Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [62]
Padmini, who had never seen sheep, made an effort to imagine the scene. At that point Rahul, the legless cripple appeared.
“Padmini! Run to the factory and tell your father and the others. Ask him to round everyone up.” Suddenly assuming the mysterious air of one who knew more, he whispered, “I think our state’s precious chief minister has a surprise for us.”
The young girl set off for the factory at a run. Everywhere the sweatshop slaves were abandoning their tools and their machines to make for the grand gathering. As they arrived, Belram Mukkadam, his stick waving madly, directed them to sit down. Soon the entire esplanade was covered by a human sea.
A truck appeared. It was loaded with posters that Mukkadam immediately hung all around the teahouse. On most of them people recognized the balding forehead, fleshy lips and thick glasses of the chief minister of Madhya Pradesh. Other posters depicted an open hand. In the same way that Shiva had a trident as his emblem, and the religion of Islam its crescent, the Congress party, of which Arjun Singh was one of the leading lights, had chosen as its symbol the wide open palm of a hand. The truck was also carrying a collection of small fliers, which Rahul, Ganga Ram and others busied themselves distributing. “WE LOVE YOU, ARJUN!” they said. “ARJUN, YOU ARE OUR SAVIOUR! ARJUN, BHOPAL NEEDS YOU!” Some went so far as to proclaim: “ARJUN, INDIA WANTS YOU!”
Delayed in New Delhi with Indira Gandhi, the organizer of this incredible show had entrusted his official representative in the Kali Grounds’ bustees to see that the display served his electoral interests. The fact that the guest of honor was missing made the spectacle all the more quaint, for the proceedings began with the solemn arrival of an empty armchair. Carried by two servants in dhotis, the august seat came directly from Omar Pasha’s drawing room. Encrusted with mother of pearl and ivory, it looked more like a throne. A few minutes later, a gleaming Ambassador brought the chief minister’s representative. In honor of the occasion, Omar Pasha was wearing the most legendary crown in India’s history, the white cap of those who had fought for independence. Thirty-eight years after the death of Mahatma Gandhi, the godfather of the bustees knew that the white cap was still a powerful symbol.
At a respectful distance behind the old man walked Omar Pasha’s son Ashoka, a tall fellow with a shaven head, whom the inhabitants of the bustees had learned to fear and respect. Manager of the clandestine drink trade controlled by his father, today he carried neither alcohol nor hashish, but a small ebony chest sealed with a copper lock. Inside this casket was a treasure, possibly the most valuable treasure the occupants of Orya Bustee, Chola and Jai Prakash could hope to receive.
Omar Pasha sat down on his throne, in front of which Mukkadam had placed a cloth-covered table, bearing a bouquet of flowers and incense sticks. Because of the brightness of the sun, the godfather’s eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but people could tell what he was thinking by the way he wrinkled his eyebrows. Mukkadam called for a microphone, which the visitor seized between pudgy fingers dripping with gold and ruby rings.
“My friends!” he exclaimed in a strong voice that forty years of drinking and smoking had not managed to roughen. “I have come to deliver to you, on behalf of our revered chief minister Arjun Singh.”
At this name, Omar Pasha paused, sending a tremble through the assembly bristling with posters. Someone shouted: “Arjun Singh, ki jai!” but the cry was not taken up. The crowd was impatient to hear the rest of the speech.
“At the request of our chief minister,” the godfather continued, “I have come to deliver to you your patta! * ”
The echo of this unbelievable, supernatural, unhoped for word hovered in the overheated air for interminably long seconds. Surveying the stunned crowd, Sister Felicity could not help thinking of a sentence by the Catholic writer Léon Bloy: “You don’t