Professional Documents
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Gandhi
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fas.org/irp/congress/1992_rpt/bcci/05foreign.htm
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In Maino country
http://www.hinduonnet.com/fline/fl1509/15090140.htm
VAIJU NARAVANE
recently in Orbassano
THE car hurtles down the dangerous and ageing motorway between
Milan and Turin at 170 km an hour. The motorway, Italy's first, was
converted from a two-lane road to a three-lane highway to cope with
the ever-increasing traffic between the country's two largest industrial
cities. The third lane was created by carving out a certain width each
from the security lane and the two existing lanes, with the result that
the width of the lanes now do not conform to European Union norms.
So when an agitated and reckless driver overtakes me, horn blaring, at
some 190 kmph on the right (wrong) side, I begin mentally saying my
adieux.
It is a big car, a powerful Alfa Romeo 155 Turbo 2.5, 16V injection,
loaned to me by a friend (how else will you get to that godforsaken
place, he had said rhetorically, tossing me the keys), and it eats up the
kilometres effortlessly. The cherry trees are in bloom and the
paddyfields that make up the flat monotonous landcape of the plains of
the Po river are thirsting for water after a mild but very dry winter.
This is my third foray into the land of Sonia Mainoputri. Late for a
"photo appointment" with Avtar Singh Rana, the director of design and
development of Fiat's Lancia cars, who is also a municipal councillor for
Orbassano, I step on the accelerator pedal.
The first time I went to the tiny, dusty industrial suburb on the outskirts
of Torino where Sonia Gandhi grew up was just after Rajiv Gandhi's
assassination in 1991. The town of 22,000 inhabitants then talked of
nothing but the "tragic end of the fable of our local Cenerentola"
(Cinderella). Now that Sonia has seized the reins of the Congress party,
the comments are more caustic, especially from people who knew her
as a child and as a young girl.
I set off for the Maino residence. The last time I visited, it was closed
and shuttered. Now the windows are open and there is a large metal
blue car parked in the driveway behind the high gate with its
prominently displayed "Beware of Dog" sign. Number 14 Via Bellini is a
large two-storey house painted a dull, dark ochre with chocolate brown
shutters. In a generally poor and run-down area, the house is
conspicuous by its neat and well-kept appearance. The neighbourhood
is a mixture of Sardinian, Sicilian and Calabrese with a sprinkling of
north Italian names: Podda, Eroe, Bertorino, Gallino.
There are three names on the interphone outside. Maino A., Maino N.
and Maino Predebon. I know that Anushka, Sonia's elder sister, is in
town. I ring the bell.
"I don't know, not for a while. I am just the maid. I can't tell you
anymore." I know that voice. It bears an uncanny resemblance to Sonia
Gandhi's. The reaction does not surprise me.
As I walk away from the house I bump into two teenage girls, Serena
and Sylvia. "Do you know who lives there?" I ask.
"Oh, that's the Maino residence," they say in unison. "Our mothers
both know Sonia very well. They were in class together. Why don't you
come with us?" Serena is 18, pimply, bespectacled and jolly. Sylvia is
blonde, 21, serious and intellectual-looking. They are both studying at
the local agricultural university.
"He never does this for outsiders. He seems to trust and like you,"
Innocenza tells me. I am touched and flattered. "My son is getting
married and I am making lace doilies for the wedding," she tells me
proudly. "I was not well off like the Maino girls. I had to leave school
and start working at the age of fourteen. I was at school with Sonia
until the age of 12. After that she went to the more fashionable college
of Maria Ausiliatrice in Giaveno, 15 km away, run by the nuns. Sonia
was a year older than I - I was born in 1947, she in 1946. She was nice
but always aware of her social superiority. But Anushka, her sister, is
not nice. She is a nasty piece of work, that one. We were very upset by
Sonia's husband's death. We were touched by her dignity and admired
her for it. I think age and the tragedy have made her kinder. It shows in
her face. Her son is the best-liked in the family. He seems to be a real
gentleman. And so goodlooking! But the daughter takes after her aunt
- tough, arrogant and stubborn. I remember the tantrums Priyanka
threw when she came visiting with her mother - a typically rich, spoilt
brat. We were all very disappointed when Sonia decided to enter
politics. I'm sure she did it for her daughter. They also say there are
corruption charges against the family, that Rajiv took a lot of money.
But somehow I cannot believe he did it for himself. He was such a
prince of a man. In any case no one who enters politics remains or
emerges unscathed. Even the most honest person becomes a thief. So
it was inevitable, I suppose. Whatever happens, I wish her well."
"I can't tell you the exact price of the Shatoosh. I received it a few days
ago and the price has not been finalised. But it will certainly be
between four and six million lire (between $2,000 and $3,000)," the
shop assistant had told me on my last trip. A wooden cupboard from
Kerala was selling for three million lire - $1,500 - while thepichwais
were priced even higher.
I had found the horsey-looking young woman minding the shop a little
bizzare. She boasted about her trips to India to buy stuff for the shop
but denied she or the shop had any connection with the Nehru-Gandhi
family. "I'm told Sonia comes from somewhere around here," she said,
trying to look vague, "but the shop has nothing to do with her. The
owner is someone from Torino." I had persisted and she had once more
vehemently denied any connection. I had found it strange that a shop
assistant out in the Italian boondocks should speak fluent English and
be so knowledgeable about Indian antiques. She must have a very
generous employer indeed, I had mused, pondering over the mystery.
"No," she said, "I can't stay. I have a special guest coming to dinner
tonight." When we asked her who it was that was so special, she said
with a peculiar toss of the head: "It's the son of Indira Gandhi, India's
Prime Minister." I can still see her standing there. A little later she went
to India. She had turned 21 by then. And then one day we opened our
newspapers and saw the headlines. She had married Rajiv Gandhi. She
had sent a telegram home to her father from India informing him of her
decision as soon as she turned 21. She was always a little
manipulative. She should do well in politics," adds Sister Anna Maria
with a wry twist to her lips.
I visit the chapel with its murals and air of quiet repose. Sylvia can no
longer contain her tears. "Can you imagine," she says, "my mother
passed so many years of her life here. In a certain sense a part of me
lurks in these walls." Sister Domenica puts a comforting arm around
her shoulders.