The hotel room was modest with two queen beds separated by a built-in nightstand, a small desk in the far corner and a cushioned chair next to it. The only noise in the room, a gentle hum, came from the AC unit near the ceiling. The large flat screen television with its volume muted lit the room in a hazy white light. A phone plugged into a charger next to it buzzed frequently. Kneeling on his prayer mat in the middle of the room, Iqbal Khurshid turned his head one way, then the other, and caressed his face gently with open palms. He leaned over and looked at his phone. He had been praying for less than five minutes and there were already over two hundred unread messages. He shook his head and picked up the remote and unmuted the TV.
“Is there any doubt that there will be another saffron wave?”
“The exit polls show some pullback for BJP.”
“Exit polls are humbug. The country has grown in stature ever since the BJP has come to power.”
“But the economy?”
“The economy? It is booming! The Sensex has been breaking records every month.”
“The common man can’t buy tomatoes and he’s talking about the stock market.”
“All Modi does is play the religious card.”
“And what about the other party?”
Iqbal turned off the TV. It would be at least an hour before the initial election results started rolling in. He needed to get ready. He went to the closet and laid out his sherwani on the bed. A neutral, beige color is what his advisors had settled on. He went over to the desk and looked at the two folders that he had placed there. One read, “Victory Speech,” the other wasn’t labelled. He opened it, and read softly, “Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim. Asalaam Walaikum brothers and sisters. We stand here tonight, with our heads held high.” He closed the folder, and tapped it a couple of times, and turned on the TV again.
Two hours later, Iqbal opened the door of his room. His security detail immediately surrounded him and guided him towards the elevator. Waiting there was his campaign manager Fatima Hussain, dressed in a brightly colored shalwar kameez, her hair tied in a tight bun, a green dupatta draped over her head. She looked up from her phone and smiled at him, a nervous smile. He chuckled and held the door of the elevator open for her to enter. Someone pressed the lobby button and the doors closed. When the doors opened again, there was a huge crowd waiting outside, that erupted into spontaneous and chaotic applause on seeing him. Iqbal’s instinct was to shake the hands of his supporters but his guards pushed him through the crowd towards the stage. There was a large banner spread across the entire back wall of the stage: “Hilton Karachi Welcomes The Muslim League of India.” As Iqbal walked towards the podium, Fatima pulled him to the side and whispered, “Still too close to call Janaab, But we have swept Punjab, Sindh, Balouch and Kashmir. Strong leads in Bengal and Andhra, and UP and Maharashtra are toss ups. Inshallah, this may still be our night.” Iqbal nodded and turned towards the audience. With fists pumping in the air, he shouted, “Hindustan Zindabad. Hindustan Zindabad.”