Ian McDonald - River of Gods

“Has my sister’s body been recovered?”

Every clamouring voice, every palmer falls silent.

“The area has been secured,” Secretary Narvekar says.

“Can we trust the army?”

“We have sent in regular forces. We can rely on them. The group was a small cabal among the elite divisions that supplied madam’s personal security unit. Those responsible are under arrest; unfortunately we were unable to prevent some of the higher-ranking officers from taking their own lives. The personal bodyguard is all dead, Prime Minister.”

Ashok Rana closes his eyes, feels the contours in the stratosphere around the aircraft shell that encloses him.

“Not the Awadhis.”

“No, Prime Minister. It was never a consideration that the Awadhis would resort to assassination, if you will excuse my use of the word.”

“The rioters?”

“Dispersed, Prime Minister. The situation in the city remains highly volatile. I would advise against any immediate return to Varanasi.”

“I do not want them pursued. Morale is bad enough without loosing the army on our own population. But we should maintain martial law.”

“Very wise, Prime Minister. Magnanimous in the face of national crisis; that will play well. Prime Minister, I don’t want to be seen to be pressurising you in this desperate time of shock and grief, but this speech…It is important that the nation hears from you, and soon.”

“In a while, Trivul”

“Prime Minister, the slot is booked, the camera and audio are set up in the media centre.”

“In a while, Trivul!”

The Parliamentary Secretary bows away but Ashok Rana can see the chewed-back irritation in the set of his lips. He looks out again at the moon, low now in the west on the edge of the silver sea of water raining down on his land. He will never be able to see it again, the lolling moon of India, without thinking of this night, without hearing the chime of the palmer in the night and the wrench of dread in his gut that knew, even before he answered, it was the worst possible news; without hearing the measured, well-rehearsed voice of Private Secretary Patak, so strange after the soft familiarity of Shaheen Badoor Khan, saying impossible things; without hearing the scream of tilt-jets thrashing the branches of the neem trees with their down-blast as his wife and children dressed and seized baggage in the dark for fear for making themselves illuminated targets for whatever it was out there that had turned upon the house of Rana. The light will forever be transformed into sounds. He hates that most, that they have tainted the moon.

“Vikram, I have to know, are we in any state to resist the Awadhis?”

Chowdhury waggles his head.

“The air force is one hundred percent.”

“You do not win wars with air power. The army?”

“We risk splitting the entire command if we pursue the cabal too far. Ashok, if the Awadhis want Allahabad, there is very little we can do to stop them.”

“Are our nuclear and chemical deterrents secure?”

“Prime Minister, surely you cannot be advocating first use?” Secretary Narvekar interjects. Again, Ashok Rana rounds on him.

“Our country is invaded, our cities lie wide open and my own sister has been thrown to a.to a.mob by her own soldiers. Do you know what they did with that trishul? Do you? Do you? What should I do to defend us? What can I do to keep us safe?”

The faces turn softly, politely blank, impassively reflecting Ashok Rana’s shouting voice. He hears his edge of hysteria. He lets the words fall. The bulkhead between the conference room and the media centre is decorated with a modern interpretation of the Tandava Nritya, the cosmic dance of Siva; the god wreathed in the chakra of flame, one foot raised. Ashok Rana has lived all his forty-four years in the shadow of the descending foot that will destroy and regenerate the universe.

“Forgive me,” he says shortly. “This is not an easy time.” The politicals mumble their acquiescences.

“Our nuclear and chemical capability is secure,” Chowdhury says. “That’s all I needed to know,” says Ashok Rana. “Now, this speech.” A junior aide with two fingers raised to the side of his head interrupts him. “Prime Minister, a call for you.”

“I stated quite clearly that I am not taking any calls.” Ashok Rana lets a little iron into his voice.

“Sahb, it is N. K. Jivanjee.”

Eyes glance at each other around the oval table. Ashok Rana nods to his aide.

“On here.” He taps the armrest screen. In the press compartment his wife and children have settled into some semblance of sleep, leaning against each other. The head and shoulders of the Shivaji leader take their place, softly lit by a hooded lamp on his desk. Behind him are the geometrical suggestions of books rowed on shelves.

“Jivanjee. You dare much.”

N. K. Jivanjee dips his head.

“I can understand why you would think that, Prime Minister.” The title jolts Ashok Rana. “At the outset, I would ask you to accept my sincerest sympathies to your family on its tragic loss and to your late sister’s husband and children. There is no part of Bharat that has not been stricken to the heart by what has happened at Sarkhand Roundabout. I am outraged by this brutal murder—and we call ourselves the mother of civilisations. I unreservedly condemn the treachery of the late Prime Minister’s personal guard and those outlaw elements of the mob. I would ask you to accept that no part of the Shivaji condones this dreadful act. This was a mob element whipped to a frenzy by traitors and renegades.”

“I could have you arrested,” Ashok Rana says. His ministers and advisors look at him. N. K. Jivanjee nervously moistens his lips with the tiniest bud of tongue.

“And how would that serve Bharat? No, no, no, I have another suggestion. Our enemy is at the gates, our armed forces desert us, our cities riot, and our leader is brutally murdered. This is not a time for party politics. I propose a government of national salvation. As I have said, the Party of Lord Siva is innocent of any involvement in or support for this outrage, yet we retain some influence with the Hindutvavadi and the milder karsevaks.”

“You can bring the streets under control.”

N. K. Jivanjee sways his head.

“No politician can promise that. But at such a time opposing parties coming together in a government of national salvation would set a powerful example, not just to the riotous elements, but to all Bharatis, and to Awadh as well. A nation united is not easily defeated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jivanjee. It’s an interesting offer. I will call you back, thank you for your good wishes, I accept them.” Ashok Rana thumbs N. K. Jivanjee into the arm of the chair. He turns to his remnant cabinet. “Evaluations, gentlemen?”

“It is a deal with demons,” V.K. Chowdhury says. “But.”

“He has you over a log,” Chief Justice Laxman says. “He is a very clever man.”

“I see no other practicable option than to take his suggestion,” Trivul Narvekar says. “With two riders; first, that we make the suggestion. We extend the hand of peace to our political foes. Second, we rule certain cabinet positions out of the discussion.”

“He will want cabinet posts?” Ashok Rana asks. Secretary Narvekar’s astonishment is unfeigned.

“What other reason would he have for suggesting it? I suggest we keep the Treasury, the Ministry of Defence, and the Foreign Ministry inviolable. Apologies, Chief Justice.”

“What would we suggest for our new friend Jivanjee himself?” Laxman asks, pressing the steward call to summon a Bells, to which he is legendarily partial.

“I can’t see him settling for much less than interior Minister,” Narvekar says.