him, even before a single vote was cast.

In an attempt to soften up the Dalit Morcha supremo, Kumar had arrived with an enormous bouquet of red roses—he had been informed that these were her favourite flowers. And along with that he had brought some homemade goat cheese, made from the produce of the goats he milked every morning. Even if he said so himself, it stood up to any goat cheese one could buy in Khan Market.

Damyanti accepted the flowers gratefully but looked askance at the packet of goat cheese. ‘Yeh kya hai, Satyajit Bhai?’ she asked, prodding it doubtfully. ‘Lagta hai aap ka samaan kharab ho gaya hai. Ajeeb smell aa rahi hai.’ (What is this? It looks like this stuff has gone off. It has a strange smell.)

Kumar hastened to assure her that the cheese was just right for eating. But as he went into rhapsodies about the quality of the milk his goats produced, Damyanti’s eyes began glazing over. Everyone said that Satyajit Kumar was a bore on the subject of his goats. And clearly, the reports hadn’t exaggerated.

She rang a bell to summon her secretary and asked him to take the cheese away. She couldn’t think straight with that strange smell overpowering her senses. Satyajit couldn’t help but feel a little put out by how perfunctorily his gift had been treated. But he told himself to get over it. He was here for a cause bigger than his goats.

As if to compensate for her brusqueness, Damyanti started off with a little light gossip. ‘So, how is Jayesh Sharma these days?’ she asked, ‘I hear that his wife left him and took the children with her.’

Kumar understood that this was a rhetorical question. Damyanti knew that the former SPP chief’s marriage had collapsed when his wife, Malti, found out that he had (against her explicit wishes) leaked the naked pictures of Asha Devi. This was just her way of getting some fresh grist for her rumour mill.

Well, if that’s what it took to placate her, then Kumar was happy to play along. So, he obligingly related stories he had picked up on Delhi’s cocktail circuit over the past couple of months. The Sharmas were most certainly history, and the implosion of his marriage had left Jayesh in a cloud of depression. Some said that he had taken off for England so that he could recover at the Priory. Others said that he had gone to some retreat in Vermont to lick his wounds. There was one theory that he was meditating at a Vipasana center in Bhutan. But everyone was agreed that his time in the Lutyens charmed circle was over.

‘I should hope so,’ exclaimed Damyanti. ‘How could Girdharilal Sharma’s son behave like a low-class thug? Leaking naked pictures of a lady? How low can you go?’

Kumar, who was certain that Damyanti would not have hesitated to do the same if she was in Jayesh’s position, shook his head gravely and said, ‘Well, I was certainly very disappointed in him—as was our entire party. You know, we removed him as President straight away.’

‘Well, that worked out well for you,’ chortled the Dalit Morcha leader. ‘If he hadn’t done that you wouldn’t be party leader today.’

Satyajit smiled and nodded. ‘And we wouldn’t be having this meeting today,’ he said. ‘But forget about Jayesh Sharma. He is yesterday’s man. Today we have many more important things to discuss.’

Damyanti smiled. She knew exactly why Kumar was here: to negotiate a seat-share deal for the Bihar elections that were just months away. And she knew that it was in the best interests of the Dalit Morcha as well to come to some sort of arrangement. But she saw no reason why she should not make him work for it.

And that’s exactly what she did over the next hour.

By the time the meeting ended, an hour and some later, Satyajit Kumar felt like he had been put through the wringer. But it had been totally worth it, he thought, as he clambered into the back seat of his car. He had an alliance that would work, and so long as he pandered to Damyanti, it would hold. The Dalit Morcha had got the better end of the deal no doubt. It would fight 135 of the 243 Assembly seats, while his Samajik Prajatantra Party got to contest on 108.

But both caste equations and electoral arithmetic would be on his side, even if he did have to become the junior partner. And if they won Bihar, as seemed certain with this alliance, then that would be the SPP’s first step on the road to recovery.

It would be the first electoral reversal after the General Election for the LJP and Asha Devi. And with a bit of luck, it would be the first of many.

* * *

Asha had chosen to meet Sukanya Sarkar at home for two reasons. One, because she thought the domestic setting would disarm Sukanya and soften her for the discussions that followed. And two, because it was easier to keep a meeting under wraps in RCR than it was in the more public setting of the Prime Minister’s office in South Block. There weren’t as many prying eyes at Race Course Road, and the media’s eyes weren’t trained on the entrance to the complex round the clock either.

So, it came as a bit of a shock to the Prime Minister when barely ten minutes after Sukanya had driven out of the gates of RCR, their meeting had become the stuff of ‘Breaking News’.

Asha was about to leave for South Block after her usual pit stop at her mother’s room, when her eyes fell on the TV that was always on in Amma’s bedroom. The screen was flashing a photograph of Asha and Sukanya hugging at the swearing-in ceremony, with a jagged line drawn between the two women. ‘Is it all over between Asha Devi and Sukanya Sarkar?’ the caption read.

Asha picked up the remote and did a quick check of the other news channels. ‘Crisis talks at Race Course Road’. ‘Asha Devi and Sukanya at loggerheads’. ‘Trouble breaks out between the PM and her main ally’. And finally, ‘Can this government survive?’

The hashtags soon followed: #AshaVsSukanya #Crisispoint #SukanyaTopplesSarkar. And then, the one that really got Asha riled: #CatFightAtRCR.

Why did everything involving two women have to be seen through the prism of sexism? Why did this kind of casual misogyny still flourish in the media? Couldn’t two female political leaders have differences without it turning into some kind of sexist sideshow, a WWE of political sport with her wrestling Sukanya in the mud for the entertainment of those who watched?

Asha was about to call Nitesh Dholakia to tell him to ask Sukanya to issue a clarification, when she was startled to see Sukanya herself appear on the TV screen. It was the AITNN feed and the screen split into two to show Manisha Patel in the studio on one side and Sukanya on an OB link on the other.

Asha couldn’t make up her mind as to which of the two women she was most irritated with. Was it Manisha, who turned up at every crisis like the proverbial bad penny? Honestly, did the woman live in her studio? Or was it Sukanya, who clearly couldn’t bear to keep a single thought to herself? Did she really have to share everything with the media?

Asha knew, of course, that Manisha and Sukanya had a special relationship. In fact, there was an iconic photograph to prove it.

It had been taken at a protest march that Sukanya had led as the young leader of her fledgling Poriborton Party. Manisha, then a rookie reporter, had been assigned to cover the event. The protest had soon turned violent and Sukanya had been hit on the head by a police lathi. Manisha, who had been watching, had rushed to her side and taken the PP leader’s head in her lap, even as Sukanya’s white sari turned bright red with her blood. That image had featured in newspapers across the country, a testament to the brutal nature of the government Sukanya was opposing.

And ever since then, Manisha and Sukanya had been friends. If Sukanya needed anything leaked, she messaged Manisha. If she had an important announcement to make, she appeared on Manisha’s show. And now that she wanted to send a message to Asha, she had called Manisha yet again.

With an exasperated sigh, Asha settled down on the sofa to listen. She caught the fag end of Manisha’s question. ‘. . . Was the Prime Minister receptive to your suggestions?’ Dear God, had Sukanya revealed the entire contents of their meeting to the whole world already?

But much to Asha’s surprise, Sukanya responded with a maturity that she hadn’t thought the PP leader had in her. ‘Well, Manisha, that was private conversation between Asha ji and me. That should remain between the two of us,’ she began. But just as Asha was about to slump with relief, Sukanya went on, ‘All I can tell you is that I shared my concerns with her and we had a fruitful discussion.’

‘Shared my concerns.’ Sukanya might as well have carried a placard proclaiming that she was at outs with Asha. Everyone knew what ‘shared my concerns’ meant in this context. Sukanya would only be ‘concerned’ if she wasn’t happy with the way things were being handled by Asha.

So it wasn’t surprising that Manisha pushed the PP leader further. ‘When you talk about “concerns”, what exactly do you have in mind? Could you please elaborate for the sake of our viewers?’

Sukanya smiled thinly. ‘I don’t really want to elaborate right now. I want to keep it between Asha Devi and myself. These are matters about national security, you know. One cannot discuss in public.’

Wonderful, thought Asha bitterly. Now Sukanya had as good as confirmed that their differences were about the Jamia Nagar raid and the events that followed.

‘But surely,’ persisted Manisha, ‘the public has a right to know about matters that impact their lives directly? Isn’t that what you have always believed in, Sukanya di? The public’s right to know? And that there should be transparency in public life?’

‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ Sukanya said impatiently. ‘But you know the Prime Minister is still young. She is very new to the job. So, you have to give her the benefit of the doubt. She needs our support at this difficult time.’

Now that was a double-edged sword if ever there was one. The Prime Minister needed our support—because she was too young and inexperienced to do her job.

Manisha eagerly jumped on this, as Asha fully expected her to. ‘Are you saying that Asha Devi is not up to the job? That she is too inexperienced to deal with a situation like this? Do you think she is out of her depth?’

‘Of course not. I am saying nothing of the sort,’ shouted Sukanya. ‘You please don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say anything of the sort. You may be saying so. I am not.’

Asha had to concede that this was a masterful performance. Without divulging the details of their conversation, without saying one bad word about her, Sukanya had managed to convey to the nation that she didn’t think Asha was up to the job of dealing with national security concerns. Without saying anything very much, Sukanya had managed to say it all. As political theatre, there was much to admire here.

But then, this was par for the course for Sukanya. And frankly, Asha should not expect any better of her. So, irrational though it was, Asha’s anger was aimed more at Manisha than at Sukanya.

Asha had given Manisha the story of a lifetime by choosing to speak to her exclusively after her naked pictures were leaked. That had given such an immense boost to Manisha’s TRPs that the bump lasted to this day. After languishing behind Gaurav Agnihotri for months in the ratings, Manisha was finally giving her bête noire a run for his money. And it was all thanks to Asha.

You would have thought that that would buy Asha some years, or at least months, of loyalty. And you would have thought wrong, said Asha to herself. There was no such thing as loyalty in the cut-throat world of TV news. There was only the race to stay ahead. And like everyone else, Manisha would take her ‘exclusive breaks’ wherever she found them.

Well, in that case, thought Asha, two could play this game. If Manisha had no problems taking stories from other people that targeted Asha, then Asha no longer had any obligations towards her.

She knew that Nitesh Dholakia had already offered her first interview post becoming Prime Minister, to Manisha Patel. And until now, Asha had been quite happy with that arrangement. But after seeing Manisha stick the knife into her on Sukanya’s behalf, Asha was determined not to go through with this arrangement.

Such was her anger that she couldn’t even wait to get to South Block to cancel. Picking up her mobile, Asha dialed Nitesh’s number. He could barely get a greeting out before Asha interrupted, ‘My interview with Manisha Patel, I want you to cancel it.’

‘But why, Prime Minister?’ came the bewildered response. ‘We have already set aside a time next week, and the crew has come and done a recce as well. How can we cancel now?’

‘I don’t care how you do it. I just want it cancelled. Right now.’

‘Ma’am, can we please discuss this when you get to office?’ Nitesh pleaded. ‘It will go down very badly if we cancel at this late stage. And we should not needlessly antagonize the media.’

‘I think that ship has sailed, Nitesh,’ Asha said sharply. ‘The media is, and will remain, antagonistic to me as long as I am Prime Minister. And Manisha is no different.’

‘But Prime Minister, we have promised her the interview. It is not advisable to cancel now,’ said Nitesh, a desperate edge to his voice. ‘And in any case, we have to do one interview with the TV media. And she is still the best candidate . . .’

‘No, she’s not. She’s not any better or worse than any other anchor. And in any case, I don’t want it to look like she has some sort of monopoly as far as interviews with me are concerned.’

And that’s when it came to Asha in a flash. She would pay Manisha back in the same coin by giving the interview to Gaurav Agnihotri. Let’s see how Manisha liked it then.

Nitesh Dholakia was horrified by the suggestion. He begged, he pleaded, he implored, he argued. Going up against Gaurav was a bad idea. The man was a loose cannon. God alone knows what he would ask her. He would get aggressive. He would be unpleasant. Asha would be making a big mistake if she went with Gaurav instead of Manisha.

But all these warnings fell on deaf ears. Madam Prime Minister had made up her mind. And that, she was insistent, was that.