Chankya's Chant Read Online Free PDF

nationalisation happens immediately, there won’t be enough time to handle both sides of the transaction efficiently, sir.’
    ‘We must make sure the minister enacts his drama of nationalisation a little later.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘We show him how he can partner us in this profitable scheme.’
    Gangasagar began to understand the incestuous relationship between business and politics.

    It was late in the evening. Gangasagar was on his way out of the office when Agrawalji called him in to his cabin. ‘The planning commission has announced that over the next five years the country shall invest heavily in dams, roads and bridges,’ he announced.
    ‘But we’re not in the construction business,’ Gangasagar gently reminded his mentor.
    ‘Then let’s get in.’
    ‘But it’s a very specialised industry. We’re traders, sir. We don’t know the first thing about construction.’
    ‘Just incorporate the company. Allot ten per cent of the shares to Lakshmi & Co. Register the company’s name with suppliers of steel and cement.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘You can start placing orders for construction materials.’
    ‘But we do not have any projects! Why would we buy materials without projects in hand?’
    ‘Because we plan to sell the construction outfit a year later.’
    ‘But who will buy a construction firm with no projects?’
    ‘Any of the other construction firms, because ours will be one of the very few that has huge stockpiles of cement and steel, both of which will be in very short-supply!’
    ‘And what if the finance minister accuses us of hoarding?’
    ‘How can he do that? His son-in-law owns Lakshmi & Co.’

    ‘I need you to go to Patna,’ said Agrawalji to Gangasagar.
    ‘I’m at your command, sir,’ said Gangasagar.
    ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ asked his mentor.
    ‘If it’s important, you’ll tell me,’ replied the young man.
    ‘As you know, Patna is the state capital of Bihar. Bihar is rich in mineral deposits, particularly iron ore.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘The government is handing out mining concessions. We need to own a piece of the action.’
    ‘And what is it that you want me to do, sir?’
    ‘The government doesn’t seem to know where the deposits are. I need to know what lies beneath before I bid, not after .’
    ‘You want me to take a shovel and dig for iron ore?’
    ‘No. I need you to go meet a friend of mine who used to be employed as a fighter pilot with the RAF. He lives in Patna.’
    ‘We plan to drop bombs to open up the earth?’
    ‘Enough with the sarcasm, Ganga. You’ll see why you need him. It’s a wonderfully simple and elegant solution.’

    Squadron Leader Mohanlal was a typical scotch-and-soda gentleman. Whisky was his elixir of life, his thick white bushy moustache providing the perfect filter for whatever he drank. He had learned to fly at the Delhi Flying School and had been employed as a pilot for the Indian Post when he was requisitioned by the British Royal Air Force as part of a twenty-four-member Indian squad that would fly Hurricanes into Germany.
    On his last sortie he had suddenly found his entire dashboard missing. He hadn’t noticed because of the ruckus made by the engine. Black smoke and oil had started emanating from his Hurricane’s engine at eighteen thousand feet over the English Channel. At seven thousand feet he was advised by ground control to bale out over the channel. A boat would pick him up.
    ‘Don’t send the boat,’ he had replied over the crackling radio. ‘Why?’ asked the operator. ‘Because I can’t fucking swim, that’s why!’ he shouted. Mohanlal had soon glided towards the white cliffs of Dover but as soon as he opened up his airplane’s landing gear, the Hurricane burst into flames. He managed to crash-land and had to be dragged from the burning wreckage. He hated the hospital food but loved his nurse and the scotch. He soon realised that scotch never changed its mind the way the nurse did.
    After the war ended,