12

Asha was in a rare upbeat mood as she drove out of Race Course Road. She had just been briefed by the NSA, Arunoday Sengupta, on the investigation into the Kautilya Mall terror attack. And much to her relief, there had finally been another breakthrough.

As is usually the case, this had come about entirely unexpectedly. Last week, the Army had—on the basis of an anonymous tip-off—raided a house in the Pulwama district in the Valley. By the time the army men arrived, though, the militants were long gone. But a search of the premises had provided a plethora of information. Among the many papers that were seized were detailed schematic maps of Kautilya Mall, surveillance photos of the exteriors and interiors of the structure, and many close-ups of Radhika Pratap Singh, the Prime Minister’s sister-in-law and primary target of the hostage-takers.

Clearly, the men who had carried out the attack had planned it in that very house. Forensic experts had been called in and the house was dusted for fingerprints and examined thoroughly for DNA evidence. The results of these tests had then been put through the combined database of the security agencies—and for once they had struck lucky.

The fingerprints and DNA results were traced back to four militants with suspected links to Jihad-e-Azaadi (JEA), the group that had claimed responsibility for the attack. The houses of these men had then been raided by the investigative agencies, and more evidence had been uncovered in these raids. On the basis of that, the security agencies had been able to identify and arrest another twelve people who had been involved in the planning of the Kautilya Mall attack. They were now being interrogated in one of the black sites that the army had set up all across Kashmir.

Sengupta was hopeful that in a few days—after what he euphemistically referred to as ‘sustained interrogation’ and Asha understood to mean ‘torture’—these men would crack and reveal all the information that they had about the JEA and its workings. Then, it was only a matter of time before the masterminds behind the operation were identified and put behind bars.

At last, there would be a resolution to the Kautilya attack. The nation would have some closure. And the Prime Minister would redeem her reputation.

So, it was with the unfamiliar feeling of optimism that Asha headed out to her first meeting in the Prime Minister’s office in South Block, even though she knew that it would bring her no pleasure. This was her first face-to-face meeting with her Poriborton Party ally, since Sukanya Sarkar had made her case for getting special category status for Bengal. Asha had hemmed and hawed on that occasion and asked for some time to consider the issue.

Well, her time was now up. A month had passed and Sukanya was now ready to push her case once more—and, Asha was sure, more vigorously than ever.

But Asha wasn’t entirely unprepared for this onslaught either. Remembering how helpless she had felt at the last meeting when Sukanya had drowned her in facts and figures that made zero sense to her, she had her own numbers man helping her out today. She had asked her finance minister, Alok Ray, to sit in on the meeting. Given that she didn’t want any bureaucratic involvement at this stage (for fear of the story leaking) Ray seemed like the best man to invite to the meeting. It didn’t exactly hurt either that, as a fellow Bengali, he had a special rapport with Sukanya, which Asha was only too glad to exploit.

Asha wasn’t ready to admit—even to herself—that there was another reason why there was a spring in her step as she bounded up the stairs to her first-floor office in South Block. And it wasn’t just that Ray was coming with a progress report of the Dark Matters investigation into Madan Mohan. It was also that after weeks she would finally get to spend some alone time with Alok; though she didn’t want to examine too closely why exactly this made her so happy. She could tell herself it was because she was hopeful of a breakthrough in the investigation into her father’s killer—but she knew deep down that that wasn’t the entire story.

As it turned out, Alok did have some encouraging news to report. Dark Matters had thrown their net far and wide in the dark corners of the international criminal underground and had come up with four leads, two of them credible and two less so.

The first came from their informers in Chile, who had reported that a mysterious figure had just bought a hilltop villa in the central Andes. This villa, which had lain vacant for many years, was now surrounded by top-notch security, manned by what looked like former military men, armed to the teeth. The Dark Matters team was trying to trace the money that had been used to buy the villa, but the transaction had been routed through so many numbered accounts that they had yet to track down the source. And even though they had deployed drones to aerially survey the property, they still hadn’t got a good look at its shadowy owner.

The other tip-off had come from Brazil, where a similar mysterious entity had taken over an estate in Manaus, in the Amazon rainforest area. Dark Matters was trying to get one of their operatives hired as close security to the estate owner, and they were hopeful that they would manage to do so in a matter of weeks. Once their man was in place, they would be able to tell in days if the man living there was Madan Mohan or another shady character.

The other two leads were not quite as promising. Both involved European nations that had extradition treaties with India, Ray explained, so it was extremely unlikely that Madan Mohan would risk being caught within those borders. The sightings that had been reported to Dark Matters in these countries, he believed, were most likely to be cases of mistaken identities. But as a measure of abundant caution, the company was investigating these as well.

‘Do you think this is actually going to go somewhere?’ asked a skeptical Asha. ‘Or are we just on a wild goose chase that is costing you countless millions?’

‘Honestly, Asha, don’t worry about the money,’ said Alok, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘That should be the least of our concerns.’

Asha, who had never stopped feeling guilty about having someone else bankroll the investigation into her father’s killer, was about to demur when a sharp knock sounded on the door. Nitesh Dholakia stuck his neck in to announce that Sukanya Sarkar was in the building and would be in Asha’s office in seconds.

So, Asha put all her qualms aside—she could always raise them with Alok another day—and walked to the top of the staircase so that she could usher Sukanya in herself. It was a small gesture but if it mollified the PP leader even a little bit before their contentious meeting got underway, it was worth it.

* * *

Even as Asha was extending a warm, if insincere, welcome to Sukanya at South Block, another duo of politicians was getting ready to announce their alliance to the world. A few miles away from South Block, the Lutyens bungalow of Didi Damyanti, the leader of the Dalit Morcha, was the venue of a hastily organized press conference.

Sitting beside Damyanti on the raised dais in the lawn was a somewhat glum Satyajit Kumar. He had fought hard to have the press conference staged in his own Lutyens bungalow. The rustic shed in his yard with his goats mewling and milling around would have formed the perfect picturesque backdrop to the event. It would not only have bolstered his credentials as a son of the soil, but the images would also have appealed to his rural constituents in Bihar. But that wasn’t to be. Kumar had lost to Damyanti’s insistence on playing hostess—and more importantly, senior partner in this alliance.

Kumar, the ultimate realist, was well aware that this was not the only loss he would suffer at the hands of his new partner and her gigantic ego. And he also knew that he had no option but to take these body blows and soldier on. He needed this alliance much more than Damyanti did—and she knew it as well, and was going to milk it for all it was worth.

The moment the word ‘milk’ popped up in his head, so did the images of his beloved goats. It really wasn’t fair that they had been deprived of such a perfect photo opportunity. What brilliant footage it would have made, as he headed off to milk his goats, just like any old humble farmer, once he was done with the press conference. He was sure that TV news would have led with that story, and that the pictures would have made it to the front pages of every newspaper.

Instead, here he was, stuck on this silly little stage, sitting beside Damyanti on the lawns of her bungalow, his very presence in her house advertising the fact that the SPP was very much the junior partner in this alliance.

But the moment the reporters finally settled down on their chairs and the TV cameras began rolling, Kumar stuck on the smile that he carried in the front pocket of his kurta in case of emergency. It was just as well that he was unaware that it was unctuous at best and smarmy at worst. But for better or for worse, it was plastered on his face as Damyanti began reading out a statement announcing that the Dalit Morcha and the SPP would fight the Bihar assembly elections together.

As she read out the details of their pre-poll alliance, there was a surprised buzz among the assembled press corps as the numbers made it evident that the SPP, the national party, was playing second fiddle to the Dalit Morcha, a regional outfit. The Dalit Morcha would be contesting 135 seats to the SPP’s count of 108. The raised eyebrows all around made it clear that the media thought that the SPP had been played by Damyanti. And that Satyajit Kumar had made a grievous strategic error by agreeing to an arrangement in which Damyanti was the dominant partner.

Kumar could read their expressions as well as the next person (in this case, Didi Damyanti herself) but he pretended to be oblivious as he smiled and smiled, and then smiled some more. Finally, Damyanti stopped for breath and the questions began.

Predictably enough, the first question was lobbed at Kumar. His party, the SPP, was a national party, the primary Opposition in the Lok Sabha. The Dalit Morcha, on the other hand, was a regional outfit, with a presence only in a few states. So, why had he agreed to an arrangement in which the Morcha contested more seats than his party?

Kumar had his answer ready. ‘Politics,’ he announced grandly, ‘is not about numbers alone. It is about doing what is best for the nation. And the number one priority for the nation is to get rid of this government.’

He paused theatrically before pulling out his now well-worn slogan. ‘Desh Bachao, Iss Beti Ko Hatao. That is what Damyanti ji and I are going to do. That is the big picture. And it doesn’t matter who has more seats and who has less. What matters is that we will have many more seats than the LJP when the results are in. And this will be the first of several defeats we heap on Asha Devi.’

The next question was addressed to Damyanti. Did she agree with Kumar’s slogan? As a woman leader, and a beti to her own father, did she not find it offensive and sexist?

Damyanti laughed uproariously. ‘Are you serious?’ she gasped finally, when she had caught her breath. ‘Are you seriously comparing me to Asha Devi? Yes, we may both be daughters of our fathers. But that’s where the comparison ends. Everything that I have achieved, everything that I am today, is because of my own hard work. The only thing I got from my father was the values I live by. I didn’t become Prime Minister of this country simply because I was someone’s daughter!’

By the time she finished this little diatribe, Damyanti’s voice had risen several octaves. In an attempt to calm things down, Kumar interjected in a jocular fashion. ‘Arre bhai, aap logon ko maloom hona chahiye ke hum log kaamdar hain, naamdar nahin.’ (You chaps should know that we rely on our work not on our family name.)

One of the reporters had had enough by now. Scrambling to his feet, he asked Kumar, ‘Agar aap log kaamdar hain, toh phir Jayesh Sharma aap ke leader kaise baney? Who bhi toh naamdar thhey, na?’ (If you believe in merit, how did a dynast like Jayesh Sharma become your leader?)

Kumar waved away the question dismissively. ‘Arre bhaiyya,’ he said, slipping into Rustic Big Brother mode, ‘woh toh kal ki baat thi. Aaj ka daur alag hain. Ab hum aur Damyanti ji mil ke vanshvaad ka vinaash karengey.’ (That’s yesterday’s story. In today’s world, Damyanti ji and I will destroy dynasty).

Saying that, Kumar got up to his feet and gestured to Damyanti that she should follow suit. Then he held out his right hand to her in a dramatic gesture. The moment she took it into her left hand, he raised their linked arms in a tableau reminiscent of a referee declaring victory for a wrestler. The two leaders held this pose for a couple of minutes as the photographers captured it for posterity—and for tomorrow’s newspapers. And then, both Damyanti and Kumar headed indoors for their first strategy meeting.

* * *

As Sukanya Sarkar said her goodbyes and prepared to leave, Asha Devi felt her jaw relax. She could finally wipe that false, ingratiating smile off her face. It had been with a supreme effort of will that Asha had kept it in place, refusing to rise to the many baits that Sukanya dangled before her.

It had been a bit of a strain, but all things considered, Asha wasn’t entirely dissatisfied with the way the meeting had gone. In retrospect, getting Alok to attend had been a masterstroke. Every time things had got a little hairy, he had cracked out his Bengali. He and Sukanya had nattered away with Asha being none the wiser about what they were discussing. But as long as Sukanya was smiling, she didn’t mind being left out of the conversation.

Initially, Sukanya had been unwilling to budge an inch on her demand to get Special Category status for her state. But, as Alok plied her with figures that proved even to Sukanya’s satisfaction that more than ten other states had worse developmental statistics than Bengal, the PP leader had slowly softened. It took a good fifteen minutes of persuasion, large parts of it conducted in Bengali, before she agreed to concede the point.

Not entirely, of course, and not forever. She was Sukanya Sarkar, after all. But she was prepared to be mollified with Rs 1,000 crore grant towards emergency relief for the coastal areas affected by floods in her state. And Asha had to promise that they would revisit the subject of Special Category status once again in six months’ time. Asha agreed with alacrity, and the meeting ended with some pleasantries to paper over the unpleasant moments that had gone before.

The second the door shut behind Sukanya, Asha heaved a rather theatrical sigh of relief and turned to Alok gratefully. ‘Thank you so much for being here. I don’t think I could have managed to placate her quite so completely on my own,’ she said, holding out her right hand impulsively.

Alok reached out and clasped it between both of his. ‘Happy to be of service,’ he grinned, mock-bowing to her.

Suddenly, all that Asha was aware of was the feel of his palms, as they held her hand in their warm but dry embrace, for just a tad too long. She freed her hand with a gentle tug, aware that her tell-tale blush was telegraphing her embarrassment almost as if she had voiced it.

But Alok had the grace not to notice, as she gestured to him to sit down again.

Regaining her composure, Asha said lightly, ‘She really does seem to genuinely like you. And you have no idea how rare that is. Sukanya Sarkar is one of the world’s Great Haters.’

‘I think you do her an injustice, Asha,’ replied Alok, suddenly turning serious. ‘I have seen this sort of thing time and time again. Women who are trying to make it in a man’s world build this hard husk around their inner selves as a sort of defence mechanism. They try to project an image of being tough and unapproachable—of being a “hater”, as you put it. But beneath this veneer there is often a softness lurking. And if you can get through to that, well, then you get a glimpse of the real woman. And you realize that she is not a hater at all.’

Asha was struck dumb. Not just by the fact that he seemed to have such great insight into the personality of Sukanya Sarkar. Or even that he had the empathy to understand how women had to overcompensate as they moved through what was a man’s world. What really struck her was that Alok could just as well have been describing her.

Ever since she had entered politics in her own right, and more so after her photo scandal, Asha too had retreated behind a barrier of brittle reserve. And as Alok described how Sukanya had changed as she navigated a universe ruled by men, Asha couldn’t help but feel that he had managed to look deep into her own psyche and see how she handled the world. And that left her feeling curiously exposed, even a little vulnerable.

She shook off the feeling with a nervous laugh. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘You are thinking that this could describe me as well.’

‘No,’ responded Alok, far too quickly for it to be true. Then, he paused, and smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘Okay, there may be an element of that. But you are still in the early stages. There is still hope for you.’

Asha bridled indignantly at that, and then gave in to the infectious laughter lurking in his eyes. The two of them were still giggling when there was a knock on the door and Nitesh Dholakia put his head through it, an apologetic expression on his face.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Prime Minister, but there’s something you should see,’ he said, gesturing to the TV which was, for once, switched off.

Asha sobered up instantly and waved him in. Dholakia turned the TV on and switched to the AITNN feed, which was showing the joint press conference of Didi Damyanti and Satyajit Kumar. As they tuned in, one of the reporters was asking Damyanti how she, as a daughter to her own father, felt about Satyajit Kumar’s slogan, ‘Desh Bachao, Iss Beti Ko Hatao’.

Despite herself, Asha sat up a little straighter in her chair. She wanted to hear Damyanti’s answer to this question more than anyone else. How could a female political leader, a woman who had worked so hard to rise up in Indian politics, which was still very much a man’s world, possibly approve of a sexist, misogynist slogan like the one Kumar had coined? Surely, Damyanti had to say that she disagreed with it, that there was no room for such sexism and misogyny in Indian politics.

Of course, Damyanti said nothing of the sort. Instead, she burst into laughter and then sneered about how there was no comparison between her and Asha at all. She was a beti who had made it on her own steam; Asha Devi was a beti who had inherited her position from her father.

Seeing her expression darken, Alok picked up the remote from the table and muted the sound on the TV. ‘You don’t need to pay any attention to this sort of thing, you know,’ he said gently.

Asha shook her head. ‘No, I do need to pay attention. I need to know what I am up against.’ She turned the sound back on. It was more of the same really. Vanshvaad ka vinash. Naamdar vs Kaamdar. And then, Damyanti and Satyajit stood up, raised their linked arms for the benefit of the cameras and the feed cut back to the studio.

Manisha Patel was in the anchor’s chair, scrolling through her phone, clearly caught unawares by the camera. Just the sight of her face was enough for a sudden surge of intense irritation to irradiate Asha’s body. Was the bloody woman homeless? Did she actually live in a little room above the studio? How else could you explain the fact that whenever a story broke, there she was: Manisha Patel, sitting pretty behind her desk, swishing her highlighted hair from side to side as she ran down the events for the benefit of viewers across the country?

Asha paused her inner monologue to pay attention to what Manisha was saying. There were no surprises there. Like the rest of the media, she was convinced that this alliance between Damyanti and Satyajit would spell disaster for Asha. The way the electoral arithmetic worked in Bihar, once the Dalit Morcha and the SPP joined ranks, there was no path to victory for the LJP.

Seeing the look on Asha’s face as she listened to the panel discussion that followed, Nitesh hurriedly changed channels and tuned into NTN. But Gaurav Agnihotri didn’t provide much succor to Asha either today.

It was clear to Asha that the news cycle would now be dominated with stories about how the Prime Minister had been set up for a fall by the combined forces of Didi Damyanti and Satyajit Kumar. The entire media would be talking of nothing else but how Asha had been defeated roundly even before a single vote was cast. And the subtext would undoubtedly be that the new PM was too green and inexperienced to stitch together alliances of her own, and had been taken by surprise by the speed with which Kumar had got Damyanti on his side.

The news channels were already treating her like a loser. And these kinds of prophecies were usually self-fulfilling. Call someone a loser long enough and often enough on prime-time news, and sooner rather than later, the country would begin to believe that that person was, in fact, a loser.

Asha could not afford to let that narrative take hold. She had to do something to change it. And she had to do it fast. And just like that, her father’s face hovered before her as she remembered the lines he had repeated so often to her. ‘If you don’t like what you’re hearing on the news, Asha, give them something else to talk about. That is the secret of success in politics. Never forget that.’

Well, Asha had never forgotten. And now was the time to put that lesson to good use. She didn’t like what she was hearing. So, it was time to give them something else to talk about. And she knew exactly how to do that.

Switching off the TV, she turned to Nitesh Dholakia. ‘You know that interview we have scheduled with Gaurav Agnihotri . . .’

‘Yes, Madam Prime Minister,’ Nitesh interrupted, ‘it has been scheduled for the day after tomorrow.’

‘Well, I want to do it today,’ said Asha briskly. ‘Call Gaurav and tell him he needs to be here by 8 p.m. today. We will do the interview today. And we will do it live.’

Nitesh Dholakia turned pale. ‘But ma’am, we have not prepped for this completely. You haven’t been briefed on so many issues . . .’

‘Did you not hear what I said, Nitesh?’ asked Asha, an icy tone creeping in. ‘I want to do the interview this evening. Please set it up.’

‘But ma’am, the channel may not be ready . . .’

‘Well, if they are not ready, you will just have to find another channel that is. I am doing this interview today. I don’t really care which one of these media vultures does it.’

Nitesh shot a mute look of appeal to Alok Ray. But the finance minister just shrugged infinitesimally to indicate that he had no power—or perhaps no inclination—to change Asha’s mind either.

So, Nitesh Dholakia shuffled off to carry out Asha’s wishes, his demeanor very much resembling that of a man heading for the gallows. And gauging that Asha’s anger was not going to dissipate any time soon, Alok Ray said his goodbyes and followed suit.