The Goat, the Sofa & Mr Swami

by R Chandrashekhar

Genres: Humor & Satire

Synopsis

A politically weighted cricket match between Pakistan and India provides the setting for the hilarious farce, set in a delightful `Yes Minister? format. The Pakistani Premier's sudden decision to invite himself to a cricket series to be played in India creates uncertainly, panic and bureaucratic gamesmanship in New Delhi. Seemingly above such mundane concerns, India's elderly Prime Minister, devoted to movies, scotch, and late mornings, adds to the confusion with random utterances and occasional temper tantrums. His official factotum, a bureaucrat named Swami, plays the confusion for all it is worth, attempting to advance his career and settle old scores. Old rivalries between the Foreign Service and the domestic bureaucrats flare up as the day of the Pakistani Premier's visit approaches. Matters get stalled as rival departments choose to hide behind arcane laws. Conscious of his place in history and of the damage a botched visit would cause, the Prime Minister stages his own protests. Swami is forced to chart a treacherous course between his political and bureaucratic masters. A parable rooted in the absurdities of modern India, this novel takes a light-hearted dig at the pretensions of people who matter.

Release date: March 12, 2012

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘Sir?’

There was no movement.

I could just about see his head as he sat slouched down in front of the television.

It has always been thus.

He waddles back from the cabinet meeting muttering profanities, waddles over to the liquor cabinet, unlocks it (he is notably distrustful, you see), and carries the large two-litre bottle of Red Label to the sofa. It’s up to me to provide the rest — ice, soda, glass, glasses.

He never wears his glasses in public, not even at cabinet meetings, but the fact is that he can barely see without them. There was this embarrassing incident the previous week when he pinched the bottom of the agriculture minister. Nothing terribly wrong there in principle, I admit. The old fart deserved to get his arse pinched — and also have his balls squeezed while the prime-ministerial fingers were doing their bit — being a lecher and a paedophile when not tending to Indian agriculture. However, the intended target of the Old Man’s attentions was not the seventy-three-year-old, fat and balding krishi mantri, but the minister of state — independent charge — of tourism: forty-four, slim, lustrous-locked and female.

I’m also expected to provide a cushion for those wobbly legs to rest on, to turn on the television and DVD player and put on the DVD of a popular film starring the Choli Girl, and which has her dancing nude. (She didn’t actually dance nude, but the head of a software company that needed a few strings pulled by the PMO had his people undress her digitally, allowing the Old Man to watch the film unencumbered by the heroine’s clothes.)

In case you were wondering, I am Swamy, IAS, joint secretary in the PMO. The Old Man is the Prime Minister and he was watching the scene where the Choli Girl wiggles her hips — you know, the bit that got M.F. Husain all excited. If you’ve seen the scene and tried to imagine it with a bare derriere, you will understand my reluctance to interrupt as well as the lack of response from the Old Man. But I had little choice.

‘Sir,’ I said a little more loudly, edging closer.

No response. The music blared on. One of the sexiest heroines of Hindi cinema danced and sang with no clothes on. It was highly erotic. The Old Man thought so as well. His pyjama was open and his fingers were attempting to coax life into his eighty-two-year-old penis. I looked away, looked at the TV screen and cleared my throat.

His instructions to me were very clear: pour me my drink, put on the movie and clear out. He had an electric bell handy to summon me, which he invariably used only as the movie drew to a close, with the demurely clad heroine bound in matrimony. The digital artists had allowed her this final shred of dignity. Invariable, too, was the dazed, somewhat dishevelled look, the hastily tied pyjama, the added wobble to his waddle, as he made his way to his bedroom in a trance. There was a framed picture there of his late wife at which he never looked. Perhaps he wished to carry with him the image of the Choli Girl unsullied by more earthbound memories.

Perhaps, too, he was too preoccupied by affairs of state to notice.

Affairs of state were far from his mind now. I had edged around to try and catch his eye. There was a manic look there as he took in the show.

‘Sir!’ I almost shouted. What I wanted most of all then was a quick trip to the loo. The PM was a most un-grandfatherly eighty-two year old, at least to the minions who had to tend to him, quite in contrast to the avuncular attitude he affected in public.

He glared at me.

I quailed.

‘What is this? What is this?’ His penis rapidly retreated to a quiescent state.

‘Sorry, sir. Telephone call.’

‘Telephone call? Telephone call?’ He was prone in his dotage to repeat himself.

I nodded.

‘Telephone call?’ The Choli Girl danced on, unknowing and uncaring. ‘Who do you think I am, Swamy? A chaprasi?’

‘No, sir, you are the Prime Minister of India.’

‘And you want me to answer a telephone call?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but it is the Prime Minister of Pakistan on the line.’

‘Hain? Why does that son of a swine have to call at this time? Doesn’t he know that… that… that I’m busy at this time? Who is our ambassador there?’

‘Vikram Kapoor, sir.’

‘Sack him. Can’t he tell that bloody idiot that I’m always busy at this time?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t know, sir.’

‘Perhaps? Perhaps? What is this perhaps? You mean you didn’t tell him?’

‘Sir,’ I glanced at the screen. ‘How could I tell him?’

‘Ullu ke patthe! Gadhe! You should have sent a memo to all concerned, stating that the PM is busy and not to be disturbed at this hour. Not to be disturbed at this hour, samjhe?’

‘Sir, the Pakistani PM is still waiting.’

‘Bewaqoof! I will sack you.’

I finally found my tongue. ‘Sorry, sir, but you cannot.’

‘Hain? Hain?’

‘My appointment falls under the IAS appointment rules. I can be transferred — not sacked.’

‘Then I will transfer you to Jhumritalayya.’

‘Sorry, sir, but I can revert only to my home state.’

‘Home state? Home state?’

‘The Pakistani PM is still waiting, sir.’

‘Bloody fool!’ He glared at me, stole a longing look at the TV screen. ‘Get me the bloody phone then.’

‘Prime Minister of India speaking.’

The Old Man had a voice, not always evident when the Choli Girl occupied his thoughts and loins, but there as part of his armoury nonetheless, which carried a certain weight, a gravitas that was most apposite to the events of state he was expected to grace. Amitabh Bachchan with added dignity and wisdom. Sivaji Ganesan in his mythological avatar, but sans the cheap alliterations. A voice befitting a statesman. A voice that had brought him to the pinnacle of Indian politics.

A voice, I have to admit, that reminded me that I was a fringe participant in the making of history.

On the fringes, I listened in on an extension line.

‘Keshayji, salaam aleikum.’

‘Namaste.’ The voice was frigid in its gravity, the interruption not forgotten.

‘Bhaisahib, gal sunao. Kudi-vudi hai aapke saath?’

‘Hain, hain? I am eighty-two years old.’ I sensed a tremor of uncertainty in the Voice.

‘Arre, so what? Age is no barrier.’

‘How do you know?’

A chuckle came over the line. ‘My father is eighty years old. No good Pakistani nurse will stay more than two days with him. Very naughty man. So, we have to get nurses from Bangladesh.’

‘But why Bangladesh? I hear there are very nice nurses to be had in Thailand and Laos.’

‘True, very true. I investigated myself on my last visit there…’

‘But my intelligence fellows told me you were meeting with the Bodo people.’

‘You really believe everything your intelligence fellows tell you? Bhaisahib, I shall tell you something. I gave your intelligence fellows the slip. Needed some privacy to check out the nurses there, heh, heh, heh. But bhaisahib, a fully wasted trip.’

‘Fully wasted? A young man like you? A good Punjab da puttar? What is this you are saying?’

‘No, no, you are misunderstanding fully. Equipment check all okay — first class even. But my father wants only Muslim nurses. It makes it very difficult. Have to dress them up as camel jockeys and send them through Dubai. Complicated business.’

‘Why not Indonesian nurses?’

‘Keshavji, you are a genius! An absolute genius!’

‘Eighty-two years old, PM of a hundred crore people — it keeps me on my toes.’

‘And Amitabh Bachchan movies, no doubt.’

‘Amitabh Bachchan?’

‘Heh, heh heh. My little secret. You see, my intelligence fellows tell me you watch Amitabh Bachchan movies each night.’

Much coughing from the PM — our PM, that is. ‘You really believe everything your intelligence fellows tell you? I too can give them the slip. Actually, I watch Kurosawa movies, but only once or twice a week.’

‘Kurosawa? That Last Tango fellow? You have that movie?’

‘Not that Kurosawa. You tell your intelligence fellows to do their job properly. All this dancing stuff is not for me. Anyway, this is a most enjoyable conversation, but surely you were not calling just to say hello?’

‘But why not? We must chat from time to time. One thing, though. There is a cricket test match in Delhi next month. Wonder if you can invite me?

‘Invite? Of course, why not? But you will need hotel reservations and all, na? Let me see. No paperpencil here. Wait. I need to write down how many in your party. My memory is not so good these days, you see. Eighty-two years and all that and every night, my late wife insists on interrupting my dreams. Bloody headache, if you ask me…’

‘Keshayji, you have your Vikram Kapoor. I have my Fazlur Rehman. Let the bloody diplomats do some bloody work for a change.’

‘Good idea, yes. That nincompoop Kapoor never does any work. Always unprepared. Very difficult for me.’

‘One more thing, Keshayji. This has been a private conversation, na?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘So I will be seeing you in Delhi in due course?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘And you can show me some of that Kurosawa fellow’s movies?’

‘Kurosawa? Oh yes. Oh yes. Of course, of course. Khuda hafiz. Namaste. Good night.’

I heard the sound of the leaders hanging up and was doing so most carefully myself when I heard the PM. hollering from the next room:

‘Swamy, you too can hang up now. Go find out where I can get Kurosawa movies.’

A simple matter, as I’ve already told you, and the IFS bastards still go and bugger things up. Well, not entirely their fault, but Vikram Kapoor certainly deserves to carry the can on this one.

Here’s what happened.

Our PM, well fuelled by Red Label and thoughts of the Choli Girl, dropped off into deep slumber without mentioning the phone call to anyone. I knew about it, yes, but since I was not supposed to be eavesdropping, I did not know about it officially (even if the PM. knew, unofficially, that I had been eavesdropping). And if I didn’t know about it officially, I could hardly be expected to do anything about it. In any event, it was late in the evening, the test match more than a month away, a sense of urgency entirely absent.

The Pakistani PM being so much younger (remember his randy father?) evidently felt he needed to get a move on. He called a press conference (try that late in the evening with our press!) and announced that he had accepted the Indian PM’s invitation to the test match. Responding to a question, he expressed a desire to see all the test matches — the one in Delhi and the ones in Itanagar and Tirunelveli. Provided, of course, that there was no objection from the Indian side. All very correct and unexceptional — nothing that I could find fault with, at any rate.

Unaware of all this, the Indian side snored on.

The Pakistani press made a beeline for Vikram Kapoor’s house. Roused from a moment of intimacy with his bibi, clad in banian and striped knickers, he opened the door to be greeted by flashbulbs and TV cameras. Asked about the invitation, he responded like a true lathi-up-his-arse IFS type: ‘There has been no invitation to the Prime Minister of Pakistan to visit India nor is there any invitation planned.’ He went on to add some twaddle about the Shimla Declaration, but this was lost in the loud hubbub that followed his statement.

The Pakistani press went to town with this sensational development. So did BBC, CNN, CNBC and NDTV. The shit had well and truly hit the fan.

What made things worse was that there was no one to respond from our side. Our foreign minister was spending the night in a ger somewhere in Mongolia, the minister of state was holidaying in Amsterdam and had switched off his mobile, the deputy minister had been ordered to stay away from the ministry and not speak a word out of turn, the bureaucrats would say nothing of substance. There was plenty on the Shimla Declaration, nothing on the cricket match.

The Pakistanis had won the media war by a knockout.

The PM had made it clear that he was to be woken up only in the event of war.

There was no war, so I did not wake him up when the Pakistani PM called. There was no war, so he woke up at his usual time of nine or so. There was no war, so he had his bath, his morning prayers and his breakfast (aloo parathas with ghee, hot jalebis and a glass of sweet lassi) undisturbed. He then settled down to watch the Tom and Jerry show, something he enjoyed and appreciated immensely. Half an hour of this and I felt that he was ready to face the newspapers. It was past eleven in the morning.

He disliked reading and it was my job to read him the news I considered important. I must admit that I did not look forward to this on that particular morning. I suppose I could have skipped the bit about the cricket match, but he would have learned about it at some point and then it would have been up shit creek for me. He can be a formidable old SOB when he chooses and I’ve yet to figure out how best to handle him. I took a deep breath and plunged into the news.

By Our Correspondent

Relations between India and Pakistan, touchy in the best of times, spiralled to a new low over something as mundane as a cricket match. It will be recalled that the Pakistan team is due to play three tests in India in a month’s time. At a hastily called press conference last night, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, Mr Hafez Ali Shah, announced that he had accepted an invitation from the Prime Minister of India, Mr Keshavchand Motwani, to witness the test match in Delhi.

Mr Shah went on to express his desire to watch the other two tests as well, to be held in Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh, and Tirunelveli in Tamil Nadu.

Contacted by the press, the Indian ambassador here, Mr Vikram Kapoor, denied that any invitation had been extended by the Indians. ‘There has been no invitation to the Prime Minister of Pakistan to visit India nor is there any invitation planned,’ he said.

He went on to accuse the Pakistan government of violating the spirit of the Shimla Agreement of 1972. Asked to elaborate, he stated that Mr Shah’s statement was ‘a cheap stunt aimed at embarrassing the Indian government’. He added that a visit ‘could only come about after elaborate consultations on both sides’ and that ‘there were no plans to hold such consultations now or in the future’.

A spokesman for the foreign ministry in New Delhi elaborated on the consultative mechanism set up as part of the Shimla Agreement and stated that Pakistan had violated it.

Mr Shah expressed dismay when told of the Indian reaction:

‘All I want to do is watch the cricket match. Sports can help ease the tensions between our countries and I was hoping to cheer both sides on the field. The Prime Minister of India was very positive in welcoming me. It appears that he has changed his mind. Doubtless there are hardliners in the Indian government who want to discourage any move towards peace. I am sorry that Mr Motwani has given in to them. This will not help the cause of peace. I have no intention of going to India under the current circumstances.’

While the sequence of events remains unclear, with each side accusing the other of falsehoods and duplicity, what is clear is that relations between the traditional enemies have touched a new low.

I cleared my throat and waited for the explosion. It came.

‘What is this nonsense? What is this rubbish? What is that idiot Kapoor talking about? I have invited Shah. I am the Prime Minister of India. I will transfer him to Jhumritalayya.’

It was not the moment to remind him that IFS officers cannot be transferred to Jhumritalayya. It was not the moment to speak or comment. It was a moment to stand silently.

I stood silently.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Call up Kapoor and tell him to pack up his bags.’

I couldn’t very well do that. These IFS chaps can be oversensitive; their dealings with us are prickly even at the best of times.

‘Sir, the service rules of the Government of India…’

‘You think I am a fool? Mujhe ulloo samajhte ho?’

‘Certainly not, sir. You are like a respected grandfather to me.’

‘I am like your grandfather? What was your grandfather?’

‘Which one, sir?’

‘You idiot! Talking back to me like this? Any grandfather. All grandfathers.’

‘Sir, one was an assistant station-master and the other worked in a mental asylum.’

‘You are calling me a mad station-master? I am a freedom fighter, you understand, a freedom fighter. I get a freedom fighter’s pension from the government. While your bloody grandfather was working for the British, I was fighting for India’s independence.’

Taking abuse from politicians is part of the job, but having one’s anc. . .