Madam Prime Minister , livre ebook

SEEMA GOSWAMI

MADAM PRIME MINISTER
PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS
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PENGUIN BOOKS
MADAM PRIME MINISTER
Seema Goswami is a journalist, columnist and author. She began her career with the Anandabazar Patrika Group, working for Sunday magazine, before moving on to become the editor of The Telegraph s weekend features. She currently writes a weekly column, Spectator, for the Hindustan Times Sunday magazine Brunch , which has a large and dedicated following. She has also published two books, Woman on Top and Race Course Road .
For my husband, Vir
As always . . .
1
The applause began from the back of the hall and rippled its way to the front. Asha Devi put down the sheet of paper from which she had read out her oath of office and took in the scene in front of her.
The Durbar Hall of Rashtrapati Bhavan was a marvelous sight on any occasion. But today, it seemed particularly impressive, with the entire power elite of Delhi corralled into it. In the front row, on the right side of the aisle, sat her family.
Her mother, Sadhana Devi, shimmering in an ivory and black chanderi sari, her perfect features perfectly immobile, her eyes moist with the tears she would only shed in private. Next to her mother sat her sister-in-law, Radhika, an insincere smile plastered on her painstakingly contoured face as she clapped along with everyone else. Flanking Sadhana Devi was her younger half-brother, Arjun. Not for him the pretense of enthusiasm. His face was impassive and his hands were folded firmly and on his lap.
Next to Arjun sat the man whose job she had just taken-Karan Pratap Singh, her older half-brother, elder son and heir to their father, Birendra Pratap Singh. Karan had been chosen by their party, the Loktantrik Janadesh Party (LJP), to take over as Prime Minister after the shock assassination of their father but had only managed to hold the post for a few months.
To be fair, it hadn t really been his fault that his reign was the shortest ever for an Indian PM. Karan had made all the right moves. He had called a General Election within three months of Birendra Pratap s killing to capitalize on the sympathy wave engendered by his death. He had campaigned hard for the party, even as he held the country together in difficult times. But despite his best efforts, the election had thrown up a hung Parliament. And the intra-party negotiations that followed had elevated his half-sister, Asha Devi, to the post of Prime Minister.
At twenty-nine, Asha was the youngest PM ever in the history of India. But, as she stood at the podium, hands folded in a Namaste to acknowledge the applause, Asha didn t feel like celebrating this fact. All she felt was a deep and abiding dread as to what this moment would lead to. Her life would be changed forever, and she wasn t sure she was ready for that.
Adding to her disquiet was the fact that she felt like an imposter. She knew in her bones that she didn t deserve to be up here, being sworn in as Prime Minister by the President of India. She had neither the experience nor the skills that the top job in government required. She had never held a ministerial portfolio in her life. She was a first-time member of Parliament, having just won the family seat in Bharatnagar that her father had nurtured over decades.
And more to the point, she was also the reason why her party, the LJP, had performed so badly in the last General Election. If Asha s naked pictures hadn t been leaked to the media in the run-up to the last phase of polling, the final result of the polls would have been quite different. And it would have been Karan standing up here, basking in the adulation of the crowd.
But that hadn t happened. And now, contrary to all expectations, it was Asha who was on the dais, sitting on an ornate chair to sign her name on the document that made her the new leader of the country.
As she sat ramrod-straight, eyes lowered, she made an arresting picture in her pale pink chiffon sari, paired with a three-quarter-sleeved blouse and accessorized with a gold pendant of the symbol Om. Her hair was drawn back from her make-up-less face and twisted into a chignon that rested on the nape of her neck. But that severe style, which would have looked school-marmish on anyone else, made her classic beauty all the more apparent. Her eyes were pools of limpid brown, her generous mouth a pink slash across her peaches-and-cream complexion, bracketed by deep, delicious dimples.
Oh yes, Asha Devi was a bona fide beauty all right, thought Sukanya Sarkar, from her vantage point in the front row, across the aisle from the Pratap Singh clan. As leader of the Poriborton Party (PP), Sukanya had driven a hard bargain before agreeing to form a coalition government with the LJP (and assorted smaller parties). And part of that bargain was that Asha, not Karan, would be Prime Minister in the new dispensation.
Beaming beatifically at her new prot g , Sukanya looked back with satisfaction on a job well done. Not only had she managed to best her b te noire, Karan, by wresting the prime ministership away from him, she had also dug the knife in by anointing his half-sister, whom he loathed, in his stead. And, in the process, she had got herself a young, inexperienced Prime Minister, whom it would be simplicity itself to manipulate.
As Asha finished signing her name and got back on her feet, her eyes met Sukanya s. The smile that bloomed on Asha s face was the genuine article. She thanked the President, walked down the stairs and made her way straight to Sukanya. She bowed low in a Namaste but Sukanya was having none of that. She swept Asha into a hug that sent the assembled cameramen into a complete frenzy.
They made for an incongruous picture. Sukanya, looking even more plain than usual in her crumpled cotton sari, her unkempt hair bundled into a messy bun, stood only at a puny 5 feet 3 inches to Asha s 5 feet 11 inches (in heels) and barely came up to the new Prime Minister s chest. But even though Asha towered Amazon-like above her, there was no doubting that Sukanya was the power player in this new duo.
As if to reinforce that impression, Sukanya broke away from the embrace and taking Asha by the hand, led her across the aisle so that she could seek the blessings of her mother, Sadhana Devi, and the rest of her family. Asha bent down to touch her mother s feet and the photographers went wild again. By the time she had straightened up, Karan, Arjun, and Radhika were already moving towards the aisle, making their way to the exit.
Asha held on to her mother s hand, and followed them. It was a slow progress. Everyone within touching distance wanted to shake her hand and congratulate her. Those a little further off shouted out their greetings. As she stopped to acknowledge her well-wishers, Asha fell further and further behind the Pratap Singh family.
She shot a quick, anxious look to make sure that her mother was not alone. Once she saw that Radhika had taken charge of her, she turned back to acknowledge the greetings of the great and good of Delhi crowding around her despite the best efforts of the Special Protection Group (SPG) deployed for her security to maintain some sort of order. Asha cast one longing look at the exit, looming in the distance. And then resigned herself to pressing the flesh before she could make her escape.
She was now Prime Minister of India. And her time was no longer her own.
* * *
Karan Pratap Singh fought hard to maintain an impassive front as he sat in the front row watching his sister, Asha Devi, being sworn in. This was meant to be his job, a post for which he had been trained relentlessly as his father s eldest son and heir. And yet, here he was, clapping along with the rest of the audience, trying to keep his real feelings from showing on his face, as his younger sister took on the title that was his birthright.
How on earth had it come to this?
But even as Karan asked himself this question, the answer was staring him in the face, if only he chose to turn it a few inches to the right. Sukanya Sarkar, the leader of the Poriborton Party, and the woman who had put paid to all his ambitions. It was her intransigence that had led to Asha occupying the seat he still considered his own. As he glanced across at Sukanya, smiling happily in her seat across the aisle, he felt that familiar wave of anger wash over him.
How smug the bitch looked as she nodded encouragingly at Asha! Not that Asha needed any encouragement. His half-sister, flush with success, was the very epitome of self-confidence as she bowed low in a Namaste to thank the Rashtrapati.
Just then, Asha turned and looked straight at him, a tentative smile breaking out on her face, almost as if she was seeking reassurance from a familiar face in the crowd. It took some effort but Karan managed an answering smile that briefly lit up his chiselled features that until then had looked as if they were carved out of granite. Maybe Radhika was right, he thought. Perhaps Asha, a virtual babe in the deep dark woods of Indian politics, would look to her elder brother for help and guidance. And he could run the government as before, albeit through remote control.
Almost reflexively, his eyes swivelled left to look at his wife, as she sat two seats away from him. She was wearing a serene expression, her mouth upturned in a slight smile. Her hair swished luxuriously around her shoulders, its golden strands reflected in her champagne-colour chiffon sari, as she turned around to catch his eye. Her smile grew wider and warmer as she looked at her husband, raising one eyebrow infinitesimally as if to ask if he was feeling all right.
Of everyone present today, only Radhika truly understood the effort it had taken him to be here, at the swearing-in of his sister. He barely had time to nod back at her before eve