Chanakya's Chant Page 7

  ‘And it saved the country lots of money?’

  ‘Hah! Sarojini Naidu—our first governor here in Uttar Pradesh—summed it up beautifully when she said that it cost the Indian nation a great deal of money to keep the Mahatma in poverty!’

  ‘Then why did he do it?’

  ‘That's the power of renunciation for you, my dear!’

  ‘Like the way that you renounced becoming mayor so that Uncle Ikram could?’

  ‘Yes,’ chuckled Gangasagar, ‘something like that.’

  ‘We need to clean up this city, Ikram.’

  ‘You mean “clean up” as in “make a killing”, right Gangasagarji?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don't mean clean up as in sweeping the streets and clearing the garbage, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. The city's filthy.’

  ‘Taking control of the municipal corporation is all about making money, not about actually cleaning up.’

  ‘I'd be a fool if I said that corruption isn't a way of life. We're going to need money to strengthen the ABNS, but let's also do some good along the way.’

  ‘Why? Who's ever done any good in local government?’

  ‘We shouldn't do it because we're do-gooders. We should do it because we want to win the next elections without assistance from other political parties.’

  ‘If we make enough money in this term, we won't need another term in the corporation. We'll be rich.’

  ‘Who's talking about the corporation?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘My dear Ikram. Real power lies at state level, not in local government. That's where we're all going to be five years from now—the Uttar Pradesh state government.’

  ‘Gangasagarji. The garbage collectors have gone on strike. They say that the new discipline imposed on them has resulted in longer hours—they want more pay and perks.’

  ‘They're already overpaid, Ikram. The corporation can't afford any more hikes.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? The municipal commissioner phones me every ten minutes for a negotiated settlement.’

  ‘Negotiation must always be done from a position of strength, not weakness. If essential services are disrupted, they'll have the upper hand.’

  ‘What's your advice?’

  ‘Garbage collection mustn't get disrupted. They'll then be forced to negotiate from a position of weakness.’

  ‘So you want me—the mayor—to go around the city collecting garbage?’

  ‘No. But you have hundreds of ragpickers in your slum. Offer them a small daily allowance to do the job. They'll not only do the job but also recycle the waste. It's an economy-friendly and ecology-friendly solution.’

  ‘The garbage collectors will be enraged.’

  ‘Better they than us. Negotiate once they fall in line.’

  ‘The municipal hospitals are in shambles, Gangasagarji.’

  ‘Let's improve and upgrade them, Ikram.’

  ‘We don't have the budget. We're in deficit.’

  ‘Then let's rename the hospitals instead.’

  ‘How will renaming anything improve it?’

  ‘Simple. Who are the businessmen in this city who are being prosecuted for tax fraud?’

  ‘There are several. Why?’

  ‘Tell them that their family name will be associated with something charitable. Ask them for a substantial donation to upgrade the facilities and we'll willingly rename the damned hospitals! They get the label of being benefactors and we get the money to upgrade the facilities.’

  ‘What if they don't agree?’

  ‘Tell them that their tax cases will be pursued with double the vigour.’

  ‘Gangasagarji, the roads have developed potholes once again.’

  ‘Ikram, why don't we impose penalties on the construction firms that executed the job?’

  ‘They say that the materials used were as per municipal specifications. It isn't their fault that the specifications were substandard.’

  ‘Fine. Announce that we're about to undertake massive road-building projects over the next year. Make a press statement.’

  ‘But we're not.’

  ‘Ah. But they don't know that. Your potholes will get filled for free by the firms that want future business from us.’

  ‘Revenue collections are down this year, Gangasagarji.’

  ‘What are our sources of revenue, Ikram?’

  ‘Property tax, licence fees and rent on municipal lands.’

  ‘Increasing property tax or licence fees is not a viable option. It discourages economic activity, and eventually lowers tax revenues. Increase the rent on municipal lands.’

  ‘But we can't increase municipal rents—even though they are lower than market rates—because of locked-in tenancies.’

  ‘Terminate the tenancies.’

  ‘The tenants will go to court.’

  ‘Let them. Each tenant will need a battery of lawyers whereas a single government attorney will represent the municipal corporation. Our legal costs will be negligible in comparison to theirs.’

  ‘But matters will remain tied up in litigation for years. We'll eventually lose. We're on extremely shaky legal ground.’

  ‘Fine. Threaten to sell the tenanted land as-is-where-is.’

  ‘No one will buy tenanted properties.’

  ‘My dear Ikram, if I recall correctly, you were a slumlord before you were elevated to the exalted position of mayor, am I correct?’

  ‘By your blessings and guidance, sir,’ said Ikram glibly.

  ‘So, ask yourself this. If the buyer happens to be an underworld don, will the tenants be comfortable with the thought of having a don as landlord?’

  ‘Obviously not. Mafia lords will use every dirty trick in—and outside—the book to vacate the land. Tenants would be terrorised.’

  ‘So tell the tenants that they have two options. Either negotiate with us for an increased rent or negotiate with a don for decreased life-expectancy. I'm sure they'll mostly opt for the former.’

  ‘I've signed the contract for the sewage disposal system, Gangasagarji.’

  ‘Did you keep five per cent for the party, Ikram?’

  ‘Yes. As you instructed.’

  ‘But did you also make sure that the city saves twenty per cent?’

  ‘Yes. The bidding process ensured that.’

  ‘Good. I know that our party coffers need strengthening before the state assembly elections but I refuse to do it without saving money for the citizens too. There have been too many evil officers inside the municipal corporation who have lined their own pockets without doing anything for ordinary citizens.’

  ‘Alas, money is the root of evil.’

  ‘Yes. And sometimes a man needs roots.’

  ‘Let's cut bureaucracy to the best of our ability, commissioner,’ suggested Gangasagar. He was seated in the mayor's plush office meeting with the newlyappointed municipal commissioner. The commissioner knew that the real political power was Gangasagar. The mayor was the television set but Gangasagar was the remote control unit.

  To please Gangasagar he asked his deputies to draw up guidelines on how they could reduce red tape. It was a lengthy document written in government legalese. It was returned by Gangasagar to the commissioner the next day with a short note attached on top. It simply said:

  Gayatri Mantra: 14 words

  Pythagorean Theorem: 24 words

  Archimedes’ Principle: 67 words

  The Ten Commandments: 179 words

  Jawaharlal Nehru's inaugural speech: 1,094 words

  Your recommendations to reduce red tape:

  22,913 words

  Ikram, Gangasagar and Agrawalji were in their underwear, sitting crosslegged on the private Agrawal riverbank along the Ganges. Behind each of the men stood a maalishwallah. They were all reeking of mustard oil, the preferred lubricant used by Kanpur masseurs. They had drenched the scalps of the three men with warm oil and were vigorously rubbing their customers’ heads. Agrawalji was bald but
that didn't seem to prevent his maalishwallah from polishing his crown enthusiastically. Intermittently, the masseurs would stray from their primary targets—their heads—and manipulate, squeeze and stroke their patrons’ necks, shoulders, arms, and backs. It was an orgy of grease and grunts.

  Agrawalji asked, ‘Ganga, do you think we're strong enough to fight the next state assembly elections?’

  ‘The moot point is not whether we are strong enough but whether we can make the opposition weak enough,’ replied Gangasagar, blissfully aware of the masseur inserting his fingers into his ears and giving his eardrums the Indian version of vibration therapy.

  ‘Knowing how you work, I'd say that you already have a plan,’ said Agrawalji, stretching out his arms so that the masseur could give his palms a deep-tissue rub using his thumbs in a circular motion—excellent for blood circulation.

  ‘I'm told that our honourable chief minister has a few not-so-honourable vices,’ said Gangasagar shiftily.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Ikram.

  ‘The more appropriate question is who are they,’ replied Gangasagar.

  ‘Fine. Who are they?’

  ‘Shall I recite the ladies’ names alphabetically?’ joked Gangasagar.

  ‘Anyway, how does this help us?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘Our chief minister has a good track record of governance. With him at the helm, it will be difficult to dislodge the current administration. With him out of the way, though, things would be different.’

  ‘The problem with men who are extremely zealous at work is that they tend to be equally enthusiastic about other pursuits,’ suggested Gangasagar.

  ‘With elections around the corner, he will be cautious. He will not be easy to trip up,’ said Ikram.

  ‘Quite often, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it,’ said Gangasagar quietly.

  Gulbadan's kotha near Akbari Darwaza in Lucknow was quietly famous. It was one of the very few courtesans’ residences that had remained frozen in time. The wealthy madam who owned the kotha wore cashmere wool and brocade shawls, smoked from crystal hookahs, drank from jade goblets, walked in bejewelled slippers, spat into silver spittoons and slept on pure silk bedspreads. She slept with only one man, though.

  She was extremely choosy. It wasn't about the money—she had enough of it. It was about power. The only thing that could turn her into a wet and wild woman in bed was the thought that she was in the presence of power. And there was no one more powerful in Lucknow than the state's chief minister.

  The reporter standing outside the door to the bedroom was untidy and unkempt. His shirt was drenched in patches of sweat, his cheap trousers were crumpled and the shoelaces of his right shoe were dangerously undone. His Buddy Holly-style glasses were greasy and his thick dark hair sprinkled little specks of dandruff on his shoulders. Around his neck, however, hung a very sleek Agilux camera—manufactured in England—with an uncoupled rangefinder. The payoff to the reporter had been generous—almost one month's pay. The tip-off had been perfect—the venue, date and time typed neatly on a slip of unmarked and unsigned paper. It was going to be the biggest scoop of his life.

  The maidservant stationed outside the bedroom signalled for him to try the door handle. He gingerly tiptoed to the door, placed his hand on the doorknob and tried it. It was unlocked. Obviously. The maidservant had unlocked it with her own key. The reason for the maidservant's cooperation lay in his hands—a rather large parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It contained a new miracle drug to fight tuberculosis—a drug produced and available only in America at the time.

  The private detective keeping an eye on Gulbadan's kotha had suggested that the girl could be used. Investigation had revealed that the girl's mother was dying of tuberculosis and that the girl was in financial trouble trying to keep up with medical bills. A new medical breakthrough for tuberculosis patients had been recently discovered and Gangasagar had asked Agrawalji to import the medicine through one of his business contacts in New York. Getting the girl to agree to participate in the sting had been child's play thereafter.

  The reporter let go of the doorknob and silently gestured for the girl to grasp the handle while he brought the camera to his eye. He whispered, ‘At the count of three, fling open the door—one—two—three!’ As she flung open the door, he clicked the camera once intuitively. He then searched for the cavorting couple, directed the viewfinder towards them and clicked again. He wanted to take a third but knew he would not have time. The chief minister yelled for his security. ‘Guards!’ he shouted, ‘catch this impudent dog!’ But it was too late.

  The reporter's exit route through the servants’ entrance had been predetermined in collaboration with the maidservant while the guards were discreetly seated in the chief minister's Ambassador car in the driveway to the house.

  The reporter heaved a sigh of relief as he emerged into one of the dark alleys that ran northwards from the house. He picked up pace as he began planning his story for his editor and the next morning's paper. He thought about the photographs captured on his roll of film. He laughed to himself. The only fucking difference between erotica and porn is the lighting, he thought to himself.

  ‘He has resigned!’ cried Gangasagar triumphantly, ‘I knew that we had to play the man, not the ball.’

  ‘You mean the balls,’ said Ikram wryly.

  ‘That too,’ said the excited Gangasagar, ignoring the joke. ‘With his resignation, his party will be in disarray. The left jab that we have just thrown must be followed in quick succession by a right uppercut. It will ensure that the party is unable to recover and regroup,’ he said, popping another paan into his mouth.

  ‘Who's the next most powerful person after the chief minister of the state?’

  ‘The state's home minister,’ said Ikram.

  ‘And what's the home minister's job?’

  ‘Maintaining law and order.’

  ‘What happens if law and order deteriorate?’

  ‘His colleagues would be reluctant to project him as their alternative candidate.’

  ‘Ikram, as mayor, you have direct access to the police commissioner, don't you?’

  ‘Rascals like me, and the cops, always have a direct connection,’ laughed Ikram. ‘What exactly do you want done?’

  Rajjo Bhaiya sat in the driver's seat of his rugged Mahindra jeep, wiping his bushy black moustache. In his hand he held a steel mug half-filled with thandai.The first half of the mugful of iced milk—flavoured with almonds, sugar, fennel, rose petals, pepper, cardamom, saffron, and a generous lacing of white poppy seeds—was already swirling inside his belly. Under trial in twenty-six criminal cases including several of murder, assault and possession of illegal weapons, Rajjo was a member of the state assembly. A confidant of the chief minister who had been caught with his pants down, Rajjo was the other ugly secret of the state's political underbelly.

  Sitting next to him was the police commissioner, an old chum who had specifically asked for the meeting in this isolated location. He could not be seen conversing with Rajjo—supposedly the enemy. The indignant press and a gullible public would never accept the reality that Rajjo and the police chief owed their respective occupations to one another. Men like Rajjo were criminals in civvies and, quite often, cops were simply criminals in uniform. The police commissioner was determinedly picking his nose. Midway through his exploration he realised that his throat was itching and he gurgled a deep, guttural cough, brought the offending lump of phlegm to his mouth and spat it out on the ground. Picking his nose and clearing his throat were his favourite hobbies, it seemed.

  ‘The little cuntface has asked me to investigate all pending cases and to make an example of you,’ said the police commissioner at last.

  ‘Has he fucking lost his mind? Doesn't the motherfucker understand that it will hurt the party's own position? I'm a prominent member of the ruling party, aren't I? How's this going to help him win elections?’ demanded an enraged Rajjo.

  ‘At this moment
the state home minister's bigger priority is to show his colleagues that he has balls. Once his own position is secure, he'll start worrying about the party's performance!’ said the commissioner, successfully plucking a nose hair that was irritating him.

  ‘In that case I'll show the pussyface what I'm capable of,’ shouted Rajjo, throwing the rest of the thandai onto the soft ground outside the open jeep door.

  ‘There's one way you could send him a signal without declaring open hostilities that would lead to a complete breakdown of law and order,’ suggested the police commissioner helpfully.

  ‘And what's that?’ grunted Rajjo.

  ‘You could challenge him politically. Hold a rally in his constituency. That should shake him up a little.’

  Rajjo smiled. Two of his front teeth were gold. He flashed what he thought was a winning smile and said, ‘Who made you into a paper-pushing police commissioner, eh? You should have been a minister—and I don't mean the praying kind!’

  ‘I told him not to hold that rally, sir. I explained that it could cause a law and order problem. He assured me he would reconsider his decision. Obviously he didn't,’ explained the police commissioner to a worried home minister of Uttar Pradesh.

  ‘So the whorebanger thinks that I will simply accept his outright rebellion?’ shouted the minister. ‘I'm worried that he'll have the entire party in disarray. Arrest him today!’

  The minister was rocking his chair furiously. ‘Worry is like a rocking chair,’ thought the police commissioner to himself. ‘It keeps you busy but gets you fucking nowhere.’ He cut short his musings and spoke up.

  ‘That may not be wise, sir. He has a considerable following from his own caste. They see him as a Robin Hood of sorts. We would be playing into his hands by arresting him,’ said the police commissioner conspiratorially.

  ‘I'll end up appearing weak and indecisive if I don't arrest him. How's that going to look? You bureaucrats never have to worry about fighting elections. For you, survival means hanging on until retirement; for politicians like me survival is about making it till Sunday morning!’