Eighteen dignitaries began taking their places on stage. At twelve o’clock there was a roar in the sky and twenty-five thousand heads turned upwards. A helicopter circled the field thrice, then began its descent to land behind the stage.
A few minutes later, the Prime Minister, in a white sari, was escorted up to the stage by someone in a white kurta and Gandhi cap. The eighteen notable personages took turns garlanding their leader, bowing, touching her toes. One dignitary outdid the rest by prostrating full length before her. He would stay at her feet, he said, till she forgave him.
The Prime Minister was baffled, though no one could see her look of puzzlement because of the eighteen garlands engulfing her face. An aide reminded her of some minor disloyalty on the man’s part. “Madamji, he is repenting, he says he is sorry, most sincerely.”
The live microphones ensured that the sun-scorched audience was at least able to enjoy the onstage buffoonery. “Yes, okay,” she said impatiently. “Now get up and stop making a fool of yourself.” Chastened, the man jumped up like a gymnast completing a somersault.
“See?” said Rajaram. “I told you it’s going to be a day at the circus — we have clowns, monkeys, acrobats, everything.”
When the storm of manufactured adulation had passed, the Prime Minister tossed her garlands, one by one, out into the audience. The VIP seats and dignitaries cheered wildly at this grand gesture.
“Her father also used to do that, when he was Prime Minister,” said Ishvar.
“Yes,” said Rajaram. “I saw it once. But when he did it, he looked humble.”
“She looks like she is throwing rubbish at us,” said Om.
Rajaram laughed. “Isn’t that the politician’s speciality?”
The member of parliament for the district started the welcome address, thanking the Prime Minister for showing such favour to this poor, undeserving place. “This audience is small,” he said, sweeping his hand to indicate the captive crowd of twenty-five thousand. “But it is a warm and appreciative audience, possessing a great love for the Prime Minister who has done so much to improve our lives. We are simple people, from simple villages. But we understand the truth, and we have come today to listen to our leader…”
Ishvar rolled up his sleeves, undoing two buttons and blowing down his shirt. “How long will it last, I wonder.”
“Two, three, four hours — depends on how many speeches,” said Rajaram.
“… and take note, all you journalists who will write tomorrow’s newspapers. Especially the foreign journalists. For grave mischief has been done by irresponsible scribbling. Lots of lies have been spread about this Emergency, which has been declared specially for the people’s benefit. Observe: wherever the Prime Minister goes, thousands gather from miles around, to see her and hear her. Surely this is the mark of a truly great leader.”
Rajaram took out a coin and began playing Heads or Tails with Om. Around them, people were making new friends, chatting, discussing the monsoon. Children invented games and drew pictures in the dust. Some slept. A mother stretched out her sari-draped legs, nestled her baby in the valley of her thighs, and began exercising it while singing softly, spreading the arms, crossing them over the chest, raising the tiny feet as far as they would go.
The minders and volunteers patrolled the enclosures, keeping an eye on things. They did not care so long as people amused themselves discreetly. The only prohibited activity was standing up or leaving the enclosure. Besides, this was just a warm-up speech.
“… and yet there are people who say she must step down, that her rule is illegal! Who are these people uttering such falsehoods? Brothers and sisters, they are the pampered few, living in big cities and enjoying comforts that you and I cannot even dream about. They do not like the changes the Prime Minister is making because their unfair privileges will be taken away. But it is clear that in the villages, where seventy-five per cent of our people live, there is nothing but complete support for our beloved Prime Minister.”
Near the end of his speech he gave a hand signal to someone waiting in the wings with a walkie-talkie. Seconds later, coloured lights hidden in the floral proscenium arch began to flash powerfully enough to compete with the midday sun. The audience was impressed. The feeble mandatory clapping for the member of parliament’s speech now became genuine applause for the visual display.
While the flashing lights still dazzled, the noise of a helicopter filled the sky again, its whup-whup-whup approaching from behind the stage. Something dropped from the belly of the turbulent machine. Out of the package floated — rose petals!
The crowd cheered, but the pilot had mistimed it. Instead of showering the Prime Minister and dignitaries, the petals fell in a pasture behind the stage. A goatherd who was grazing his animals thanked the heavens for the honour, then hurried home to tell his family about the miracle.
The second package, intended for the VIP enclosure, landed on target but failed to open. Someone was carried away on a stretcher. By the time the third package was released over the general audience, the pilot had mastered the technique, and it was a perfect drop. An obliging breeze came up, scattering the petals generously. Children in the crowd had a lovely time chasing them down.
On stage there was more bowing and scraping, then the Prime Minister approached the cluster of microphones. One hand maintaining the sari at her neck, she began speaking. Every sentence was followed by thunderous applause from the stage and the VIP enclosure, which, in turn, set off the conscientious ones in the audience. Her speech seemed in danger of being strangled by an excess of clapping. Finally, she stepped away from the podium and whispered something to an aide, who gave instructions to the dignitaries. The effect was immediate. From now on, the clapping was more sensibly apportioned.
She adjusted the white sari that was slipping off her head and continued. “There is nothing to worry about just because the Emergency is declared. It is a necessary measure to fight the forces of evil. It will make things better for ordinary people. Only the crooks, the smugglers, the blackmarketeers need to worry, for we will soon put them behind bars. And we will succeed in this despite the despicable conspiracy, which has been brewing since I began introducing programmes of benefit for the common man and woman. There is a foreign hand involved against us — the hand of enemies who would not wish to see us prosper.”
Rajaram took out a deck of cards and began shuffling, to Om’s delight. “You came prepared, for sure,” he said.
“Of course. Sounds like it’s going to be a long one. Playing?” he asked Ishvar, and dealt him in. The people near them perked up, grateful for the distraction. They shifted around and formed a circle to watch the game.
“… but no matter, for we are determined that disruptive forces will be put down. The government will continue to fight back until there is no more danger to democracy in our country.”
Om refused to clap now, he said his hands were aching. He played his card, and someone near him blurted: Mistake, mistake. Om realized his error, took back the card and played another, while the features of the new Twenty-Point Programme were outlined.
“What we want to do is provide houses for the people. Enough food, so no one goes hungry. Cloth at controlled prices. We want to build schools for our children and hospitals to look after the sick. Birth control will also be available to everyone. And the government will no longer tolerate a situation where people increase the population recklessly, draining the resources that belong to all. We promise that we will eliminate poverty from our cities and towns and villages.”