The Taj Lands End lobby was opulent. The light from cascading crystal chandeliers danced across the pristine marble floors. Rich hues emanated from massive, gilt-framed paintings, and the intricate patterns of antique Persian rugs adorned the walls. As Maryam Hussain stepped through the revolving glass doors, a tall Sikh doorman, his crimson uniform striking against a neatly tied black turban, offered a warm smile and gestured toward the main reception desk.
“Welcome to the Taj Lands End, ma’am,” the receptionist greeted her, her voice bright and professional. “Checking in today?”
“Actually, no. I have an appointment with a guest, Mr. Iqbal Khurshid,” Maryam replied, sliding her driver’s license across the polished mahogany counter.
The receptionist glanced down at the card. “Ah, Lahore,” she noted with a fresh smile. “Is this your first time visiting Bombay?”
Maryam nodded politely as she waited. Back in Lahore, her political consultancy was a firmly established success, a well-oiled machine that handled everything from data-driven social media campaigns to public relations and corporate fundraising. Her client list boasted seasoned legislators and provincial governors—a testament to her winning strategies. A trained accountant, she had traded a lucrative corporate banking career a decade ago for the unpredictable world of elections, carving out a formidable reputation in the process. Yet, as her flight had ascended over West Punjab earlier that morning, she remained nervous and anxious. The leap from regional consulting into the wild arena of national politics felt vast and scary.
“Miss Hussain,” the receptionist said, returning her identification. “Welcome to Bombay.”
“Thank you. Maryam works just fine,” she answered with a reassuring smile.
“Maryam,” the receptionist acknowledged, gesturing toward the lounge. “Mr. Dhakam is waiting to escort you.”
A man in a sharp blue suit was already walking in her direction. “Salaam, ma’am,” he greeted her, “Good flight?”
“Walaikum Assalaam, Mr. Dhakam,” she replied, extending her hand to shake his, but he had already turned around.
“This way, please,” he said, directing her toward the private elevators.
They ascended all the way to the top floor. The Presidential Suite was vast, wrapped in rich maple and cherry wood paneling and punctuated by sprawling leather sofas. A massive M.F. Husain painting, depicting his iconic running horses, dominated one accent wall. Opposite it, enormous bay windows offered a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the Arabian Sea stretching out to the hazy gray horizon.
Iqbal emerged from the bedroom to her left, wearing a crisp, starched white kurta pajama. A warm smile spread effortlessly across his face. “Thank you,” he said, his voice carrying a genuine, booming enthusiasm. “It is so good to finally meet you in person.” He stuck out his hand and gave hers a firm shake.
Looking at him, Maryam found it impossible to believe the man was in his seventies. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he possessed an instantly imposing presence. His silvering hair and the subtle wrinkles etched around his sharp brown eyes were the only true hints of aging. His face, even shadowed by a light evening stubble, retained a remarkable, youthful vitality.
“Maryam… may I call you Maryam?” he inquired, his gaze direct but friendly.
“Yes, absolutely,” she replied with a steady nod.
“Can I get you anything at all? Something to eat, perhaps a drink?” he offered, gesturing vaguely toward the suite’s private bar.
Maryam glanced at the amber-hued alcohol bottles lining the shelves. She didn’t drink, and found it odd that Iqbal would extend such an offer to a Muslim woman he was meeting for the first time. She kept a straight face though and replied, “No thank you, I had a rather late lunch before boarding.”
“So,” he continued, a slight smile playing on his lips as he turned to the counter and poured himself a drink, “what are your first impressions of Bombay?”
“I visited briefly as a child with my parents,” she said, “but this is my first proper trip as an adult. It’s certainly… humid. And the traffic is horrible. The airport, though, was quite impressive.”
He filled a crystal glass with chilled water from a nearby carafe and handed it to her. “You know,” he said, a hint of deep nostalgia filtering into his voice, “I used to have a flat here. Close to Mehboob Studios.”
Maryam took a sip. “Really? From my research, I had the impression your family grew up closer to South Bombay, in Byculla. Isn’t Bandra where all the Bollywood stars live?”
Iqbal spread his arms wide, tilted his head back slightly, and turned to her with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes—a signature, effortless move. Maryam returned the smile, a genuine warmth spreading through her. As far as raw charm went, she thought, even Shah Rukh Khan would have a hard time matching Iqbal.
“Come,” Iqbal said, gesturing toward the private terrace with an inviting sweep of his hand, “let’s take a walk outside. Bandstand is particularly lovely in the evenings.”
The sticky serenity of the Bombay coast felt a world away a month later, trapped inside the hushed, climate-controlled war room on the eighteenth floor of the Opus Building. Outside the sleek glass walls, Dubai’s shimmering Marina Bay gleamed under a scorching desert sun. Inside, Maryam walked over to a massive electronic display where a detailed electoral map of the United States of India glowed intensely.
“The VBP’s stronghold is right here in the middle,” Maryam stated, her finger tracing across the vast, deep orange expanse that dominated the center of the screen. “Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh—this entire central belt—along with Gujarat, Rajasthan, and Maharashtra. Together, they represent close to half the national population. If they manage to excite even a portion of that core base, the election is basically lost even before a single vote is cast.”
“With all due respect, Maryam,” began Manishankar Iyer, his tone carrying the analytical precision honed by his decades as a professor at IIT Kharagpur. A brilliant statistician whose sudden defection from the Democratic Liberal Alliance had been a massive coup for Iqbal’s nascent campaign, he adjusted his glasses and continued: “The notion of a unified Hindu vote is a complete fallacy. We have substantial Muslim communities all over–Delhi, Lucknow, Bhopal. All over. The Dalit vote also is a highly decisive factor. It’s more complex than just the VBP getting all the Hindu votes. .”
“Still,” Iqbal murmured from a leather couch in the quiet corner of the room, his eyes never leaving the map, “they win, don’t they? And easily…”
“By waving their saffron flag and screaming about Hindus in danger,” Deepti Sinha scoffed, her voice laced with open disdain. Her relaxed attire—a baggy gray hoodie, worn blue jeans, and sneakers casually propped on the edge of the conference table—offered no outward hint of the brilliant mind within. A Stanford computer science graduate and a former machine-learning prodigy at Google’s DeepMind, Deepti was the campaign’s social media engineering powerhouse. Her groundbreaking research on deep learning algorithms had revealed the unsettling accuracy with which online activity could be translated into eerily intimate user profiles.
“Really?” Iyer responded, swiveling his chair sharply to face her, his bushy gray eyebrows arching with a mixture of disbelief and professorial sarcasm. “And where exactly did you obtain that profound political insight, young lady? From ChatGPT?”
“Algorithmic insights are valuable,” Deepti replied, her voice remaining steady and cold. “But some political realities are just obvious. Common sense, Professor. The typical VBP voter is middle or lower-middle class. They identify as proud Hindus. They have been indoctrinated by micro-targeted feeds to resent Muslims and Western secular influences.”
“Crude, unscientific stereotypes,” Iyer scoffed, turning back toward the screen with a dismissive wave of his hand. “To reduce hundreds of millions of individuals to such simplistic categories completely ignores the complex economic calculus of voting. People vote on their material realities—on what they believe will ensure security and prosperity of their families.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Professor,” Deepti retorted, her voice rising with exhaustion. “Are you even aware of the scale of the VBP’s social media empire? Do you have any idea of the obscene sums of money they pour into it daily? And how exactly is your old party, the DLP, doing? Oh, right—they’re fucking crushing it, aren’t they?”
“Kindly refrain from such foul language in a professional meeting,” Iyer snapped, his face tightening with anger as a flicker of wounded pride flared in his eyes. “Firstly it’s the DLP. The Democratic Liberal Alliance, young lady, represents the only remaining bastion of secular reason against the VBP’s divisive rhetoric.” He then turned back to Maryam, his tone softening, though still laced with a patronizing edge. “No offense, Maryam. You understand, Punjab politics are… inherently more localized.”
“No, no, you’re entirely correct,” Maryam conceded with a dismissive shrug. “Our regional parties, the PTI included, hold no real sway in the broader national context.” Her gaze drifted down toward the southern states, each rendered in a different, fractured hue on the display. “Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Karnataka, Andhra—it’s the same problem everywhere: they are too localized to matter on a national scale. And each province stubbornly insists on fronting its own favorite-son presidential candidate, relying purely on ethnic and linguistic loyalty.”
Maryam stepped closer to the screen, looking directly at Iyer. “But Deepti is right about the macro-picture. The VBP has masterfully exploited the emotional appeal of Hindu nationalism. The old Congress, post-Nehru and Indira, has never recovered its former dominance, and its splinter parties have failed to establish a credible, unified national presence. The DLA, included.”
“Seriously, man,” Deepti chuckled, shaking her head. “The DLA is a house of cards barely holding itself together. You just need someone to fart and the whole thing will collapse.”
Iyer’s face flushed a deep crimson, his body pivoting sharply to confront Deepti again, but Iqbal raised a single, calming hand. His low, resonant baritone cut through the rising room tension instantly.
“What about the Muslim League?” Iqbal asked, smoothly shifting the focus.
A wave of perplexed, silent stares turned toward him.
“The Muslim League died with Jinnah,” Maryam responded, struggling to mask her bewilderment. “Without the unifying crisis of a physical Partition, there was no central, driving force to hold Muslims together across different regions after independence. I mean,” she added, “you could trip over a dozen different Muslim Leagues in West Punjab alone. They are completely fragmented.”
“Then that’s what we do,” Deeti said waving her hands above her head, “Rally them together under a Green flag.”
“So, that is your brilliant strategy?” Iyer snapped, his voice trembling as he bristled from the interruption. “Fan the flames of communal hatred? Don’t you millennials have any sense of history? The amount of blood that’s been shed.”
“Yo, calm down grandpa,” Deepti said, her voice frigid. “And for fuck’s sake, dial down the moraility shit. Richie Rich here is throwing an obscene amount of cash at us for a win, not for a lecture on ethics.”
Iqbal pushed himself up from his chair and walked slowly toward the front of the room, standing between his warring strategists. He looked at the map, then offered a sharp, enigmatic smile.
“Maybe there is something there,” Iqbal said, his voice gaining a cold, commanding strength. His gaze lingered on Deepti for a fraction of a second before sweeping across the room. “Winning in India requires tapping into primal emotions—either for or against something. And sometimes, you have to be willing to do what others won’t.”
Later that evening, Deepti stomped her foot on the curb in pure frustration as yet another rideshare driver canceled. Staring out at the gridlocked traffic paralyzing the Marina, she had just resigned herself to a sweltering walk back to her hotel when a sleek black Mercedes pulled smoothly up to the curb. Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief as the passenger window rolled down, revealing Manishankar Iyer beckoning her inside with a hesitant wave.
“Come, I can give you a lift,” Iyer said.
“Thanks,” Deepti replied, still scrolling aggressively through her phone, “but my ride should be here any minute now.”
“My dear girl,” Iyer said, a hint of his familiar professorial tone creeping in, “at this hour, in this section of Dubai? Not happening. Please, come.”
Deepti looked down at her screen, weighed her options, and with a shrug of pragmatic resignation, slid into the passenger seat. “Thanks,” she murmured.
“Not at all, not at all,” Iyer replied, his driving politeness bordering on excessive as he navigated into the traffic. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Do you have any dinner plans, Deepti? I know a delightful Middle Eastern gem just a short drive away. My treat, I insist!”
Deepti raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint flashing in her eyes. “Gosh Mr. Iyer! Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Oh, my word—good God, no, no, no!” Iyer stammered, his hands waving defensively off the steering wheel. “Heavens, no! You are the exact same age as my daughter.”
“Relax,” Deepti said, a genuine laugh finally bubbling up. “I was just messing with you. Honestly, though, I’m completely beat. All I need is my hotel bed and sleep.”
“Nonsense!” Iyer exclaimed, waving away her protests. “A young girl like you, tired? Impossible! We must eat. Al Mandaloun matches your standard, I promise.” He offered a rueful, quieter smile as he looked at the road. “We did get off on the wrong foot today, didn’t we? But we are on the same team now, and we need to understand each other. My daughter is studying at Brown… I desperately need the bloody money from this campaign.”
Deepti chuckled, her expression softening into a knowing look. “I hear ya. This whole circus could fold or get shit-canned any minute, so yeah—let’s make hay while the sun shines.” She glanced up at the dashboard. “But yo, I think you’re about to miss your turn.”
“Bloody hell!” Iyer shouted, throwing the Mercedes into a hard right turn, leaving a chaotic cascade of blaring horns echoing in their wake.
Al Mandaloun was a swanky Lebanese establishment. Crisp white awnings billowed gently overhead, mirroring the shimmering surfaces of tranquil ambient ponds, while the soothing murmur of gurgling fountains made it feel like dining on a luxury yacht. The food arrived in an overwhelming spread: silken hummus generously drizzled with fragrant, dark olive oil; cloud-like pita bread steaming from the oven; intensely flavorful, perfectly fried falafels; and exquisitely seasoned, melt-in-your-mouth beef kebabs.
“With a name like Iyer, I assumed you’d be a strict vegetarian,” Deepti remarked, watching him with open amusement as he attacked the platter. “But look at you go. That’s prime beef you’re enjoying, you know. Dude, chew your food before shoving more in.”
Iyer simply shrugged, a sheepish, unbothered grin spreading across his face as he speared another succulent chunk of meat. “That is precisely something my wife would say.”
“How long have you been married?” Deepti asked, dipping a piece of pita into the hummus.
“Too long. Twenty-eight years… I think,” Iyer replied warmly. “No, no, no. She is a wonderful woman, my Aparna. Bengali. Terrifically smart.”
“How did you guys meet?”
“Arranged marriage. Thank God for our traditions, or I would still be a lonely bachelor,” Iyer laughed. “What about you? Aren’t your parents pressuring you to settle down?”
“That’s… a bit complicated,” Deepti replied, her expression turning serious.
Iyer, sensing the change in mood, decided to switch topics. “So, what’s your take on Iqbal? I mean, why?”
“My guess? Boredom, for starters,” Deepti mused, her tone turning thoughtful. “Plus, the guy is loaded, and he’s a fucking narcissist. A legacy project, maybe? He gave me the standard ‘making a difference’ spiel, need to give back, that kind of shit. And then…” she paused, winking, “he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Iyer’s fork slipped from his fingers, clattering sharply against the porcelain plate. “Well, well, well,” he chuckled. “I didn’t think millennials actually watched classic cinema. I am deeply shocked… and thoroughly impressed. Godfather part one or two, then?”
“Part two, hands down,” Deepti replied without a split-second of hesitation. “De Niro as the young Vito Corleone? Fucking fire.”
“See?” Iyer said, his smile widening across the table. “Another foundational thing we agree on.”
Deepti smiled back, but then tilted her head, her sharp edge returning. “Do we, though? Where do you stand on LGBTQ rights in the Federation?”
Iyer’s smile faltered slightly. He cleared his throat, his tone instantly becoming more cautious and academic. “Well, I believe in equal human rights, of course. But these social evolutions take time. Each province within the Federation has its own unique journey, its own rhythm of cultural progress. To aggressively impose a Western liberal agenda on an undivided country as deeply rooted in tradition and ancient faith as India… well, it could be counterproductive. Dangerous, even.”
“So, that’s a no,” Deepti summarized flatly. “Alright, how about this one: a robust, federally funded social safety net, or are you of the opinion that welfare just funds the lazy?”
“Deepti,” Iyer sighed, shaking his head gently. “India operates on a completely different axis than California. Those Valley social justice talking points don’t sway voters in Bihar or Uttar Pradesh. Out here, politics is fueled by populism, religious fervor, and cold, hard cash.”
“Yeah, well, what’s right is right, regardless of the zip code,” Deepti retorted. “But at the end of the day, Iqbal is the one calling the shots.”
“And that is precisely what is keeping me awake at night,” Iyer confessed, his voice dropping into a low, grave whisper. He leaned in across the table. “He embraced that religious rhetoric today far too eagerly for my liking. I have absolutely no desire to be complicit in a campaign strategy that could ignite widespread, uncontrollable communal violence across this country.”
Deepti shrugged, her eyes flickering toward Iyer’s tense expression for a brief moment before she looked away. “You worry too much, Mr. Iyer. Eat. Your food is getting cold.”
Maryam looked up at the ceiling of her dimly lit hotel room, the glowing screen of an iPad providing the room’s only illumination.
“Oh, come on, Maryam. The man chose you out of thousands of consultants for a reason. You are damn good at what you do,” a voice from the iPad said.
Maryam had known Faiz since they were teenagers in high school. They had even dated briefly in their twenties, but Maryam’s demanding corporate career and Faiz’s tumultuous journey through two divorces had eventually led them down separate paths. Yet, their underlying friendship had endured. Through every professional triumph and bitter personal setback, whenever Maryam needed an anchor or a pragmatic counselor, Faiz was always there—her sounding board, her unofficial therapist.
“The sheer scale of this, Faiz… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever done,” Maryam replied softly, almost to herself. “And we are building a national operation from nothing.”
“He’s hardly starting from zero, Maryam,” Faiz countered. “He is a billionaire. He could bankroll this entire national circus. That kind of money buys you a hell of a head start.”
Maryam turned onto her side, looking at the screen. “It was his raw charisma that reeled me in during our first meeting in Bombay, to be honest. If I can somehow scale that…”
“Charisma has its limits,” Faiz replied bluntly. “How do you project that on a phone screen? No, you need something edgier, something that instantly cuts through the media noise. A massive scandal, a polarizing controversy—something that gets noticed, goes viral.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Maryam countered, her brow furrowing. “The politicians are already shouting, vying for attention, creating a tamasha on the news channels. How do we stand out by adding to the noise? We need a real, authentic connection with the electorate, not just manufactured, toxic drama.”
“Think about it from a media perspective, Maryam,” Faiz continued, his voice gaining a persuasive edge. “He’s not some corrupt career politician, kissing babies and taking bribes. He’s a famous real estate mogul, swimming in more wealth than most citizens see in ten lifetimes, suddenly deciding to wade into the mess of a presidential election. That is inherently dramatic. It’s the ultimate outsider narrative. People will hate him, people will love him, but what’s undeniable is that he will be noticed.”
“That sounds dangerously close to an Indian version of Donald Trump,” Maryam exclaimed, her voice sharp with instant alarm. “And we all know exactly how that turned out for America.”
“But the man won, didn’t he?” Faiz countered, his tone completely unapologetic. “In our business, Maryam, what language speaks louder than victory?”
“But Iqbal is fundamentally different, India is different,” Maryam insisted.
“Okay, point taken,” Faiz conceded. “But you can shape the narrative from an Indian point of view. What is actually driving him to do this? Who is Iqbal Khurshid beneath the billionaire persona? How can you get millions of working-class Indians to relate to his rags-to-riches story? You mentioned earlier that Deepti and Iyer were practically tearing each other apart over the direction.”
“Yes,” Maryam sighed, rubbing her temples. “Deepti wants him to completely lean into the minority angle – the ultimate savior of the Muslims under a unified Green Tide.”
“And what did Iyer say to that?”
“He’s deeply terrified of the religious angle,” Maryam replied, her voice tightening. “He thinks it’s too toxic, too volatile. He kept saying we would be playing with fire—that it would spark a civil war.”
“A Muslim savior? Iqbal?” Faiz repeated, a sharp, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “This is the guy who throws champagne parties on superyachts and gets photographed by paparazzi stumbling out of London nightclubs with models half his age! You want to turn him into a pious, moral authority that mullahs will get behind? The tabloids would tear him apart. Is he even a practicing Muslim?”
Maryam looked away from the iPad, staring back out into the dark, silent hotel room as the true weight of her assignment settled over her.
“Was Jinnah?” she whispered softly.
***
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