Candidate

Anirudh Bhattacharya

Description

I can t picture you surviving in Indian politics. Let me tell you the reasons: you have morals, too much integrity, and you lack an ego. Without a job, and a marriage on the rocks, the mild-mannered Jay Banerjee has no choice but to come back from the US to Delhi. A chance meeting with a childhood friend, Govardhan Ray, aka Raja a neta with a scandal too many plunges him into the seamy, madcap world of Indian politics. The fight for the Narayanpore seat a nondescript district in West Bengal begins, and along with it, the process of discovering the real India . Jay s challenge: to provide a clean campaign with integrity . Replete with colourful campaigns, media hullabaloo, cynical voters, goondas, chamchas and all the usual suspects, The Candidate is a breezy and humorous story of the great Indian election tamasha.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 21 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351186335
• Langue: English

Extrait

Anirudh Bhattacharyya

THE CANDIDATE
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Acknowledgements
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Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE CANDIDATE
Anirudh Bhattacharyya is a journalist who has extensively covered politics and elections for the print and television media in India and the United States, and has reported from the White House and Parliament House. From netas in India to senators in America, he has seen them up close and political. His work has appeared in publications including the Hindustan Times, the Pioneer, Outlook, and news channels CNN-IBN, CNBC-TV18 and NewsX. Formerly based in New Delhi and New York, he currently lives with his wife in Toronto.
For my mother
Chapter 1
The pigs were winning.
That was the story of his life in recent days. He just couldn t win. He killed the Angry Birds app on his iPad, set the tablet aside and leaned back into the airplane seat.
An obese man, clad in a beige-toned safari suit, was waddling towards him. Having identified his seat, he dropped heavily into it and expelled an extended sigh. In a few seconds, the portly passenger looked around at him and introduced himself, Hello, I m Pankaj Bhandare, MP from Maharashtra. Your goodself being?
He politely exchanged greetings with his fellow-traveller.
Bhandare, the member of Parliament, launched into a litany of complaints: These American security people, they have no respect! Made me undergo a special secondary check. It was thoroughly obscene. Oof! I haven t felt so violated since I had my prostate examination! And the questions they ask!-my history, my family history. I thought they would ask me to specify my grandfather s underwear size before they let me through, he complained loudly.
Without waiting for a response, Bhandare continued, No respect for those who occupy important positions. I ll have the Ministry of External Affairs protest to the State Department!
He nodded sympathetically and attempted to calm Bhandare, That s very unfortunate. But it does put you in the same league as several celebrities.
Hmm his companion mused. You are right, gentleman. Like former President Abdul Kalam, and so many ministers and film stars. Yes, the special checking does give me some cachet. He inclined his head towards Bhandare to indicate agreement.
However, I should have diplomatic immunity, no? After all, I was invited by the Permanent Mission of India to the United Nations to address the General Assembly, the MP continued.
I hope that went well ? he asked, trying to change the subject since that obviously pained Bhandare.
Bhandare s expression transformed from disgruntlement to distress. There were four people in the hall, three of them asleep. I gave a speech titled Agenda Item 50: Effects of Atomic Radiation at the Fourth Committee . I don t recall what I said, I was so jet-lagged. The only other thing I know is that I was given the Pakistan delegate s speech in advance as our people had incorporated certain points to counter his reference to Kashmir. I tell you, these Pakistanis will bring up Kashmir even if there s a discussion on potatoes! Anyway, there was a huge tamasha after I finished. Some junior IFS official was panicking because I had apparently read the Pakistani representative s speech by mistake-something about self-determination in Kashmir.
As he listened to Bhandare, he realized why his fellow-traveller s name had sounded familiar. There had been extensive reporting on his famous faux pas in recent days. It had been a historic occasion-it was the first time that an Indian delegate s speech had been refuted by another Indian delegate.
And such terrible timing too Bhandare proceeded, his face showing horror. It s almost election time! I have to go campaigning in the constituency, and my opponents will accuse me of embarrassing the country on an international forum.
What will you do now? he asked Bhandare solicitously.
What else? I ll say it was an ISI plot to undermine our beloved Bharat by defaming one of its most patriotic leaders! He replied, though with not quite the same conviction in his manner.
He digested the excuse. The Inter-Services Intelligence or ISI, Pakistan s infamous spy agency, was often blamed for a variety of outrages in India-from spawning terrorist attacks to supplying counterfeit notes.
The MP sat silently for a few moments, possibly thinking of the election ahead.
Emerging from that brief reverie, Bhandare said, Anyhow, it wasn t a complete loss, this trip to New York. I got other important work done-got a photograph taken with Angelina Jolie, who is a UN ambassador for something, and I visited my cousin in New Jersey. I had paani puri with her at Oak Tree Road in Edison with my cousin, of course, not Angelina Jolie. She s stunning in person Angelina Jolie, of course, not my cousin. Her husband s name is Brad.
Yes, I know, he said.
Oh, you have met my cousin? Bhandare asked, somewhat taken aback.
Your cousin ? he asked, perplexed.
Yes, you said you knew her husband s name. Brad-short for Brahmdutt.
He wasn t particularly surprised that an Indian immigrant had adopted an Americanized moniker. He had met plenty of Annes who were formerly Annapurnas and Anuradhas, various Krishnas and Krishnans who went by Chris, Chandrashekhars who opted for Chad and, in one brilliant instance, a Laxman gone Lax.
So, you accomplished a lot during your trip to New York, he remarked mildly.
The MP was quiet for a while as he slurped a cocktail he had asked for immediately after take-off. The drink consumed, he burped and signalled to a passing flight attendant for another. By the end of the flight he would have consumed enough alcohol to drown a squadron of sorrows.
He was curious about the presence of the MP in the flight s business class. Didn t that undercut the government s austerity policy?
Bhandare wasn t bothered. It s all okay when you fly Air India. There you can depend on an upgrade. But these foreign airlines have no respect. Had to pay full fare or at least the government will. Anyway, those chaps at the Indian consulate were showing me a list of all the Central government ministers who were in the US this summer, all passing through New York. They could have held Cabinet meetings at the Waldorf Astoria. Austerity is overrated.
Then it was Bhandare s turn to turn inquisitive, So, you were in America for a visit or you are living there?
I ve lived in New York for nearly two decades now, he replied.
Oh, interesting. You don t speak with an American accent, he said, expelling an enormous yawn.
Some people start speaking in an American drawl within a week of arriving in the US. Others, like me, unfortunately, do not possess such linguistic talent, he replied, but the MP wasn t paying attention. He had fallen asleep.
He decided to follow the example of the leader. The duration of the flight, almost fifteen hours, passed mostly in slumber, with breaks for meals.
As the final leg of the journey began, the aircraft s public address system came alive, and a voice made an announcement which was difficult to comprehend. He caught a few words: bad weather , divert , Mumbai . The flight from New York s John F. Kennedy International Airport to New Delhi s Indira Gandhi International Airport-connecting two destinations named after assassinated leaders-wouldn t be able to complete the last leg of the prolonged journey and land because the final vestiges of the monsoon that had powered through north India had made that impossible.
They had gone off course.
But, of course, he mused to himself. After the jolts that had upended his American life, he could hardly have expected a smooth landing.
Bhandare was pleased. He would visit his family in Mumbai. As they prepared to disembark, he said, Come and see me sometime when you are in Delhi. I will give you a tour of the Parliament House, he offered magnanimously. The slew of martinis he had downed rapidly appeared to have broadened his outlook.
He grunted in response to Bhandare s offer. Entering Parliament wasn t on his agenda.
Chapter 2
Jaideep Banerjee-or simply, Jay-had just turned fifty. He was past the age for a midlife crisis, but had nevertheless become entrapped in one. A couple of months past that landmark birthday-a friend had posted Welcome to the Big Five O on his Facebook timeline-he was summoned to the office of the Vice-President for Realignments at the Wall Street brokerage firm where he had worked for six years. Then, he had been politely informed that the recession had claimed yet another victim-Jay himself. He had been rightsized out of Frankfurter Carlton, presented with a severance package and given six hours to clear out.
A week later, his wife of fourteen years had also decided to downsize her domestic life, and he had once again been made redundant. We no longer have a connection, she explained. This, she added hurriedly, wasn t connected to his recent unemployment. No, it has developed over the years, our disconnect. He was once again asked to clear out, though she had been far more generous, allowing him six days to make alternate arrangements. At least his eleven-year-old daughter had not had to inform her friends that her parents relationship had gon