The Great Indian Novel (43 page)

Yudhishtir and Arjun exchanged glances. ‘In what way, Mother?’ the elder asked.

‘The smell,’ their mother replied. ‘I can’t explain it, but there’s something odd about the smell from the walls and floors of this house.’

‘I thought so too,’ Yudhishtir admitted, ‘but knowing it was a new house, not yet occupied, I thought it might just be fresh paint.’

‘There’s no paint on the floors,’ Kunti said, ‘but they smell the same.’

Yudhishtir looked again at the cable in his hand, and at Arjun. ‘I’ll go and set, Mother,’ Arjun said quietly.

‘Don’t just see, sniff!’ Bhim bellowed after him.

‘What are you boys discussing? Is that a telegram?’

‘It’s a telegram from Uncle Vidur,’ Bhim announced. ‘It’s in code. I was just explaining it to them.’

‘Really? From Uncle Vidur?’ Kunti seemed disturbed. ‘What does he say?’

‘Just to be careful about certain things,’ Yudhishtir said cautiously. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mother.’

‘No,’ said Bhim reassuringly. ‘I can handle any number of schizophrenic priests and Trojan maidservants for you, Ma.’

Kunti’s startled reaction might have merited a few clarifications, but at that moment Arjun stepped out of the house wearing a grave look.

‘I think I know what it is,’ he said as he approached them.

‘The smell? What?’

‘Lac,’ Arjun replied.

‘What do you mean, lakh?’ Bhim asked. ‘That’s not a smell, it’s an amount.’

‘I didn’t say lakh, Bhim, but
lac.
The word’s from the same root, but this one’s a resin, produced by coccid insects on the twigs of trees. It’s transparent, so you can apply it anywhere and it won’t hide the wood or whatever surface there is beneath, though it will give it the reddish look we all noticed. Of course, its smell takes some time to disappear, as Ma has just found out.’

‘So that’s all,’ Kunti smiled, relieved. ‘Well, I’d better go and see about some tea for all of us.’

‘Wait, Ma.’ Arjun paused. ‘Keep the stove well away from the wall and the floor, and don’t stub your cigarettes out anywhere but in an ashtray. You see, there is one property of lac I haven’t mentioned yet. It’s highly inflammable. We’re living inside a petrol-can.’

‘Your report?’ Vidur asked, leaning back in his chair.

‘I went as instructed,’ (said the Rabbit)
‘Quite promptly – as is always my habit.
The five whom you said
Might even be dead
Had a chance – and I told them to grab it.

‘Your cables had worked very well.
Purochan was confused as hell.
With your “start” and your “stop”
You had him on the hop –
So into our little net he fell.

‘Obeying your telegrams, he’d waited.
His trap was all ready and baited.
Your nephews had no reason
To suspect him of treason;
Their extinction seemed virtually fated.

‘It just was a question of time
Before Purochan committed the crime.
A touch of the torch
To the lac-covered porch
Was all it would take to fry ‘em.

‘Of course, he had started to wonder
If Duryodhani had made a blunder,
As day after day
He was asked to delay
The deed that would cast them asunder.

‘Thank you, sir, for your delaying tactics:
Without them, we’d have been in a real fix.
But you gave us the time
To outsmart the slime
With our spades, hoes, shovels and picks.

‘As soon as I’d established contact
And confirmed that your nephews were intact,
We started to dig
A tunnel so big
It made a geological impact.

‘We all set to work with a will.
That Bhim! He’d eat his fill,
Then with enormous power
Dig out in an hour
Enough mud to form a small hill.

‘In a short while our work was complete –
A remarkable engineering feat:
A spacious tunnel
Ventilated by funnel
And insulated from the inevitable heat.

‘And all this was done surreptitiously.
(Purochan mustn’t find out adventitiously.)
The opening (quite large)
Was concealed by camouflage:
Some shrubbery – placed most judiciously.

‘At last we were ready to flee
The death-trap of Duryodhani.
Invitations were sent
For a festive event –
Dinner, offered by Kunti Devi.

‘Purochan, unsuspecting, arrived,
With those of his henchmen who’d strived
So long and so hard
And so cleverly, toward
The elimination of the Pandava Five.

‘They ate, drank and made merry
Uplifted by Kunti’s spiked sherry;
By eleven o’clock
Quite downed by the hock
They dozed on the floor, quite unwary.

‘At a signal from me, your five,
Like worker-bees fleeing the hive,
Slipped into the hole,
Each like a large mole,
And scurried to safety – alive.

‘I went on to Stage Two of the Plan.
(The Rabbit’s a reliable man.)
I touched a flame to the door
To the curtains, the floor –
And as the fire blazed, I ran.

‘So Purochan had the end he had cherished:
The fulfilment of the plot he had nourished.
His house burned as he’d planned
(With the lac, you understand)
But it was Purochan himself who perished.

‘In the meantime, under cover of night
The Pandavas made good their flight.
Guided by the stars
And the lights of passing cars
They sought refuge at another site.’

‘Thank you,’ said Vidur. I can take the story up from there.

‘The papers all spoke of disaster:
The death of the heirs of the Master.
Foul play was feared,
For Purochan had disappeared,
And his walls had been of lac, not plaster.

‘ “Heinous crime!” screamed the press.
“National disgrace! What a mess!’’
Said the P M on the morrow,
“I’m overcome with sorrow”;
And Duryodhani – well, you can guess.

‘I sent word to the boys: “Lie low.
Wait for this whole thing to blow.
Adopt a disguise,
Avoid prying eyes,
But as for coming back – no, no.”

‘So now they have started to wander.
Elegant Kunti has to cook and to launder.
From place to dim place
Across the great face
Of India, they walk, talk and ponder.

‘It is, of course, an education.
They will learn about their great nation.
Though of no fixed address
And ignored by the press,
They’ll be Indian (unlike others of their station).

‘I’ve told them it will take some time
Before they can restart their climb
To public acclaim
And national fame;
For now they must remain in the grime.

‘My nephews will travel in obscurity.
Do good work in strict anonymity.
But even if they chafe,
At least they are safe –
And not increasing too much their popularity.

‘Several birds I kill with one stone:
Duryodhani doesn’t break any bone;
Drona’s wings are clipped;
(For he’s just not equipped
Without my nephews, to succeed alone;)

‘Dhritarashtra, my brother, is pleased
That the threat in his party has ceased;
My stratagem stifles
His potential rivals;
And with everyone, my own stock has increased.’

‘So they will wander about, perfectly safe, and I shall be even safer? Brilliant, Vidur, simply brilliant.’ The Prime Minister’s relief shone brightly between his upturned lips. ‘You see, Kanika, how Vidur has attained all that you were advocating, without any of the terrible means you proposed? I’m so glad, Vidur, that no violence was necessary.’

‘There is, of course, Prime Minister, the slight matter of Purochan Lal and his associates,’ said Kanika Menon, who rarely hesitated to voice an inconvenient truth. (Or, indeed, a convenient falsehood.)

‘Ah . . . yes.’ Dhritarashtra was briefly dampened. ‘I suppose that was unavoidable, was it, Vidur?’

‘I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.’ Vidur’s tone was neutral, professorial. The police had to find bodies, and they had
not
to find Purochan. This was the only way to attain both objectives. And to protect your sister-in-law and nephews, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Dhritarashtra suddenly seemed less enthusiastic. ‘But enough of all this. Divert me, Kanika. What have you been learning during this visit to our newly independent land? You must have a great deal to tell me.’

‘Where can I begin, Prime Minister? Each day I am here I discover what a priceless collection of collaborators you have surrounded yourself with. Have you heard the latest about your Defence Minister?’

‘No,’ Dhritarashtra confessed. ‘Unless it is the one about him asking for an appointment with the head of the Afghanistan Navy.’

‘Ah, the old land-locked leg-pull. But really, P M, it’s not as funny as all that - after all, even you’ve received the U S Secretary of Culture.’ Kanika advertised his prejudices like a supermarket its sales, in large red letters. ‘No, the story I had in mind originated during Sardar Khushkismat Singh’s last visit to London. You know how much he likes a good joke, even - or especially - if he can’t understand it. At a dinner in his honour, Churchill, whose standards are definitely slackening in his anecdotage, announced to the men over the port and cigars: “Gentlemen, I have a terrible confession to make.” There was, as you can well imagine, a stunned silence. “For seven years in my dissolute youth, I slept with a woman who was not my wife.” All eyes were upon him at these words, all ears strained with incredulity, none more so than Sardar Khushkismat Singh’s. Churchill timed it to perfection. “She was, of course,” he added carefully, “my mother.” The guests laughed in relief as much as appreciation, and our good Sardar, albeit a little mystified by the British sense of humour, made a mental note of what had apparently been a highly successful joke. Last week, he gave a little dinner for me with some of the resident diplomats and military attachés, and after dinner, as the
saunf
was brought out, he decided to try out the witticism. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “I must confess that in my dissolved youth, I slept with a woman who was not my wife.” The consternation of his guests rivalled that of those at Churchill’s party. The good Sardar practically tripped over himself in his haste to reassure them. “Not to worry, not to worry,” he waved his hand. “It was Winston Churchill’s mother.”’

Dhritarashtra was laughing helplessly. ‘Oh, Kanika, I don’t know how I manage without you in Delhi,’ he said. ‘But then I don’t know how I’d manage without you abroad. Eh, Vidur? Who’d stand up for us in the United Nations and defend us passionately over Manimir?’ His face darkened. “You know, I never thought, Kanika, that the Karnistanis would so completely turn the diplomatic tables on us as they have over Manimir. Had I known, I’d never have gone to the United Nations in the first place.’

No, Prime Minister, but
they
might have,’ Kanika Menon said. ‘And outsiders who know nothing of our struggle for freedom, our history, our people, would have continued to sit in judgement on us. Karnistan was created for the Muslims, most Manimiris are Muslims, ergo Manimir should be in Karnistan. That is the extent of their political geography. I, of course, stand up and tell them that India does not consider that religion should determine statehood, and that the bulk of Manimir’s Muslims were behind us when our troops marched in to protect them against the Karnistani invaders. But then they ask why, if that is the case, the most prominent of these Manimiri supporters of Indian intervention, your own friend Sheikh Azharud- din, is in jail.’

‘I had to put him there, Kanika,’ Dhritarashtra muttered unhappily. ‘He was getting out of control. Vidur will tell you.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Kanika said. ‘I know all the answers. In some cases I made them up myself. Remember I hold the record for the longest speech ever made at the United Nations, and it was on Manimir. There were a lot of answers in that speech, and a lot of counter-questions too. Would any of them in India’s place have tolerated a Sheikh Azharuddin on their most sensitive border, flirting with the idea of his state’s independence? That’s what I asked them.’

‘I know,’ Dhritarashtra said. ‘Kanika, you have done an excellent job abroad, defending and projecting India’s position before and since Independence. Now I think it is time you came home. I will find you a safe seat at the next election. I want you in politics, and I want you in my Cabinet. I have even decided which ministry to give you.’