The Great Indian Novel (38 page)

‘Why don’t we just march in?’ asked Rafi, with nawabi impatience.

‘It’s a little delicate, Mr Rafi,’ Vidur replied, in the tone of a doctor circumspectly advising a wealthy patient of one more indulgence he would have to give up. ‘It is one thing to, er, as you put it, march in to a little fiefdom surrounded completely by Indian territory. Quite another to contemplate military action in a state the size of Manimir, which has an even larger frontier with Karnistan than it does with us.’

‘So what
can
we do?’ Rafi asked, impatiently echoing his Prime Minister.

‘I’m afraid we must wait a little longer,’ Vidur said, his face assuming the mournful manner that bureaucrats adopt when saying things they know politicians don’t want to hear. ‘You know, sir, await developments. A number of things could happen that might end the stalemate.’

‘Such as?’

‘One possibility is an internal uprising, led for instance by Sheikh Azharud- din, which might overthrow the Maharaja and proclaim adherence to India. Our intelligence reports to date do not, however, suggest that the Sheikh is capable of mounting and leading such a rebellion, at least in the near future. We could seek to finance, supply and even organize an uprising, but that, of course, calls for a . . .’ he paused before uttering the next word, to make it clear it rarely passed his lips, ‘political decision which is yet to be made.’

‘Well, let’s make it, then,’ said Rafi.

‘Suppose we do,’ Dhritarashtra said mildly, ‘these things would still take time to, ah, become operational. We are speaking now about the immediate future. You were indicating, Vidur, that an Azharuddin-led rebellion is a possibility, but not, right now, a probability. What if our intelligence fellows are wrong?’

Vidur raised an eyebrow as if the very thought was blasphemous.

‘Well sir, if they are, and if Sheikh Azharuddin is capable of leading a popular rebellion against the Maharaja, and if he succeeds - all of which, as you will appreciate, sir, is purely hypothetical - it is still far from certain that the Sheikh, despite the affinity between his party and yours, will necessarily accede to the Indian Union. It is said that he needs India - he needs Manimir to join the Indian Union - in order to obtain power, but if he gets power without Indian help he may decide he does not need us.’ Vidur coughed discreetly.

‘And the other possibilities you want us to wait for?’ asked Dhritarashtra.

‘Intervention by Karnistan,’ Vidur replied. ‘If Karna decides
he
won’t wait any longer and tries to take over in Manimir by force, we can step in on behalf of the legally constituted authorities, assuming of course the legally constituted authorities ask us to.’

‘You mean Mr bloody Z has to invite us in before we can do anything about a Karnistan invasion?’ This was, of course, Rafi again.

I m afraid so. Otherwise we would be invaders ourselves, without the head start the first invaders would have. It would not be an easy position to sustain, militarily or’ - Vidur grimaced like a headmaster obliged to utter an indelicacy - ‘politically’.

‘I wonder how my friend Sheikh Azhar would react in that sort of situation,’ Dhritarashtra mused.

‘It is not very clear, Prime Minister,’ Vidur replied. ‘It is said that though he has been sympathetic in the past to Kaurava aims, he is increasingly frustrated by what he is beginning to see, most unfortunately, as Indian complacency about a Hindu maharaja. If Karna were to seek to exploit this by invading with the declared intention of putting the Sheikh in power in Manimir as the true representative of the people of the state, we might lose Manimir for ever.’

‘Never. They can’t stand each other,’ Rafi pointed out.

‘There’s an even more important reason why that won’t happen,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Karna is the only leader of any consequence in Karnistan. Azhar’s popularity in Manimir is equally undeniable. If I know the Khalifa-e- Mashriq, he will never risk placing someone in power in one part of his domain who could be a popular threat to himself. No, Vidur: if Karna decides to act, it will be without Azhar. He will want Manimir, but he will want it, like everything else, on his own terms.’

‘And that, Prime Minister, may offer us our best chance,’ Vidur said. Having expressed a political opinion, he blushed self-consciously, like a chartered accountant who had accidentally indicated a preference for shapely rather than binomial figures.

There was a knock on the door. I haven’t done this to you too often, have I, Ganapathi? Stretching the limits of coincidence unacceptably far? I mean, it’s not always in this narrative that a character has said, ‘It would be really convenient if the sky were to fall on us right now’ - and the sky has fallen on the next page. Fair enough? So do you think you can excuse me now if a sweat-stained despatch-rider bursts into the room and announces that Manimir has been invaded by Karnistani troops?

No? Very well. Take away the despatch-rider then. A secretary walks in. Not one of your ICS types with a capital S, but a secretary, a chap who takes dictation and passes messages. ‘Prime Minister, Sahib,’ he says urgently. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you, but I thought you’d like to know immediately. A message from the Defence Ministry has just been flashed in. The minister is on his way over to see you. Manimir has been invaded from Karnistan.’

Notice, Ganapathi,
from,
not
by,
Karnistan. Not by regular troops either - the spit-and-polish-wallahs hived off from the Indian Army - but by ‘irregulars’.

‘What do you mean, “irregulars”?’ Dhritarashtra asked the Defence Minister when he arrived. ‘If you ask me, the whole thing seems quite irregular to me.’

The Defence Minister - none other than our jovial Sikh friend Sardar Khushkismat Singh - laughed dutifully. There was not much he failed to laugh at. ‘It seems they are not soldiers at all, but Pathan tribesmen,’ he explained. ‘Though we don’t doubt for one minute that they have been armed and supplied by Karna’s government. Their declared objectives are certainly identical - the “liberation” of their Islamic brothers from tyrannical Hindu rule, and the merger of Manimir with Karnistan.’

‘Well, what do we do
now?’
asked Rafi, transforming the gathering into an impromptu council of war.

‘How long will it take for our troops to reach the Manimir border in invasion strength?’ Dhritarashtra asked.

‘I’ve already spoken to the Chief of Staff,’ replied the Defence Minister. ‘Assembling the men, arranging logistics, vehicles, supplies, the troop-movement itself - about twelve hours.’

‘That’s it, then.’ The Prime Minister turned to the Principal Secretary for Integration. ‘That’s how much time you have to fly to Manimir, see the Maharaja and get him to accede to the Indian Union. The moment he does so, Karna’s irregulars are no longer invading a defenceless princely state but the sovereign territory of India. And he will have a war on his hands.’

‘I shall leave immediately,’ Vidur said in his low bass. ‘But . . . ah . . . Prime Minister, if I do
not
succeed in obtaining accession, what do you propose to do?’

‘The orders that go out now will not be rescinded,’ Dhritarashtra announced firmly. ‘Our troops will march in anyway. If you do your job quickly enough, the invasion will be legal. If not. . .’

He did not need to complete the sentence. ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Vidur said, gathering his papers with a swift and practised hand, and left.

When his plane landed in Devpur, the capital of Manimir, it was snowing. The off-white flakes unevenly covered the habitual grime of the city like silver foil stuck on a discoloured
barfi.
Vidur, who preferred his cities clean and his
barfis
without silver foil, suppressed a shudder. His radio message had apparently got through: a corpulent uniformed official was at the airport to greet him, looking very like a doorman employed at the better class of hotel.

‘Mr Principal Secretary?’ The official snapped a round-armed salute that nearly popped the brass-buttons on his ill-fitting coat. It was clear he had put on some weight since it was tailored - perhaps for the previous winter, Vidur thought. Uniformed officialdom in Manimir was rarely required to exert itself. ‘Bewakuf Jan, Colonel of the Guards. Welcome to Manimir, sir. Your bags?’

Vidur gestured apologetically at the black briefcase in his hand. ‘This is all I’ve come with,’ he said, in the tone of a physician who has brought all he needs for the delivery. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t very much time.’

‘Haven’t . . . very much . . . time?’ the colonel seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘But aren’t you planning to see the Maharaja tomorrow?’

‘I am planning,’ Vidur said firmly, ‘to see the Maharaja tonight.’

‘Tonight! But that’s quite impossible. The Maharaja has been entertaining an important private guest and . . . and . . . they have already retired for the night. He has left strict instructions that he not be disturbed.’

‘Then I’m afraid he is very likely to be disturbed by the rattle of Pathan rifle-butts on his window-pane tomorrow morning,’ Vidur replied. ‘As for me, I shall not need to trouble you further, colonel. I shall return to Delhi as soon as my plane has been refuelled.’

‘Come, sir, come, I am sure that won’t be necessary,’ said the colonel. Despite the freezing temperature in the unheated airport, Vidur saw he was perspiring. ‘His Highness will be most disappointed. Please follow me. The car is waiting.’ He turned to lead the way.

Vidur did not move. ‘I am here to see the Maharaja,’ he said. ‘And I am expected to report back to my Prime Minister in Delhi before dawn.’

‘Before dawn,’ the colonel echoed dully.

‘Exactly. Vidur went on without pity. ‘In the circumstances, I see little point in accepting your invitation to drive to the palace. Good day, colonel.’

Colonel Bewakuf Jan swallowed, and looked skywards for inspiration. ‘In the circumstances,’ he said miserably, ‘I suppose the Maharaja will have to be disturbed.’

‘I suppose he will,’ Vidur concurred. ‘And in the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll understand,’ he added confidently. The colonel nodded, as if he were considerably less sure.

The palace limousine - an enormous vehicle with a seating capacity half-way between a London taxi and a Delhi bus - purred them to the pink- and-guilt Devpur Palace, a similarly immense rococo edifice overflowing in gaudy ornamental detail. Ochre exterior lighting cast a yellowish glare on asymmetrical rockwork, randomly-cast shells, flowing scrolls and marble curves abruptly begun and ended, as if the architect had been paid on a per-feature basis. Crenellated battlements completed the structure - appropriate, Vidur thought, for an embattled Maharaja.

Vidur and the colonel walked up red-carpeted stairs and down endless red-carpeted corridors until they entered what Vidur guessed - from the somnolent guards who slouched to attention as Colonel Bewakuf Jan appeared - were Vyabhichar Singh’s private quarters. Two immense oak portals guarded by fiercely moustachioed (and surreptitiously yawning)
subedars
in red opened to admit them into shorter passageways laid with carpeting of a deeper pile in more opulent hues. At last they were alone before an elaborately carved door from which emanated a faint whiff of sandalwood.

‘The Maharaja’s bedroom,’ the colonel whispered.

‘Why are you whispering?’ Vidur asked.

‘So as not to wake up the Maharaja,’ the colonel whispered back.

‘We are here,’ Vidur pointed out, ‘to wake up the Maharaja.’

A gale of giggly laughter from inside suggested the deed did not need to be done.
‘Arrete.’
A girlish Gallic scream floated through the keyhole.
‘Mais
non!’
came the high-pitched response of indeterminate provenance.
‘Continue!’

The colonel blanched. ‘His Highness is . . . er . . . entertaining an overseas guest,’ he whispered. ‘I really think we should come back later, Mr Principal Secretary.’

‘And risk him going to sleep? Look, I’m sorry to interrupt his little party, but at least we know he’s awake. And apparently in a good mood. I really have no time to waste, colonel. Shall I knock on the door or will you?’

The colonel suffered again the agony of irresolution, then lifted the brass knocker and dropped it gently on the door. A peal of laughter sounded from the room.

‘That is either the most sophisticated door-bell I have ever seen, or they haven’t heard you,’ Vidur said after a moment. ‘Allow me?’ And before the horrified colonel could prevent him Vidur had seized the brass knocker and swung it against the door with a crash.

There was a startled silence from the other side. Then a peremptory voice raged in a squeaky bellow: ‘Who the hell is that?’

The colonel’s corpulent features crumpled. ‘It’s . . . me, sir,’ he articulated through paralysed vocal chords.

‘Who? Speak up, son of a donkey.’

‘Me, sir. Colonel Bewakuf Jan. With the Pr -’

‘
Bewakuf
?’ The voice cracked in incredulity at its highest pitch. ‘Colonel Bewakuf? I thought I told you I was not to be disturbed, Major Bewakuf.’

Tears seemed to spring to the colonel’s porcine eyes. ‘Yes, sir, but . . .