Of Love and Politics

by Tuhin A. Sinha

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

What happens when the political drama that unfolds in the country's corridors of power spills over to a complicated personal bond between three young people? Aditya, like the Congress party he belongs to, tends to be elitist and aristocratic; Brajesh Ranjan, like his party the BJP, swears by an overtly nationalist agenda; and Chaitali Sen, like the CPI(M) she represents, swears by the underpowered. In this page-turning book set in the thick of political party manoeuvring and against the backdrop of India's nuclear deal, the author writes a riveting story about love and relationships that are made and broken by the ideologies of the political parties that each of these three protagonists represent. It takes a horrific incident like 26/11 to make each of them realize the shortcomings of the parties they swear by and to look at the larger picture.

Release date: March 12, 2012

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 309

Sample

Manhattan, New York

THE WAIT FOR FRIDAY EVENING IS ALWAYS LOADED WITH eager anticipation and with the reassurance that the weekend holds the promise of small pleasures – lying idle, sleeping in, dining out, or watching a film with Sarah – things I am ruthlessly denied on weekdays. The pattern of life at the Kingston Bank office in Manhattan is chaotic. As an investment banker, a major part of my job involves evaluating firms that our client companies might want to acquire. Operating out of Wall Street with a salary that some would consider very generous compared to what my peers get, an opulent apartment just a couple of kilometres away from my workplace, and a girlfriend who is more than caring, life hasn’t really given me much to crib about.

As I wind up work for the day, I scan the website of The Times of India – a practice I perform as and when I find the time. Besides, the day’s online edition goes up at 5am IST, which is about when I am normally winding up the day’s work in the US.

The headlines focus on news of the Indian Opposition parties’ disquiet over the proposed Indo-US Nuclear Deal. The debate over India signing the deal with the US to honour the latter’s assistance to India’s civilian nuclear energy program seems to be getting increasingly contentious. Just two days ago, the Indian ambassador to the US Ronen Sen had stirred up a controversy by likening Indian politicians opposing the deal to ‘headless chickens’.

I scroll down further and chance on a piece by someone called Chaitali Sen who slams the deal as ‘unequal’ and a ‘complete sell out of national interests’. It’s a fiery piece. She goes to the extent of calling the pro-deal politicians ‘bone-seeking canines’. I am amused. I wonder for a while whether Indian politicians are ‘headless chickens’ or ‘bone-seeking canines’. Both descriptions are extreme. From what I know of Indian politicians – and I’ve known at least one of them closely enough – they are far too layered and astute for everyday adjectives to size them up. And no, I am not interested in politics – in fact it’s the desire for un-intruded-upon personal space that keeps me away from my country more than the pursuit of any professional accomplishment.

I scroll to the bottom of the article. A brief write-up about Chaitali Sen says she is a young columnist and member of the CPI-M Politburo. That explains it. I take a print-out of Ms Sen’s article, not so much for its content, but because I am amused by the sheer passion she has expended on a stand that deserves little backing. I for one am all for the deal and have an equally strong point of view for the way I think I realize there is an email address of Chaitali provided and think I might want to write to her.



After work I head towards Roxy café. I can see Sarah sitting at the corner table at the far end – the same spot we’ve occupied in all but one of our visits to the café. Her pout is visible to me even from a distance. It is natural for her to feel upset as I’m late by almost three quarters of an hour. What is unnatural though is the frigid reception I get from her. She looks through me completely. She fiddles inanely with her cell-phone instead.

In politics they say that the best solution to a vexed problem is to deliberately leave it unattended (read ignored). I’m not too sure whether the same logic applies in personal life. I guess I’ve been over-optimistic in hoping that the problem would settle on its own. Today, I feel pretty certain that some blunt speaking is in order.

‘What would you like to have, Sarah?’ I try playing the gracious host.

She ignores me at first. A minute later, she calls out to the waiter and orders her meal – a Mexican dish with noodles, a combination I feel is indicative of her incoherence. I just order a soup as I’m pretty stuffed – more from the chaos in my mind than with the pizza I had at the office cafeteria two hours ago.

Even half way into the dinner, we’re largely devoid of conversation. I try to make light of the situation. Seeing her diligently consume her noodles with her fork, I’m reminded of something from the past. I tell her how, as kids, my sister and I would slurp down Maggi Noodles – which had then been newly introduced into the market – and how Dad made many unsuccessful attempts to train us to use a fork, till he finally gave up. But my efforts at conversation prove futile.

As we’re finishing off our food, Sarah finally breaks her silence. She does it with a veil of composure which does not take time to collapse. ‘Did you speak to your Dad about our marriage?’

I retaliate as calmly as I can: ‘Hmm… well, I don’t need his permission… I’ll get married when I have to.’

‘What?’

‘I mean, you know it’s a crucial year for me. Just wait till the end of the financial year… after that for sure…’

‘Another seven months? Two weeks ago you said we’ll be married by Christmas.’

‘Well, seven months isn’t that much. It only gives us time…’

She cuts me short. ‘Come on, Aditya you know my state of mind.’

‘Of course, and that’s what I’m worried about.’

She takes a moment’s pause before laying bare her worst fears – something I am not unaware of: ‘Aditya… baby, I’m a loser… I’ve lost every good thing that has come my way. I don’t want to lose you. I’m bloody insecure.’

‘But why? Have I given you any reason to be that way?’

The composure she’s been trying to cobble together is gone. ‘Dammit, Aditya. You don’t understand. I want to have your baby.’

Now when a woman says something like that to a man even the most insensitive of our breed is likely to be struck silent for a moment. Besides, an emotionally charged declaration of this nature also masks a subtle form of arm-twisting.

After dinner, we go to my apartment for a bit. As my reasoning has been of little use lately, I have actually bought two help books for Sarah which I want her to take home. Once we enter the house Sarah’s disposition changes for the better. I guess this swift jugglery of moods that she’s been indulging in of late is her way of maintaining a status quo. For me the status quo has been impaired.

Within moments, Sarah has put on a melancholic Bryan Adams number and dimmed the lights. She places her cheek against mine, our lips dangerously close. It is the sort of distance from which two sets of lips would naturally gravitate to each other if the circumstances were more felicitous. They aren’t so today and hence one set of lips has to make the extra effort; which it does.

We eventually make love. We hadn’t done so in almost a month and I guess it is more a hormonal need for me than anything else for the act is mechanical and devoid of passion. I am also encumbered with a sense of guilt. After we make love, as is her habit, she rests her head on my chest, seeking a reassurance I find hard to provide. Her demeanor in the last couple of hours has braced me to tackle the inevitable.

‘Sarah, I think we need to call it off.’

‘Sorry. Call off what? Our holiday?’

‘You know what.’

A deafening silence descends on the room as I see the anguish cast itself upon the contours of her face. And then comes the outburst:

‘I knew it all along. You men are bastards. You just used me, damn you. Now you want to go back and get married to a girl of your parents’ choice.’

‘Stop it, Sarah. You know how much I’ve tried to make it work.’

‘Bullshit. What’s stopping you now? Do I suddenly look like a whore?’

‘Your attitude. Your negativity. It’s pulling me down. And I want to be free of it.’

Sarah shifts to a lower gear. ‘Adi, I swear I’ll change my attitude. I’ll be the woman you want me to be. But I want to marry you. I want kids from you.’

Now it is my turn to increase the decibel levels. ‘Sarah, I’m not worth changing yourself for me. I can give nothing to you, except disappointment.’

‘I’ll take that because you’ve already given me my share of joy.’

Her cajoling forces me to mellow down. ‘Listen, Sarah, we’ve had some very good times together. Can’t we be good friends?’

Sarah is outraged. ‘What the hell? Is this a game? Must we flip flop from friends to being in a relationship and then back to friends? Look, Adi, you got to respect my feelings. It’s either you as my lover – or nothing.’

I know this is another attempt at emotional exactation. And in as much as I feel sorry for Sarah, I’m not in the mood to play ball. ‘Fair enough. Let’s be neither… Let’s not be in touch at all for sometime…’

She breaks down and goes out into the balcony… I take a smoke and look for the TV remote. I know the inevitable has happened. Yet I would be lying if I say I am not anguished. I would be lying if I say I had not earnestly tried to make it work. Yes, our relationship has been ailing for sometime, but death, however inevitable, engulfs you in a sense of mourning. And I know I had been a loser as much as Sarah; maybe even a bigger loser because unlike Sarah I came in to the relationship with the advantage of carrying less baggage.

I switch on the TV, and as I normally do, flip through a few channels. I can’t move beyond the third channel, though. So disturbing indeed, is what I see – a picture that shakes me like nothing has ever done.

CNN is reporting Breaking News about an Indian minister having been killed in an ambush by Naxalites in a rural district of central India. The minister in question is Nakul Singh Deo, popularly known as Rajasaab. Even as the nation is shaken by the untimely death of a leader who had for long been touted as ‘PM material’ in the press, I battle with a loss of a very personal kind.

Rajasaab is my father.

Sarah stands behind me. I weep. We hug. Next morning, when it is still dark, she’s there to see me off at the airport. We share a parting kiss before I step into the airport. When I turn back to look at Sarah, as I ride up the escalator, my heart weeps as much for her as for me. I board the flight and look out onto the American landscape. I feel lonelier than I ever have with my twin losses. The flight takes off… it’s my flight into another world.



It’s 7:30 am. I’m up and ready, having breakfast with Ajay Yadav, at the Circuit House bungalow. We’re done with the main dish – aloo parathas with saag. Given a choice, I’d have preferred sandwiches of brown bread with egg whites but the cook Rameshwar hasn’t heard of brown bread; besides throwing away the yolk seems weird to him. Most people here seem weird to me, for that matter. Or shall I say primitive. I don’t have much of a choice, though. I am the Congress candidate for the Rajnandgaon Lok Sabha by-elections, which are to take place exactly twelve days from now.

We chat over tea. Ajay whom I respectfully call Yadavji has my schedule for the day ready.

‘Shall we start?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘Okay, first things first. Let me tell you that you’re starting off with an advantage and a disadvantage.’

‘Tell me about the disadvantage first.’ I pretend an aplomb I don’t feel.

‘The disadvantage is that there is a huge anti-incumbency factor working against the Congress. This seat after all has been with the party for the last eighteen years barring two years in between.’

‘And the advantage?’

‘The same that you get in such situations – sympathy votes, maybe even a wave.’ Yadav takes out his file and puts on his glasses. ‘You need to understand the composition of the electorate you’re reaching out to.’ He flips through a couple of pages and then takes out a page which he reads, ‘Okay, here it is. Scheduled Caste(SC) 10%, Scheduled Tribe (ST) 27%, Muslims 13%, Other Backward Castes(OBC) 26.5%, Brahmins 10%, Rajputs 8%, Bhumihar 2%, Kayasthas 1.5%, Christians 1%.’

I try and fathom what this means. I am more used to someone reading out the stock values of my investments in this manner.

‘Now listen to the strategy for each of these. First the ST: the BJP has been rather shrewd in fielding an ST candidate – Jagdamba Potai. But there is one way you can fight him head on. The Navratras are starting today and a huge number of tribals will be visiting the Maa Bambleshwari temple in the adjoining town of Dongargarh. Jagdamba is known to be a devotee of the Devi. You can get a headstart on him by starting your campaign from the temple.’

‘You mean, I’ll have to visit the temple right away?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Yes. Jagdamba is a bit complacent. Besides, the move will be auspicious too.’

I’m not sure about this. The last time I visited a temple was nearly ten years ago, on the insistence of my then girlfriend. I’m worried on another account too. ‘But when the villagers suddenly see me there, they might just go into a frenzy. It could cause a stampede.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve informed the police. The SP will most probably be there. Besides, if you make an impromptu trip, it would seem you are a genuine devotee. A planned or pre-announced trip would make it appear like an election gimmick.’

I can see the kind of astute planning that precedes the actions of this puny Chanakya. No wonder Yadav commanded such trust from my father, Rajasaab, in the fifteen odd years that he had served as his PA.

Yadav gets a call on his cell. Yes, Madhuji…yes… yes. Aditya will be there by 9:30. Make sure your crew is there before that.’ He turns to me: ‘Madhu is with Star News. In fact, Aaj Tak and India TV will also be there. I can’t promise the English channels, though. They tend to be snobbish about vernaculars like me.’

I am not sure how to react. The occasion seems to be getting grander by the moment – the proverbial ‘son of the soil’ seems all set for the ‘mother of all homecomings’, so to speak.

I remember visiting the temple eighteen years ago. My father had just won his first election from the constituency. And the visit was meant to express his gratitude to the Devi, whose disciples were supposed to have been instrumental in making the victory happen. This visit would be to seek the Devi’s blessings for my win – time does come full circle! I chuckle at the thought of the extreme turnarounds that fate sometimes leads you through.

Yadav continues, ‘As for the Muslims, they play a crucial role in Indian elections. Theoretically, 13% may not seem much, but they tend to vote en bloc either for or against a party. And that can make a crucial difference.’

‘Hmm…’

‘But don’t worry about them. They will never go with the BJP. And unlike in UP, where the Samajwadi Party and the Bahujan Samaj Party are strong, here the Muslims don’t have much of an option. But, yes, there is something you will need to do over the next couple of days.’ Yadav looks up his diary: ‘A delegation led by Mohammad Younus, principal of the local Urdu school will be coming to meet you. The state government is planning to make it mandatory for Vande Mataram to be sung in all institutions and these people are terribly unhappy about it.’

‘But what will I tell him?’ I ask, making no attempt to hide my naiveté.

‘Just hear him out and empathize with him. Make promises of what you will do after you win. We can’t really do much about it.’

I just look on blankly, trying hard to understand the ‘desi’ concept of social engineering, as Yadav continues: ‘As for the OBCs, 50% of them will vote for us because of my surname. Besides, Rajasaab had a lot of clout among the SCs. The Christians are with us after the attacks on churches in Orissa and Karnataka. The problem lies with the upper caste. They have been moving away from the Congress. But, luckily, since the BJP has fielded a ST candidate this time, they might come back to us. That’s where you will have to work your charisma.’

I take a deep breath, bemused. My curiosity, or shall I say my lack of comprehension about the Indian hustings, makes me ask a question. ‘What about the development, Yadavji? Hadn’t Rajasaab brought electricity to most villages and got almost 200 bore-wells built?’

Yadav laughs derisively. ‘That’s the problem with our people. Till such time as they don’t have something, they don’t expect it either. Caste and religion contain enough fodder to carry a candidate through. It’s when you start giving amenities to people that you spoil them. Their expectations go higher and higher and instead of being grateful, they blame you for what they don’t have.’ Yadav quickly takes another call on his cell-phone before he continues, ‘Even Rajasaab had realized lately that nothing works in Indian elections apart from emotive issues. And the BJP is the master of that game.’

I kind of get what Yadav is trying to say and yet I don’t want to believe him. ‘But aren’t we not supposed to do what the BJP does? Haven’t we always prided ourselves on being secular and equal to all?’

Yadav’s answer is another prolonged laugh. You will soon learn what Indian politics is all about. There is a difference of heaven and earth between theory and practice, perception and reality, solution and hogwash. Let’s get started. It will take us an hour to reach the temple.’



We drive down to the temple which is an hour away from the bungalow. As we move out of the town and as the countryside unfolds in front of my eyes, I’m reminded of a long drive to Niagara Falls with Sarah. Somehow I have been missing her a lot today. I have barely spoken to her after returning to India.

Sarah and I had first met nearly a year ago on a social networking site. I had just shifted to my new assignment in the US from the previous one in Hong Kong and was battling an acute sense of forlornness. Dad had been pressurizing me to join him, back in India. I was very fond of Dad. I liked meeting and talking to him – but somehow not staying with him. I’m not sure whether he intimidated me. There was an un-bridged zone between us, which, despite mutual effort, we had been unable to cover.

I guess I was just happy being myself while Dad would have been happier if I had been him.

Anyway, on my arrival in the US I’d figured the best way to ward off parental pressure was to be selfish and immerse myself in the pursuit of the mundane; that way I would be left with no time to bother about other people’s mundane expectations of me.

Sarah’s profile picture on the site was very pretty. She taught chemistry in a local school in Albany, New York. Something in me made me click the button that sent a friend request to her; to my surprise she accepted my request with alacrity. Within a week of that, we’d met.

I was soon to discover that Sarah was fighting her own demons. She was battling a rather unusual syndrome. It wasn’t exactly a commitment phobia – quite the opposite, really. It was a quest to trace a person most similar to the person whom she had once deeply loved. Mathew and she had been childhood pals who had known each other from the age of five. Mathew had gone on to join the US army. Sarah went on to be a teacher. The couple was contemplating marriage when Mathew had to leave with the US troops for the Gulf in 2003.

His body was sent home a few months later.

For Sarah, it was death of another kind – the death of the desire to live. After all, Mathew had been a part of her for nearly eighteen years. For almost two years after his death, Sarah had gone into complete depression, in which phase she had two anxiety attacks. Now Sarah was consumed with hatred for George Bush, whom she held responsible for a ‘whimsical’ warfare that had taken Mathew away from her.

I gathered that Sarah had been under tremendous pressure from her parents to get on with her life. In a desperate attempt to move on, three years after Mathew’s death, Sarah first attempted to make love to a man. He was a close buddy of Mathew’s and someone who deeply cared for Sarah. They got into a relationship. But three months later, Sarah walked out. She confessed to me that she realized she was only substituting him for Mathew and that on doing a reality check discovered she did not feel for the man at all.

A year later, she got into another relationship with the sports instructor in the school in which she taught. This time the affair was even shorter – exactly five weeks. As on the previous occasion, Sarah found it difficult to involve herself mentally – I doubt there were any emotions left in her. Apparently, the relationship had ended in a rather violent way with the man roughing her up. In her state of being virtually mentally dead, getting into two hasty relationships perhaps marked her desperation to convince herself that she could move on. But she failed.

It had almost been a year since she had gone out. For a woman as pretty as Sarah there should have been lots of suitors. And yet she had resisted them all like the plague. When we met, I think she was looking for a dumping ground, if I may be permitted to use a term that acerbic – a dumping ground for her pent-up emotions. She needed a confidant, maybe even a shrink in disguise, whom she could tell her tales of woe.

I was struck by her honesty and the fact that I could see in her a sincere effort to try and get herself out of the mess she was in. Besides, it does flatter the male ego to protect a woman.

The first time Sarah and I met was on a Sunday. It was summer, but an unexpected breeze had made the evening pleasant enough to entertain romantic notions about my unseen date. When we met, I wasn’t disappointed. She had a slightly husky voice that complemented her mellow mental state. We chatted for hours without either being aware of how the time flew. It started off over coffee. Two hours after that, we had wine and a light dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant. Sarah insisted that the bills were paid by her. Perhaps she felt guilty for holding me for so long and thought I was doing her a favour by being a good listener. For my part, I didn’t mind the experience at all. Her descriptions of the way Mathew and she had first met in school, their first kiss when they were eleven, the first time they made out when they were thirteen-and-a-half, her shock when she was informed of Mathew’s death – were all so vivid, it was almost as if I was listening to an audio novel.

If I had not met Sarah that evening, I’d probably have done my usual thing – hung out with my two best pals, Kelly, and Khalid, a Pakistani, at a pub. But I enjoyed the experience of hearing out Sarah more because it took me to another world, acquainted me with another perspective. In my heart of hearts, I had always wished I could love someone as much as Sarah and Mathew loved each other.

But each time, I suspected my own commitment.

Over the next two days, we exchanged a few sms’s. On Wednesday, Sarah called me in the evening and asked me if we could meet. I was loaded with work yet somehow I couldn’t say no. I asked her to come over to my apartment as I’d be late getting home. She surprised me again by readily agreeing to this.

We met around 11:30. I ordered in dinner. Her body language exuded ease – as though she trusted me fully. I was surprised by this since all I’d done in our first meeting was to listen to her speak. The power of empathy, I realized, is grossly underestimated. After dinner, we watched a movie on my h. . .