Time Guard: The Awakening (21st Century)

by Anmol Batra

  About the Author

  Anmol is a Data Analyst by the day, an artist and author by night. As a child, Anmol has always been fascinated by the concept of Time Travel & Life after death. This is his first book and an attempt to draw a new concept merging Time, Soul and parallel universe.

  Anmol studied Computer Science Engineering from Panjab University. Ever since his college days he has spent most of his time imagining things that can shape the world someday.

  Feel free to write to Anmol at :

  author.timeguard@yahoo.com

  Also, follow Time Guard’s Facebook page for updates:

  http://www.facebook.com/timeguardseries

  Acknowledgements

  Behind every successful man, there is a woman. If this book succeeds in winning the hearts of people, I believe I need to thank more than one woman, to whom I would owe my success.

  It gives me an immense pleasure to express my gratitude to my mother, Mrs Vinod Batra, my mentor for life. I have more stories of failure than success and she has motivated me through my failures to reach my best once again; and to my wife Monica, who kept herself awake on several nights, contributing her best to the concept, the story, word selection, sentence formation and narrative corrections.

  I am also indebted to my sisters, Geetu & Tarun, and my mother-in-law Mrs Raj Chopra for reading the first draft and giving their valuable feedback.

  I would also like to thank Karina (deviant art) for making a wonderful cover image of the book; an artist who has truly brought Time Guard to life and Mr Simon Richardson, Professional Editor for his sincere effort in editing and his contribution beyond grammar, word choice and flow.

  Sincere thanks also goes to the rest of my family; my father, Mr Satya Paul Batra, my grandmother Mrs Ishwar Devi Batra, my father-in-law Mr Jitender Chopra and my two brother-in-laws, Archan Banerjee & Amit Chopra, for patiently listening to all my ideas.

  Lastly, a sincere thanks to my reviewers Rajan Aggarwal, Poorva Mishra, Jaininder Alavadhi, Jagdeep Singh, Uvika Khatri, Saurabh Purohit and all those to whom I narrated the idea of Time Guard, and who motivated me to put my best foot forward.

  Chapter 1

  The Archer who lost his gold

  28th September 2010 7:00 AM | IGI Terminal 3, New Delhi

  The sun rises behind the cloudy Dwarka skyline and a cool morning breeze wrestles the dew from the tree leaves that line the Indira Gandhi airport. The grass patch alongside the landing strip is shadowed by a descending Boeing 737.

  “May I remind all passengers to please remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop.” The broadcast was loud enough for everyone sitting in the plane to hear, yet a few still chose to unfasten their seat belts.

  Noisy Athletes, Ministers and other dignitaries choose to ignore the warning. They start shuffling to make a quick exit. The Airhostess can see the movement but prefers to ignore it.

  The plane comes to a halt and passengers queue up in the aisle, some still struggling to locate and lift their baggage. 10 minutes later, the plane is completely vacated, except for one passenger who is still sitting in a window seat, daydreaming. He is a young athlete wearing a green polo T-shirt bearing the logo of the Pakistan Athletics Federation.

  “Excuse Me Sir!” the airhostess says. She is wearing a red cap and a mushroom-coloured suit; she beams at the athlete. “Are you alright?”

  The young lad looks back at her vacantly, nods his head to signal a “yes” and then gets out of his seat. As he walks towards the exit, her voice stops him again.

  “Excuse me Mr Zaffar, does this luggage belong to you?” she asks with carefully tailored politeness, as she reads the name on the back of his shirt.

  “Yes” splutters Zaffar, with a worried expression.

  He steps closer to airhostess, clutches the bag by its strap and walks once more towards the exit.

  Zaffar has been a top performing archer and sharp shooter ever since he first laid his hands on pebbles to knock mangoes out of farmyard trees. His precision was far better than anyone of his age. Now, 15 years later, he was the youngest archer representing Pakistan in the Commonwealth Games. Whether archery or shooting, a medal in either would land him his dream job; an officer in the Pakistani Army.

  “Have a good day Sir!” says another airhostess standing at the door of the plane, but her words don’t register. Instead, Zaffar steps out of the plane and walks on to the jetbridge with a nervous face, sweat trickling down his forehead.

  At the immigration counter sits a Bengali man in his late 30s, working in the last hour of his shift. Mr Amitabh Banerjee is a good officer, well-known for nabbing smugglers, an honest man bestowed with the ability of a sniffer dog.

  “Good Morning Mr...” says Mr Banerjee, the Immigration officer while reading his passport. “..Zaffar. How has been your journey?”

  “What what??” says Zaffar with a confused look on his face.

  “How was your journey?” repeats the officer, looking straight into his eyes through his thick black-framed glasses.

  “Good!! ...it was good” says Zaffar with a forced smile on his face.

  “So you are here for the Commonwealth games? What will you be doing?” asks Mr Banerjee

  “Archery and Shooting,” replies Zaffar, looking at the sculptures of gesturing hands protruding from the wall.

  “Good Luck. Hope you play well. Enjoy your stay in India.” says Mr Banerjee, stamping his Passport.

  Zaffar pulls up his bag, hangs it over his left shoulder and passes alongside the immigration counter. Curious, Amitabh cranes his neck backwards trying to look at the luggage Zaffar is carrying and he is unsurprised to note that the brown-coloured bag has an unusual pattern of stitches at the bottom.

  “Kothai Tumi?” asks Mr Banerjee on phone.

  “Near exit three” replies the man on the other end of the line.

  “Kaustav, there is a man named Zaffar Haneez walking towards the exit. Please conduct a thorough check of his luggage,” says Mr Banerjee.

  Zaffar gathers his remaining baggage from the conveyor belt and looks around for an exit. From the inside of the Airport Terminal, he can see a bus parked near the pillar with a Pakistan flag hanging from its windows. He feels relieved and starts walking towards the sliding glass door.

  “Excuse Me! Zaffar” a voice grabs Zaffar’s attention and a man dressed in white with black stripes on shoulders, walks towards him.

  “You need to come with us,” says the man with a black nametag labelled ‘Kaustav’.

  Kaustav escorts him to a windowless room where another officer dressed in white is waiting for him. He asks Zaffar to take a seat and stay put while the two officers unzip his bag and pull out all his belongings. From shirts to socks, Kaustav scrutinises all the contents of Zaffar’s luggage.

  “Found something?” asks Kaustav, disappointed, after an hour of searching.

  “Nothing!” confirms the other customs officer. “Mr Banerjee must have been mistaken.”

  Kaustav calls Mr Banerjee and a few minutes later he arrives outside the investigation room where Zaffar is still waiting.

  “We are not able to find anything in his luggage,” says Kaustav.

  Mr Banerjee smiles and steps inside the room. He flips Zaffar’s handbag and asks “Hey Kaustav, please get me a small blade or a cutter and a screwdriver.”

  Zaffar starts to sweat as he watches on, but remains silent. Mr Banerjee flips his bag, unscrews the rubber pads at the base and then rips apart the stitches that begin beneath the unscrewed rubber pad, and run across the perimeter of the surface.

  A minute later he tears apart the entire surface of the bag, only to find several thinly-film
ed plastic bags with white powdery contents hidden beneath the surfaces.

  Tears start to roll down Zaffar’s face and his heart starts pounding. He slams both his wide-open palms on his head and curses his fate. Mr Banerjee smiles at Kaustav and says “I am late. I hope you can take care of this case.”

  “Thanks, Mr Banerjee, How come you were so sure about his luggage contents?” asks Kaustav, relieved.

  “You won’t believe it! I had a dream last night. Same Guy! Same Bag!!” chuckles Mr. Banerjee.

  As Mr Banerjee leaves the room, Kaustav & Raghav start wrapping up his belongings. Confused, Zaffar regains his senses and gazes at the customs officers.

  The duo takes two minutes to meticulously pack Zaffar’s bag and then they both sit next to him.

  “Do you know what the punishment for smuggling drugs in India is?” asks Kaustav, looking across at Zaffar, who is cowering in his seat.

  Zaffar remains quiet, and a strong feeling of remorse sweeps over him. All his dreams have shattered in front of him.

  “It’s over 10 years imprisonment. You would never be able to compete in the Commonwealth Games or any other international athletics meet. Unless..” Kaustav takes a pause and looks at Raghav, hoping for an agreement. Raghav nods his head in affirmation.

  Zaffar looks back at Raghav, wiping his tears. “I’ll do anything,.” pleads Zaffar.

  “I am not letting you take this outside of the airport. However, I can let you go if you can make us a good offer.” says Raghav with a malicious grin on his face.

  “I am carrying ten thousand Indian Rupees and another five in Pakistani notes. You can take it all. Please just let me go,” pleads Zaffar.

  “Not enough,” says Kaustav. “You must have made a fortune selling this stuff. Give me a figure of at least six digits”

  “I... I .don’t have that much with me. This is the first time I have carried this stuff,” begs Zaffar. “The bank wants to sell our house. I needed the money to clear my father’s loan.”

  Kaustav gets up from his seat and slaps Zaffar across the face, leaving his left cheek and ear red.

  “DOES THAT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO POLLUTE INDIA?” roars Kaustav.

  Frightened, Zaffar keeps a hand on his ear, trying to feel the numbness as the dam in his eyes bursts, letting forth more tears.

  “Look, we have no reason to believe you,” says Raghav offering him a glass of water. “Even if it is true, there is no excuse for bringing this to India. However, the only chance you have is getting us what we need. We’ll be keeping this bag of yours. You have time until the end of the games.”

  Raghav and Kaustav accompany him to the exit. Zaffar starts to drag his trolley bag towards the bus, when Kaustav hands over a slip to him. “Give me a call when you have the money.” says Kaustav, and with that he walks back inside the airport.

  Zaffar boards the bus and takes a seat in the last row.

  “Where have you been?” asks one of the athletes, to which Zaffar doesn’t respond. The bus begins to move and Zaffar sobs in silence.

  28th September 2010 4:00 PM | CWG Village, New Delhi

  After hours of thinking, Zaffar finally decides to make a call to his Uncle Omar Qadir, a Senior Railway employee in Pakistan.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum Chachajaan!!” says Zaffar.

  “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam Zaffar” comes the reply.

  “All Good? How was your journey?” continues Qadir.

  Zaffar takes a minute to explain everything that happened. Qadir peacefully listens and to Zaffar’s surprise, responds with complete empathy.

  “Don’t worry my son. I’ll do what is right for you.” Says Omar “He is asking you for an amount in 6 digits, so offer him five hundred thousand instead of a hundred thousand but ask him to return that bag of yours. I’ll ask someone to deliver the money as soon as possible.”

  Zaffar ends the call and walks to the balcony. From a distance he can see a newly-built Hindu temple with the Yamuna River flowing alongside of it. The cool breeze feels relieving as Zaffar can still recall the slap to his face in the midst of his agony.

  ‘Does that give you the right to pollute India?’ He recalls the words of Kaustav, wondering if he will be able to convince them to return that bag. After gathering his thoughts for 15 minutes, he finally makes a call.

  “Is this Kaustav?” he asks.

  “Yes, Speaking” replies the man on phone.

  “Sir, I can get the amount that you have asked for. However, I have a request for you,” says Zaffar in a humble voice.

  “We are sparing your life. Isn’t that enough? It is just a small price for your career.”

  “Sir, I have something more to offer. I can give you five hundred thousand if you return my bag and its belongings,” says Zaffar, timidly.

  “You want us to let you sell the poison. FORGET IT!” shouts Kaustav and hangs up.

  Near the exit at the IGI terminal 3, the two customs officers stand lurking for possible suspects among the arriving Passengers. Kaustav disconnects the phone and Raghav peacefully stands by, listening to everything. Deep inside, Raghav is not convinced of their conversation so he decides to have a word with him.

  “Dada, remember when bhabhi wanted an iPhone and we coincidently caught a man carrying 6 of them?” Raghav reminds him.

  “I remember, and that phone still works well but she now wants the newly launched iPhone 4. When I asked her what is new about it, she says it’s version 4!” says Kaustav irately.

  Raghav looks sideways hoping to see into Kaustav’s eyes but Kaustav is busy gazing at a car banner near the currency exchange counter.

  “Dada, when are you buying the Honda City? You have taken it for a test drive three times as far as I know.”

  “I wanted to buy it this March...” Kaustav looks at the banner. “…but that bloody school principal was not accepting anything less than a hundred thousand as a donation. Last month it was my sister-in-laws ‘wedding, and my wife spent fifty thousand on clothes and gifts. Every now and then I just seem to short of a few hundred thousand. I don’t know when I will be able to get one.”

  “How much are you short?” asks Raghav politely.

  “I am satisfied with the basic model but taking this month’s savings into account, I think I need close to three hundred thousand,” explains Kaustav.

  “You already have it in your hand.” replied Raghav, pointing at his phone. “You have been noble enough to go 50-50 on every catch before, even though you’ve always done all the talking. Take three hundred thousand this time and I’ll be more than happy to have two.”

  “I don’t think it is right that we let him get away with drugs,” replies Kaustav.

  “Dada, Please!! Even if he doesn’t deliver, the addicted youths here will get it from someone else,” pleads Raghav.

  Kaustav hesitates. He is lured in by the prospect of the money. Nervously, he slides his sleeve up with one finger and looks at his wrist watch.

  “I am going home now. Let me think about it.” he says in a tired voice. And with that, he walks away.

  Not convinced by his answer, Raghav heads to the room where Zaffar’s bag is being kept. He pulls out the strap and flips the tag to see Zaffar’s phone number.

  2 days later, Raghav visits Zaffar. He collects the amount and hands over the bag along with all its contents. Kaustav is disappointed with Raghav, but soon feels better after buying a new car over the weekend.

  4th October 2010 8:00 PM | IGI Terminal 3, New Delhi

  Cars crawl in the traffic jam towards the airport as one of the lanes is reserved for the movement of the Commonwealth Games vehicles. People are honking at each other, hoping the next car will respond and speed up. Meanwhile, Mr Banerjee calmly drives his wornout Car, complete with a broken silencer.

  “And now for some sports news.” says the enthusiastic voice on radio. Amitabh vaguely hears it. “...a young boy from Pakistan has destroyed the competition at the Yamuna Sports Complex. Zaffar Haneez wins gold in Archery.”


  Shocked to hear his name, Mr Banerjee quickly dials Kaustav’s number.

  “Hey Kaustav, isn’t an FIR against drug peddling merits a non-bailable warrant?” probes Mr Banerjee.

  It doesn’t take long for Kaustav to get what the old man is talking about. Hastily, he replies. “Dada, I can explain. I’ll be at the terminal in Ten minutes. I will explain things to you in detail.”

  An hour later, Kaustav & Raghav are in a room with Amitabh who is not happy with the explanation of the two young customs officers.

  “Kaustav, you should have called me there and then when he threatened you.” grunts Amitabh “I am not surprised that he has contacts with terrorists, but that doesn’t mean we let a drug peddler wander off into our streets.”

  “He threatened dire consequences not just for us but for our families as well,” stammers Kaustav.

  “How much money did you take?” asks Amitabh with a poker face.

  “We… We didn’t take anything. Why would either of us risk our jobs for a few thousand rupees? Especially…. when the crime is that severe.”

  “Kaustav, you know you shouldn’t have made a cash payment on your new car,” says Mr Amitabh. Next, he pulls out his phone and dials 100.

  In the middle of the night, the police raids the Commonwealth Games Village and arrest Zaffar, along with the contents of his bag. He is presented at Delhi district court the next morning. After a month’s trial, the court finds Zaffar guilty of drug smuggling and bribing an on-duty officer.

  Zaffar is imprisoned for eight years. Kaustav and Raghav lose their jobs as customs officer and face charges of bribery. However, their political influences push the court case for over six months. The court finds them guilty and both are imprisoned for three years.

  Kaustav and Raghav are kept in Rohini Central Jail whereas Zaffar is kept in Tihar. Unaware of Kaustav and Raghav’s fate, Zaffar’s hate for all three grows. After two years in prison, Zaffar abhors everyone around him, not just individuals, but the entire nation.