by Deva, Mukul
‘No!’ he finally replied in a strangled whisper. ‘I cannot ki...’ Even the word eluded him and his voice faded into the night.
Salafi’s weak, whining voice was beginning to irritate Asif. He could not believe that this was the same man he had admired for being strong in his beliefs and clear in his call for action.
Mujib did not remove his unwavering gaze from Salafi’s face. ‘You don’t have to dirty your hands, miyan.’ His voice was edged with contempt. ‘We’ll do that for you.’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’
‘Just get back in there and keep them talking. Keep them busy and use the nice, clean network the YPS is creating to build a strong nationwide network for us; a network that will provide support, finance and when required, media and legal support; a network which we can cull for the right kind of people from time to time.’ His tone hardened. ‘People who are not so squeamish... people who are ready to kill for Allah.’ He leaned forward, pushing his face closer to Salafi’s. ‘Are you ready to do that at least?’
‘Yes!’ Salafi’s breathing was ragged but he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, of course I am… I will… but…’
‘Good.’ Mujib pulled away from him slightly.
‘Always bear in mind that there are others out there who are going to put their lives on the line for the cause. They are the flag bearers of the jihad. Don’t ever let them down – ever.’ The last word hissed out with such shocking vehemence, it made Salafi flinch as though he had been slapped.
‘Never!’ he croaked back. ‘I swear by all that is holy, I will make sure they are never let down.’
‘For your sake, I hope so,’ Mujib replied, his tone almost conversational. Immediately, the atmosphere in the vehicle eased up. ‘Remember this is the best combination in the world.’ He saw the question in Asif’s eyes and explained, ‘While YPS functions over the ground, completely legally, and is thus in a position to provide the propaganda, media support and required legal cover, the Indian Mujahideen shall be free to hit out with a series of terror spectaculars all over the country. The bastards will not even know what hit them.’
‘The Indian Mujahideen?’ Salafi asked.
‘Yes, the Indian Mujahideen.You obviously don’t remember our jihadis. Have you forgotten Shah Ismail Shaheed and Sayeed Ahmed Shaheed?’ Mujib shook an accusing finger at Salafi. ‘Have you forgotten the jihad they waged at Balakot?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘YPS will ensure that every time one of our fighters falls in battle, there will be charges of discrimination and persecution. The ensuing riots must bring life to a standstill.’
‘How will that help, bhai?’
‘Every time it happens, some friendly politician with his own axe to grind will stand by us and ensure that the government becomes wary of us. The mere threat of a communal riot will give us the edge. The aim is to keep the government on tenterhooks and make sure they shy away from confronting us openly.’
‘I see.’ Salafi nodded excitedly.
‘What about you, my young friend?’ Mujib suddenly turned to Asif. ‘Do you have it in you – or are you also too squeamish to bloody your hands?’
‘Try me!’ Asif shot back angrily, irritated with Salafi and annoyed that his faith was being questioned.
Mujib held his gaze, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I will,’ he said softly. His hand came up, over the seatback between them. The silenced pistol in his hand exploded into life. The sound was muted, but in the closed confines of the vehicle, it was like thunder. Asif watched shell-shocked as Salafi’s body slammed against the back of the seat. Salafi’s expression changed from disbelief to horror as he looked from Mujib to the hole in his chest, from which blood had begun to gush. Then suddenly his body slumped forward with a tired, hissing sigh, like the sound of air escaping from a punctured balloon. In horrifying slow motion he slid sideways until the door of the vehicle arrested his fall.
Mujib reached out and checked the pulse on the side of Salafi’s neck. Satisfied, he looked at the still open-mouthed Asif. ‘He was weak. Weak people turn traitor and betray the cause.’ He leaned forward slightly, the pistol in his hand not pointing at Asif, but menacingly rocksteady. ‘No?’
Abruptly closing his mouth, Asif replied, ‘I think so too.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Weakness should never be tolerated.’
‘I am glad we agree.’ The pistol dropped out of sight. ‘Throw him out!’ He gestured at the body. Asif reached across and opened the door. Mujib watched closely as he gripped the body, gingerly at first and then with confidence, and began to push it out. As the body shifted, a fresh surge of blood gushed out from Salafi’s chest. Asif flinched, pulling back instinctively to avoid being splashed.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you.’
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Asif replied, his head pounding with sudden excitement. ‘I just don’t want to mess up my clothes.’ Salafi’s body toppled out slowly, almost in slow motion, hitting the black, tarmacked road with a meaty thud. As Asif closed the door, Mujib started the engine and they drove into the night.
‘I like you,’ Mujib said after a few miles of silence. ‘I think we’ll work well together. No?’
‘Yes, we will.’
‘Are you saying that because you truly believe it – or because of the pistol in my hand?’
‘What do you think?’ Asif countered with a touch of belligerence, instinctively aware that any display of weakness would not go down well with the other man.
‘I like you.’ Mujib laughed. ‘I knew you had fire in your belly the moment I laid eyes on you.We will certainly work well together.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just continue the work they give you at YPS, but while you do that, seek out other suitable people, people like us, who are not afraid to kill… or die. Then we’ll strike.’
‘How?’ Asif asked. ‘What can a handful of us do? We need money, arms and...’
‘You leave all that to me,’ said Mujib, cutting him off.
‘You? Who are you? Where will you get them from?’
‘I’ll get them... that’s my problem.’
‘But who are you?’
‘Slowly, miyan.’ Mujib laughed. ‘All in due course... For now, just keep your eyes and ears open, and learn. You have a long way to go.’
Asif mulled over his words for a while. Then he nodded. ‘What about him?’ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder, in the direction in which Salafi’s body lay. ‘How do we explain his death?’
‘Why should we explain it at all?’ Mujib countered. ‘Don’t you see...’ He broke off in mid-sentence. ‘How do you think we can make use of his death?’
Asif did not take long to reply. ‘Why don’t we just blame the kafir for it? Proclaim Salafi a martyr who was doing great work for Islam and was becoming so popular and powerful that they killed him.’
‘Excellent!’ Mujib sounded delighted. ‘You learn fast!’
‘Like you were saying, maybe we can even get the YPS people to hit the streets to protest his murder and inflict some more pain on the government.’
Mujib laughed again. ‘You are good!’
‘Thank you,’ Asif murmured, actually blushing at the compliment. He didn’t know that Mujib was following a well-choreographed script – Praise the potential recruit. Even if Asif had given a foolish answer, Mujib would have guided him towards the right one, made him feel that he had thought it up on his own.
‘Fabulous! You must always try to capitalize on every situation. After all, just because he was a coward does not mean he cannot contribute to the jihad with his death.’
‘What about Omar and Shafique – and the others at YPS whom Salafi mentioned?’
‘Leave the fools alone. Let them talk themselves to death and build up the organization. We’ll use them to find the cadres and the support we need to complete our mission. There’s no need for them to know about us.’
‘But they will eventually find out,’ Asif
protested.
‘It’s impossible that they won’t. One or the other person we try to recruit is bound to tell them.’
Mujib shrugged. ‘When that happens, I guess some more cowards will be murdered by the kafir.’ Both men laughed again.
By now they were almost back at the university gates where Mujib had met them.
‘Take this.’ Asif was getting out when Mujib handed him a mobile phone. It was a snazzy, top-of-the-line model. Asif turned it around in his hand admiringly, unable to keep the gleam out of his eyes. It did not occur to him that the phone had been meant for Salafi. ‘I’ll call you when I need to talk to you. Use it only, and I mean only, to speak with me. Do not make any calls from it or give the number to anyone else. Remember that.’
‘But how do I call you if I need to contact you? I don’t have your number.’
‘Here it is.’ Mujib scribbled on a piece of paper he picked out of the glove compartment and handed it to Asif. ‘Memorize it and then destroy this paper. And make sure you don’t call me unless it’s an earthshaking event and even if you have to, call only from a public phone,’ he stressed. ‘Got it? Call only if it’s an emergency! And call only from a PCO! That’s how we’ll always communicate. Okay?’
By now Asif was starting to look a little bewildered.
‘Don’t fret.’ Mujib reached out and patted his shoulder. ‘Just take one thing at a time. To begin with, focus on the task I’ve given you.’
‘Don’t worry, bhaijaan. Leave it to me. I’ll put together a group that will make us proud.’
‘Good! I’ll be in touch with you soon!’ Mujib engaged gears and drove away.
Asif turned and began the long walk back to the college hostel through the early morning fog. The task given to him was clear in his head.
The Indian Mujahideen. He rolled the name on his tongue, savouring it. I’ll start tomorrow, he promised himself as he entered the gates. Tomorrow, I will put together the fiercest band of warriors the jihad has ever seen.
And so he did. Constantly aided and abetted by Mujib who kept to the shadows, over the next few months Asif slowly swelled the ranks of the Indian Mujahideen.
‘Stay away from your relatives, Asif,’ Mujib had advised when he started, ‘unless there is someone exceptional you really need.’
‘Why?’
‘It can get very emotional with relatives,’ Mujib explained. ‘It’s better to focus on people who are from your native place. That way you still have the advantage of familiarity and yet no emotional complications to hamper decision making.’
What Mujib did not tell Asif was that this would also ensure his removal from ‘the bad environment he lived in’ and push him towards ‘a good environment to improve his faith’ – one of the basic steps outlined in the recruitment manual for terror masters.
The first six men Asif recruited were from his native place, Azampur; none of them was related to him. And through them he found fourteen more, from colleges in Pune, Mumbai, Hyderabad, Delhi and Aligarh.
‘Remember,’ Mujib had warned, ‘security forces today are very well organized, that is why we need people who are educated, smart and mentally mobile.’
‘Aren’t such men harder to recruit? Aren’t they more likely to question everything?’
‘They certainly will,’ Mujib replied, ‘but in the end it will be worth the extra effort. They’ll help us to execute missions more efficiently and will be smart enough to hide their tracks well.’
And so the cadre of Indian Mujahideen that Asif finally put in place was comprised almost entirely of graduates, postgraduates and young urban professionals.
‘Excellent!’ Mujib said as he saw the ranks swell. ‘They are a good lot.’
‘They’re all from good family backgrounds,’ the eager-to-please Asif pointed out.
‘I can see that,’ Mujib replied, ‘and it’s useful. Should any of them be captured or killed, their families will make a great hue and cry, which is exactly what we need. Just keep going, Asif, you are doing a great job. Trust me.’
Mujib was right. Asif was amazed at the efficiency of the first strike. The bombs were planted with great care. They exploded with meticulous timing. And the people of Jaipur could only stand by as the bodies were counted.
THREE
For Iqbal and Tanaz, barring the escalating pain of the gunshot wound that held Iqbal in its talons, the return journey from Murree to the rendezvous on the Indo-Pak border was so uneventful that it was almost an anti-climax. The pressure of the field dressing that Tanaz had tied on his arm had staunched the bleeding considerably, but the pain intermittently lanced through the fog of painkillers that she had fed him.The shock of Azam Cheema’s bullet to his flesh and the tremendous loss of blood had drained him.1 Whenever he floated out of his state of semiconsciousness, he saw Tanaz watching over him. And in those fleeting moments of lucidity, Tanaz and he spoke, more with their eyes than with words.
Iqbal knew little about the beautiful woman who tended to him as they raced back towards the safety of the Indian border, apart from the fact that both her brothers had been recruited by the Jaish-e-Mohammed and used as cannon fodder in the endless, aimless terrorism that engulfed the Kashmir Valley. He knew that this was what had motivated her to join the Research and Analysis Wing, India’s intelligence agency. It was certain that her life on this path had not been easy and had hardened her considerably. But the more Iqbal thought about it, the more convinced he was that he didn’t wish to delve any further into her background. Whatever he had seen and heard so far was enough for him.
For Iqbal too had suffered at the hands of the terrorists. Recruited by a maulavi in Delhi and sent for training to the Lashkar-e-Toiba camp in Pakistan, he had returned to India to find that his mother and sister had been killed by bombs that had been planted by the same group.2
The sun had begun to recede into the shadows of another night when they finally reached the turning for the border crossing that would take them back to India.
Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Vikram Tiwathia brought the red and white station wagon to a halt near the solitary hut on the edge of the field where they had linked up with Tanaz the previous day. Their guide Rahmat was waiting for them.
‘Give us a few minutes to rig up a stretcher for Iqbal,’ the young Indian Army captain told Tanaz as he leapt out of the vehicle.
Tiwathia was in his late twenties but had probably seen more action in his tenure with the Special Forces than most regular army officers see in a lifetime. He had been part of both Force 22 operations into Pakistan, the first in retaliation against the Sarojini Nagar terror bombings and the second one to eliminate Salim. He was a die-hard optimist who never failed to see the brighter side of any situation. However, at this moment his dust-streaked face was lined with worry.
‘Do you think it’s a good idea for you to attempt the border crossing with Iqbal in this state?’ Tanaz asked, stepping out of the vehicle. Anxiety marred the radiance of her finely chiselled features. ‘What if his condition worsens along the way? He’ll slow you two down, and may even inadvertently give you away.’
‘We can’t leave a buddy behind, Tanaz!’ Captain Mohammed Sami, who was seated next to Tiwathia, exclaimed as he climbed out of the vehicle. Sami was the seniormost officer and second-in-command of Force 22. A tall, heavily built man with surprising grace and agility, Sami had also been on both Force 22 missions into Pakistan. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get Iqbal across. In any case, how will he manage alone?’
‘He’s not alone,’ she answered softly. ‘Not unless he wants to be.’
For a long moment there was only the crackling sound of the hot engine as it slowly cooled. Iqbal lay huddled on the rear seat of the station wagon, listening to the conversation. Sami and Tiwathia saw him exchange a glance with Tanaz. She looked away immediately, her face devoid of expression.
‘No, I am not alone.’ Iqbal finally broke the silence. ‘I need to get better and continue the fight. There will be ma
ny more Salims and Cheemas to take the place of the ones we have killed.’
‘True, but there will also be many more Iqbals,’ Sami pointed out. ‘This is going to be a long war, long and bloody... and it’s not just your problem.’
‘It’s everybody’s problem. All of us have to act, and I, having been through the mill, am relatively better positioned to contribute to the fight. In any case, I have much to atone for...’ He looked up abruptly. His breath was running short and he was clearly in pain, but there was a firm resolve in his gaze. ‘I will stay here.’
Tanaz turned to the commandos and smiled. See! she seemed to be saying. I told you so.
‘He needs a doctor,’ Tiwathia pointed out. ‘And he needs one fast.’
‘I can get him to one much faster than you can,’ Tanaz countered immediately.
‘Here? Is that sensible?’
‘Someone who won’t ask any questions… he is one of us.’
‘Where do you plan to go?’ Tiwathia asked.
‘Eventually?’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘To the desert, of course.’ Tanaz waved westwards. ‘I was born and brought up in the desert. I know it well. The sands will hide us.’
The two commandos exchanged a rapid glance. Sami nodded briefly. ‘Okay. Take care then. And Tanaz, I suggest you move fast. You have to get him to a doctor before…’ He broke off, then added softly, ‘He’s losing a lot of blood.’
Sami and Tiwathia helped to move Iqbal to the front seat and made him as comfortable as possible. They were walking away towards their waiting guide when Iqbal called out weakly, ‘Please tell the colonel that I’m sorry for...’
‘Don’t worry about the past, Iqbal.’ Sami turned to face the young man. The troubled expression on Iqbal’s face reached out to him. ‘We all make mistakes but very few of us have the courage to try and redeem ourselves. To my mind, you’ve already atoned for whatever wrong you may have done. Now it’s time for you to put away the past and set yourself free. Go man, your future awaits you… and wherever you go, whatever you do, may Allah watch over you.’
‘Thank you… very much.’ Iqbal’s voice was unsteady as he spoke. ‘Tell the colonel that he can always call on me whenever the need arises. I will not fail him.’ There was an awkward pause as he looked at the Force 22 commandos. ‘In fact, it would be an honour.’ He sketched an awkward salute, fighting back the waves of pain, and then turned wordlessly towards Tanaz. Without a moment’s delay, she powered the engine and gunned the vehicle.