KALYUG

Home > Other > KALYUG > Page 15
KALYUG Page 15

by R. SREERAM


  ‘That is why I have taken the decision, as the constitutional head of our nation, to impose – for only the second time in our history – a national Emergency on political grounds. As of this minute, ladies and gentlemen, the government of India headed by Sri Kuldip Razdan has been dismissed and the Constitution suspended.’

  24th April, 2012. New Delhi.

  ‘I guess you know, huh?’ he asked her with a wan smile.

  Richa Naik stared through the windshield at the timer next to the signal. They had another ninety seconds to wait, and as far as she was concerned, to waste, for she knew there was no point in attempting an escape. A few seconds earlier, under the guise of putting her phone back into her purse, she had covered her left hand as she tried to disengage the lock, just to reassure herself that she could if she wanted to, only to discover that the switch would not budge.

  She was also confused and not just a little worried about her own fate. Though none of her reports had mentioned anything about Powerhouse, the organization had been there like a shadow, a spectre that had constantly intimidated her sources from revealing everything that they knew. She had heard the whispers, had convinced herself that some of the facts she knew simply did not fit unless an agency such as Powerhouse existed, but to actually be in a vulnerable position with someone who was part of the organization was in equal parts scary and thrilling.

  She wondered how to handle Menon. There was no mileage in playing dumb and hoping he fell for her act; his actions back at her office had convinced her about his competency. Yet, would an admission that she knew his bluff be her own death warrant?

  She had no illusions about her own worth to either the major-general or to Powerhouse. To one, she was little more than a pawn in his quest to unveil the culprits behind all the deaths that now haunted him; to the other, perhaps an irritant, a voice that had already been muted and could quite easily be silenced permanently.

  She remained silent, hoping to draw him out more, hoping for a little more information that would help her plan her move. If only he could give her an opening for something other than the damning statement that she knew he worked for Powerhouse, then she could gauge how informed he was, and attempt to play his ignorance to her advantage. Clutching her purse tighter, she continued to watch the red digits count down, mentally willing him to speak, finding it easier to hold her tongue by silently mouthing the number of seconds remaining for the light to change.

  Raghav Menon knew she was watching him intently out of the corner of her eyes, waiting to see if he would make any other move – physical or verbal. He wondered what she thought of him now that she had heard the major-general dismissing his claim as false.

  He let her stew in her own silence, a conscious decision borne out of years of experience of questioning many people. Silence was disorienting; silence grew unbearable faster than noise. Silence also led to pessimistic thoughts that could lead to panic, and panic could lead to admissions. Or at the very least, some advantages.

  Unlike her, though, he made no bones about studying her as he waited for the lights to change. She was the amateur, he the expert. Despite her efforts, he had noticed the attempt to test the lock on the door and smiled inwardly at her cheek. He was impressed that she had taken that disappointment well, even as he knew that it would make her a little more desperate. And desperation was unpredictable.

  They waited out the ninety seconds in complete silence.

  Then the lights changed and he switched gears. As he neared the intersection, he was faced with a choice – continue on the road that he was on, or turn right and head towards Fortune Mall. He had a short and rather one-sided debate with himself about the choices, before flicking his right hand upwards, turning on the indicator and cutting across two lines of traffic to take the road to the right.

  They drove in silence a little while longer until he decided that it had been long enough. In a few minutes, they would see the mall to their right – and then he would have to make another decision. Let her out at the entrance, or remain with her and meet Major-General Qureshi.

  Rewinding her side of the conversation, he realized that Qureshi would have given her a specific location to wait for him, probably inside because – with the heightened security at the mall following the attack – he would not be able to get past the entry points with a weapon of any kind. On the other hand, the major-general would be authorized to carry his weapon if he had his ID ready, and it would be a simple enough matter for him to slip into one of the restrooms and change into plainclothes, making it easier for him to blend into the crowd. Raghav doubted that the major-general was already at the mall. He was probably on the way, though, counting on the assumption that he could slip into the mall unseen through one of the numerous access points, including the loading bays at the rear.

  ‘Where is he going to meet us?’ he asked her.

  His question, seemingly out of nowhere, momentarily flummoxed her. But then she remembered that she had spoken out aloud to Qureshi that both of them would be there at Fortune, and it must not have taken a lot of imagination to suppose that the major-general must have told her where. She hesitated for just a brief second before answering, ‘By the entrance to the Big Bazaar supermarket on the first floor.’

  She saw him nod, as if she had just confirmed his own guess about the location. Thinking about it, she could understand why the major-general had chosen it and why Menon agreed. The supermarket typically had a steady stream of people moving in or out, even on a weekday afternoon, and it would be easy to observe people waiting outside while pretending to browse through the aisles. It also gave her a ray of hope – if things went wrong, she could always seek protection by rushing into the store, where the security was sure to protect her from Menon.

  ‘Did he mention any particular time?’ he asked her as he pulled into the four-wheeler lane towards the underground parking lot.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘He will be with us as soon as he gets here, but he didn’t say exactly when.’ It was the truth, and it gave her the flexibility to stay in a crowded, public place for as long as possible.

  Although there were slots available on the first level, Raghav continued to drive until he found a solitary spot near an emergency exit on the second level. He backed into the spot, keeping so close to the left wall that Richa would not be able to open her door. As soon as she realized what he had done, the dismay was apparent on her face.

  ‘Take out your phone,’ he said, opening his door. The overhead light bathed the car in a diffused glow and he quickly turned it off.

  ‘Why?’ she asked belligerently.

  ‘Call the major-general and ask him to meet us here,’ he said.

  She pulled out her phone and unlocked the screen. Then she shook her phone a couple of times and told him, ‘No use. We have to go upstairs. I don’t have any service down here.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and at that instant, she saw her mistake. She tried to move away from him but he was simply too quick. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. He pulled her forward, not too much but just enough to reach the steering column, and with his other hand, he reached under the dash for the set of handcuffs that he always kept there, held in place by a small lock that was deactivated by pulling on it.

  A click later, she was angrily pulling at her hand, unmindful of the metal digging into her skin painfully, and glaring at him. The steering wheel tilted slightly with each move, but did not give an inch otherwise.

  Raghav stepped out and surveyed his work with satisfaction. He was pleased to note that he had the handcuff secured on her wrist just tight enough to prevent her small hands from slipping out, while ensuring that the skin was not cut because the cuff was too tight.

  He waited for a couple of minutes for her to become calmer, either out of hopelessness or deliberately, and then leaned in cautiously.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Ms Naik. I could have if I had wanted to, and I hope you believe that. But you should also r
ealize that it would be suicide for me to do what Qureshi wants – so while he is going to be expecting the two of us, I’ll be the one waiting for him where he least expects me. But make a noise, or try to warn him, and then all bets are off where you are concerned. I will not be responsible for the consequences.’

  He slammed the door and walked off, leaving her alone in the car.

  16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

  Joseph Karpov Thevaraparambil was the first one to react. And his reaction was as spectacular as it was ill-advised.

  Exactly seven seconds after the president had made his proclamation, Joseph started to push and shove his way to the front. Along the way, he pushed one of the delegates off his chair and clutched it by the backrest. As he let out a roar of anger, the few delegates standing in his path scattered hurriedly.

  He reached the dais and allowed himself a moment of exultant anticipation. GK was not the only one who could play to a crowd, and Joseph Karpov was going to show the world exactly the stuff he was made of. Everyone in the room would speak of his actions for years to come; with one single gesture, he would earn their awe and respect. When GK made his ignominious exit – as he surely would – Joseph would not ask to be there. No, but others would demand that he was. That he witness first-hand the culmination of events that he had set in motion with just the swing of his arm.

  Then they would lay the world at his feet.

  He swung his arm and the chair flew off in a true tangent, whizzing through the air and finding its mark. There was a collective gasp as the legs of the chair shattered the life-size LCD screen and slammed against the electronic circuits at the back of the panel, sending out sparks and plumes of smoke.

  He raised his arm in victory, the fist clenched, and posed in front of the cameras, savouring the moment. He was sure that when images of his rebellion aired, he would become instantly famous as the next Angry Young Man. The face of the next generation. The next chief minister. A future prime minister. The man who fired the first shot against an illegitimate regime.

  Then he held up his middle finger.

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  I imagine I was the only one in the room who was struck by the irony of the situation. Barely seconds after delivering a stunning announcement of his own, the president himself had been sandbagged by the sudden turn of events. None of us at Rashtrapati Bhavan knew what was happening in Ghaziabad, for all the cameras had faced the delegates and none the direction of the chair’s trajectory. All of us had seen the chair flying towards a couple of the cameras before moving out of sight, and the only clues to what followed were the sound of shattering glass and the image of the young man with a victorious expression on his face.

  I recognized him immediately, as I am sure did the others. And whatever he had done, I was sure that it must have resulted in breaking something. It was how he had established his credentials in the dog-eat-dog world of campus politics in south India.

  It was only when a few of the delegates – particularly some of the younger ones – started to clap and cheer, their tinny voices faintly audible amidst a crackling noise, that GK’s expression changed. Where a benign façade had been presented, his anger was now palpable. His voice seethed with barely contained rage as he leaned towards the microphone, although it was sensitive enough, and said, ‘What happened?’

  None of the delegates moved, but one of the commandos stepped forward and saluted the camera. ‘The screen has been shattered, Sir.’

  ‘Are you the commanding officer for this operation?’ GK asked imperiously. On one of the screens, I could see Joseph Karpov turn around to look at the commando, who was probably about ten to fifteen feet behind him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I want you to make an example of that young man,’ said GK, and my blood chilled. The GK speaking now was no longer the suave, calculating politician we were all so familiar with; he was not even similar to the raving party spokesperson I had argued with on television two years ago. At that time, the emotion had been apparent, the subservience of intelligence something to be pitied; now, with the kind of power that he held in his hands, I caught the first glimpse of what I feared would be life under GK’s India.

  Where uncomfortable questions would be answered in uncomfortable ways.

  16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Karpov loudly as he turned around. Despite the fact that the commando had not yet responded to the president’s order, Karpov advanced towards him, flexing his muscles. A few stray shouts of, ‘Yeah, that’s it, Karpov,’ and ‘Get him, Karpov,’ egged him on. He covered the distance between them in a few strides and sneered at the officer, who stared back at him impassively.

  ‘I said, make an example of him!’

  Before the officer could answer, Karpov threw the first punch. There was no doubt that he had put his entire strength into the blow, but Joseph Karpov was not a fighter – he was just a strong man who thought he could talk with his fists. Even as he was moving to strike, the commando, infinitely better at hand-to-hand combat, sidestepped the blow, letting it glance off his bulletproof vest. As the momentum swung Karpov through – another basic mistake – the officer stepped into the circle, behind the swinging arm, and gave a sharp jab to the kidney. Most people watching the fight missed the blow.

  But Karpov definitely felt it. The pain fuelled his rage; the rage blinded his common sense. With an angry roar, he tried to swing his arm backwards, intending to catch the officer on the jaw or neck with his elbow, not really caring whether he killed him or merely maimed him.

  The officer was expecting one of two moves – a cross, or to be more precise, a wild swing with the other hand, or a backhanded elbow to his face. Even as Karpov’s backward swing gained momentum, the officer moved his left palm to the young man’s elbow, like a pivot, and used his other hand to grip his palm. Using Karpov’s momentum against himself, the commando transferred his own weight to his heels and pivoted himself, pulling the young turk into an accelerated spin that the latter had no control over.

  A second later, Karpov was airborne and on an unavoidable collision course with one of the round tables. He slammed into the edge and then into its stem, collapsing in a heap at its base. The officer bent over him and checked his neck for a pulse. Satisfied, he stood up and gestured for two of his subordinates to drag the injured man away.

  It was all caught on camera.

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  We watched Joseph Karpov’s life change drastically in just under five seconds without comment. Three of the screens on top had caught the action perfectly, albeit from different angles, and even thousands of miles away, I could feel the impact against the table almost as painfully as if I had been the one thrown into it. By the time he was taken away, there was no doubt that he would never be the same again. It was that kind of a beating.

  For a little while, nobody spoke. Even Nelson Katara looked worried at this unexpected sideshow of violence, although there was little doubt that his own obnoxiousness had caused Karpov’s downfall. GK continued to stare transfixed at the screens, as if what he’d seen had just made him realize the true extent of his newly-adopted powers.

  I glanced at Jagannath’s face and found nothing to read there. Nothing. No pity, no compassion. On the other hand, there was no sense of satisfaction, the kind you get when you hear about someone getting what they deserved. If I were to lay a bet, I would say he was more interested in learning how the move worked than anything else about what we had just seen.

  It was Nelson who, clearing his throat quite sotto voce, brought GK back to the task on hand. GK glanced at him for a second, then at both of us for half that time and then turned towards the camera.

  ‘I hope no one else will act in a similar way,’ he said, rather weakly, before adding, ‘There will be zero tolerance for violence of any kind against the government, government officers or public property. For a period of one week, we are suspending basic
rights such as the right to gather, right to protest and the right to expression, where such right seeks to destabilize the government or advocate its replacement. The Home Department in every state is hereby authorized to use whatever force it deems necessary to protect the public.’

  He seemed undecided for a second before continuing, ‘That’s all for now. I hope you will realize it’s better for all of you to join rather than to fight us.’

  Nelson reached towards a console in front of him and pressed a button, at which all the screens went black. The lights on the microphone and the camera facing GK turned red a second later and we were offline once again.

  GK leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together at the back of his head, and closed his eyes. And for the first time, I considered that all this was taking as big a toll on him as it was feeding his ego. Getting to play God must come with its own price, I guess.

  Nelson and Jagannath shared a look that was all but meaningless to me, but I assume that it did convey something significant, for Jagannath nodded once and immediately left the room. Almost by reflex, I took a step after him before stopping, wondering if I was to stay or if Nelson needed to talk to GK alone one more time. Nelson caught my eye and shook his head. I took it to mean that he wanted me to stay.

  Presently, GK opened his eyes and looked at the two of us in turn. If he noticed Jagannath’s absence, he did not mention it. Then he turned towards the screens and I could imagine him reliving those images of violence. ‘I have known him since he was a little boy,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘His father is a good friend of mine – not just work, you know. Joseph’s always been a little difficult, but to be so damn foolhardy . . .’

  ‘Sir,’ said Nelson gently, after more than a minute had passed without further comment.

  ‘Hmm,’ responded the president. The monosyllable was a question and a statement by itself.

  ‘Everything is ready. We need to move to the Nehru Room now.’

 

‹ Prev