KALYUG (19 page)

‘She . . . needs . . . help,’ he managed to choke out, pointing a shaking arm towards Richa. ‘Head . . . bleeding . . .’

Without warning, as abruptly as it had been applied, Qureshi broke the choke-hold. In one smooth motion, he slammed Raghav against the frame of the car, rocking it, before whirling him around and kneeing him ferociously in the gut. The combination of the choke and the blow brought Raghav to his knees, coughing violently for air, giving the major-general enough time to check on Richa.

She was starting to come around, he noted, relieved. The blood concerned him, until he noticed the plastic cuffs also stained. Reaching in, he pushed hair off her forehead and noted gratefully that there was a very small gash, possibly just a scrape of the skin, most likely caused by the impact of her head against the cuffs.

She was safe, which meant that he could turn his attention back to the despicable middleman who must be holding some, if not all, the answers to questions he wanted to ask. There was one that had been pushed to the top of his mind in the last few seconds.

‘Snap out of it,’ he ordered Raghav, pulling him to his feet and leaning him against the very frame he had banged him against. ‘Take deep breaths. And stop being a baby.’

Despite the agony, Raghav managed a weak smile. ‘One minute,’ he gasped. ‘What about Richa?’

‘Just a scratch,’ replied the soldier gruffly. ‘Now shut up and steady your breathing. Whoever taught you to fight did not teach you the first thing about getting back up.’

This time, Raghav obeyed without comment.

There was a rustle of fabric as Iqbal Qureshi pulled a compact knife out of his belt and cut the plastic handcuffs. Richa groaned, a hand now going to her forehead, the eyes still closed, and it was quite evident to him that she had been stunned by the impact, and nothing more serious. He had seen enough battle to make that diagnosis instinctively.

He found a half-full bottle of mineral water in the space behind the gear-stick and twisted the cap open. Pouring a fistful into his hand, he splashed it against her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered, the face scrunched up in a wince, but she was conscious once again, her eyes slowly focusing on the strange spectacle of the major-general with an impatient look on his face.

‘That was the most foolish thing I’ve ever seen anybody do,’ he told her the moment her eyes had opened completely. The dismay in her expression must have been evident, for he immediately looked contrite. ‘Also brave.’ He shook his head, unable to stop himself. ‘But stupid, too.’

‘I thought he was going to shoot you,’ said Richa, pushing a few strands of stray hair off her face. ‘When he –’ She stopped mid-sentence at the sight of blood on her fingertips. ‘Am I injured?’

‘Apart from pride and a scratch,’ Major-General Qureshi muttered, ‘there is nothing to be worried about.’ He looked at Raghav, noticing that the latter was steadily growing stronger with each breath, the breathing itself shallower and easier now. The Army man in him was impressed at his fitness levels – officer class, maybe just a Qureshi-style tweak away from being one of the best in his class.

Richa climbed out of the driver’s seat and flung the broken cuffs at Raghav, narrowly missing him. ‘We have Mr Raghav Menon to be worried about,’ she pointed out.

‘Perhaps,’ said the major-general, turning to Menon. ‘But if he wanted to harm me, he would not have pushed me out of . . . the way. Just now. So at least for that one act of kindness, I should assume that there is some valid reason why he’s in the middle of all this.’

‘There is,’ interjected Raghav, surprising both of them. He held up his hands in mock-surrender. ‘But before that, I have a question for the two of you. What’s Urdu for justice?’

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

Click.

Every time he blinked, Jack-nee-Cox relived that moment when he thought his life was over. A few pounds of pressure was all it would have taken for him to die an obscure death, and the reality of how unremarkable his life had been so far was depressing him beyond anything he had ever experienced.

Click.

The two men had had a good laugh about it. Their laughter had been as taunting as it had been loud, almost vulgarly sadistic, and it had stung him deeper than a bullet could have. His handler had been dismissive and equally contemptuous of the Indian spooks and spy catchers, and for the first time since he’d arrived, Llong started to understand the human psyche better. Men were the same everywhere – there was the same need to believe that you were better, the same need to posture.

Click.

‘I don’t know why they think you’re worth it,’ the one who had pulled the gun on him had told him as he was holstering his weapon. ‘But the control room’s asked that we keep you safe in case we have to deal with the Americans later. Mind you, they’ve
asked
– not ordered. So don’t start thinking you’re indispensable – we could still shoot you and walk away without anyone asking us a single question.’

Click.

16th September, 2012. Washington/London.

President Timothy Jackson pressed the blinking button on his console. ‘Good morning, Alan. I assume you’re just as upset as I am about what your former colony’s up to.’ His chief-of-staff winced – with WikiLeaks still online, it was always better to err on the side of caution, and comments like the one his president had just made had the potential to tick off a well-heeled section of the citizenry that he had cultivated with a lot of effort.

Across the Atlantic, inside the building at 10, Downing Street, Prime Minister Alan Carter cocked an eyebrow at his only companion, Sir Harold Holmes of the Secret Intelligence Service. The older man shrugged indifferently, having spent a lifetime catering to the whims and fancies of ministers too often too immature to be entrusted with the information he brought them. He was happier with Alan Carter, however, because the man showed at least a spit more spine and discretion than any of his recent predecessors, and even more so because Sir Harold Holmes really did not care too much anymore. Doctors had given his lungs only a few more months before they collapsed completely, and without a spouse to nag him about moving to the countryside, Sir Harold was pleasantly reconciled to spending his last days in the city he adored.

The British premier chose his words carefully, knowing that his BBC was a lot less amenable to political spin than the American networks. ‘India is one of the world’s largest democracies, and so yes, we are worried about concentrating all that power in one individual.’

The White House resident rolled his eyes. Why was it always so goddamn difficult to find common ground with the incumbent Brit? Suppressing his natural attitude under Winston’s reproachful glare, President Jackson glanced at Andrea Simps. The secretary of state seemed to be completely absorbed in studying her nails, alternately holding them up to the light and then closer to her eyes. Sighing within, missing his interrupted sleep, President Jackson agreed with the prime minister.

‘Yes, yes . . . what was it your bard said? Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely?’

Not exactly
the
Bard, Alan thought, but chose not to pursue the point. Gopi Kishan’s address would air any moment now, and he did not want to miss a single word of it.

‘Something like that,’ Alan said. ‘And I presume you’ve been caught by surprise as well?’

The ball had been lobbed back rather nicely, Sir Harold thought. The reply would need some adroit shot-making . . . admit you have, and risk losing face; pretend – or maybe admit – that you had prior information, and you risk condemnation for not sharing it earlier, or preventing its occurrence outright. Yes, Alan Carter might have made a fine tennis player after all.

There was a slight, unmistakable pause before the reply, which told Sir Harold that the next statement from the American president would be a lie. ‘We did receive some vague reports of talk of a coup,’ said President Jackson, and Sir Harold could not help a smirk. The cousins had been just as clueless. ‘We were trying to verify it before we shared it with anybody else – and the sources were too senior to risk exposing – but it seems the schedule has been accelerated.’

‘In such a short time?’ Alan asked. It was a rhetorical question and both men knew it.

‘The reason I called, Alan, is that I think the two of us – I mean, the US and the UK – should pool our resources in stopping the crisis there from getting worse.’

‘I’m quite sure your secretary of state would tell you that she can handle this crisis single-handedly,’ said Alan, eliciting a nod of appreciation from Sir Harold, who was obviously enjoying the exchange.

President Jackson glanced at Andrea Simps, who pretended to have not heard a single word of the exchange.

‘Diplomatically, yes, I am sure she would,’ he said, knowing full well that the Brits probably wanted him to spell it out in case they needed to assign the blame later. But dammit, he couldn’t allow this to happen on his watch, could he? ‘I am talking about mobilizing our resources on the ground jointly so that we can maximize the impact of any action we take to ensure peace in the region.’

In other words, thought Alan Carter, repeat Afghanistan and Iraq.

‘I’ll have to get back to you on that, Mr President. I will need to check with my intelligence chief to know what we can afford to activate on the ground.’

Andrea Simps abruptly stood up and walked over to the president. ‘Mr Prime Minister,’ she said in her most courteous tone. ‘Andrea Simps here. Just wanted to say I appreciate your confidence in my abilities. I’ll try not to let you down. Oh, and could you check with Sir Harold right now – he must be with you? Our agent who tails him reported that he walked in about an hour ago, and hasn’t left since.’

Sir Harold Holmes, the director of the SIS, chuckled.

Even as the British prime minister tried to think of a reply, the American secretary of state pressed the button that disconnected the call.

Alan switched his console off, clearly irritated. ‘I can’t stand that woman,’ he told Sir Harold, who was still smiling.

‘That woman is the least of your concerns,’ Sir Harold replied, pulling out a kerchief and dabbing the corners of his mouth. ‘Are you going to order me to co-operate with the Americans?’

The British premier shook his head mirthlessly. ‘We’ll chart our own course there, but let’s keep our options open. Gone are the days when Bush said jump and Blair asked how high.’

12

There comes a time in the history of every nation when it looks itself in the eye, and wonders where it has gone wrong from the path it had set itself. When every citizen fears that the future is only going to get worse, and the thought of tomorrow – and this nation – brings dread, not anticipation.

That, sisters and brothers, that is where we are at today.

The crossroads of destiny stare us in the face. There is one road before us that will lead us back to prosperity and happiness; there is another that leads us back into ruin and darkness. Destiny is asking us, maybe even mocking us . . .

For there was a time like this once, a long time ago, when India was a land of prosperity. When the world came to us to buy, not to sell; when the king of a European nation was desperate enough to send his men to find an alternate route to our shores. A time when we didn’t realize how blessed this land is.

And then we became complacent and greedy, and the world tore what we had into pieces and distributed it amongst itself. Our kings fought amongst themselves and brought in outsiders to settle scores, and then these outsiders themselves became our overlords. We threw off that yoke at the stroke of midnight, 1947 . . . and we thought we were going to write our own destiny.

And we kept thinking we were the ones writing it.

We thought we had won independence. We thought we were building everlasting things our way, the Indian way. We thought the Indian model of development would make the world respect us again. We played statesmen and prayed for global peace.

And today, we stand on the cusp of ridicule.

Like a young man who realizes the lessons of a wasted past, I stand before you now, naked with shame. I will not pass the buck and blame it on the policies of those before me, for they must have still seen some justification in their infinite wisdom; nor do I wish to plead helplessness and blame our situation on circumstances beyond our control.

Like a son in front of his mother, I now stand before you and take the blame for all that has gone wrong, and ask not for your forgiveness, but for your blessings. I may not be able to erase those wrongs, but I can assure you that I will not allow them to continue to happen. I will not ask my conscience to be silent anymore – rather, I will ask it to be the loudest voice I hear.

But I cannot move mountains alone. We can, together, but I cannot do it alone. That is why I make this request of you, with my hands folded, that as difficult as the next few days may be, please remember that we are charting a new path to success – and any path that you travel for the first time will have its share of challenges and dangers.

For even on the path we are in, there are dangers – infinitely dangerous. We have terrorists coming at us from the north and the west. We have the red corridor of terror from south to east. Our infrastructure is not developing at the pace needed to meet our requirements. People are afraid to walk to a police station or to a government office to ask for help. Are our banks safe, our bankers honest? We have floods and drought in the same year. And riots that require only the slightest pretext to flare up and out of control.

What are the values we are teaching our children? We do not show respect to law, or to women, or to our neighbours or to a fellow citizen on the street. Accident victims die because those who want to help are too scared of being drawn into the courts. Malls are starting to outnumber hospitals and schools, and the disparity in wealth is reaching alarming proportions.

On a typical day, in our daily lives, we break the laws. We disrespect our fellow beings. And we do all this because we want to survive . . .

But there is a thin line separating survival from scavenging, and we are perilously close to it. How much longer would it take for us to descend into chaos? How much longer for India to cease to exist, to dissolve into the fiefdoms of old where even life – and not just living – could not be guaranteed?

Because we have already started to be apathetic. We do not care, we do not even hope, and most of us do not even take the smallest steps to create the India of our – and our forefathers’ – dreams. What is the point, we ask ourselves, and live each day waiting for things to get better by themselves.

I cannot wait. I do not want to wait. I do not dare to wait.

And therefore, with immediate effect as of two-thirty this afternoon, and in accordance with Part Eighteen and Article 352 of the Constitution, I am declaring a national Emergency. The government under Shri Kuldip Razdan has been dismissed, and the Parliament suspended indefinitely. I am hereby assuming all executive powers to govern the Republic of India.