The Strongman's Daughter

1

Ensconced in luxurious first class at thirty-five thousand feet above sea level, Aditi should have felt on top of the world. But as she gazed out at the picture-perfect sunrise from her window, her spirits sank.

The downer was, they were beginning their descent into Goa. Her father would be waiting at the airport to receive her. That he happened to be chief minister of the state, was not in his favour—the autocratic, all-powerful Vithalrao Narvekar was not a parent who inspired much daughterly affection. As the plane winged its way down, Aditi could almost feel her own wings being clipped—the moment her plane touched the tarmac, and she greeted her father, she could wave goodbye to freedom!

In the first class cabin, leftovers of beverages and snacks were being cleared away. Flight attendants were fussing around the pampered passengers. Aditi paid them no heed. She shut her eyes and rested her head on a small pillow. Her thoughts turned to Steve. Tousle-haired, blue-eyed Steve, whom she had left behind in Manhattan. It was amazing how fast her final days in New York City had slipped by.

Steve was her friend Marsha’s brother, pursuing his MBA at Columbia Business School. Aditi too, had just completed her undergrad, also at Columbia. During the last few months of her four-year stint in the Big Apple, she and Steve had started dating. And, it was only a month back that they’d had sex for the first time.

Even now, the entire sequence in his apartment, had a dream-like quality. Those unforgettable moments of passion had been spontaneous and overwhelming. When their lips had met and they’d kissed, gently first and then impatiently and deeply, they’d been consumed with desire. He’d deftly unbuttoned her shirt, as she felt up his smooth, broad back and sculpted shoulders. The couch had yielded its snug comfort and Aditi had found herself being swept away by Steve’s caresses. A flood of passion so intense, so difficult to describe, throbbed deep within her, and all she knew, from that point on, was that she wanted to give herself completely to him.

After their intimacy, she’d felt like a new human being. She’d felt empowered, ready to conquer the world. There was a reason why sex was so hyped up, she reasoned. It was a life-altering experience. She’d cuddled close to him, wanting to hold on to their special moments, while he’d murmured in her ear, You were amazing . . .

Now that she was officially deflowered, she was reminded of her old convent school in Panchgani, where many of her teenage classmates had spoken about their clandestine encounters in hushed whispers. Aditi laughed inwardly at the very word—deflowered. Making love to Steve had been the most liberating experience ever!

But what she hadn’t bargained for, was the huge emotional impact. Their relationship had seismically altered her life. What started out as a little sexual exploration, a sort of ‘goodbye New York’ gift to herself, was now a painful reality check. She hadn’t intended to leave her heart behind, and yet, here she was, pining for the guy who’d become such a focal part of her existence.

Although Aditi would have never believed it, Steve had every reason to be as smitten with her as she was with him. She was a very striking young woman. Matrimonial ads would have apologetically described her as ‘wheatish’. And maybe added ‘tall and attractive’ to compensate for the darker skin tone. For the record, wheatish was appropriate, but inadequate. Hers was a burnished-in-molten-gold glow, a glow that cosmetics could not create. Her glossy, raven black mane framed classic desi features—expressive lotus eyes, full generous lips, and a smile that could convey disdain or joy, in one sweeping arc.

People had often likened her grace and fluid body movements to those of a dancer. In fact, all through her school years, Aditi had trained in classical Odissi. She had religiously attended dance classes, because her father, Vithalrao Narvekar, had wanted her to. This was one of several father-instigated activities that she had obediently taken on, only to please him. Her entire childhood, as far back as she could remember, seemed to revolve around making him happy. Aditi felt it was her way of apologizing for her mother passing away hours after she’d been born.

While her father had never said so, at least not directly, she knew she’d been a big disappointment to him. She was born a girl. And he would have much preferred a son. She’d grown up conscience-stricken about it, especially when she’d been younger. But over the years, she’d outgrown that guilt and learnt to cope with his dominating influence by rebelling in her own little ways. The undergrad stint in New York was something she’d had to fight for, and wangle. Finally, she’d managed it!

Getting anything out of her father had never been easy. He was a consummate negotiator, a man who’d made it up the party ranks on wile and will power. He was a formidable personality, no question about it. Once he had made a mark in the realpolitik of Goa, the chief ministership had been a mere formality. When he’d won the elections, he had triumphantly moved into the CM’s bungalow in Panjim, or Panaji, as they preferred to call it. That was nine-and-a-half years ago. Now he was contesting for a third term.

Aditi knew he loved her in his own way, as much as he was capable of loving anyone. But somehow, their equation as father-and-daughter was different. Not like the other girls in her class, who had caring, laughing dads—dads who picked them up for outings, shared jokes with them, and encouraged them to think independently. Throughout her childhood, and into her teen years, Aditi had never experienced that kind of love.

But who was she to judge? They said, after her mother died so suddenly, he had gone into a severe depression for almost five years. When he emerged from the self-imposed exile, he had single-mindedly devoted himself to his political career. She had been packed off to boarding school, so that he could pursue his ambitions unencumbered. As a result, their interaction was sporadic. They had never spent time on a one-on-one basis, just the two of them together. The hangers-on were a constant fixture in her father’s life, and therefore, in hers.

And yet, when he had unexpectedly turned up at school, for sports day or some other function, the father-daughter camaraderie was on full display. Some of it was genuine, but Aditi had to admit that mostly, it was one big fat sham. The artificially-created environment dictated that they both be on their best behaviour—because hey, the whole world was watching!

The attention she got, every time he showed up at the school, was nothing short of embarrassing. To witness the school faculty grovelling, and her classmates gawking, was not pretty. Aditi wanted to hide under her desk, preferably with an engrossing book, and not emerge till her father had departed. But of course, that didn’t happen. Throughout his trip, she was forced to bask in his reflected glory. Even after the visit, many friends would glance at her surreptitiously, wondering what it must be like to have such an exalted pedigree.

Aditi had learnt to take it in her stride. As she grew older, it bothered her less and less. And once she’d moved to New York, she’d welcomed her anonymity with open arms. Her roommate in New York City, Sonam, also belonged to a high-profile family—her father was a well-known industrialist in Pune, so she was accustomed to plenty of attention herself. This worked well for both the girls, as theirs was a relationship of equals, most of the time. Their families were happy with the arrangement too, because they felt there was no need for young girls to live all by themselves. This way, they could keep an eye out for each other.

Aditi was not sure how long she catnapped. She was jerked awake by the in-flight announcement, requesting passengers to put on their seat belts. In a few minutes, the aircraft was due to land. Up until now, she’d visited Goa during her holidays—often flown in twice, or even three times a year—and always thought of it as the perfect vacation setting. But from now on, Goa was to be more than a holiday destination. It was going to be home.

She had specifically asked her father to keep the home-coming a low-key affair, but she should have known better. As she disembarked, there was a large welcome committee waiting to receive her. It was similar to those cheesy Hindi movies of the sixties, when the hero (or heroine) returned home after a stint in vilayat.

The VIP lounge at Dabolim Airport was buzzing with security personnel, media crew, and assorted flunkies, all of whom wanted to be seen sharing space with the chief minister. In the thick of the action stood Vithalrao Narvekar. He was on his cell phone, in discussion with the head of the advertising agency that was handling his election campaign.

When Aditi spotted him and his entourage, for an awful moment, she felt like turning around and running right back into the plane. Instead, she put on her best smile and stepped forward. Her father was still engrossed in his deliberations. He was disputing the size of his pictures on the outdoor hoardings. They were much too small. The agency was bending over backwards apologizing, but Vithalrao would have none of it. Don’t keep saying sorry sorry, do something! You must go see how Karunanidhi-Jayalalitha win elections! Big, full size photos! Taller than the third floor! Fourth floor! Not like some small postage stamp on—

As he looked up and saw Aditi walking towards him, he broke off his conversation. He hastily ended the call and strode towards her with a smile plastered on his face. His entourage followed, keeping a discreet distance, but nevertheless, moving forward as one homogenous unit.

Aditi spied him sallying forth, belly first. She could see his tummy in profile, and from a distance, it looked like everyone was following the paunch, including Vithalrao himself. His girth was always large, but of late, its rice-fed rotundness had bloated to astronomical proportions. He mopped his countenance with a thin white towel, his trademark accessory. Vithalrao always carried it around and used it frequently, to avoid presenting a shiny visage to the cameras. It made him look oily and old.

In his wake, Aditi noticed a young girl holding up a garland of marigolds and lilies. With a sense of shock, she realized the garland was meant for her. And the posse of photographers had been lined up to record her arrival for posterity. She’d been apprehensive about an over-the-top reception but this was the frigging limit! Marigold garlands! Half-a-dozen photographers! Truckloads of hangers-on! He’ll have the band baja out next, she thought in despair.

However, she had no choice, but to put her best face forward. "Baba!"

Aditi! My dearest Aditi!

She was duly anointed with tilak and garlanded. A round of clapping from the fawning audience followed. Aditi smiled uncertainly, wondering what was supposed to happen next. Her eyes moved towards the ‘exit’ arrow, but her escape route was blocked by her father’s bulk. Vithalrao, not one to waste a good photo-op, had other plans. He was delighted to showcase the arrival of his beautiful young daughter, and give a live demo of how deep the family ties ran. The touching reunion, after four whole months, was a joyous occasion. He made sure it was recorded from every possible angle, by multiple cameras. The great Vithalrao Narvekar tamasha had begun!

She is very tired, you know, Vithalrao beamed benignly, long flight, all the way from New York . . .

Aditi glanced around apologetically, like being tired was somehow offensive to the assembled onlookers. Her eyes were red and smarting, and she knew she looked puffy-cheeked with all the water retention after the long, non-stop flight.

Miss Aditi, Ma’am, can you say a few words please? An eager young reporter thrust a mike forward.

Aditi turned pleadingly to her father, who was lapping up all the attention on her behalf. He turned to her, smiling. When he saw that there was no answering smile on her face, he shook his head at the reporter. No no, not today, she’s very jet-lagged, you see, some other time, maybe, yes?

They were finally moving out towards the waiting car, flanked by security on both sides. As soon as they got in, the sirens went full blast, the red beacon lights flashed, and the white Toyota picked up speed.

Now perhaps, they could have a normal conversation, Aditi reasoned, as a father and daughter should. Where’s Maithi? she asked. Maithili Asgaonkar was her childhood classmate and lifelong bestie, way before the word was invented. They were in touch on FB and made it a point to Skype each other every week. Maithili had promised to show up at the airport. So why hadn’t she come?

Umm, Vithalrao was shifty-eyed, I thought you might not want her coming at the airport itself, so she is waiting at home.

You asked her not to come?

"Better thing, na?" Vithalrao was trying to sugarcoat his manipulations. He hadn’t wanted Maithili to get undue attention, Aditi guessed. He’d wanted his daughter to hog the limelight.

She changed the subject, asking for the latest news on the campaign trail. Elections were less than five months away, and this year, there was strong political opposition to the Vithalrao regime. In fact, the race to the finish was already getting brutal.

"Makka susti jalla, Adi, very tired I am, her father sighed gustily. But I will keep trying for the sake of the people. They need me."

Yeah, right, Aditi reflected, the Americanism coming naturally, spontaneously. Why was he still trying to push the whole ‘I’m so indispensable’ spiel? That sell-by date had expired a long time back.

So Madhav Shinde standing against you, hah! Interesting! Madhav Shinde was his arch rival from the opposition camp. Aditi was aware that the young man was dynamic, and deserved a chance. She was also cognizant of the fact that that her father broke out into a severe allergy every time Shinde’s name was mentioned. This time was no exception.

"Interesting? You call him interesting? That bloody loafer, no-good paadu, the fart, he thinks he can beat me! Beat Vithalrao Narvekar!" He shook his head violently. His breath was coming in short bursts, his veins were popping out, and he was sweating again.

Aditi figured it was smart to abort the discussion. She smiled sweetly. Anyway, he’s not important, let’s talk about—

But her father’s ringing cell phone cut her off. He turned his attention on the caller ID, then glanced at her apologetically. He had to take the call. Hello, Sir! His subservience was clearly coming through, so Aditi guessed it had to be someone high up, someone important. "Ji, Sir, ji, an ingratiating laugh, aapki meherbani, Sir, nahi, nahi, ye aap kya keh rahen hain, no no, it was nothing . . . "

Halfway through the conversation, Aditi pretty much got the gist of it. A senior Union Minister, probably the Home Minister, was visiting Goa soon. And her father, who excelled in being his very own one-man PR machine, was busy working his charm.

It was a long telephone call. As they turned into their driveway, he was still at it. So much for Narvekar family bonding time! The driver was holding the car door open for her. She got out, and saw that her father was still smiling into the phone and nodding, as if the person sitting in New Delhi could see him long-distance. When she indicated she was going in, he flicked his wrist dismissively. It was a familiar gesture she’d gotten used to, since she was a child. It was his way of saying, Go on, get away from my space.

There was no question of Aditi carrying her own bags—the liveried staff was already hovering around them. Every time she returned to Goa, the privilege of being waited on, hand and foot, was something she felt guilty about. But it came with the territory. The CM’s bungalow, Mahalaxmi, on Altinho Hill, Panaji, had been their residence for almost a decade. Now that she’d studied art history, she could appreciate its impressive façade from a more informed point of view. The sculptured detailing on the windows and doorways, the balustrades, the majestically arched entrances—every feature displayed a mastery over line and form!

Of course, the architecture was not the only reason Aditi was seeing the mansion with new eyes. As she climbed the steps into the columned verandah, she felt a sense of belonging, a closer vibe with the place. This beautiful bungalow was where she and her dad would be living together, under one roof, for the first time ever. (At least, from what she could remember!) She’d be spending a length of time here, unless her father ended up losing his chief ministership, which didn’t seem very likely.

The other possibility, one she couldn’t wish away, was that he’d want to get her married off. He’d hinted about it the last time she’d visited. She wasn’t getting any younger, he’d said, so perhaps it was time to ‘settle down’. But Aditi felt she was way too young to be thinking marriage—she hadn’t even turned twenty-one!

However, knowing her father and the way his mind worked, she wasn’t holding her breath. Her birthday party would be orchestrated to introduce his dearest daughter, Aditi Narvekar, of marriageable age, to the matrimonial market. Going going gone—to the wealthiest, stroke, most powerful, stroke, most influential bidder on the guest list.

After all, he had to justify all the black money he’d be spending to host the event, wouldn’t he?

2

Aditi climbed the imposing stone stairway that led up to the verandah. How many times had she scraped her knees as a kid, running up these very same steps! The wave of nostalgia was further heightened by a familiar voice calling her name. It was Maithili, from across the lawn.

Maithi! Aditi turned around and waved frantically.

Maithili ran towards the verandah, squealing in delight, arms outstretched. The girls hugged each other like they hadn’t met for years. And then, Aditi pulled back and scrutinized her friend with a mock frown. Hey Miss Beauty Queen! Oh my god, more beautiful every time I see you!

Maithili Asgaonkar lowered her head modestly. She had been crowned Miss Goa when she was seventeen. Now at twenty-one, she was a local celebrity, with a long line-up of admirers. Aditi was very proud of her friend. While she herself could never win a beauty contest, she encouraged Maithili to make the most of her drop-dead