KALYUG (18 page)

‘I. DON’T. Want. To. Shoot. You,’ Raghav said once again, punctuating each word with a stab of his gun-toting hand. ‘So stay down and listen to me.’

Lying on his back, Qureshi glared back at him with undisguised anger and, more importantly from Raghav’s perspective, a grudging recognition of the circumstances.

Just as he was about to instruct the major-general to sit up with both palms pressing against the ground, the roar of an engine reached his ears. He looked up just in time to see his own vehicle lurch towards him.

Richa was in the driver’s seat.

11

16th September, 2012. Vagamon, Kerala.

Death, postponed.

Nazim Qazi was only too aware of the squad around them, the assault rifles in their hands primed and ready, fingers eagerly anticipating the command to fire.

Death, nonetheless.

Unexpectedly, rough hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him to his feet. None of the fellow prisoners turned their heads, not even out of a curiosity reflex – instead, just as he had been a few seconds earlier, they knelt with their heads bowed, hands tied behind their back, hoping that their captors would be more merciful than they themselves had ever been.

Nazim was struck by the cold intensity of the eyes that stared back at him through the slits of the black hood that the man in front of him was wearing. He had seen such eyes before, in the training camps of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, and had no doubt that the man who had pulled him up had killed, would continue to kill remorselessly.

‘Nazim Sulaiman Qazi,’ the captor said, and the captive nodded silently. Defiance blazed in his eyes for the briefest of instants as anger fought with reason. Reason won and the suicidal antagonism slipped out of his eyes.

‘Kashmir?’

Again, Nazim nodded.

‘Khidar se?’

‘Kupwara.’

‘Yahan kaise?’

Nazim had asked himself that question many times, and far too often recently. How had he gotten here, in the company of terrorists, into the brotherhood of those who believed in an Islam that had been completely alien to him ten years ago? Was it the disillusionment with a brother who had joined the Army, or revenge for the father who had paid the price for that act? The impetuousness of youth, of believing that all he needed to bring a government to its knees was an AK-47 and a few grenades, of trusting in an invincibility that was not to be.

Nazim shrugged, resigned to his fate. Did it matter anymore that he had joined fellow jihadists for a final run-though before they staged their attacks across the southern part of the country? Did it matter anymore that he had spoken up against, and had been on the verge of getting executed by The Pathan for daring to question his orders? Did it matter that the same fighters who had stood by silently as The Pathan sentenced him now shared the same fate that had been pronounced for him?

‘Why did you speak up against The Pathan?’

For the first time in a long while, Nazim smiled. ‘He’s crazy,’ he said simply, imagining The Pathan’s chagrin. Nazim’s contempt for the terrorist known as The Pathan had grown with every interaction, and it was now boiling over.

‘But his plan was solid,’ his captor persisted. ‘To strike at the heart of Hyderabad . . . the toll would have been tremendous.’

The weariness was evident in Nazim’s eyes as he retorted, ‘Yes. And that was the problem.’

‘You disapprove?’

Nazim snorted. ‘I don’t mind a fight between equals, but . . . this is cowardice. Easy prey.’ He spat into the ground, a blob of blood and spittle that landed right next to the combat boots of his captor.
‘Haraami . . .’

His captor’s eyes narrowed. Then, apparently satisfied, he grabbed Nazim by his shoulders and moved him away from the kneeling prisoners. Nazim caught him nodding at the other gunmen, but was quite unprepared for the sudden and sharp retorts of their weapons firing. He turned around just in time to see the bodies hit the ground, the blood seeping out of their heads.

The other gunmen were already sprinkling generous amounts of lime into the shallow graves that were just a few minutes old. Wordlessly they worked while he watched, shoving his late-unlamented co-conspirators into their final resting places and covering them with another layer of lime and mud. A few minutes later, barely a quarter of an hour since The Pathan had held a gun to his head, there was no trace of the terror camp, or of the men who had participated.

Except him. And the gunman talking to him, the one who had pretended to be a jihadi himself but was actually . . . well, what
was
he?

‘Don’t worry,’ said the gunman near him. ‘I think I may have some use for you after all.’

Death, postponed.

The faint smell of cordite and coppery blood tickled his nostrils.

But death, nonetheless.

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

We were just a minute away, according to the director, from the start of the telecast, and I found myself eagerly awaiting the announcement. It is the same morbid nature, I suppose, that glues spectators to the screen as they watch a calamity unfold live – a tsunami, a tornado, a typhoon, take your pick – the curiosity to see how the president would manage to utter such an outrageous pronouncement on television, watched by a billion-plus people across the globe, and then the chaos that would be unleashed by such mindlessness.

My eyes kept getting drawn to Richa as she followed Sharmila across the floor, a clipboard held close to her chest, occasionally scribbling, sometimes arguing with the director. I didn’t realize I had been obvious about it, though, until Jagannath sidled up to me without me even realizing it, and cleared his throat pointedly. ‘You might want to start taking notes yourself,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘Should I get that clipboard from Richa, or would you rather do it yourself?’

‘I was just feeling sympathetic towards her,’ I retorted, angry more at myself for being so . . . teenaged. ‘Obviously, she’s just one more pawn who has no idea what she’s been drawn into.’

‘Richa’s nobody’s pawn,’ he replied, sounding sincere enough. ‘That girl is a credit to a profession that needs more like her.’

His compliment silenced me. Two years ago, as my book worked its way towards success and then controversy, I had been in and out of too many studios and talk shows to have anything but contempt for the way they sold their opinions. The peak of my infamy had done little to change my opinion of journalists as scavenging bullies, and the two years of obscurity had done little to make me more tolerant of their kind.

Or is he counting on my bias?
My thoughts on the subject had been voiced in numerous blogs – the only medium that I had available to me – and even the most perfunctory background check would have revealed my attitude towards the fourth estate. Hell, if you ask me, I would have said half the nation shared my cynicism.

I shifted my gaze to GK. I didn’t know if he was sweating because of the klieg lights pointed at him or out of nervousness, but the make-up lady certainly had her hands full keeping his face presentably dry for the announcement. Despite the air-conditioner running at full throttle, the room was too full of people to be cool, and the make-up lady kept asking for a pedestal fan for GK’s benefit. She didn’t get it.

As one of the crew members started to count down the final few seconds, Nelson Katara stepped up to GK. ‘He’s asking him to read from the teleprompter,’ explained Jagannath, noticing the way I was straining to hear the exchange. ‘Nelson wrote it himself, although if you want to be generous, you can credit me with an assist.’ He grinned with childlike excitement. ‘Hush now! Ten seconds until we are live . . .’

Then he leaned closer and whispered in a voice so low I barely heard him myself. ‘Well, not
live
-live . . . the telecast is lagged by about a minute in real-time.’

That made sense – if GK got cold feet or went off-script, it would give Nelson and Jagannath time to contain the damage. I asked him if that was the case but the only response I got was a casual shrug. Before I could press the matter, the countdown trickled down to four seconds and I silenced myself. For the moment . . .

Three . . .

Two . . .

One . . .

As if a wand had been waved, everyone fell silent. And then, with his first few words, we stepped off the cliff and there was no turning back anymore.

16th September, 2012. Siliguri.

The knock on the door was crisp and professional.

Kuldip Razdan opened the door to find a troop of armed officers of the Indian Air Force, their long rifles held against their shoulders, their manner deferential yet aloof. The soldier who had knocked clicked his heels together before taking a step back and joining the others, who were lined up facing each other on either side of the doorway. As if on cue, a senior officer appeared at the far end of the column.

He marched majestically to where the prime minister stood and saluted smartly. Protocol was protocol, after all, and the man standing before him still held office – technically – until the president terminated it.

‘Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat, sir!’

Kuldip Razdan smiled through his beard. ‘Kashmir?’ he asked.

The group captain nodded silently.

Kuldip Razdan was pleased. A fellow Kashmiri, a Pandit just like himself – perhaps that bond would loosen the lips enough for him to get to the bottom of the conspiracy around him. He wondered if there was an agenda to the group captain’s visit, or if it was merely part of the protocol in greeting a VIP on base. If it was the former, then the group captain would probably request the privacy of his quarters; if the latter, then the PM would have to order that the rest of their conversation be private.

GC Tej Bahadur Bhat solved that dilemma. ‘If it would please you, sir, I would prefer to talk to you inside.’

So he did have an agenda after all, Kuldip Razdan mused. He nodded majestically – although to the group captain, it seemed little more than a listless bob of the head – and preceded the other Kashmiri back into the quarters.

The group captain closed the door as soon as he stepped in. It escaped Kuldip Razdan’s notice that all noise from the outside was cut off completely, for the room had been recently sound-proofed as an added precaution just a few days before Kalyug’s schedule was accelerated. The soldier checked his watch before withdrawing a small radio from his pocket and placing it on the small table near the bed.

Before he could say anything, however, the PM fired off the first salvo. ‘I demand an explanation, Group Captain! How dare you – and the people who commanded you – divert an aircraft carrying the prime minister of India and hold him – me – confined like this? What is the meaning of all this? Do you realize that you could be court-martialed for this? Even executed?’

It was the most animated anyone had ever seen the prime minister since the Indo-US defence deal, the group captain thought. As much as he would have liked to let loose with his own tirade against the politician standing in front of him, he held his tongue – a good soldier always followed orders. That, and the fact that the room was wired for sound.

‘In a few minutes, sir, President Gopi Kishan is going to address the nation on a sudden – and unavoidable – development. That will make everything crystal clear to you.’ He picked up the radio and turned it on. It was already tuned to Akashvani, the national radio channel, and the faint voices of the newscaster streamed through the speaker. He turned up the volume.

‘While some sources have indicated that the president is taking a step to arrest the sliding economy and law and order situation in the country, we have not yet been able to confirm if this is the case. If indeed this is what President Gopi Kishan will announce, it will perhaps be the first time since Dr A.P.J. Kalam that the head of the state is defying party and politics in national interest.’

National interest, my foot!
Kuldip Razdan thought, furious.
I was right – it’s GK who’s doing this! Stealing it when he realized there was no way he could ever be prime minister instead of me!

Angrily, before he could stop himself, Kuldip Razdan stabbed the group captain’s chest with his finger. ‘This is absurd . . . beyond absurd! Mrs Pandit will never stand for this, and GK will have to back down. Get me back to New Delhi right now, Captain – and that’s an order!’

Kuldip Razdan was astonished at the speed at which the soldier’s eyes went stone cold, was taken aback at the fury in them. ‘You are not in a position to give orders, Mr
Prime Minister
,’ said the latter, his teeth gritted, his restraint obvious. ‘I suggest you shut up and listen to what the president has to say.’

Stunned, Razdan took a step back, his hand falling limply to his side. ‘B-but . . . I gave you an order . . . You are a traitor . . . a traitor to this nation and to this uniform if you don’t obey me.’

Before he could stop himself, Tej Bahadur Bhat grabbed the lapels of Kuldip Razdan’s jacket. ‘A traitor? You dare call ME a TRAITOR?’ he roared, his face merely inches away from the politician’s. And then, as suddenly as it had risen, the fury subsided, replaced with contempt. Roughly he released his grip and stepped back. As the channel aired its trademark jingle, he pulled at the hem of his shirt and adjusted his cap.

The jingle faded into silence. Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat held the other man’s confused gaze. ‘Have you ever visited the refugee camps in Delhi?’ he said, a perverse pleasure in his voice as he anticipated the impending shock of the president’s announcement. ‘Do you even remember 1989, Mr
Prime Minister
?’

24th April, 2012. New Delhi.

Richa was in the driver’s seat.

How?
That question befuddled Raghav before his reflexes took over. Dropping the gun, he jumped to his right, towards the major-general, and grabbed him under the armpits. The momentum carried him over Major-General Qureshi’s back but he did not release his grip. Qureshi was pulled over as well, and rolled over him and away from the speeding car, which swerved away from them and banged into a parked car to their left.

The parked car’s alarm started to ring.

Raghav jumped to his feet and rushed to the passenger’s side of his car. Jerking it open, he found Richa slumped over the steering wheel. He feared the worst, until she moved her head and groaned. A slight trickle of blood started to run down the side of her face.

‘Richa?’ he asked, leaning forward into the car and slapping her cheeks as gently as he could. ‘Richa? Can you open your eyes? Can you –’

His words were cut off as a strong hand pulled at the waistband of his pants, and as he stumbled backwards, clearing the door, the other hand encircled his neck. The thick forearm cut off his air without mercy, even as his right arm was wrenched behind his back, pushed against his spine, bending it, causing pain, pain and a roar in his ears, like a wall of water rushing through an empty tunnel.