A Burning(56)

As soon as Bimala Pal and PT Sir emerge from their sober white Ambassador car, the reporters rush to them, jostling to position a microphone or a small recorder before them. Beside Bimala Pal, PT Sir joins his hands in greeting, and bows his head. In the great humility of this gesture he feels a shiver of electricity run through him. How close to power he is. He will be on every television screen in the state, and that is the least of it.

Inside the school building, in an assembly hall, Bimala Pal, like every other voter, casts her vote at a machine situated on a curtained desk. When she emerges, she receives an indelible ink dab on her index finger, at the border of fingernail and skin.



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*

THE NEXT DAY, NEARING the hour when election results will be declared, Bimala Pal’s house bursts with people—politicians, clerks, assistants, union leaders, even a stray celebrity or two. A TV plays on high volume in the corner, and shouted conversations are carried on over it. Somebody comes through the door carrying a sack of kochuri, fried bread, and a tub of alur dom, potato curry.

    Then a phone call comes, and the room falls silent. Bimala Pal disappears into the office, the phone held at her ear.

“Where’s the remote?” someone yells. “Turn this TV down.”

PT Sir paces, smiling tightly at the others gathered. In his mind, a racetrack of worries: What if the party doesn’t win? What if he gave up his job prematurely? An older man calls to him, “Be calm. Don’t take so much tension, not good for your young heart.”

He continues, “It hasn’t been six months that I’ve had a pacemaker.” He points to a spot below his left collarbone.

“I’m not worrying,” lies PT Sir. “Why don’t you sit, sir, let me find a chair…”

When Bimala Pal emerges from her office, she holds the receiver at her side, a sly smile on her face. Men in front break into shouts, and a whoop of triumph lifts the room. Bimala Pal laughs as men around her, her assistants, playfully raise her arms in theirs, like she is a boxing champion.

“Did we win?” PT Sir asks, unbelieving. “Did they call it?”

Jana Kalyan Party has won the majority of seats in the legislative assembly. Bimala Pal, as the leader of the party, is now chief minister of the state.

“Get ready,” says the man with the pacemaker, “for the real work to begin.”

PT Sir nods gravely, as if he understands what is to come.

    Boxes of sweets promptly appear, and are passed from hand to hand. Somebody sends sweets out to the reporters swarming the lane, and a din rises from the gathered men and women of the media. Soon they make way for visitors arriving to congratulate the party. A rival party chief graciously brings an enormous bouquet, and the scent of roses fills the room. A renowned football player arrives, and a cricket player too. Musicians arrive, and film stars in sunglasses. A garland is draped about Bimala Pal’s neck, then another, and another, petals drifting down to the floor, pausing now and then in the folds of her sari.

PT Sir watches the hoopla and eats a sweet, grinning from ear to ear. He shakes hands when hands are offered, and claps backs when he is embraced. The vitality of the moment dazes him. Never has he been in a place that felt so much like the center of the world.

When he looks for an empty surface on which he can sit, he notes how the room has filled up with bouquets and garlands, dewy petals duly misted by an assistant who carries a water bottle with him, looking harassed. Through the windows, he sees the crowd outside grow bigger and noisier, a collection not only of cameramen but of well-known reporters, bigger television crews, neighborhood fans, even one comedian. They chant and cheer. Snacks that are brought to Bimala Pal are frequently distributed among those waiting outside. PT Sir watches them, those common people who will always be on the outside.



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*

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, the chief minister–in–waiting beckons PT Sir to join her in her small office. She closes the door behind them.

Inside, banners rolled into tubes lean in the corners, and old desktop computers sit on the floor. Though Bimala Pal’s seat is a luxurious leather chair, a towel draped on it for protection and cleanliness, the new chief minister does not sit. She stands before the dark wood desk.

“What do you think,” she says, “about a senior secretary post? In the education ministry, of course. It will be good for you.”

PT Sir forces himself not to grin. He must look like a serious man. In this room, with the tubelight casting a sad glow on the large table, the idols of gods arrayed in a nook in the wall, the scent of incense curling upward from sticks, his life is transformed. It is the kind of room which, at night, attracts the attention of flying insects and house lizards.

“The teachers,” PT Sir says instead, “they delivered, didn’t they? Our work with them was good.”

This much he has learned: A successful person is a magnet for resentment. Deflecting the light of success away from him is a better practice. But Bimala Pal will not accept it.

“Your work with them,” she says. “Don’t be humble. You can’t be humble in politics.”

PT Sir smiles.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

    “I am ready to serve,” he replies. “I will gladly accept that post you are thinking about.”