Karan Mahajan - Family Planning

Hello, Aarti.

RAKESH WAS WELL KNOWN IN THESE PARTS: he chattered informally with the liveried staff and walked straight into the SPM’s drawing room. In the space of a day, 7 Ram Ram Marg had been converted from a bustling fishmarket of flattery, a place where adoring followers actually camped out in the garden for days on end in makeshift tarpaulin tents to gain the SPM’s audience — had gone from being like the court of Louis the XVI to a brilliantly lit ashram. A sanctuary. A meditation chamber. A place where bare feet pattered in soft steps on the soft carpet — Rakesh looked down. He was nearly creeping . He was beside himself with suspense. He wondered if he was too late to rekindle his ties with the SPM. He’d been too wrapped up in personal problems to pursue a full inquiry into the matter.

An answer awaited him in the drawing room. There he found a mirror image of his own conference with the SPM earlier that morning: a young man crossing his pajama’d legs in stiff but confident posture as the SPM regaled him with some trademark story. Four bowls of snacks laid out on the table. The napkins in the napkin holder still blowing in the fan blast. Rakesh knew immediately who the man was and what was happening. Yes. The man — wearing one of those minimalist designer kurtas, stark white with an intricate necklace of embroidery around the collar, face fashionably charcoal-sketched with stubble — was Mohan Bedi; it had to be. He was in his mid-twenties at the most. A cherub with pink lips despite the gangsterish disposition. Cheeks baggy with having been pulled too much by cooing aunties. On seeing Mr. Ahuja, the supposed-Mohan shifted into a more aggressively male position: legs spread wide, hands sternly clasped near his chest, his torso neatly reclining. Maybe he was simply avoiding the SPM’s force-feeding. Her fingers indicated the four snack bowls constantly in hypnotic circles. She had changed out of the morning’s saffron sari into white widow’s garb.

She was probably begging him back to TV life. For the sake of the party. For the sake of the country. To placate her unforgiving party of resigners.

On seeing Rakesh, Rupa stood up with much effort and flashed a mischievous grin. “Ah. Ahuja. Perfect timing. How are you?”

Rakesh bent down, touched her feet, and sprang back up.

“Fine, ji. And you? Looking lovely as ever. Thank you for seeing me. All I need is your blessings.”

“No,” she said, “thank you for coming.”

Then, turning to Mohan Bedi and looking askance at Rakesh, she said, “Meet the new Prime Minister.”

Because his hearing was strained, and the SPM’s gesture at this late hour was loose, vague, a twirl of the wrist come unstuck from its associated muzzle of words, and moreover the man who woud be Mohan Bedi had leaped out of his chair to touch his feet, Mr. Ahuja thought, not unfairly, that he was being introduced as the new PM. Even if the statemnt was a joke, he assumed he was it’s handsome subject.

After all, the SPM knew the embattled post of Prime Minister was often on Rakesh’s mind.

While most governments in the past decade had nominated a puppet Prime Minister — an elected head of state that deferred to an unaccountable behind-the-scenes Rupa Bhalla — style lynchpin — the KJSZP (H202) Party had done away entirely with the pretense. For the first time in history, India hadn’t had a Prime Minister. The country itself was strangely sedate on the issue, the stock market whistled its ebullient electronic tune, the sun still blasted away at the earth and its inhabitants with irritating effulgence, men and women still risked beatings and violence to cast their votes — only party members had protested. It became a hot-button issue. The post of PM was a crucial one, they argued, and it would help diffuse power, wouldn’t it? What did Madam think? Madam thought nothing. Madam said nothing. Simply sat on a throne and smiled her threatening fixed smile, all her teeth jagged like the peaks of crushed glass adorning the top of unscalable walls.

So the party members — Rakesh included — tried bribing her with the idea that having a PM would, in fact, concentrate power in her favor . She could pick her second-in-command for the world to see, present him as her most trusted public aide, privately crush his spirit, and continue on with the glorious mission of being an autocrat in a democracy.

To this idea she seemed receptive. She kept saying she was choosing a PM, just give her time. Rakesh knew he was one of the finalists for this fantasy job. But he’d assumed he’d drastically damaged his chances — first with his unpopular stance on the Muslim issue, then with his feisty resignation letter, and finally with his opportunistic scheming. Unless: she respected the forthrightness of his resignation. Or: if she hadn’t read it at all. And: Hadn’t heard about his magnificent lying at the Meeting of Pay Scales. Why else would she offer him this post if not for his unwavering support?

Mohan Bedi had vacated his seat and was touching Mr. Ajuha’s feet in a show of respect. He ruffled the supine boy’s hair the way one pets a dog. Mohan Bedi, lifting himself up from his haunches with a flap of the arms, perfumed the room with the cologne secreted in his armpits. Mr. Ahuja was overwhelmed. His luck had finally turned. He didn’t need to apologize for the letter.

“What is this PM business?” he said gruffly, gladly, to the SPM. “This is unexpected.”

“Yes, it was, Uncle,” said Mohan Bedi, “that is why I want your blessing.”

Uncle . That word was like a Q-tip shoved straight past the terrible stalactites of wax in his ears and into the troubled brain, where it turned and turned and turned, shoveling out gray matter. Uncle. I am your uncle, you are my prime minister: No! He had walked into a terrible joke. This TV star who spoke like an awestruck child simply could not be the Prime Minister. Comedy was comedy, but this was otherworldly grotesque.

“Your good name?” said Mr. Ahuja, for the sake of severity.

“Prakash Singh.”

“Not Mr. Mohan Bedi?”

“No, Uncle! Mohan Bedi is my screen name, Uncle. My real name is Prakash.”

“You look thunderstruck, Ahuja!” said Rupa, slapping her knee. “Here, I will order namkeen lassi. Two times a day is good for you.”

“No thank you, ji,” said Rakesh. He patted his stomach to divert attention from his admittedly fallen face. His muscles worked overtime to keep the mask of earnestness in place.

The SPM started again. “You know I don’t like being refused on the issue of lassis. And that is hardly a paunch worthy of a man as powerful as—”

“Rupa-ji. Is this a joke?” Rakesh interrupted. “Don’t mind,” he said, turning to Mohan, “but is this a joke?”

“No, Uncle,” the boy stuttered. “No, Uncle.”

Rupa sighed. “But I can see why you feel this way. Of course, I can see! Very easy to understand actually. You are thinking, What experience does this young boy have—” She patted him on the back. “Well, it is not experience that is important. But bravery! Courage! Strength! This bright young man over here wanted to leave the show. So he did. At the height of his popularity. What courage. But, as you know, all of the people in this party wanted him back so badly — didn’t they, Mohan? — that I thought, okay, they can have him back. As their leader!”

She cackled. So there it was, thought Rakesh. She’d had her revenge on the resigning hordes by giving them what they wanted par excellence . And she’d had her revenge on him, Rakesh, by denying him the post he had so truly deserved, the job he’d had in mind when he’d made his ministerial reputation with the flyovers. She had won. This was why she was the Super Prime Minister and he was not.