They knew him by different names. To his Sikh admirers he was Panth Rattan, Jewel of the Community; his Urdu-speaking friends named him Fakhr-e-millat, Pride of the Nation. He was also Nar Aadmee, He Man, and Doston ka Dost, The Greatest of Friends. Those who did not like him called him Khushaamdee Tattoo: Flattering Jackass. They often described him as a chamcha, a sycophantic hanger-on, and said he was chaalaak (cunning), a chaalbaaz (an intriguer) and a chaar sau bees (a cheat). Since he made no secret of enjoying his sundowner and the company of fair women, other titles were also bestowed on him. He was a sharaabee (drunkard), kabaabee (great eater) and randeebaaz (whoremonger).
There was some truth in everything that was said about Zora Singh to his face and behind his back. He was all things to all men. The Sikhs praised him because he was a devout Sikh who said his daily prayers. He was seen at the gurdwara very early each morning when he went to drop his wife there, and could deliver sermons better than any preacher. Once he was persuaded to read the marriage vows at a Sikh wedding. He was lucid and convincing. He told the bridegroom, ‘Hereafter you will look upon every other woman as a mother, sister or daughter.’ And to the bride he said, ‘And you, my daughter, will look upon all men besides your husband as your brothers.’ In conclusion he said, ‘The Great Guru will bless your union as long as you remain faithful to each other.’ The congregation was impressed by his oration and many came forward to congratulate him. However, two nasty men with nasty minds took him aside. One said, ‘All that you said was beautifully said, Zora, but it did not behove you to say it.’ The other, who was nastier, asked him, ‘Yaar Zora, how many mothers and sisters have you fucked since you got married?’
Though Zora Singh was known to be religious, he also had the reputation of being a womanizer. Some people found this hard to believe. Whenever Zora and his wife Eeshran went to parties, he had his arm around her shoulder. He always introduced her as ‘my better half’ or ‘my Home Minister’ in a tone as though he had invented these terms. He paid her all the attention a loving husband would to his wife. Eeshran never had any complaints, nor indeed did she believe that he could ever be unfaithful to her. He was an ideal husband, and a good father to their two sons. She did not resent his going to all-male mujra parties where the only women present were professional dancing and singing girls. At the end of the evening the host offered the pick of the girls to Zora, as he was usually the most important guest. Zora was too much of a gentleman to refuse the honour; he spent an hour with the girl in the room assigned to them. Eeshran never complained. After all, mujras were a hallowed Indian tradition and never regarded by Indian women as a violation of their matrimonial rights.
Deepo, however, was a different matter.
Deepo was the wife of Zora’s office peon, Tota Singh, who had been run over and killed by a speeding truck while on his way home one evening. Zora had heard of his having left behind a young widow and two children. Apart from the compensation given to her by the court, Zora had her employed as a cleaning woman-cum-chaprasi in his office and allowed her to carry on living in the staff quarters allotted to her late husband. Deepo had passed her tenth standard exam and could sign her name on mail that required acknowledgement of receipt. She was twenty-five, and dark and strongly built, like any Punjabi peasant girl. She had taken her husband’s death very badly and was often seen wiping her tears with her dupatta while sitting on the stool outside the Sahib’s office. Zora felt very sorry for her and was very concerned. Two months after the tragedy he called on her in the staff quarters with toys for her sons. He meant to offer Deepo some paternal advice on what to do with her life. ‘Deepo, you are still very young. Why don’t you get married again?’ he asked tenderly.
‘Sahibji, who will marry a widow with two children? I can’t even bear children any more—both Tota and I had our nasbandi after our second child. Who will want to marry a barren woman?’
Deepo sat down on her haunches, put her head on Zora’s feet and sobbed, ‘Sahibji, I have no one left in the world besides you. And I have nothing to give in return for your kindness. I feel ashamed. You are my God and provider, I am your servant. I can only render seva to you.’
Deepo’s boys were out playing with their new toys. Zora was overcome with emotion. He bolted the door from the inside and took a very willing Deepo on her creaking charpai.
This became a weekly routine. Deepo awaited the Sahib’s two words: ‘Aj shaam, this evening.’ She would go home early, take a bath, send the boys out to play and await her lord and master. On Zora’s part it was kindness towards a helpless widow, who might otherwise have become easy prey to other men’s lust or turned into a harlot. For Deepo, it was giving thanks to a man who provided for her and her family.
It would have been unfair to malign Zora as a womanizer on this count.
There was also much gossip about Zora having promoted men in his department after they had made their wives accessible to him. But he never put any pressure on his subordinates to bring their wives to him. They came of their own accord—often to pay their respects to his wife Eeshran, as was customary—and if he happened to be at home at the time, plead with him to keep a kindly eye on their husbands’ future. From the coquettish way some of these women behaved it was clear to Zora that neither they nor their husbands would be averse to his obliging them. So he would call on the women in the afternoons when their husbands were in the office and their children at school. One visit or two was all he paid them, then promoted their husbands or transferred them to posts they desired. It caused no heartache or ill will except to those who were superseded, and it was they who went around spreading the ugly rumour that Zora helped only those whose wives he had slept with. This was only partially true, and did not justify his being labelled a womanizer—certainly not in his own eyes, nor in the eyes of his wife Eeshran, who looked upon her husband as a godsend: manly, handsome, capable, kind, god-loving, noble, and one who did his ‘homework’, as he called it, whenever she wanted it done.
Zora had done no harm to anyone and was often puzzled when he heard that people spread nasty stories about him. One evening at the Golf Club, one of the four he played with remarked in a jocular manner, ‘Zora, you are the biggest chaar sau bees I’ve ever met in my life.’ The fellow had just lost a lot of money to Zora and his partner (Zora almost always won because he was a good golfer with a low handicap and had a ball-spotter—aageyvaala—who discreetly moved the ball with his foot from an awkward lie to the top of a tuft of grass). The remark stung him. He pondered on it on his way home and was somewhat depressed. He told Eeshran about it. She tried to cheer him up. ‘Take no notice of what that foul-mouthed fellow says; it’s just envy. See where he is today, close to retirement and only an executive engineer. And you still have six or seven years left in service and are chief engineer—the first Indian to become one! He burns with jealousy. I spit on his face—thhoo!’
There was much to envy about Zora Singh. His father had raised money to send him to the Imperial Engineering College in London to get a degree where he had been an instant hit with his fellow students and professors. He’d played field hockey, cricket and tennis for his college, and had been good at his studies. He was elected president of his college union. To his Indian friends he gave good advice: ‘If you want to get on with the English, follow the rule of three Fs: fuck, feed and flatter.’ He did his share of the first; he was generous when it came to buying beer for his friends; and he had a honeyed tongue and was subtle in his compliments—he sensed that the English were put off by blatant flattery. He got his engineering degree and sat for the competitive exam for the Imperial Engineering Service the first year it was thrown open to Indians. Some examiners were from his college, two of them on the panel of interviewers. He was the only candidate, English or Indian, to be awarded full marks in the viva voce. He sailed into the Imperial Service; the two other Indians who made the grade were way behind him.
So Zora began his career as an engineer in India receiving the same salary and fringe benefits as his English colleagues. Like all bachelors in the ICS he was greatly sought after by those who had marriageable daughters. His parents arranged his marriage with the only daughter of the leading Sikh lawyer of Lahore. The one condition they put to the girl’s parents, very subtly, was that they expected to be compensated for the money they had spent on their son’s education in England. This was readily agreed to. After a lavish wedding, Eeshran moved into a small government bungalow allotted to her husband and furnished by her parents, in a sparsely inhabited upcoming town which was to become the capital of India, New Delhi.
Zora and Eeshran were well-matched and shared much in common. Most important was attachment to their faith, Sikhism. Eeshran brought a copy of the holy scripture, the Granth Sahib, as part of her dowry. Zora set up a prayer room in which it was installed on a lectern-shaped desk and draped with expensive silk. They called it Babaji da Kamra, the room of the Holy Father. Though Zora proclaimed loudly that Sikhism disapproved of idol worship, he and his wife revered their holy book much the same way as Hindus did their idols. During the summer they had the ceiling fan whirring round the clock; during winter they wrapped the Granth in cashmere shawls. They did not regard it as idol worship but as respect due to a book of profound spiritual wisdom. They took turns opening the book in the early hours of the morning and reading a few pages from it. They put it to rest before they had their evening meal. On his way to the office, Zora dropped Eeshran off at Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. An hour later his car came to take her home. In the evenings they went to Lodhi Gardens for a brisk walk. Wherever they were invited they went together, and to all the world they seemed to be living examples of the perfect married couple—ek jyot duey moortee, one light in two bodies.
Zora got on very well with his English colleagues and bosses. He was good at his work and a hard taskmaster when it came to dealing with building contractors. There were hundreds of things to be built before New Delhi was fit to be the capital of India—new roads, clerks’ and officers’ flats, bridges across the river Yamuna, an airport, railway stations, secretariats, a Parliament House and Viceregal lodge, among other things. Building contracts were up for grabs. Zora scrutinized all the tenders made by contractors, lowered the figures and paid regular visits to the construction sites. Contractors were eager to be on his right side. Gora Sahibs did not accept bribes—and what Zora took were not bribes but his commission, as did all his Indian subordinates, without compromising on the quality of the work. This was not regarded as corruption; it was, as Zora put it, Ooperwaley di deyn, a gift from above. It added up to more than ten times his salary every month. And it was tax free.
The sahibs knew that Indians took commissions and that Zora was no exception. But while they looked down on the others with contempt they treated Zora with respect. He was a go-getter and got things done on time. He did not grovel before them as other Indians did but behaved with dignity and kept a respectable distance from them. On Christmas Day, when others came loaded with baskets of goodies and crates of Scotch, their gifts were grudgingly accepted but the chaprasis were ordered to send them away. Zora, on the other hand, who only brought one bottle, was invited to share a drink.
Zora got promotions out of turn. Before he was thirty he was made superintending engineer and conferred the title of Sardar Sahib. Five years later he was made executive engineer and conferred the title of Sardar Bahadur. By then he had bought three plots of land which were available at very low prices. On one he built a large house for his years after retirement, then two others to earn rental income to supplement his pension. The houses cost him almost nothing. Building contractors who were obliged to him provided labour and material free of cost. He designed the houses and supervised their building in his spare time. He did not rob anyone of their honestly earned money, only allowed people who owed their prosperity to him to pay their debts of gratitude.
As time drew near for the British to leave India, people began to say that the days of Zora’s prosperity were numbered. They were mistaken. Zora was elected president of the Imperial Golf Club and the Gymkhana Club—not by the English but by a majority of Indian members. He had hoped that before they departed the British would confer a knighthood on him as they had on a succession of Englishmen who had become Chief Engineers. He was disappointed when, in the final honours list issued by them, he found he had been fobbed off with a mere OBE. Indians no longer cared for Sardar Sahibs and Sardar Bahadurs, and most didn’t even know what OBE or CIE stood for, but a Sir was a Sir and they all respected that—whether they were lackeys of the British or followers of Gandhi.
Those who were certain that a man like Zora would be cut to size as soon as India had its own government, were in for a surprise. Zora knew his countrymen better than they. The day the name of the Minister of Works was announced, Zora was amongst the dozens who called on him to pay his respects. When he was shown in he touched the Minister’s feet and said, ‘Your humble servant’s name is Zora Singh. I am your Chief Engineer of public works. Sir, it will be my privilege to work under your guidance. Your wish will be my command.’
The Minister sized him up, looking from turban to toe, before he responded. ‘Zora Singhji, I have gone through your personal file. It is very favourable. You are said to be a good worker who does the task assigned to him before schedule. We have a lot of new buildings to make. Colonies for millions of refugees who have been driven out of Pakistan, new commercial centres and what not. You must see me every day to report on the progress you are making. I don’t want the Prime Minister to have any complaints against any department in my Ministry.’
Zora also sized up his Minister. He was an ugly, dark man with thick lips and podgy fingers, on four of which he wore gold rings studded with precious stones prescribed by his astrologer. He was from Orissa, and the only one of his tribe to have gone to college. Being from an underprivileged community he freely enjoyed the special privileges generously bestowed on him by the Gandhi-inspired government.
The Minister was known to have quite an appetite for women. It was said that when he had been Health Minister in Orissa, he wanted a nurse or a lady doctor every evening while he toured the districts. And when he became Education Minister it was a lady teacher. Now he was in the Centre heading a ministry that had no women officers. Perhaps, Zora thought, he could arrange for one of the girls from the typing pool to go to the Minister’s house for dictation whenever he so desired. After all, what the Minister wanted every woman had—whether she was a gazetted officer, a typist or a sweeperess. Zora had this at the back of his mind when he replied, ‘Sir, I give you my word there will be no complaints against my department.’
Zora went about his work with greater zeal than ever before. Hundreds of contractors had to be engaged. They knew the rules of the game. For every building they paid a commission to Zora and his subordinates. Once a week Zora carried an envelope containing currency notes of a lakh or more and quietly put it on the Minister’s table. Nothing was said about the contents of the envelope. Zora knew that the Minister wanted cash to fight his elections and keep his family in comfort. Since the Minister could not clear his desk of files before he left for home in the evening, Zora ordered the head of the typing pool to send one of the girls to the Minister’s house after dinner, to take dictation. He did not let his Minister down. The Minister also stood by him. When the government of independent India introduced honours, Zora was among the first to be awarded a Padma Vibhushan.
More honours followed. Zora was unanimously elected president of the Delhi Gurdwara Committee and headed the many schools, colleges and hospitals run by it. He organized an international Sikh conference to which he invited Sikhs who had been highly successful in various fields: one owned a whiskey distillery in the Highlands, another a historic castle in Ireland which came with a peerage, a few had become Members of the British and the Canadian Parliaments, one had made it to the American Congress, a few were judges of high courts of different countries and there were a dozen or more who had risen from nothing to become millionaires. Zora got his Minister to persuade the Prime Minister to inaugurate the three-day conference. Foreign participants were honoured with shawls, yellow turbans and kirpans. For three days the World Sikh Conference made the front pages of Indian newspapers.
Zora had not done all this for nothing. He discreetly managed to get the richest and most famous American Sikh to say something about his service to the community at the concluding session. After Zora had made his final oration lauding the great contribution of the Sikhs to the prosperity and defence of India, the American NRI spoke on behalf of the foreign delegates. He presented Zora a silver kirpan with a handle made of gold studded with precious stones. Zora drew it out of its sheath and shouted the Sikh war cry, ‘Boley so Nihaal!’ The crowd responded, ‘Sat Sri Akaal.’ The American NRI concluded his speech with words addressed to Zora Singh: ‘I know I am expressing the sentiments of the entire Sikh community living in India and abroad when I say, Zora Singh, we honour you with the title of Panth Rattan—Jewel of the Khalsa nation.’
There was a thunderous applause with resounding cries of ‘Boley so Nihal; Sat Sri Akaal!’ Zora Singh was overcome with emotion. He joined the palms of his hands and bowed deeply. There were tears streaming down his face.
*
Zora had one year left for retirement. His sons were, as they say, gainfully employed, one as manager of a large tea estate in Assam with a huge bungalow and a big salary, the other as an executive with a British-Marwari firm producing and marketing paints. They had said they would choose their own wives. Though neither Zora nor his wife believed in the caste system, they hoped the girls they married would be from good Jat Sikh families like theirs. Eeshran also looked forward to moving into the home Zora had built and spending their remaining days in prayer, going on pilgrimages to historic Sikh shrines and listening to keertan.
Zora had other plans.
Next to the Prime Minister, his Minister was the most powerful man in the cabinet and informally acknowledged as the PM’s deputy. He presided over cabinet meetings when the Prime Minister was visiting foreign countries, which was often. The Minister owed a lot to Zora for keeping him afloat in politics. In return he had done his best to promote Zora professionally. They were no longer Minister and civil servant but what people called jigree dost, the closest of friends.
Zora gave his Minister an expensive birthday gift every year. This year he decided to outdo himself. He went to the leading jewellers in the city and asked them to make a special ring for him—platinum with a blue star-sapphire, the largest and best they had. It cost almost five lakhs. He paid for it in cash. Before he quit office, Zora had one last favour to ask of his friend.
There was always a large crowd to wish the Minister on his birthday. Zora told the secretary he would like to see the Minister alone. He was told to come at 6.30 p.m., when all the others would have left and it was time for the Minister to go home. Zora arrived a few minutes before the appointed time and was ushered into the Minister’s retiring room. He heard the Minister thank his many well-wishers and bid them farewell. When he came into his private room to pick up some files Zora was there waiting for him. They embraced each other warmly. ‘Mubarak! Mubarak! May you live another hundred years,’ thundered Zora with great feeling, ‘the country needs a man like you at the helm to march towards prosperity.’
‘Bas, bas, Zora. You don’t have to flatter me. We are friends,’ replied the Minister.
‘Oh, but I’m not paying lip service; I mean every word of it. Ask any Indian in any walk of life and they’ll say the same. You are the pride of India and its hope for the future.’
‘Enough of this,’ retorted the Minister. ‘I must get home. My wife has arranged a birthday party for me.’
‘Oh, I almost forgot my humble birthday gift,’ said Zora feigning forgetfulness. He took the little red velvet box out of his pocket and gently pulled out the platinum and blue star-sapphire ring. ‘Please let me have the honour of slipping it on your finger,’ he said as he took one of the Minister’s hands in his. Three fingers had rings on them. He slipped it on the fourth. It outshone all the other rings.
‘Zora, this must have cost you a fortune,’ said the Minister as he admired the new ring on his hand.
‘Sir, nothing is good enough for you. It will remind you of your humble servant when he is no longer serving you. I know you will keep a benign eye on me after I retire in a few months’ time.’
‘Zora, the nation needs men like you. I will see to it that you continue to serve the country as long as you can.’
Three months later, Zora retired from service. A month after that, he was nominated member of the Rajya Sabha.
‘What will this fellow do in Parliament?’ scoffed his detractors.
They were in for a surprise.
Zora’s maiden speech was a masterly performance, humility peppered with choice quotations from the scriptures—Hindu, Muslim, Christian and Sikh. He lauded the virtues of truth, honesty and righteous living. He paid fulsome compliments to his Minister and assured the members of the House that as long as there were men of his stature, ability and integrity, nothing would go wrong with India. He ended his stirring oration with a full-throated cry, ‘Mera Bharat Mahaan; Jai Hind!’ The members rose together to applaud him. One after another they came to shake his hand.
While he was still being felicitated by fellow members, a Parliamentary orderly in a white, starched turban came and handed him a small note. The Minister wanted to see him in his chamber. Zora followed the orderly through the corridors of Parliament House and was ushered into the Minister’s office. The Minister stood up and took both Zora’s hands in his. ‘Shaabaash, well done! I heard everything you said. I am proud of you.’
‘Sir, whatever I am, it is due to your kindness. Who else would have cared about an insignificant creature like me?’
The Minister ordered coffee. ‘Zora, have you applied to the Parliament for a house? You are entitled to one, you know.’
‘Sir, what will I do with another house? I have a few of my own.’
‘All said and done, you are a simple-minded Sardar. Kaam aayega—it will come in handy. You don’t have to live in it. Don’t ask for one of those flats where the other MPs live. There are nice bungalows with large gardens away from the main road. The best are along two roads facing the India International Centre. The roads end with some school playgrounds. When the schools are closed there is no one around apart from the residents of those bungalows. Ask for one at the end of the road. I will make sure you get what you ask for. Zoraji, Kaam aayega,’ he repeated.
It dawned on Zora what the Minister meant. ‘Yes sir, I will go and apply for one right away.’
Zora’s speech was covered on Doordarshan news. The next morning, his photographs were on the front page of every paper. One carried the caption ‘Builder of buildings becomes builder of the nation’.
A new chapter began in Zora’s life. With age his appetite for sex declined and his religious fervour increased. His weekly visits to Deepo became fortnightly, then monthly and then once every few months. Deepo never made any demands on him but complied with his wishes when he came to see her. There were times when he made no move to share her creaking charpai with her but just spent a few minutes talking to her. When Deepo was relieved from her job and told to vacate the government quarters, Zora gave her a room in his servants’ quarters and the job of looking after his wife who had developed acute arthritis and had trouble walking. Deepo’s sons had found jobs, one as an electrician, the other as a car mechanic, and shared a rented room in the suburbs.
Deepo fitted very well into Zora’s household. She spent most of the day with Eeshran, helped her bathe and dress, combed her hair and pressed her legs when she was tired. She accompanied her master and mistress to the gurdwara every morning. While Zora went to play his round of golf, reduced now from eighteen holes to nine, the two women listened to keertan till he came to pick them up. When Parliament was in session Zora spent his mornings listening to questions and answers and often stayed on for coffee and snacks with MPs of both Houses in the Central Hall. He was nominated to several Parliamentary committees and made chairman of a couple of public corporations which carried the rank of Cabinet Minister, which in turn gave him the privilege of sporting a red light on the roof of his car. He celebrated his elevation to the House of Elders by buying a new car with a factory-fitted air-conditioner and sound system. At his request he was given the number plate he desired: DLH 1000. His friends gave him a new title, Zora Singh Hazaria, Commander of One Thousand.
Zora had no time for introspection. He knew full well that it would only make him unhappy without doing him any good. He had made money, lots of it on the side. So had all the other engineers. He had kept his Minister securely on his side by funding him and providing him with women. Their close association had earned handsome dividends for both. The Minister was ten years younger than him, and his lust for naya maal, fresh meat as he called it in English, had not abated. Zora provided him a safe place—his Parliamentary bungalow—to savour the joys of young female flesh for which Zora paid in cash. Zora, on his part, had frequently cheated on his wife, but had also taken good care of her and his family. There was little point in reflecting on his shortcomings and making himself miserable. This was the way of the world—Zora was a man of the world destined to fulfil his life’s ambitions: wealth, respectability and honour. Whenever his conscience disturbed him he turned to prayer. The last thing he did before turning in for the night was to recite ardaas, naming the ten gurus, their ‘living’ emblem, the Granth Sahib, and asking them to forgive him for any sins he may have committed. He slept the sleep of the Just.
One afternoon, the Minister’s private secretary rang Zora up to say that his boss wanted to speak to him, and put him on the line.
‘Zora Singh at your service, sir. It must be Eid today—I will look out for the new moon!’
The Minister ignored the flattery and came to the point. ‘Zoraji, will you be at home this evening? I have something important to discuss with you. Around 7 p.m.?’
‘Sir, your wish is my command. It always has been, and will be to the end of my days. It will be an honour to have you step into my home. It has been a long time.’
Zora informed his wife and told her to have the sitting room carpets hoovered, put fresh flowers in the vases and have the air-conditioner switched on a couple of hours before the Minister was due to arrive. Eeshran was as excited as he. Both had an early evening bath and got into fresh clothes. A bottle of Blue Label Johnnie Walker, two cut glasses, two bottles of soda and a silver bucket of ice-cubes were laid out on the table.
The Minister’s car pulled up at exactly 7 p.m. Zora and his wife went out to receive him. The Minister carried a large bouquet of yellow gladioli in his hand. His orderly had a basket of red roses. ‘Behen Eeshran, these are for you,’ said the Minister handing her the bouquet. The orderly followed them indoors and placed the basket of roses on the table. Eeshran was overwhelmed by the gesture. ‘Mantriji, you should not have taken all this trouble. This is like your own home.’
‘Eeshranji, nothing can be good enough for a noble lady like you. You must have performed some very good deed in your previous life to have found a husband like Zora. Let me tell you, he is one in a million. You are the luckiest woman on earth.’
Eeshran joined the palms of her hands and acknowledged, ‘It is all the great Guru’s kindness. Who are we but vermin crawling in the dirt.’
There was a moment of silence. Zora turned to the Minister. ‘Sir, shall we do the Bismillah?’ he asked picking up the bottle of Scotch.
‘A very chhota one for me,’ replied the Minister. ‘I have many important files to go through tonight.’ Eeshran sensed it was time to leave them alone. ‘I will send some hot hot pakoras for you to enjoy with your drinks,’ she said and left.
Zora handed the Minister his drink. They raised their glasses, clinked them: ‘Jai Hind.’
The Minister did not waste any more time on preliminaries. ‘Zoraji, tomorrow there will be a few questions in the Rajya Sabha concerning my ministry. One of them is about money that building contractors gave engineers when you were chief engineer. I will place my replies on the table of the House. I think it would be good if you made a statement after supplementaries have been answered.’
He handed Zora Singh a sheaf of pink papers with questions that would be raised in Parliament the next day. Zora glanced over them and was surprised to find one in particular. ‘Sir, the fellow who has put forward this question is from your own party.’
The Minister gave him a broad smile. ‘There is a conspiracy to malign me so that the new Prime Minister drops me from the Cabinet. You know he is still wet behind the ears and listens to all kinds of gossip. They are saying that I’ve been taking huge bribes, that I keep mistresses and drink heavily.’
‘That is absolute bakwaas—rubbish!’ responded Zora Singh. ‘I’ll make mincemeat of the bastard.’
The Minister smiled and patted Zora on the back. ‘Not with anger but with cold facts and logic. Carry the House with you. And let that Prime Minister know whom he can trust and who are the rats that surround him.’ Saying this, he got up. ‘That’s all I came to see you about.’
‘Won’t you have another one for the road? Eeshran, Mantriji is leaving. Come say Sat Sri Akaal to him.’
Eeshran hobbled in. ‘Mantriji, when will you turn your blessed feet towards our humble abode again?’
‘Behen Eeshran, whenever you order. I have only this one true friend in the world,’ he replied as he stepped into his car.
*
Zora did not have his second drink nor eat much at dinner. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Eeshran. ‘You seem to have lost your appetite; did Mantriji say something that upset you?’
‘I have to speak in Parliament tomorrow. Some fellow has put forward questions insinuating that there was corruption in my department when I was chief engineer. I have to keep the facts ready. I’ll have to look up old files and may be late. Before you go to bed ring up my steno and tell him to be here by 8 a.m. There may be a lot of typing to do.’
‘May Wahguru place burning coals on the fellow’s tongue!’ said Eeshran. ‘You have done nothing to be ashamed of. Let the world know what you have done for your country. Don’t worry too much, Wahguru is with you.’ She quoted a line from the scripture: ‘When You are on my side, what fear need I have?’
Zora went to his study and pulled out old files of newspaper clippings about building projects he had been involved in from the time of the British and since Independence. He flagged some and made notes he could use later. It was well after midnight when he joined Eeshran in the bedroom. She was still awake reading her prayer book. She shut it and said, ‘You must sleep. One should be fresh and in good shape to take on one’s enemies in battle.’ Zora was too worked up to sleep soundly. In his mind he kept rehearsing the speech he had to deliver and hearing the applause that would follow.
Zora was up early next morning, had his bath, recited the morning prayer and read the day’s message—vaak—from the Granth Sahib. It augured well: ‘Whatever I ask of the Lord He gives the same in full measure.’
When the steno arrived, he asked him to take photocopies of the clippings he had selected. He rehearsed his speech again in subdued tones and was ready for the day. He arrived in Parliament House fifteen minutes before the question hour, signed his name in the attendance register, shook a few hands and took the seat allotted to him. He placed the files he had brought in front of him.
The hall began to fill up, the opposition benches faster than those of the ruling party. Zora looked up: the press and visitors’ galleries were full. So was the officials’ gallery where senior civil servants sat armed with files to brief ministers whenever required. Slowly the ministers began to arrive with their orderlies carrying their briefcases. And finally, the Prime Minister, who came to the Rajya Sabha only when questions concerning the departments under him had to be answered. He took his seat next to Zora’s Minister.
As the clock struck eleven, the heralds announced the entry of the Vice President who was also Speaker of the House. The members rose and bowed before him. Without further ado he announced, ‘Question number one.’ The member who had put down the question stood up and repeated: ‘Question number one’. The Minister concerned answered it as well as the supplementaries. The second question was dealt with in similar fashion. It was the third question that concerned Zora. The Minister stood up and replied, ‘Papers have been laid on the table of the House.’ A dozen hands from the opposition went up. Zora also put up his hand. The Speaker made a note of the names. The supplementaries were answered laconically by the Minister: ‘Yes Sir, no Sir, does not arise.’ The man who had raised the question was clearly very sheepish about having raised a hornet’s nest and embarrassed the ruling party to which he belonged. The Speaker asked the leader of the opposition to ask his question. But instead of framing his question, the leader of the opposition launched into an angry rant about corruption in the Public Works Department and brandished copies of newspapers carrying stories of large sums being paid by building contractors to government officials to have shoddy work passed and approved. There were loud cries of ‘Shame, shame; resign!’ The Speaker interrupted the leader of the opposition. ‘Please raise your question and do not make a speech.’ But his order fell on deaf ears. ‘We want a full debate on the subject,’ someone shouted. ‘Crores of rupees of the public have been squandered in bribes. Bridges with substandard material have collapsed. Roads laid by the department are full of potholes after every monsoon and have to be repaired.’ The volley of angry complaints turned into a tirade.
The Speaker stood up and said, ‘Please, this is question hour. If you wanted a full debate you should have asked for it.’ He called out the name of the third questioner. ‘Please, all others sit down.’
But the ministers refused to take their seats. Instead, they stormed into the well of the House waving sheets of paper and shouting, ‘Shame! Shame!’ in chorus. On his scribbling pad Zora put down the word ‘Hijda’ with a smug smile. The Speaker sat down holding his head in his hands. After a while he stood up and said, ‘If leaders of opposition parties have no questions, I will go on to the next member. Yes, Mr Zora Singh, raise your question.’
Zora stood up and waited for members of the opposition to return to their seats. He waited till the House was completely quiet. The Rajya Sabha was silent when he began, ‘Mr Speaker Sir, I crave your indulgence in allowing me to make a few preliminary remarks before I come to the question under discussion. As you know Sir, most of the accusations made against the Ministry of Public Works deal with construction works carried out during the time when I was chief engineer of the PWD. The accusations being made against the Honourable Minister are in fact directed at me. If there has been any wrong-doing, do not accuse the Honourable Minister who is as pure as the purest gold, but hold me responsible.’
‘Indeed! Indeed! You can see all the purest gold on the Minister’s fingers,’ someone shouted out from the opposition benches. There was a burst of laughter. The Prime Minister had a broad smile on his face. The Minister held up both his hands to let everyone see the gold rings he wore. The House was in good humour.
Zora let the laughter die out and resumed his speech. ‘Mr Speaker Sir, and fellow members of this august House, look up and around you. This building was erected before most of you were born. Is there anything wrong with it? Has a single brick or stone come loose because it was fixed in with substandard material? Your humble servant was part of the team that built it.’
There was the thumping of tables and cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’
Zora continued. ‘The two Secretariats, the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Prime Minister’s residence and the residences of the ministers of his Cabinet, the bungalows and flats you occupy as MPs, these were all constructed during my tenure. Have any of these buildings collapsed because sub-standard material was used in constructing them? Here I have a sheaf of clippings praising their design and construction. Your humble servant had a hand in their building.’
There was another round of thumping and cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’
‘What is your question?’ demanded the leader of the opposition.
‘That, sir, is not for you to ask but the Speaker,’ retorted Zora.
The Speaker intervened. ‘Mr Zora Singh, you have made your point. If you have no question to ask, please wind up your speech.’
This was not good enough for Zora. ‘Sir, my question is not directed to the Minister but to members of the opposition. If you gentlemen wanted information, authentic information of the working of the PWD, you should have come to me and not danced into the well of the House like a bunch of hijdas.’
All hell broke loose. The opposition rose as one and demanded an apology. ‘Sir, he has insulted us by calling us eunuchs. It is unparliamentary and should be struck off the record!’
The Speaker could not help but smile. ‘The honourable member should not use unparliamentary language.’
Zora was prepared. ‘Sir, to call a person a hijda is not unparliamentary. There are three hijda members of Vidhan Sabhas. Who knows, in the next elections there may be some sitting in the opposition benches.’ Saying this Zora sat down. He knew that what he’d said would put him on the front pages of the next day’s papers.
*
Zora was in a mood to celebrate—but not with his cronies guffawing at the way he had snubbed the opposition into silence. He would delay the celebration till the evening, play a round of golf after which he would join his friends at the bar for a drink or two—or three. Then what? Back home to his arthritic wife. Come to think of it, he had not had sex with her for more than ten years. Neither seemed to want it any more. They bonded now over their passion for religion. And Deepo had reconciled herself to being her mistress’s companion-cum-ayah. Zora settled for a long siesta and an evening at the Golf Club.
He got home in time for lunch. He looked tired but triumphant. He told Eeshran what had transpired in Parliament, leaving out the ruckus over the use of the word ‘hijda’.
‘You are looking very tired,’ Eeshran said. ‘Why don’t you rest in your study? Let Deepo massage your feet for a while. You will be able to sleep better. I’ll keep the telephone off the hook.’
Eeshran hobbled to her bedroom. Zora washed his face and stretched himself out on the sofa-cum-bed in his study after switching on the AC. He did not expect Deepo to tend to his tired limbs but left the door unlocked just in case she decided to do so. He was half asleep when he heard the door open and shut. Deepo dragged a moorha, sat by his bed and began to massage the soles of his feet. It was very relaxing. She moved her hands to Zora’s calves and knees and gently kneaded them. Zora spread out his thighs and drew her hand upwards. Deepo stroked his inner thighs and felt his member rising. She pulled down her salwar and straddled him. They lay pounding into each other for a full fifteen minutes till Zora made a few frantic thrusts and lay back exhausted. Deepo slipped out of his study as silently as she had come.
Zora slept right through the afternoon till he heard Eeshran enter and call out to him. ‘It’s evening; don’t you want to get up? You must have been really tired.’
‘I was,’ replied Zora with a big yawn. He looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘My God, it’s past five! Too late for golf. I’ll take a shower. Order chai.’
Zora went into the bathroom. He felt the stickiness between his legs. He soaped himself thoroughly, changed into fresh clothes and joined his wife in the sitting room. Deepo brought in a tray of tea and samosas. Eeshran asked her, ‘Did you massage his feet?’ Deepo replied with a straight face, ‘He was fast asleep. I did not want to disturb him.’
‘Do it now, then,’ Eeshran said.
So Deepo massaged Zora’s feet while he drank his tea and ate the samosas.
‘Have you any programme for the evening?’ Eeshran asked Zora.
‘I’ve missed my golf; what other programmes do I have without you? You want to go out for a drive? Or to India Gate?’
‘We can go to Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. There is a very good raagi from Amritsar doing the keertan. We can stay on till the evening prayer is over. You will like it after the tiring day you’ve had.’
So the gurdwara it was. Most people in the congregation recognized Zora—they had seen his picture in the papers and on TV. After paying obeisance to the Granth Sahib, Eeshran, assisted by Deepo, found a place to sit behind the raagis. Zora went around the Granth Sahib twice before he sat down on the other side. He did not want to be disturbed. He closed his eyes and was lost to the world. There were only divine words set to divine music sung by a divine voice. They reached home after the evening service. Such was the peace that prevailed upon them that any small talk would have been sacrilege.
*
As Zora had anticipated, his comment on hijdas made the front pages of all papers. There were also laudatory references to his oratory. The telephone rang incessantly. Strangers and friends congratulated him on his performance. Among them was his Minister. ‘Zora bhai,’ he said, ‘kamaal kar diya—you excelled yourself.’
‘Mantriji, as long as I live I will not let anyone touch a single hair on your head,’ replied Zora. ‘I hope your enemies are silenced forever and the Prime Minister has realized your true worth.’
‘Dekho, let’s see. As I said before, he lends his ear to all kinds of malicious gossip.’
Zora’s six-year term as a nominated member was coming to a close. With it would go the MP’s bungalow which had been at the disposal of the Minister, the MP sticker on his car windscreen and all the other privileges that went with being a Member of Parliament. Zora was worried about his future. He went to see the Minister to seek his advice.
‘I have been thinking about it,’ replied the Minister. ‘They are unlikely to give you a second term in the Rajya Sabha. They did give it to some members earlier but later we took a decision that one term was enough, and that others who have distinguished themselves in the fields of art, literature, music, films, social service and other areas should be given a chance. It was a wrong decision because writers and artists take very little interest in Parliamentary affairs, while people like you who have done signal service to the nation and are still active are denied the privilege of continuing your good work. But that’s how it is. Do you have anything else in mind?’
‘Sir, it is for you to decide my future. Whatever little I have achieved is by your grace.’
‘Would you like the governorship of a state? I am sure I could persuade the Home Minister to appoint you. We need to have one or two Sikh governors. And who can be a better candidate than you?’
‘That is very kind of you, sir. But a governorship would mean I would have to leave Delhi. I don’t think Eeshran would like that. Is there anything else you can suggest which can keep us in Delhi and let me retain the bungalow for your convenience? I am now over seventy, and if nothing else, I would like to leave behind a good name.’
‘Zora, don’t talk like that,’ remonstrated the Minister. ‘You will live to be a hundred. Let me think about it. Be assured I will do my best for you.’
‘Thank you, sir, thank you. You are my annadaata, my provider.’
*
Weeks went by, then months. It was Zora’s last day in Parliament. Like other members due to retire, he was invited to make his farewell speech. And, as on other occasions, he excelled everyone else even in his farewell address, combining sentimentality with humour. He returned home somewhat depressed. The first thing he did was to order his servant to remove the MP sticker from the windscreen of his car. In a few days he would receive a notice to surrender the official bungalow to some new Member of Parliament. He had never used the bungalow in the six years he had it, but where would his Minister and dear friend go to entertain his lady friends now? Zora was concerned. The man had not as much as rung him up in the last two months. Perhaps he had made some other bandobast.
As anticipated, a few days later Zora received a notice to hand over possession of the official bungalow by the end of the month. The same evening his Minister rang up. ‘Zora, my friend, I have some good news for you. You will be happy to know that the Cabinet has agreed to honour you with the title of Bharat Ratna, the highest honour the nation can bestow on anyone. With it comes the bungalow. You may hang on to it for the rest of your life. There. Are you satisfied?’
Zora was overcome with emotion. ‘Thank you, oh sir, thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please give my wife the news, please, could you tell her—’ Zora broke down as he handed the phone to Eeshran. He continued to sob, ‘Bharat Ratna. Bharat Ratna for poor, undeserving Zora Singh. Blessed be Wahguru. Dhan Wahguru, Dhan Dhan Wahguru!’