“Make way, make way!” he shouts at the pedestrians. In his first week with the Ministry Mr. Nandha experienced firsthand a full-strength EM pulse. There is no mistaking its signature. As he sprints up the steps to the foyer, thumbing for police support on his sputtering palmer, he thinks he sees a something, too big for a bird, too small for an aircraft, loop away from the apartment building and vanish into the Varanasi sky-glow. Seconds later the fascia of the fifteenth-floor apartment explodes in a gout of flame.
“Run, flee!” Mr. Nandha shouts as the smoking debris rains down on the gawpers but the one, huge, gagging thought in his head is that he won’t get his suit from Mukherjee’s now.
13: SHAHEEN BADOOR KHAN, NAJIA
Prime Minister Sajida Rana wears gold and green today. Her cabinet knows to expect matters of national pride when she is dressed in the flag. She stands at the east end of the long teak table in the luminous marble cabinet room of the Bharat Sabha. Gilt framed oils of forebears and political inspirations line the long wall. Her father, Diljit Rana, in his judge’s robes, father of the nation. Her grandfather, Shankar Rana, in his English Queen’s Counsel silk. Jawarhalal Nehru, aloof and vaguely fearful in his sweetly cut suit, as if he had seen the price future generations would pay for the quick, dirty deal he did with Mountbatten. The Mahatma, father of all, with his bowl and wheel. Lakshmi Bai, warrior Rani, standing in the stirrups of her Maratha cavalry horse commanding the charge on Gwalior. And the autocrats of that other mighty Indian dynasty to share the name Gandhi, Sonia; assassinated Rajiv; Indira the martyr, Mother India.
The marble walls and ceiling of the cabinet chamber have been worked into an intricate filigree of Hindu mythology. Yet the acoustic is dry and resonant. Even whispers ring and carry. Sajida Rana places her hands on the polished teak, rests her weight on them, a fighter’s stance.
“Can we survive if we strike at Awadh?”
V. S. Chowdhury, Defence Minister, turns his hooded, hawk eyes to his leader. “Bharat will survive. Varanasi will survive. Varanasi is eternal.” There is no doubt in the echoing hall what he means.
“Can we beat them?”
“No. Not a hope. You saw Shrivastava on the White House shaking hands with McAuley on his Most Favoured Nation status.”
“It’ll be the Shanker Mahal next,” says Energy Secretary Vajubhai Patel. “The Americans have been sniffing around Ray Power. The Awadhis won’t need to invade, they can just buy us up. Last I heard, old Ray was down at Manikarna ghat doing his surya namaskar.”
“Then who’s running the bloody shop?” Chowdhury asks.
“An astrophysicist, a packaging salesman, and a self-styled comedian.”
“Gods save us, we should surrender right now,” Chowdhury mutters.
“I cannot believe what I am hearing around this table,” says Sajida Rana. “Like old women around a pump. The people want a war.”
“The people want rain,” says Biswanath, Minister of Environmental Affairs, stiffly. “And that is all they want. A monsoon.”
Sajida Rana turns now to her most trusted aide. Shaheen Badoor Khan is lost in marble, his attention seduced by vulgar pagan deities scrambling over each other’s bodies, up the walls and across the roof. Then he mentally erases the grosser contours, the sculpted cones of the breasts, the crude jut of the linga, reduces them to an androgynous blur of marble flesh, flowing into and through and out of itself. Vision jumps to an angle of cheekbone, an elegantly curved nape, a smooth perfect curve of hairless scalp glimpsed in an airport corridor.
“Mr. Khan, what did you get from Bengal?”
“It is fantasy,” Shaheen Badoor Khan says. “As always, the Banglas want to demonstrate they can engineer, a high-tech solution to a problem. The iceberg is a PR stunt. They are almost as thirsty as we are.”
“This is it precisely.” Interior Minister Ashok Rana speaks now. Shaheen Badoor Khan has no issue with nepotism, but it should at least aspire to fitting the man to the job. In pretence of making a point, Ashok will deliver a short speech in support of his sister’s policy, whatever it is. “What the people need is water and if that takes a war.”
Shaheen Badoor Khan gives the slightest of sighs, enough for the brother to catch. Defence Minister Chowdhury chimes in. He has a high and querulous voice that strikes unpleasant harmonics from the squabbling marble apsaras.
“The Land Forces Strategic Development Unit’s best model involves a preemptive strike on the dam itself. Send a small commando force in by air, take the dam, hold it until the last moment, and then withdraw across the border. Meanwhile we press the United Nations for an international peace-keeping force on the dam.”
“If the Americans do nor call for sanctions first,” Shaheen Badoor Khan comments. A murmur of agreement rolls around the long dark table.
“Withdraw?” Ashok Rana is incredulous. “Our brave jawans strike a mighty blow against Awadh and they turn tail and run? How will that look on the streets of Patna? This Strategic Development Unit, have they no izzat?”
Shaheen Badoor Khan feels the climate in the room change. This balls-talk of pride and brave soldiers and cowardice is stirring them. “If I might offer an opinion,” he says into the perfect, resonant silence.
“Your opinions are always welcome here,” Sajida Rana says.
“I believe that the greatest threat this government faces comes from the orchestrated demonstrations at Sarkhand Roundabout, not our dam dispute with Awadh,” he says carefully. Voices on every side of the table raise objection. Sajida Rana lifts her hand and there is quiet.
“Continue, Secretary Khan.”
“I am not saying there will not be war, though I think my position on agression towards Awadh is clear to everyone by now.”
“Woman’s position,” Ashok Rana says. Shaheen hears Ashok whisper to his aide, “Muslim’s position.”
“I am talking about threats to this government and clearly, the biggest threat we face is internal division and civil unrest fomented by the Shivaji. As long as our party enjoys mass popular support for any military action against Awadh, any diplomatic negotiations will come through this cabinet. And we are agreed that military force is purely a tool to get the Awadhis to the negotiating table, despite Ashok’s high regard for our military prowess.” Shaheen Badoor Khan holds Ashok Rana’s eyes long enough to tell him he is a fool appointed above his competence. “However, if the Awadhis and their American patrons see a political alternative with wide popular support in Bharat, then N. K. Jiwanjee will set himself up as peacemaker. The man who stopped the war, made the Ganga run again, and brought down the proud Ranas who shamed Bharat. We will not see the inside of this room for a generation. This is behind that play-acting over Sarkhand Roundabout. It is not the moral outrage of the Honest Hinduvavadi of Bharat. Jivanjee plans to raise the mob against us. He is going to ride that Chariot of Jaggarnath right up Chandni Boulevard into this room.”
“Is there anything we can arrest him on?” Foreign Minister Dasgupta asks.
“Back taxes?” Vipul Narvekar, Ashok Rana’s PA, suggests to a murmur of laughter.
“I have a suggestion,” Shaheen Badoor Khan says. “Let N. K. Jivanjee have what he wants, but only when we want him to have it.”
“Explain please, Mr. Khan.” Prime Minister Rana leans forward now.
“I say, give him his head. Let him call up his million staunch believers. Let him ride his war chariot with his Shivaji dancing behind him. Let him be the voice of Hindutva, let him make the war-mongering speeches and stir up the offended Bharati pride. Let him drive the country into war. If we show ourselves to be doves, then he will become the hawk. We know he can stir a mob to violence. That could be directed against Awadhis in the border towns. They’ll appeal to Delhi to protect them, the whole thing will escalate. Mr. Jivanjee needs no persuasion to ride his rath yatra right up to the Kunda Khadar dam. The Awadhis will strike back; then we move in as the injured party. The Shivaji are discredited as the ones who started the whole thing; the Awadhis are on the back foot with their Americans; and we go to the negotiating table as the party of reason, sanity, and diplomacy.”