Get One Bye Two

by Dhiraj Singh

  “Hi Umar! Hi Anil! All set?” Niraj greeted his friends as they high-fived each other. Umar was mighty relieved to see Niraj being normal again. His usual straight manly self, with a manly voice to match. He had been worried after his last meeting with Niraj. He was glad to put that behind. The only worry now was the take-off. They were to board a small aircraft—a Velocity XL-5 aircraft, commonly called ‘Dash 5.’

  “Let’s finish our high-fives and dash for our Dash 5 now.” Umar was influenced by Maru’s sense of humour, even though it did not come as effortlessly to him as it did for Maru.

  The trio climbed the aircraft with excitement and trepidation in their hearts. And different thoughts on their minds.

  “I don’t mind sitting in the smaller space at the back. At least if a bird hits the aircraft, I will not get injured directly,” thought Anil, applying his probability theory again.

  “I hope our lives will not be as cramped as this plane, when my mother and I find my father again,” thought Niraj, remembering his last conversation with his mother.

  “I look forward to flying Rajni and my child on this plane someday, and teach my child how to fly without fear,” Umar thought, touching the scar on his face.

  9.55 a.m.

  It was a slightly cloudy day as they neared Ahmedabad. The small aircraft was like a small toy for the group of clouds. Like the bullies in school, the clouds pounced with menacing glee at the first sight of the innocent, timid newcomer. Dash 5 was tossed about from one cloud to another. The bully clouds thundered as they toyed with the aircraft.

  “Don’t worry. Such turbulence is common in these times. Just hold tight,” Umar pacified the other two passengers.

  “Don’t worry, we cannot have the same medium this time too,” Anil said, without a quiver of fear in his voice. He was certain that nothing would happen.

  “Guys, I drive my SUV so slowly on the road to avoid all those bumps on the road. And here, our aircraft is giving me goose bumps even though there are no bumps in the sky,” Niraj disclosed his evident discomfort.

  “Let me share a joke with you guys,” said Umar, making an effort to keep his friends comfortable.

  “You know why geese don’t like celebrating birthdays?” Umar recollected some of the jokes that Maru had shared with him during their drinking binge at the IPL final.

  “Why?” Anil asked from the back seat.

  “Because they don’t like getting goose bumps.” Umar laughed aloud, imagining geese giving birthday bumps to each other.

  “Wait, wait. I will tell you another one,” said Umar, as he tried to distract his friends from the turbulence and hide his own uneasiness. “Once Santa Banta had gone skydiving. Banta asked Santa to jump. But Santa did not. You know why?”

  “Why?” Anil asked again from the back seat. He felt as though he had heard these jokes earlier but could not remember where.

  “Because Banta kept saying leap here and Santa kept saying no leap year! Got it? It was not a leap year and hence Santa did not jump! Hahaha!”

  Umar was not sure if he was laughing at the joke or at Maru’s sister who had to bear the brunt of her brother’s Maru’s jokes.

  “Not funny, Umar. At this time or any other time,” said Anil. He again felt a sense of déjà vu, as though he had said these words sometime before.

  “Good, we will not have any such confusion as this is not a leap year. The leap year has just leaped,” Niraj joined in the banter of words.

  Just as Niraj finished these words, the aircraft ran into a dense dark storm. Umar had just turned the aircraft away from a strong storm formation on the right side, but he could not avoid the storm on the left. It was as though the aircraft had been tossed from the hands of a bully into the hands of a monster. A monster with no feelings and a desire to wreak havoc on everything in its path. Dash 5 was in the main path of the dark brooding eyes of the storm. The aircraft suddenly plunged dangerously and lost a few thousand feet in height within seconds. Their heads almost hit the ceiling of the aircraft. Umar looked to his left and was shocked to see the tail of the plane flying past his window, after being snapped by the powerful thunderstorm. The flight was losing height and also losing stability.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” Umar shouted, as the cockpit instrument indicators went berserk with lights flashing everywhere, accompanied by a haunting beep tone. It was the perfect place for the dance of death to take place. Death seemed like a rock star on the stage in front of a wild audience. Flashing lights, rhythmic beats, a heady feeling from the lack of oxygen and the occasional shrieking from the audience. Anil, Umar, and Niraj were not sure how they bought the tickets to the rock show of death. Again. But they were determined not to stay till the end of the show. Umar quickly grabbed the manual steering wheel, while Niraj helped him press a few right buttons. The aircraft was losing height slowly and Umar was in better control. But he had to land the aircraft soon. It could not fly for long in that condition. Umar looked at the green fields below. There was a large patch of flat green ground, possibly covered in grass, not too far away. Umar had no choice but to land on the ground.

  “Friends, we have done it in the past and will do it again,” Umar said to his friends. He felt as though he was explaining the pitch conditions to his teammates as a captain determined to win the Cricket World Cup again.

  “If we have done it in the past, our luck may no longer last,” said Anil, surprised by his poetic response.

  Niraj just held on to Umar’s hand to provide more strength and control on the wheels. He remembered Reddy holding on to his hands not so long ago.

  “Here we go, here we go…” Umar had hardly completed his sentence when the aircraft landed with a loud thud on the ground. It slid a few hundred metres before toppling to one side. Anil was now really worried. Fire. That was the new medium. A real threat. He got into action immediately and unhooked his seat belt. He opened the emergency door on the side nearer to the ground. His friends followed Anil, just like his students followed him at IIM-Ahmedabad. Only this time, the students did it to save their lives, not make their lives.

  The three survivors jumped one after the other on to the green patch of grass below and ran for cover as fast as they could, as far away as possible. Their mobile phones were packed in bags and kept in a box in the rear section of the aircraft. There was a loud noise, and as they turned around, they saw the plane catch fire and turn into a big ball of flame, burning their bags and their phones. It was a spectacular end to death’s rock show. But the only three people in the audience were happy to leave the arena before the end.

  10.05 a.m.

  “Look, they have survived!” A group of young men, wearing bright red turbans, white cotton dhotis and short white coats shouted as they ran towards the three survivors, carrying long bamboo sticks.

  “Are you all okay? No injury? You fell from the sky?” the leader of the group asked in broken Hindi.

  “Yes, yes, we are all okay. Just need some water please,” Umar requested the villagers with folded hands.

  “Come with us. We will take you to our master’s house. He will give you water and other good things to drink,” the leader said calmly, while his two colleagues giggled, trying to cover their faces.

  The villagers led them through the fields running parallel to both sides of a main road, the road between Sanand and Ahmedabad. Finally, they came to a large bungalow in the middle of a farm surrounded by tall brick walls. The guard at the gate talked to the villagers in a local dialect before opening the two parts of the large iron gate leading to the bungalow.

  “Please sit here while I go and call my master,” said the leader of the group. He requested them to sit on the wooden chairs in a spacious corridor with carved columns evenly spaced from each other. He then went inside the bungalow to call his master.

  As the master came out from the main door of the bungalow, Niraj stood up, shaking in fear. He was more frightened now than what he had been in the aircraft. Umar and Anil stood up i
n respect, not fear.

  “Niraj bhai, I told you to stay away. It is indeed my good luck, my sara nasiba today,” said Nikhil bhai, whose laughter tore through the silence of the farms and the heart of Niraj.

  26

  10.40 a.m.

  Umar, Anil and Niraj huddled against each other as their legs and hands were chained. They were kept in a large shed that reverberated with the loud barking of a ferocious black Doberman, which was chained to a pole on the opposite side of the shed.

  “This is not real! Just pinch me please!” Umar could not believe their situation. He felt very guilty for having proposed the trip in the first place.

  “What is real and what is a dream, no one knows. What I know is that I am so bloody thirsty. I survived death by the water medium in the last year. Looks like lack of water will be the final medium!” Anil was thirsty for water and the answers to destiny’s puzzles.

  “I too,” said Niraj and Umar almost in unison. “I too survived water and certain death,” Niraj continued. “Me too,” said Umar.

  “But if I had died, another innocent boy would have died with me,” Niraj recounted his experience at the river during a picnic.

  “Ah ha! So death was actually tracking us! And the last time you may have actually saved us Niraj by saving that boy. Even in the IPL final, it was good that Umar was not there. Otherwise, I don’t think we would have survived,” Anil was visibly excited now.

  “I was there too,” said Umar despondently.

  “Well, then I guess our splits may have saved us. Death would not have found a single common medium for them,” said Anil, forgetting that he was a chained captive in a shed at the same town where he had once been a reputed and free professor.

  As they pondered over the events of the last year, Nikhil bhai walked into the shed with a bottle of whisky in one hand and a shining sword in the other. The shine of the sword fell short of the shine on his face and the intoxication from the whisky fell short of the intoxication from his sense of control. Nikhil bhai did not like failures. He disliked losing money even more. And he hated being insulted. Niraj had been the cause of all three fiascos.

  “Niraj bhai. You come from the south straight into death’s mouth,” said Nikhil bhai.

  Some people, when angry, start speaking in their non-native language. Some people raise their voice and start speaking loudly. Some people start stammering when angry. All of these could be because of an internal body chemistry or because the body wants to show a different image of its self—an image that will physically scare or confuse the others. Nikhil bhai did none of these. He became a pathetic poet when he was angry. His personality transformed from his usual intimidating self to a softer persona. This confused and mentally terrorised his opponents.

  “You call me bhai and treat me like this? How can a brother kill a brother?” Niraj pleaded with him emotionally. These were not real brotherly feelings but feelings emanating from a sense of terror.

  “Niraj bhai. I agree. From now on, it’s no longer bhai. It’s just bye-bye.” Every time Nikhil bhai uttered these insane and irritable words, his stupid sycophants clapped in glee.

  “You see my Doberman there? You may have escaped the crash like Superman, but you can never escape my Doberman,” Nikhil bhai continued showcasing his talent, much to the annoyance of the three captives.

  “Please sir, please sir! Show some mercy. I beg you,” Umar was not begging for his life, but begging for the lives of two other people. Rajni and his child.

  “You are very good, so you will have some food! And also that other friend of yours who is silent. I will not be violent with you two. But death must come to Niraj Roy, for he has not been a good boy.”

  Nikhil bhai then whispered something in his local language to one of his men, who unchained Niraj and took out his money and some identity cards from his wallet. He kept the money for himself and threw the cards on the ground.

  “Niraj Roy, now you will run. While my Doberman will have some fun.” Nikhil bhai threw the sword with great strength and greater accuracy. It sliced through the chain tying the Doberman to the pole. The dog was free to hunt. Niraj was free to run. The race began.

  Niraj was a good runner. He liked running in the parks of Bangalore. He never imagined that he would be running in fear of the barks of a Doberman. He ran through the open door of the shed, nearer to where they were chained, while the dog followed him. Niraj was soon in an open farm area. He briefly scanned the contours of the surroundings. At a distance, he saw a lake, which ended near the main highway. He had his plan worked out. He just had to outrun the Doberman till the lake, and then he could swim across the lake and reach the highway.

  He had protected so many people in the past. He was capable of protecting himself today. He kept running harder and harder. He was very close to the lake. He turned around and saw the Doberman catching up on him. The dog’s mouth was salivating a white frothy liquid, in anticipation of raw flesh. The Doberman took one big leap and so did Niraj. Niraj was faster and he landed in the lake. The Doberman just kept barking and racing up and down the shores of the lake. Niraj kept swimming, faster and faster. By now, Nikhil bhai and his men had come running out of the shed to the lake. They kept shouting, louder and louder.

  11.15 a.m.

  “Hi! I had a crush on you when I saw your advertisement for a vest company.” Umar heard a beautiful voice from the open window behind them. He turned and saw a lovely, innocent-looking girl. She had a pure look on her face like an angel. She was indeed an angel for Umar and Anil. Umar thanked the now bankrupt vest manufacturing company.

  “Please help us,” Umar requested her, without begging like he had with Nikhil bhai a while ago. He had to protect himself, but he also had a reputation to protect and a bloated ego to pamper.

  “’Take this key and unchain yourself. Get out of this window and run from the back side. And do it quickly, before my father returns to the shed,” Nikhil bhai’s daughter said hurriedly.

  As Anil and Umar jumped out of the window, they saw at a distance Niraj’s face, his eyes closed, on top of a wooden pole. His body was burning. He was dead. Soon the fire consumed his face too. Umar vomited seeing the gruesome scene. Anil patted his back and then pulled his hand, as they quickly ran from the back side of the shed. On the way, Umar managed to touch the angel’s delicate fingers, even as he was pulled by Anil. The girl blushed slightly, aware of her crush’s touch and oblivious of the impending wrath of her father.

  11.30 a.m.

  Anil and Umar ran through the fields, over shallow ponds and across many small villages, before they were stopped by a group of young men, wielding lathis and swords. They sported bright red tilak on their forehead and shouted like fanatics, “Har Har Mahadev!” Umar and Anil were caught in the middle of a communal riot, which had been brewing for some days in and around Ahmedabad.

  “Let’s burn them!” These were the last words Anil and Umar heard before falling unconscious, after being hit on their heads by the hard, wooden lathis.

  27

  Noon, in Delhi

  “Sir, I am telling you, this will be a super hit concept. Total silver jubilee, sir,” Maru was speaking the language he thought Ramaan Khanna would understand better.

  “What will be the return on capital and the payback period, Maru?” Ramaan asked over the phone.

  Maru was immediately on alert mode. Ramaan was not going to be just a passive investor. He would want to get involved in the operations and want financial reports every month. Maru’s idea of a new thematic restaurant chain called Ramaan’s Rasoi could not be sold as a mere concept to Ramaan. It had to make business sense. And Maru never went into the details of a business over the phone. He had to face the person he was talking to and negotiating with, in order to read the other person’s body language, eye movements, slight twitch of the nose, flutter of the eyelids or deepening crease lines on the forehead. Maru’s mind had to assimilate all these body movements into his brain. Only then he played h
is next move.

  “Sir, let’s meet at the Westin in Gurgaon at 6 p.m. today? I hear you are here for some shooting nearby in Haryana.”

  “Okay, will see you then at 6 p.m. at Westin.”

  Noon, in Ahmedabad

  “Are you Hindus or Muslims? We were told that you are both Muslims who have come to spy on our villages,” one of the irate band of villagers booed aggressively.

  “What difference does it make, bhaiya?” Anil asked politely, wiping the trickle of blood from his forehead.

  “Difference? Do you not know the difference between Hindus and Muslims? The Muslims have burnt one of our young brothers who happened to enter their village. We will now burn two of them!”

  Anil saw some of the villagers lighting a small pyre on the side. So this was it. “Fire is the medium,” thought Anil. Niraj was the first to go. And now Umar and he would be burnt alive. “The plane crash or the water medium would have been better,” he thought. The terrorist bomb would have also been over in a few seconds. But why fire? It was the most painful and slowest form of death. It would burn the skin, flesh and then the bones slowly, turning them into ash, in the most primitive form. He had nothing to prove that he was a Hindu. How could he physically demonstrate to them that he was a Hindu, when Hinduism was just a philosophy, a way of thinking and living? He would be happy to stay with the villagers for a few days and share his way of thinking. But the villagers did not want him to live even for a few minutes.

  Anil looked at Umar and pitied him. He had no chance of survival, even if the villagers let him live for a few days. His death had been preordained by his religion. Predators, illnesses and accidents were no longer the leading causes of death. Death had found a new trusted messenger in religion. Religion helped transport millions of people to the arms of death every year. Today, Anil and Umar were going to be added to that list.

  “Bhaiya ji, I know this man. My cousin is a waiter in his restaurant. My cousin had showed me his photograph with a prize he had won. Some Times prize. For best food. See, see I still have that with me,” said a young man and enthusiastically pulled out the photograph of the Times award with Anil smiling broadly as he received his trophy. The Times had thrown him into the arena of death at the IPL final and it had pulled him out from the whirlpool of a certain death today. Times do change.