River of Gods (58 page)

The umbrellas press up against the side of the car like piglets at
the teat of a black sow. Safe and dry, Sajida Rana slips into the
back seat. She sits instinctively on the left side. Shaheen Badoor
Khan should be in the right seat offering analyses, advisements,
perceptions. She looks alone as the doors lock and the car pulls off
into the rain. She looks like what she is, a middle-aged woman with
the weight of a nation upon her. The umbrellas break up and dart back
to the shelter of the Rana Bhavan's deep verandas.

Sajida Rana flicks through the hastily prepared briefing document.
The facts are scant and perfunctory. The Awadhi assault was
technically flawless. Brilliant. Bloodless. Military colleges will be
teaching it for decades to come. Awadhi armour and mechanised
infantry are within twenty kilometres of Allahabad, antiaircraft and
communication systems have come under sustained aeai attack and the
defending battalion is in disarray, its control at the Kunda Khadar
dam beheaded, desperately trying to reestablish a line of command
with the divisional headquarters at Jaunpur. And it is raining.
Sajida Rana is losing a water war in the rain. But it comes too late.
Her nation can die of thirst in a deluge.

They knew. The bastards had it calculated to the minute.

In her white, gold, and green sari Sajida Rana tries to imagine how
the words of surrender will feel in her mouth. Will they be bloated,
choking; will they be dry and acid; will they slip out as easily as a
Muslim divorcing his wife? Talaaq talaaq talaaq.

Khan. Faithless Muslim. Betrayed her with another, a
thing
.
When she needs his words, his insights, his presence beside her on
the cream leather. If Jivanjee and his karsevaks knew she rode on
cow-coloured leather.
Let Jivanjee do your work for you
, Khan
had said. Now he will drive his juggernaut over her bones. No. She is
a Rana, daughter of a founder of nations, a seeder of dynasties. She
is Bharat. She will fight. Let the Ganga overflow with blood.

"Where are we going?"

"Traffic, ma'am," the driver says. Sajida Rana settles back
on her upholstery and looks out through the rain-streaked windows.
Neons and tail lights, the gaudy Diwali illuminations of the trucks.
She thumbs the com.

"This is not the usual way to the Bharat Sabha."

"No, ma'am," the driver says and sinks his foot to the
board. Unbalanced, Sajida Rana reels. She tries the locks knowing it
for folly, knowing she heard the solid, German-engineering click of
the central locking. She opens her palmer, calls her security as the
Mercedes touches one hundred and twenty.

"This is Prime Ministerial emergency code. Lock on to my GPS
signal, I am being abducted, I repeat, this is Sajida Rana, I am
being abducted."

Sky hiss. Then the voice of her chief of security says,

"Prime Minister, I will not do that. No one will help you. You
have betrayed Holy Bharat and Bharat will punish you."

Then the Mercedes turns into Sarkhand Roundabout and the screaming
starts.

The Bharatiya Vayu Sena Airbus Industries A510 bumps a little as it
climbs through the cloud layer over Varanasi. Ashok Rana grips the
armrests. He has never been a good flier. He glances out the
rain-streaked window at the bright arcs of flares dropping away
behind them. The fuselage vibrates as ECM drones launch from the
underwing pods. There has been no Awadhi aerial activity over
Varanasi for days now but the air force takes no chances with its new
Prime Minister. Ashok Rana thinks, from the angle of the raindrops on
the glass I should be able to work out my speed. Many such
inconsequential thoughts have come to him since the call from
Secretary Narvekar in the night.

The plane lurches again, beating through the monsoon. Ashok Rana
switches on his armrest screen. The camera shows his wife and
daughters back in the press-office compartment. Sushmita's face
tightens with fear as the Airbus jolts again; Anuja gives a word of
comfort, takes her hand. In his Prime Ministerial leather armchair,
Ashok Rana allows himself a minute smile. He wishes there were a
camera here at the front so they could see him. They would not be so
afraid, if they could see him.

"Prime Minister."

His Parliamentary Private Secretary swivels his seat towards him and
passes a much be scribbled printout across the table.

"We have a draft of the speech, if you would like to familiarise
yourself with its key points."

The Prime Ministerial transport gives a final buck and breaks free
into clear air. Through the window Ashok Rana sees the moonlit
surface of a storm-sea of cloud. The pilot bings off the seatbelt
light and instantly the plastic tube of the fuselage is filled with
call-tones. Every politician and civil servant is out of his seat and
pressing around the conference table. They lean forward with
expectant, keen faces. They have been wearing those expectant, keen
faces since Secretary Narvekar and Defence Minister Chowdhury stooped
down through the door of the Bharati Air Force tilt-jet that had
landed in his garden to help Ashok Rana and his family aboard. Chief
Justice Laxman administered the oath while the military transport
dropped towards the remote, secure corner of the airport where Vayu
Sena One had been brought. The army nurse with the white white
surgical gloves had made the lightest of nicks in his thumb with a
scalpel, pressed it to a diagnostic pad and even before Ashok Rana
could register the pain she had swabbed it clean with surgical
alcohol and slipped on a dressing.

"For the DNA authorisation, Prime Minister," Trivul
Narvekar explained but Ashok Rana's attention was on the air force
officer immediately behind the nurse, gun drawn, muzzle hovering a
whisper from the back of her skull. To lose one Prime Minister is
tragedy. Two starts to look like conspiracy. Then Chief Justice
Laxman's face loomed into his field of vision.

"I now present you with the seals of state, Prime Minister. You
are endowed with full executive authority."

The A510 swims up towards the huge Bharati moon. Ashok Rana could
look at it forever, imagine there is no chaotic, broken nation down
beneath the clouds. But the faces expect. He glances over the
printout. Measured phrases, memorable sound bites with edit-pauses
written in before and after them, resolutions and rousing
declarations. Ashok Rana glances again at his family in the little
palm-sized screen.

"Has my sister's body been recovered?"

Every clamouring voice, every palmer falls silent.

"The area has been secured," Secretary Narvekar says.

"Can we trust the army?"

"We have sent in regular forces. We can rely on them. The group
was a small cabal among the elite divisions that supplied madam's
personal security unit. Those responsible are under arrest;
unfortunately we were unable to prevent some of the higher-ranking
officers from taking their own lives. The personal bodyguard is all
dead, Prime Minister."

Ashok Rana closes his eyes, feels the contours in the stratosphere
around the aircraft shell that encloses him.

"Not the Awadhis."

"No, Prime Minister. It was never a consideration that the
Awadhis would resort to assassination, if you will excuse my use of
the word."

"The rioters?"

"Dispersed, Prime Minister. The situation in the city remains
highly volatile. I would advise against any immediate return to
Varanasi."

"I do not want them pursued. Morale is bad enough without
loosing the army on our own population. But we should maintain
martial law."

"Very wise, Prime Minister. Magnanimous in the face of national
crisis; that will play well. Prime Minister, I don't want to be seen
to be pressurising you in this desperate time of shock and grief, but
this speech.. .It is important that the nation hears from you, and
soon."

"In a while, Trivul"

"Prime Minister, the slot is booked, the camera and audio are
set up in the media centre."

"In a while, Trivul!"

The Parliamentary Secretary bows away but Ashok Rana can see the
chewed-back irritation in the set of his lips. He looks out again at
the moon, low now in the west on the edge of the silver sea of water
raining down on his land. He will never be able to see it again, the
lolling moon of India, without thinking of this night, without
hearing the chime of the palmer in the night and the wrench of dread
in his gut that knew, even before he answered, it was the worst
possible news; without hearing the measured, well-rehearsed voice of
Private Secretary Patak, so strange after the soft familiarity of
Shaheen Badoor Khan, saying impossible things; without hearing the
scream of tilt-jets thrashing the branches of the neem trees with
their down-blast as his wife and children dressed and seized baggage
in the dark for fear for making themselves illuminated targets for
whatever it was out there that had turned upon the house of Rana. The
light will forever be transformed into sounds. He hates that most,
that they have tainted the moon.

"Vikram, I have to know, are we in any state to resist the
Awadhis?"

Chowdhury waggles his head.

"The air force is one hundred percent."

"You do not win wars with air power. The army?"

"We risk splitting the entire command if we pursue the cabal too
far. Ashok, if the Awadhis want Allahabad, there is very little we
can do to stop them."

"Are our nuclear and chemical deterrents secure?"

"Prime Minister, surely you cannot be advocating first use?"
Secretary Narvekar interjects. Again, Ashok Rana rounds on him.

"Our country is invaded, our cities lie wide open and my own
sister has been thrown to a.to a.mob by her own soldiers. Do you know
what they did with that trishul? Do you? Do you? What should I do to
defend us? What can I do to keep us safe?"

The faces turn softly, politely blank, impassively reflecting Ashok
Rana's shouting voice. He hears his edge of hysteria. He lets the
words fall. The bulkhead between the conference room and the media
centre is decorated with a modern interpretation of the Tandava
Nritya, the cosmic dance of Siva; the god wreathed in the chakra of
flame, one foot raised. Ashok Rana has lived all his forty-four years
in the shadow of the descending foot that will destroy and regenerate
the universe.

"Forgive me," he says shortly. "This is not an easy
time." The politicals mumble their acquiescences.

"Our nuclear and chemical capability is secure," Chowdhury
says. "That's all I needed to know," says Ashok Rana. "Now,
this speech." A junior aide with two fingers raised to the side
of his head interrupts him. "Prime Minister, a call for you."

"I stated quite clearly that I am not taking any calls."
Ashok Rana lets a little iron into his voice.

"Sahb, it is N. K. Jivanjee."

Eyes glance at each other around the oval table. Ashok Rana nods to
his aide.

"On here." He taps the armrest screen. In the press
compartment his wife and children have settled into some semblance of
sleep, leaning against each other. The head and shoulders of the
Shivaji leader take their place, softly lit by a hooded lamp on his
desk. Behind him are the geometrical suggestions of books rowed on
shelves.

"Jivanjee. You dare much."

N. K. Jivanjee dips his head.

"I can understand why you would think that, Prime Minister."
The title jolts Ashok Rana. "At the outset, I would ask you to
accept my sincerest sympathies to your family on its tragic loss and
to your late sister's husband and children. There is no part of
Bharat that has not been stricken to the heart by what has happened
at Sarkhand Roundabout. I am outraged by this brutal murder—and
we call ourselves the mother of civilisations. I unreservedly condemn
the treachery of the late Prime Minister's personal guard and those
outlaw elements of the mob. I would ask you to accept that no part of
the Shivaji condones this dreadful act. This was a mob element
whipped to a frenzy by traitors and renegades."

"I could have you arrested," Ashok Rana says. His ministers
and advisors look at him. N. K. Jivanjee nervously moistens his lips
with the tiniest bud of tongue.

"And how would that serve Bharat? No, no, no, I have another
suggestion. Our enemy is at the gates, our armed forces desert us,
our cities riot, and our leader is brutally murdered. This is not a
time for party politics. I propose a government of national
salvation. As I have said, the Party of Lord Siva is innocent of any
involvement in or support for this outrage, yet we retain some
influence with the Hindutvavadi and the milder karsevaks."

"You can bring the streets under control."

N. K. Jivanjee sways his head.

"No politician can promise that. But at such a time opposing
parties coming together in a government of national salvation would
set a powerful example, not just to the riotous elements, but to all
Bharatis, and to Awadh as well. A nation united is not easily
defeated."

"Thank you, Mr. Jivanjee. It's an interesting offer. I will call
you back, thank you for your good wishes, I accept them." Ashok
Rana thumbs N. K. Jivanjee into the arm of the chair. He turns to his
remnant cabinet. "Evaluations, gentlemen?"

"It is a deal with demons," V.K. Chowdhury says. "But."

"He has you over a log," Chief Justice Laxman says. "He
is a very clever man."

"I see no other practicable option than to take his suggestion,"
Trivul Narvekar says. "With two riders; first, that we make the
suggestion. We extend the hand of peace to our political foes.
Second, we rule certain cabinet positions out of the discussion."

"He will want cabinet posts?" Ashok Rana asks. Secretary
Narvekar's astonishment is unfeigned.

"What other reason would he have for suggesting it? I suggest we
keep the Treasury, the Ministry of Defence, and the Foreign Ministry
inviolable. Apologies, Chief Justice."