A Fine Balance (43 page)

Sergeant Kesar was called to arbitrate. “Are your monkeys properly trained?” he asked.

“Police-sahab, my Laila and Majnoo are beautifully trained! They are my obedient children! Look, they will give you a salaam!” He signalled; the monkeys raised their paws to their heads in unison.

Sergeant Kesar was greatly amused, and returned the salute, laughing. Monkey-man slapped the leashes against the ground, and the monkeys genuflected. Sergeant Kesar’s delight overflowed.

“Actually speaking, I see no harm in allowing the monkeys,” he said to the party-worker.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the party-worker, taking him aside.

“The problem is, the monkeys might be seen as some kind of political comment, and the enemies of the party could use it to ridicule us.”

“It’s possible,” said Sergeant Kesar, swinging his megaphone. “But it could also be seen as proof of the Prime Minister’s power to communicate not only with humans but with animals too.”

The party-worker rolled his eyes. “Do you want to take responsibility for it in writing? With a memorandum in triplicate?”

“Actually speaking, that is not part of my jurisdiction.”

Sergeant Kesar returned sadly to Monkey-man and broke the news. “I’m sorry, this is an important meeting for the Prime Minister. No monkeys allowed.”

“Wait and see,” said Rajaram softly to the people in line. “The stage will be full of them.”

Monkey-man thanked Sergeant Kesar for trying. He locked Laila and Majnoo in the shack with Tikka and returned looking miserable. The buses were almost full now, and the convoy was ready for departure as soon as the few remaining stubborn cases were persuaded with caning and slapping to climb aboard.

“I have seen nothing so unfair,” said Ishvar. “And what will Dinabai be thinking?”

“We cannot help it,” said Om. “Just enjoy the free ride.”

“Right,” said Rajaram. “If we have to go, might as well have fun. You know, last year they took us in lorries. Packed like sheep. This bus is more comfortable.”

“At least a hundred people in each one,” said Ishvar. “Over two thousand altogether. What a big meeting it will be.”

“That’s only from our colony,” said Rajaram. “Buses must have been sent everywhere. The meeting will have fifteen or twenty thousand people in all, wait and see.”

After travelling for an hour, the buses reached the outskirts of the city. Om announced that he was hungry. “I hope they give us our tea and snack when we arrive. And the five rupees.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Ishvar in a falsetto. “Do you have worms?” They laughed, explaining the joke about Dina Dalai to Rajaram.

Soon they were on rural roads. It had stopped raining. They passed villages where people stood and stared at the buses. “I don’t understand,” said Ishvar. “Why drag us all the way here? Why not just take these villagers to the meeting?”

“Too complicated, I think,” said Rajaram. “They would have to visit so many villages, with people scattered all over – two hundred here, four hundred there. Much easier to get them wholesale in the city jhopadpattis.” He broke off excitedly, pointing. “Look! Look at that woman – at the well! What beautiful long hair!” He sighed. “If only I could wander the countryside with my scissors, harvesting what I need. I’d soon be rich.”

They knew they were nearing their destination when the traffic increased and other vehicles passed them, also ferrying the Prime Minister’s made-to-measure audience. Occasionally, the buses moved over to allow a flag-flying car filled with
VIPS
to sweep past in an orgy of blaring horns.

They stopped near a vast open field. As the passengers alighted, an organizer told them to memorize their bus number for the return journey. He directed people to their seating area, repeating applause instructions for each batch. “Please watch the dignitaries on stage. Whenever they begin to clap, you must also clap.”

“What about the money?”

“You will get it when the rally is finished. We know your tricks. If we pay you first, you crooks run off halfway in the speech.”

“Keep moving! Keep moving!” called an usher, helping the new arrivals along with a pat on the back.

“Don’t push!” snarled Om, sweeping the hand off his back.

“Aray Om, stay calm,” said Ishvar.

Bamboo posts and railings divided the field into several enclosures, the main one being at the far end, containing a covered stage at an elevation of thirty feet. In front of the stage was the area for prominent personages. This was the sole section furnished with chairs, and arguments were in progress to determine their allocation. The chairs were of three types: padded, with arms, for
WIPS
; padded, but without arms, for
VIPS
; and bare metal, folding, for the mere
IPS
. Invitees were bickering and wrangling with the ushers, pressuring them to add a v to their status.

“Try to stay near the edge of the field, near that tent,” said Rajaram. “That’s where they must have the tea and snacks.” But volunteers wearing round tricolour cloth badges herded the arrivals into the next available enclosure.

“Look at that, yaar!” said Om in awe, pointing at the eighty-foot cutout of the Prime Minister to the right of the stage. The cardboard-and-plywood figure stood with arms outstretched, waiting as though to embrace the audience. An outline map of the country hung suspended behind the head, a battered halo.

“And look at that arch of flowers!” said Ishvar. “Like a rainbow around the stage. Beautiful, hahn? You can smell them from here.”

“See, I told you you’d enjoy it,” said Rajaram. “First time, it’s always fun.”

They made themselves comfortable on the ground and examined the faces in their vicinity. People smiled and nodded. The soundman went on stage to check the microphones, making the loudspeakers screech. A hush of anticipation descended on the audience and dissipated almost instantly. Buses continued to disgorge passengers by the thousands. The sun was hot now, but Ishvar said that at least it wasn’t raining.

Two hours later the enclosures were full, the field was packed, and the first casualties to fall to the sun were carried away to be revived under the shade of nearby trees. People questioned the wisdom of holding a rally at the hottest time of the day. An organizer explained there was no choice, the Prime Minister’s astrologer had charted the celestial bodies and selected the hour.

Eighteen dignitaries began taking their places on stage. At twelve o’clock there was a roar in the sky and twenty-five thousand heads turned upwards. A helicopter circled the field thrice, then began its descent to land behind the stage.

A few minutes later, the Prime Minister, in a white sari, was escorted up to the stage by someone in a white kurta and Gandhi cap. The eighteen notable personages took turns garlanding their leader, bowing, touching her toes. One dignitary outdid the rest by prostrating full length before her. He would stay at her feet, he said, till she forgave him.

The Prime Minister was baffled, though no one could see her look of puzzlement because of the eighteen garlands engulfing her face. An aide reminded her of some minor disloyalty on the man’s part. “Madamji, he is repenting, he says he is sorry, most sincerely.”

The live microphones ensured that the sun-scorched audience was at least able to enjoy the onstage buffoonery. “Yes, okay,” she said impatiently. “Now get up and stop making a fool of yourself.” Chastened, the man jumped up like a gymnast completing a somersault.

“See?” said Rajaram. “I told you it’s going to be a day at the circus – we have clowns, monkeys, acrobats, everything.”

When the storm of manufactured adulation had passed, the Prime Minister tossed her garlands, one by one, out into the audience. The
VIP
seats and dignitaries cheered wildly at this grand gesture.

“Her father also used to do that, when he was Prime Minister,” said Ishvar.

“Yes,” said Rajaram. “I saw it once. But when he did it, he looked humble.”

“She looks like she is throwing rubbish at us,” said Om.

Rajaram laughed. “Isn’t that the politician’s speciality?”

The member of parliament for the district started the welcome address, thanking the Prime Minister for showing such favour to this poor, undeserving place. “This audience is small,” he said, sweeping his hand to indicate the captive crowd of twenty-five thousand. “But it is a warm and appreciative audience, possessing a great love for the Prime Minister who has done so much to improve our lives. We are simple people, from simple villages. But we understand the truth, and we have come today to listen to our leader…”

Ishvar rolled up his sleeves, undoing two buttons and blowing down his shirt. “How long will it last, I wonder.”

“Two, three, four hours – depends on how many speeches,” said Rajaram.

“… and take note, all you journalists who will write tomorrow’s newspapers. Especially the foreign journalists. For grave mischief has been done by irresponsible scribbling. Lots of lies have been spread about this Emergency, which has been declared specially for the people’s benefit. Observe: wherever the Prime Minister goes, thousands gather from miles around, to see her and hear her. Surely this is the mark of a truly great leader.”

Rajaram took out a coin and began playing Heads or Tails with Om. Around them, people were making new friends, chatting, discussing the monsoon. Children invented games and drew pictures in the dust. Some slept. A mother stretched out her sari-draped legs, nestled her baby in the valley of her thighs, and began exercising it while singing softly, spreading the arms, crossing them over the chest, raising the tiny feet as far as they would go.

The minders and volunteers patrolled the enclosures, keeping an eye on things. They did not care so long as people amused themselves discreetly. The only prohibited activity was standing up or leaving the enclosure. Besides, this was just a warm-up speech.

“… and yet there are people who say she must step down, that her rule is illegal! Who are these people uttering such falsehoods? Brothers and sisters, they are the pampered few, living in big cities and enjoying comforts that you and I cannot even dream about. They do not like the changes the Prime Minister is making because their unfair privileges will be taken away. But it is clear that in the villages, where seventy-five per cent of our people live, there is nothing but complete support for our beloved Prime Minister.”

Near the end of his speech he gave a hand signal to someone waiting in the wings with a walkie-talkie. Seconds later, coloured lights hidden in the floral proscenium arch began to flash powerfully enough to compete with the midday sun. The audience was impressed. The feeble mandatory clapping for the member of parliament’s speech now became genuine applause for the visual display.

While the flashing lights still dazzled, the noise of a helicopter filled the sky again, its
whup-whup-whup
approaching from behind the stage. Something dropped from the belly of the turbulent machine. Out of the package floated – rose petals!

The crowd cheered, but the pilot had mistimed it. Instead of showering the Prime Minister and dignitaries, the petals fell in a pasture behind the stage. A goatherd who was grazing his animals thanked the heavens for the honour, then hurried home to tell his family about the miracle.

The second package, intended for the
VIP
enclosure, landed on target but failed to open. Someone was carried away on a stretcher. By the time the third package was released over the general audience, the pilot had mastered the technique, and it was a perfect drop. An obliging breeze came up, scattering the petals generously. Children in the crowd had a lovely time chasing them down.

On stage there was more bowing and scraping, then the Prime Minister approached the cluster of microphones. One hand maintaining the sari at her neck, she began speaking. Every sentence was followed by thunderous applause from the stage and the
VIP
enclosure, which, in turn, set off the conscientious ones in the audience. Her speech seemed in danger of being strangled by an excess of clapping. Finally, she stepped away from the podium and whispered something to an aide, who gave instructions to the dignitaries. The effect was immediate. From now on, the clapping was more sensibly apportioned.

She adjusted the white sari that was slipping off her head and continued. “There is nothing to worry about just because the Emergency is declared. It is a necessary measure to fight the forces of evil. It will make things better for ordinary people. Only the crooks, the smugglers, the blackmarketeers need to worry, for we will soon put them behind bars. And we will succeed in this despite the despicable conspiracy, which has been brewing since I began introducing programmes of benefit for the common man and woman. There is a foreign hand involved against us – the hand of enemies who would not wish to see us prosper.”

Rajaram took out a deck of cards and began shuffling, to Om’s delight. “You came prepared, for sure,” he said.

“Of course. Sounds like it’s going to be a long one. Playing?” he asked Ishvar, and dealt him in. The people near them perked up, grateful for the distraction. They shifted around and formed a circle to watch the game.

“… but no matter, for we are determined that disruptive forces will be put down. The government will continue to fight back until there is no more danger to democracy in our country.”

Om refused to clap now, he said his hands were aching. He played his card, and someone near him blurted: Mistake, mistake. Om realized his error, took back the card and played another, while the features of the new Twenty-Point Programme were outlined.

“What we want to do is provide houses for the people. Enough food, so no one goes hungry. Cloth at controlled prices. We want to build schools for our children and hospitals to look after the sick. Birth control will also be available to everyone. And the government will no longer tolerate a situation where people increase the population recklessly, draining the resources that belong to all. We promise that we will eliminate poverty from our cities and towns and villages.”