KALYUG

by R. SREERAM

  The producer turned to his laptop, dismissing her without further comment. Rather than give him the satisfaction of seeing her stew, Richa walked out of his cabin, slamming the door loudly. Her eyes were welling up but she refused to give in, not wanting to create a scene in front of others. What do I have to do to get a break around here?

  In the rest-room, she splashed water on her face, letting the frustration wash off her. Not for the first time, she questioned the decisions that had led her here. From the time she had opted out of the engineering course, which her parents had been keen on, and gone in for mass communications and journalism at her Pune college, it had been an uphill battle. Every small victory had been scraped out in the midst of many failures; the joy of success had been as short-lived as the pain of failure had been constant.

  When she had covered the attack at the mall a few days back, it had seemed like the break she had always waited for. A chance to be on national television, on an issue that every subscriber was sure to tune into. She should have been happy with that, she supposed, milked the moment for all it was worth, instead of wanting to investigate it further.

  The meeting with Major-General Qureshi at his farmhouse had been the turning point. A doubtful quest for conspiracy had turned into an all-consuming desire to reveal the truth, forged in the quiet fire of the major-general’s pain and her own sense of righteousness. But what was the truth? Had she gotten so caught up in her own story that she failed to see what was wrong with it? Was it that she saw what she wanted to, just as others did?

  Splashing her face for the umpteenth time, she forced herself to calm down, to stop the shivers that shook her fingers. Drive out the emotion. Look at the facts. One final splash of water. Only the facts.

  Fact – there was an active black-market racket for Army materials. Qureshi had given her the contacts, culled from an under-process investigation he himself was spearheading, through which she had purchased a ViFite fatigue that the Army was actually using. Fact – that fatigue had barely lasted two days in an industrial refrigerator at a temperature far above the actual conditions the suit was supposedly for. Fact – every document in her possession – except the ones handed over by the major-general himself – spoke of the fatigue in the highest terms, for durability and suitability. Fact – the ViFite tenders had contained serious disclosure errors which should have resulted in an immediate disqualification, instead of being awarded.

  All these facts pointed to a clear, undeniable corruption of the checks and balances built into the system. Like the major-general, there were others who knew of it. She had spoken to them, used them to help build her case, but no one wanted to come forward and be quoted. Not one person wanted to blow the whistle on the sordid things that went on in the name of defence procurements.

  Yet, what could she do, she wondered aloud? Where did the investigative reporter’s brief end? Was it enough to show the symptoms and allow the system to diagnose, or was it her professional duty to identify every detail of the tumours that were ravaging the system? For all the talk of the might of the pen – or in her case, the mike – she felt powerless, impotent.

  She briefly considered calling up the major-general and asking him for his advice, but then rejected the idea. Even Major-General Qureshi was not above suspicion, what with the documents with his own signature on them – though he claimed they were forged – or the pressure of keeping his command amidst the sudden loss of his wife . . . already, there were murmurs within the corridors of the MoD that the he would be eased out soon. Loss of faculty. Her informants within the MoD had snickered with malicious pleasure as they passed her the gossip.

  She was so caught up in her own thoughts that her neighbour nudged her, indicating that her phone had been trilling continuously. An unfamiliar number. Was it a fresh lead? She hoped so.

  ‘Richa Naik?’ asked the caller urgently.

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘You don’t have time. Leave your office right now. They are coming to arrest you – the police. Don’t take the elevators – on second thought, take the service elevator. Come straight down to the loading docks. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘Who – who are you?’ Richa was sure she had misheard.

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ said the male voice even more urgently. ‘They will be at your reception desk in no time. Trust me – get out right now!’

  Bloody prank call, as if I did not have enough on my plate already! Richa considered telling the caller to fuck off, but a commotion near the entrance drew her attention. On the other side of the glass doors, she saw men in khaki gesturing angrily to the security guards; one of her colleagues was rushing towards her, waving her hands and shouting something that she couldn’t hear clearly over the rest of the din.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ With each syllable, the caller’s voice rose.

  Richa ducked and grabbed her handbag off the table. She pulled the USB memory sticks from their drives and flung them inside. Peeking over the walls of the cubicle farm from time to time, she made her way through the corridor and towards the back of the office where the emergency exits and the service elevators were placed. She brought the phone back to her ear as she saw the cops finally push the door open and invade the inner office.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she hissed. ‘But who the hell are you?’

  The line was silent for a moment, at which she thought he had already hung up. But then he answered. ‘My name is Raghav Menon. Major-General Qureshi sent me.’

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  ‘So tell me why this Gyandeep Sharma was so pissed off at me,’ I said as we locked the door to Cr2-E.W.

  ‘I never said he was pissed at you,’ said Mitra, distracted for a moment as he read a message that he had just received. ‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’

  But I refused to be put off. ‘Tell me,’ I insisted, keeping pace with him. ‘Why would he do what he did? What was I to him?’

  ‘You were a distraction at a time when the government needed distractions,’ Mitra said. ‘Powerhouse – of which Gyandeep is a top leader – wanted a scapegoat to drive attention away from the scams that were breaking out at the time. The Commonwealth Games and the 2G scandals were the most prominent ones, but there were other smaller, less sensational – but equally reprehensible – scams that were threatening to break out. The ruling alliance itself was in disarray, because it was the second term and everyone wanted bigger shares of the pie.

  ‘Your book came out at a convenient time. It galvanized the press, gave them something else to write about. The cases that were filed against you were never personal – they were all calculated to make front page headlines, relegating everything else to an also-covered. Plus, as you yourself said a few minutes ago, you helped matters by making an enemy of everyone mentioned in your book.

  ‘The political class, which is divided on everything else except their own salaries, ganged up against a common enemy – you. Members competed with one another to disown you, to stamp you an enemy of the nation. For the fourth estate and the intelligentsia, you were excellent fodder for countless debates and discussions. Was it right of you to use the tone you did? Did you actually support a coup? Would you do it in real life? Did your writing qualify as sedition? Ad nauseum, ad infinitum, they had valuable programming as long as you were newsworthy.

  ‘And what about your readers? The book was banned – from the legal outlets. So the black market flourished with pirated copies of your book. You lost your royalties; no publisher would touch you ever again. But those who wanted to read your book found enough copies on the streets to keep them satisfied – so the big deal was probably just a publicity stunt for them. The government closed its eyes and said, “We’ve banned the book – so it’s not available”, and left it at that – and every time they said that, the furore kicked up again.’

  By the time he reached this point of his narration, I was slightly winded – unlike Mitra, who had barely broken a sweat. It se
emed to me, as we followed the long, curving corridor, that we might make shorter time by taking one of the corridors which led towards the centre of the complex, but before I could make the suggestion, Mitra continued. ‘It was Gyandeep who orchestrated the entire campaign against your book. His firm, Infinity, paid off the outlets that reviewed your book and had them condemn you; his team coached the commentators and the politicians about the line to take. Your future, to them, meant nothing in the long-term – you were just the right kind of issue – big enough to get everyone’s attention, yet transient enough that you couldn’t hurt them back even if you wanted to.’

  With that, he started to jog. I followed him in silence, wondering how much of the incredible conspiracy he had just told me was actually true. It was fantastic to think that I had been a pawn in Gyandeep’s scheme without ever knowing of his existence – or he, I suppose, of mine before I published my book. At the same time, like a jigsaw puzzle when the last few pieces finally fall into place, a lot of questions seemed to be answered.

  I had always wondered why the hullabaloo had started more than a month after my book had been launched – but, caught up in the miasma that followed, it had always been an idle thought, just out of reach of my consciousness. The book had been received with murmurs of approval in the first few weeks – not enough to make me an instant bestseller, but certainly not consigning me to the list of failures as well. Then one fine day, out of nowhere, the law minister had taken centre-stage and condemned my book, threatening to book a charge of sedition against me.

  Now, in the light of Mitra’s explanation, it made sense. What had, at the time, seemed like an inspired choice of timing, now looked as if I had timed myself into a trap.

  Could things have turned out differently if I had delayed my book? I don’t know. A week, a month, a year . . . anything could have made a difference – or then again, maybe the cosmos would still have conspired to have me realize that destiny of mine.

  I shook myself out of such thoughts. It’s never a good idea to lose yourself in the ifs-and-buts.

  And just as I finally found my rhythm, just as my body began to enjoy the jog, we arrived.

  16th September, 2012. Washington D.C.

  The chief-of-staff was the one person who, common sense dictated, should be entrusted with the task of waking up the president of the United States in the middle of the night with bad news.

  What was happening in India, the chief-of-staff was told over the phone, qualified for that distinction.

  The drive from his Georgetown residence to the White House took Winston Haywood just a few minutes, even factoring in the time he had taken to rouse his own driver, and he was already running up the steps to the building before the car had pulled to a complete stop. He was waved through most of the security checks until he reached the president’s private quarters. He rocked impatiently on the balls of his feet as the wand was waved, and then virtually ran to the door that separated the private lives of the first family from the public life that they had been elected into.

  President Timothy Jackson was already waiting for him in the study, sipping a cup of strong coffee. He welcomed Winston warmly, almost cheerfully, relishing a diplomatic challenge that promised a change from economics, nuke-toting Ayatollahs and trade-mongering premiers. He poured his chief-of-staff and long-time friend a cup of coffee as well.

  ‘I’ve asked for a SitRep on India,’ said the president. ‘Right after you called to tell me you were on the way over. We should be getting that any moment now.’

  Winston nodded. No sooner had the aide-de-camp to the Indian president hung up than he had gotten on the phone with the India desk at Langley to find out if there were any late-breaking developments in the subcontinent. Nothing concrete, he had been told at the time, but there were disturbing rumours that a section of the Army was revolting over the murder of a major-general. The POTUS had been briefed to the same extent on their call when he had been en route.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang. President Jackson raised a quizzical eyebrow at his chief-of-staff before he picked up the receiver. ‘Route it here,’ he said when the caller had finished.

  ‘A video call?’ guessed Winston.

  ‘Yes.’ Settling himself comfortably into his favourite chair, President Jackson pressed the controls on the remote.

  More lights came on in front of him while the lights behind him dimmed, even as the 42-inch television screen mounted into the wall in front of them switched on. A few seconds later, he saw the president of India sitting behind a desk, smiling warmly.

  ‘Good morning,’ hailed President Jackson as Winston receded to a corner invisible to the camera.

  ‘Good morning to you too,’ said President Gopi Kishan. ‘I apologize for waking you up so early, but I thought it was better you hear it from me than from . . . anyone else.’

  ‘That’s okay, President Yadav. And you have our condolences for the attack in Ghaziabad,’ said the US President. Winston gave a thumbs-up – it was a subtle signal that day or night, the US was keeping close tabs on India.

  GK smiled patronizingly. ‘Condolences are not needed, Tim. It seems your people may have made a few assumptions about what’s happening in Ghaziabad that’s not exactly . . . accurate. There has been no attack there, but we are having a situation there that will be rectified within the hour.’

  ‘I am certainly glad to hear that.’ Out of the corner of his eyes, the American President saw Winston wince and pull out his notepad. The president’s embarrassment would be avenged – if not in India, at least by the head of the night detail stateside who had passed on such erroneous information to the White House. ‘Innocent lives must always be valued and protected.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ said GK solicitously. ‘That is why I know you will appreciate this step I am taking today.’

  ‘Splendid! Are you talking about the joint Indo-American Afghan task force that I proposed the last time we spoke?’

  The question threw GK off his rhythm for just a beat, but he immediately smiled his most charming smile. ‘No, that will take a little more time, I am afraid. What I am about to tell you, I have not even announced to the rest of the country. You see, in the light of the breakdown in governance, law and order, I have decided to declare a state of Emergency here.’

  The news stunned both the listeners in the White House. For a few seconds, neither of them could digest the idea, let alone speak. Tin-pot dictatorships could declare coups or states of emergencies, but to have one of the world’s largest democracies turn into a dictatorship was the kind of scenario that the CIA had always pooh-poohed.

  ‘You must be joking,’ said the POTUS, finally finding his voice.

  ‘Mr Jackson, would I wake you up at four in the morning if I weren’t serious? I have no choice, really. We require an Emergency here right now, before things get worse.’

  Taking the cue from Winston, who was frantically signalling from his corner, President Jackson asked, ‘What about Mrs Pandit? Is she with you on this? And where is Kuldip Razdan? What’s happened to him? This is a mistake, GK . . .’

  His counterpart across the seas smiled mirthlessly, ignoring the other’s breach of protocol. ‘Mrs Pandit is on her way out of the country right now. And as for the PM . . . actually, former PM . . . well, if you are not part of the solution . . .’

  The statement hung in the air between them as the video faded to black.

  8

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  We were ushered into the video-conference room just in time to catch a momentary glimpse of the American president before the screen went blank. Both Nelson Katara and GK turned towards us, the latter with the distinct air of someone who’s just pulled off a dare and lived to tell the tale. ‘That takes care of them,’ he said, his voice mingling with Nelson’s, who had spoken at the same time. ‘That was Jackson in Washington. We’ve had to talk to him ahead of schedule.’

  I was wondering how they had gotten here
ahead of us when I caught sight of a map of the Rashtrapati Bhavan on the wall. Jagannath and I had covered a semi-circle on the outer edge of the building, while Nelson and the President had just had to saunter across a corridor into this room. I glanced at Jagannath, a little intimidated that they had choreographed my involvement so minutely.

  ‘How did he take it?’ Jagannath asked. GK coughed, though it sounded vaguely like a snort to me. Nelson gave a grim smile.

  ‘Not sure. He was surprised, definitely, but I doubt he’s understood what exactly is happening. We’ve told him it’s an Emergency, and if his history is any good, he’ll assume that it’s more of a political coup than a military one.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Nelson. ‘But we are going to have to flex some muscle to keep the fallout in check. In ’74, her party – and most of the state governments – supported Mrs Gandhi. Today, it’s a different ball-game altogether. You know the methods we’ve chosen to get here, Mr Selvam – so I’m sure you also realize the risks inherent in those means.’

  It was the same question that had been lodged at the back of my mind ever since Raghav had told me about the blackmail that was supposed to have compromised anybody who could be an obstacle to this operation. Blackmail is always a tricky proposition. You never know when or how the blackmailed is going to react. The threat of exposure is often the most paramount incentive to put up and shut up, but what if all the victims joined hands and refused to back down?

  It was not improbable that the blackmailed would choose to make a stand, claim that every single piece of evidence was fabricated, confuse the public and therefore divide any support for the coup – while, at the same time, on the strength of their claims of innocence and the sycophancy that had been so carefully cultivated over decades, manage to consolidate opposition to the coup. What would happen then?

  Nelson’s explanation answered this. The executive arm would have to be called in as a show of strength to intimidate any dissidence within the ranks of those who faced political extinction. The police, the paramilitary wings like the Reserve Corps and Border Forces . . . and the Army. Unlike the tanks that had marched towards Yeltsin’s Kremlin, the ones here would rally around the president and the Rashtrapati Bhavan. They would protect the coup against . . . what? A bunch of disgruntled politicians, or a mass uprising against the subversion of the Indian democracy?