03:02

by Mainak Dhar

  ‘What was the second piece of bad news?’

  I could tell by Ronald’s expression that this news was even grimmer and of more immediate consequence to us.

  ‘We won’t be getting help soon. The train full of troops that was on its way from Delhi was ambushed. Many soldiers were killed, and they’re trying to secure the train lines before they send more on the way.’

  I could hear groans go up all across the room and I felt a lot of the enthusiasm we had built over the last two days dissipate. Part of the reason people had been willing to fight was the reassuring news that Ronald and Shaikh had brought—that we were not going to be on our own for much longer, that the Army was indeed coming to handle the situation. I felt a sudden empty feeling inside as well. I had been prepared to fight to defend our homes and families, and quite happy to take the battle to the enemy like we had done that night. But after meeting Ronald and Shaikh, I had also started to believe that it would not be our burden alone. Holding the fort till the Army got there was one thing, living every night like we had lived the last two was quite another.

  Mr Sinha was the first to react, and he addressed me. ‘Aadi, I’m sure this is on your mind, but you do realize not everyone will sign on to fight a guerrilla war without end. These are not soldiers, they were energized to fight to defend their homes, but everyone believed that the Army was heading here soon.’

  He had read my mind accurately, and it irked me that everybody was looking at me. I could not possibly decide on everyone’s behalf and who was I to tell them that they were wrong to worry about their family’s safety?

  Bhagat spoke up. ‘I haven’t brought this up, and people were hesitant to say anything after the euphoria of the last victory, but there is a significant silent minority who are wary of what a full-scale war with the terrorists will mean. Once they know that the Army is not coming to our rescue, then their worries will grow.’

  ‘Bhagat, do I look like I’m your bloody prime minister? Why do you expect me to solve everyone’s problems?’

  I regretted my outburst as soon as I’d said the words, but people needed to hear that we were all in this together, trying to solve a problem that was beyond us—and we needed to stop waiting for someone else to solve it for us. I tried to cool down before continuing.

  ‘We’re beyond the point of debating whether to fight or not. Whether we like it or not, we are at war, and after seeing the people who came in last night, this is a war worth fighting. Unless, that is, you want these thugs to come and start taking away our girls as well.’

  Bhagat averted his gaze.

  ‘Look, I have been there, I have faced the enemy, and I will be the first to say that I am scared as well. I also think we’re in over our heads, and perhaps all we have to look forward to is to go down fighting. That’s still a better option for me than surrendering. We all need to decide what we want to do. I can’t force anyone. My grandfather and uncle always used to say that the beauty of the Indian Army is that it has always been an all-volunteer force, and we can be the same. Nobody who does not want to fight will be forced to. There are plenty of other ways to help the community. If people feel they will be safer elsewhere, they can leave, and we will not be petty. We’ll send them with a vehicle and some food. But anyone who wants to fight is free to join me in the next attack, because now more than ever, there is only one way for us—to keep going on the offensive.’

  I could see Ronald smiling and I saw the despair gradually lift from a few faces.

  ‘This is our bloody home. We know the streets, we know the land, and we know what we are fighting for—our survival. If nothing else, if desperation is what makes us innovate, so be it. So far, it’s given us an edge.’

  Several people began nodding. I was about to call a meeting where we could lay all this out when Shaikh came into the room carrying his portable radio set.

  ‘Hey, Aadi, someone wants to talk to you on the radio.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  He replied with a look of bemused disbelief. ‘The Prime Minister of India.’

  I had heard the voice many times before, on TV, on radio and on the internet, but it was surreal to hear the voice now, talking to me.

  ‘Aaditya, you do know what your name means, right? The sun. A blackness has enveloped our nation, indeed our world. A blackness that has been caused by ruthless enemies who seek to replace freedom with their oppression, who seek to enslave us and destroy our way of life. In that darkness, we need people to light the way, to shine forth like the sun and banish the darkness. From what I hear, you are more than living up to your name. We are at war, make no mistake, but this is a war unlike any we have fought before. I am the Prime Minister of India, but I am not in my office; instead I am in a bunker hiding somewhere. Our armies are not waging a war on the border but in our cities and towns. Actually, I am wrong, we have faced such a war before, when invaders like Ghauri and Ghazni came ravaging through our towns, when invaders came knocking at our doors, when the British sought to subjugate us. This is not a war for territory or politics, but one for our very freedom. In previous such wars, our biggest weakness had been that too many people did not fight, either because they were waiting for someone else to battle on their behalf or because obeying a new master was preferable to the dangers that fighting brought with it. We cannot repeat that! Our Army is regrouping, but with the enemy in our towns and cities, we need all the help we can get. We need each and every Indian to stand up and resist in the way he or she can, and so your example is an inspiration to all of us. To our forces who wonder who or what they are fighting for, your raising our tricolour and defying the enemy feeds their morale; to ordinary citizens huddled in their homes wondering what they can possibly do, your example lights the way for how every single one of us can stand up and fight.’

  He had always been an amazing orator and, as he spoke, I could feel the power that had swayed hundreds of millions of voters. I could see others in the room around me stand just that little bit straighter.

  ‘This will not be an easy battle, nor a short one, and perhaps many of us will not live to see the freedom that we will regain, but, as someone once said, in such a perfect way that I have no need to change the words: What better way to die than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of one’s fathers and the temples of one’s gods? Please keep up the good work and, as others like you rally together to fight, we will spread your stories. We are starting to transmit on radio and on TV signals. Remember that we are all soldiers now. Many years ago, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose led the Azad Hind Fauj to try and liberate us from the British, and today all of you are members of that army again. Jai Hind.’

  As he signed off, I looked around the room and saw the very changed mood. Perhaps what people needed was not just the Army to come to our aid, but the feeling that we were not alone, that we were part of something bigger. This one transmission had done that for us.

  A few minutes later, Nitish had hooked up the TV to a portable generator in Central Avenue and hundreds gathered to watch the signal that was now transmitting continuously. The national anthem, Vande Mataram, and then news of how the war was going. Scrolling text told of battles in Kolkata, the shooting down of two enemy transports over Rajasthan, and then several minutes of text dedicated to our actions in Mumbai. That part of the transmission was greeted with loud cheers and applause, and then I was left gobsmacked when I saw a final slide congratulating the Commanding Officer of the Azad Hind Fauj in Mumbai.

  The name on the slide was mine.

  Hardly anybody slept that night, first out of anxiety due to the anticipated enemy attack which never came, and then the excitement that followed the TV transmission. As the sun rose, for once I had things on my mind other than security. Megha came up to me and whispered, ‘Get ready to get married!’

  I had never really thought of when and how I would get married. When Baba had been on my back to marry someone, it had been something I had tried my best to avoid. I had looked upon the rituals
accompanying it with scorn. Now, having met the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, everything seemed so simple.

  Mr Sinha, Mrs Khatri and Anu were the chief architects of the wedding that had been planned. While neither Megha nor I were very particular about the religious aspect of it, they insisted we find a priest or someone who could perform the rites. Finally, we did discover someone who could do the job and so, at ten in the morning, almost everyone in the community gathered on the grounds of the Hiranandani Foundation School for our wedding.

  I had no clothes that could remotely be classified as suitable to get married in, so Nitish lent me a nice kurta-pyjama set, which, while a size too large, at least made me look the part when I walked to the grounds.

  I had not seen Megha all morning and, when she appeared, she took my breath away. The first time I had seen her, she had been wearing a blood-stained hospital uniform, and since then, every minute we had spent together had been in the shadow of danger and death. Now I saw her walking towards me, her hair freshly washed and done up, her face glowing, and wearing a bright red saree.

  Anu walked up to me and elbowed me in the stomach.

  ‘Close your mouth, Aadi. It’s hanging open. Now I hope you realize what a gorgeous woman you’ve managed to con into marrying you.’

  As it was, we had no relatives to represent us, but it seemed like Kundu, Nitish, Pandey, Akif, Ismail and a few others had appointed themselves my baraatis, and at least some of them seemed to have taken that job quite seriously. Pandey was tottering and Mahadev had a bottle in his hand which he was sipping from. Akif was doing his best to do his impression of the bhangra, and Ismail, bandaged arm notwithstanding, was trying to join in. Most of the women, and for some reason, Mr Sinha, had appointed themselves as representing the bride’s side. The kids were howling with delight, music was playing way too loudly, and people were drinking and dancing.

  Quite incidental to the party that was raging all around us, Megha and I walked around the fire that had been lit, with a pandit chanting words the meaning of which eluded me. The only thing I understood was that the beautiful woman walking with me around the fire was now an inseparable part of my life.

  Anu’s daughter had baked muffins and cakes for everyone, and in a break from the routine of mashed bhaji and bread, people passed the treats around. The teenagers were having their own dance party in a corner, and I noticed Ronald joining in with dance moves that had the kids screaming in delight and appreciation.

  ‘Do they teach dancing in the MARCOS?’ I asked.

  Ronald grinned at me. ‘When I was growing up in Goa, I wanted to be a dancer. Somewhere along the way, blowing up things and killing the bad guys became more fun.’

  I spotted Megha then, staring off into the distance, looking pensive.

  I went up to her and asked, ‘What’s wrong, Megha? I hope you’re happy.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never been happier. I was just thinking how nice it would be if my parents were here, and wondering where they are…’

  Her voice trailed off, and my thoughts went to my father as well. I had taken Baba for granted; I would sometimes not take his calls, knowing he’d inevitably harangue me to get married. Now how I wished I had one chance to speak to him, to know that he was well. Had he heard the radio transmissions or seen my name on the TV? The thought that he might have, that he would be reassured knowing I was okay and proud at my doing something that mattered, gave me some measure of comfort.

  Then I looked around us. Our marriage had meant more than just the two of us coming together. It had meant people putting aside their worries and fears, if only for a couple of hours, to join in celebrating each other, our togetherness, the hope we were all clinging onto together.

  ‘You know, we should do this more often.’

  Megha giggled. ‘Get married more often?’

  I smiled. ‘No, celebrate. I’m sure there are birthdays, anniversaries, and yes, perhaps people waiting to get married. We should not stop living, no matter how black the night is outside our walls. What lights up the blackness is not just electricity but us keeping our hopes alive.’

  We held hands and Megha asked the next question with a sly smile. ‘So what plans for our honeymoon, our fearless Commanding Officer?’

  ‘Well, I hear we have the Honeymoon Suite booked at the Meluha Hotel.’

  She locked her fingers with mine and we would have continued to chat, had Shaikh not run onto the grounds heading straight for me. I saw that he had a blood-stained towel in his hands. He pulled me aside and whispered in my ears. ‘Sorry to crash the party, but the bastard we brought in after the last raid is talking, and so is the Brit. He just started and I wanted you to decide what we do with him.’

  I looked at Megha to see whether she would be okay with my leaving at a moment like this, and she just nodded and kissed me.

  ‘Go, do what you have to. Now, you have to come back to me.’

  As we walked back to the Vodafone store, Shaikh filled me in.

  ‘That’s the beauty of having two prisoners. You can play one against the other. I told the Arab that the Brit had told me everything, that he was a senior officer and knew of their plans. The Arab got angry and told me the Brit was a low-level operative who had joined them just two months ago; that he was a mongrel born of a Kuwaiti father and a Brit mother, and had been in trouble with gangs and drugs and had come to Syria after converting to Islam, supposedly to wage jihad but in reality to escape jail time.’

  ‘What did the Brit say?’

  Shaikh chuckled. ‘I told him everything the Arab had said, and he was bloody furious. He claimed the Arab was in deep shit because he had led raids to capture women despite being ordered not to do so early in the occupation. He boasted about how he had taken part in an ambush on Indian policemen and been rewarded by his seniors.’

  ‘All that from just talking to them?’

  Shaikh’s eyes hardened as he responded. ‘Once you get them to start talking, then they will be more open to persuasion. I learned the Brit would have no real high-level intelligence. We had been trying to get information on plans and force levels, but he was really a foot soldier, so I began working him over to understand why he and others like him were here.’

  ‘And? What did he say?’

  He opened the door to the store and the first thing that assaulted my senses was the smell. Piss, blood, vomit, the smell of fear.

  ‘Hear him for yourself. Hey, shithead, wake up!’

  Shaikh kicked him hard and the man rolled to a sitting crouch. His face was almost unrecognizable from the beatings he had endured.

  Shaikh took out a large knife from his belt. ‘Do you want to play this little piggy again, my friend? Would you like me to cut off one more finger?’

  The man flinched as Shaikh asked him to repeat for me what he had told him. The man’s defiance was gone, and he was looking at me with eyes that were eager to please. I looked at the blood pooled around him, and the fact that it did not bother me told me that the blackness that had enveloped our world had perhaps seeped into our hearts as well.

  ‘They told us we were going on a mission, that’s all. We heard that the best fighters were being sent to America since people there had guns and would fight. We were told we would go to India where people were traders or talkers, not fighters. We were told they’d be easy pickings and we could get women and riches as the Caliphate spread. Then the fucking attacks began and we lost mates, and a few of us shook down the locals, you know? We were sent out on the attack as punishment duty—the leaders didn’t like the fact that we had picked up some women on our own. Fuckers thought we should wait till the locals were subdued. They told us a bunch of lies. They said Muslims here would welcome us; that Hindus and Muslims would slaughter each other and it would be a cakewalk, that the average Indian is weak and timid.’

  I knelt before him and looked him in the eye. He was shaking with fear as I slapped him hard and he spat out blood and a tooth that had come loose
.

  ‘Shaikh, he’s a low-level piece of shit. Part of me wants to blow his brains out now and put him out of his misery, but look at him. He’s literally pissing himself in terror now that he knows what we timid Indians can do. Let him tell his pals what we’re like and what we can do, unless they kill him anyway for being captured, in which case it’s not exactly as if the world will miss one shithead like him’

  I turned to the man.

  ‘Look at my face, remember what happened to your friends and yourself and go tell them that if they fuck with us, we will hunt you down and kill you all. Tell them a Muslim cut off your fucking fingers and a Hindu will cut your throat if you come to fight us again; tell them we Indians can talk, but we can kill as well; tell them they chose to mess with the wrong country at the wrong time; tell them they face not a bunch of scared civilians but an army—the Azad Hind Fauj, the Indian National Army. If I see you again on the battlefield, I will personally kill you.’

  A blindfold was placed over his eyes and he was led out to be driven beyond our checkpoint by Pandey and Mahadev. The man was pleading with us, telling us that his leaders would kill him, but to be honest, I didn’t care.

  ‘Shaikh, what about the Arab? What’s he saying?’

  I saw a look of concern on Shaikh’s face. ‘He’s a very different kettle of fish. Seasoned jihadi, fought in Iraq and Syria, beheaded a dozen prisoners, and was made an officer as a reward. He’s the real deal—he talks about it with pride and no fear. He says he will talk only to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Yes. He says he needs to give you a message.’

  The Arab was sitting at a table in the adjoining clinic which had been converted into our second prison. While in the Brit’s eyes I had seen fanatical hatred, here I saw a cold, calculating gaze. Other than the bandages on his legs and hands from the shrapnel of the previous night’s bomb blasts, he had no other injuries. Clearly, Shaikh had not gone to work on him yet.