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 marvellous 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 pretence 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 capitalise 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 accessorised 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 protégé, Sukanya looked back with satisfaction on a job well done. Not only had she managed to best her bête 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.
Excerpted with permission from Madam Prime Minister, Seema Goswami, Penguin Books.
