KALYUG

by R. SREERAM

  The captor who had answered the call gave him a mocking smile. ‘Hey Jack,’ he said, holding up his wallet, ‘or should I say Llong? Llong Cox, from Madison city, Wisconsin. You’re a long way from home, Llong.’

  Llong stared at him, stunned. As a non-official cover operative, his true identity was supposed to be a closely-guarded secret. Was it possible that the American government had already put out a rescue alert for him? But if they had, it did not make sense that they would reveal his actual name – for all his postings in India had been under the identity ‘Jack’, complete with its own fictional history and papers.

  ‘Llong Cox. No wonder you chose a codename like Jack,’ he sniggered.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ snapped Llong, in a last-ditch attempt to preserve his cover. ‘My name is Jack.’

  ‘Really?’ said the captor, sarcasm dripping like acid from his tone. ‘Hey, Shakib. He says he really is Jack – not this Llong schmuck that we were supposed to pick up.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Shakib, grinning broadly, clearly enjoying the joke. ‘In that case, we’ve wasted enough time with him. Off him quickly and let’s go back to the mall. Hurry!’

  The first captor pulled out his gun and held it to Llong’s forehead. And before Llong could react, he pulled the trigger.

  24th April, 2012. New Delhi.

  The two of them took the stairs down to the basement.

  Raghav walked in front of Major-General Qureshi, constantly aware of the gun that was pointed at his spine, knowing that it would not be wise to chance the soldier’s reflexes. Qureshi was aiming right at the centre of the widest mass of Raghav’s body, and it would take but an instant to press the trigger. The shot might not be fatal – in fact, Raghav was sure it would not because Qureshi wanted him alive, at least until he had interrogated him thoroughly – but it would certainly be enough to kill his chances of an escape, and might even cripple him for life.

  Iqbal Qureshi kept pace with the man in front of him, although he ensured that he always remained a couple of feet behind Raghav – just in case he tried anything offensive or defensive. He kept shuffling his feet as well, disguising his rhythm, knowing that Raghav would need to identify that rhythm to even think about a counter-move.

  As they started down the final flight of stairs, Qureshi relaxed a little. Following a brief chase through the mall from the instant Raghav had caught sight of him when he had been just a few feet away, Qureshi had finally trapped Raghav Menon at the entrance to one of the emergency exits – and since then, it had taken all his powers of concentration to ensure that he did not slip up and lose his advantage. A brief interrogation at the beginning of their journey yielded, albeit quite reluctantly, the admission that Richa was inside his car, handcuffed and unable to move, and Qureshi had seized the opportunity.

  He would go down to the basement, where there were bound to be fewer people, and continue his interrogation inside Raghav’s own vehicle – that way, after he was done, there were safer options available to him than trying to walk the agent through open ground and to his own vehicle. In the process, he could also free Richa Naik and send her to a safe location until such time as it was all right for her to emerge and continue her exposé on the nation’s enemies.

  And the murderers of his wife.

  They passed through the open doors and into the basement – another hole in the so-called security, Qureshi thought absently. They saw a bunch of people moving around at the far end, really too far to matter, but otherwise the area they were in was deserted.

  Ideal, the major-general thought.

  Raghav Menon echoed his sentiments as he realized that the time to make a move was fast approaching. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had made a mistake in letting himself be taken by Qureshi. That part of his plan had gone smoothly – it was this part, where he had hoped to improvise a way out, that occupied him for the moment.

  That chance came as they were finally in sight of his car. For a few seconds, as Qureshi tried to check if there was anyone else in the car besides Richa – which meant a possible ambush – his concentration slipped a little. He was conscious of Raghav, but he was not his sole focus for those few seconds.

  As they came closer, Raghav surreptitiously glanced at the windows of the car they were passing. As he crossed the back door, he could see his reflection – translucent, very translucent, but definitely his own – on the windows; behind him, he could make out Qureshi’s form, the extended arm holding a gun level with the lower third of his back.

  The shadows filled in whatever additional information he needed. As they continued to walk, Raghav measured the difference between the tips of their shadows, which would be proportional to the distance between them. Even more importantly, the angle of the two shadows indicated that Qureshi was to his left, roughly about half his body’s width away.

  And then, as they cleared the last pillar before his vehicle, just about fifteen feet away from where Richa was watching both of them anxiously, he made his move.

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied.

  I nodded dumbly at her. She had beautiful eyes, expressive and curious, long and lined with just enough kohl to impress upon you the sincerity within. I was smitten, and I knew it right then.

  So I said nothing. And watched as the bemusement appeared, first in her eyes, then at the edges of her lips as they curled up ever so slightly.

  ‘You’re the author of India, 2012, aren’t you?’ she asked me, raising her voice just a little bit, probably wondering if she would have to give me a good shake just to snap me out of my stupor.

  Thankfully, I was able to speak before that happened. ‘Yes,’ I said, extending my hand. She shook it, her grip firm, her hand much smaller than mine, cooler too. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, and I could see the interest in her eyes spike up. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘That’s why I am still here,’ I said, grinning. ‘I have no idea why these guys have included me in their scheme. Jagannath Mitra kept saying it was their way of making up for what I went through when my book came out, but nothing’s really made much sense, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Redemption? That sounds right . . . Jagannath’s big on redemption – that’s why I’m here too. This is my big break, their way of making up for the way I was targeted when I exposed that ViFite story.’

  ‘Right – that’s where I remember seeing you from! Wasn’t that the scam with the Army procurements or something? Thermal suits or camouflage . . . Major-General Qureshi was involved, wasn’t he?’

  Immediately, I saw that I had said the wrong thing. Her entire body seemed to stiffen as she looked away. I held my tongue, feeling that I would only make things worse by speaking; a few seconds later, she turned back towards me and said, ‘Yes, he was. He was a good man, and he paid a stiff price for what he was.’

  We fell silent, as if that would honour the fallen soldier, and I was unsure once again how to take our conversation forward. It wasn’t just the fact that her voice was pleasant, but I figured she had been around INSAF longer and would be able to make things clearer for me.

  Such as, ‘So when were you brought into the picture about . . . this?’

  ‘This morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but I was with NDNN at the time of the ViFite story. Well, I’ve been out of work since then – until this morning, when Sharmila called me and offered me a breaking-news assignment. I was asked to report to the Doordarshan office downtown – the next thing I know, I’m being chauffeured into the Rashtrapati Bhavan along with Sharmila. I was given a proper brief about this only about – hmm, let’s say ten, fifteen minutes – before I walked through those doors.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  Her smile became wider. ‘Letting the president make his big announcement. Then I’m going up there and asking him what he intends to do about Major-General Qureshi’s death! On a live telecast!’

  24th April, 2012.
New Delhi.

  Raghav Menon bent his left leg and used his right to propel himself into an anti-clockwise spin. He extended his left arm completely, the shoulder twisting back so that the arm was not to his side as much as it was to his back. Too late, Qureshi realized at some sub-conscious level what was happening; he tried to move his pistol to the left, only to have his hand collide with Raghav’s. The blow was quick and sharp, the latter’s hand hard and knife-like, and the impact knocked his index off the trigger.

  Raghav completed his turn and dropped down to one knee. In the blink of an eye, even as Qureshi attempted to get a better grip on his weapon, Raghav’s right hand dipped into his ankle holster and pulled out a smaller – but no less deadlier, at this distance – revolver. He drew the gun and placed it to the major-general’s head less than two seconds after his first action.

  The look on the major-general’s face was murderous, the rage palpable. Instinctively, Raghav Menon moved backwards without losing his bead on Qureshi’s temple, trying to put some distance between the two of them.

  ‘I don’t want to shoot you,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Relax.’

  Qureshi stared hard right back at him, already calculating the odds of trying to take Raghav’s gun away, furious with himself for being outwitted by his quarry. Fury won out, helped along on its way by a sudden pang of loss at his wife’s death, and Qureshi lunged at the man he held responsible.

  Raghav had little choice. He fired.

  The bullet whistled above the major-general’s head, the sound of the shot unmistakable to the three of them, a possible backfiring engine to anybody not watching. Qureshi pressed forward, his DNA having been rewritten by training and experience to attack, rather than defend, to get in so close that he could switch to hand-to-hand combat.

  Raghav did not give him that chance. The major-general stopped cold in his tracks as the gun suddenly appeared in front of his nose, steady and gleaming, the acrid smell of cordite filling his nostrils. Raghav used the momentary hesitation to his advantage by stepping closer and slamming the butt of his gun into Qureshi’s head, stunning him. As the other man fell to one knee, Raghav shoved him with his foot, pushing him to the floor. Both of them knew that their fight was over the instant Qureshi’s back hit the unforgiving ground, knocking the air out of him, and the operative moved in to press his advantage.

  ‘I. DON’T. Want. To. Shoot. You,’ Raghav said once again, punctuating each word with a stab of his gun-toting hand. ‘So stay down and listen to me.’

  Lying on his back, Qureshi glared back at him with undisguised anger and, more importantly from Raghav’s perspective, a grudging recognition of the circumstances.

  Just as he was about to instruct the major-general to sit up with both palms pressing against the ground, the roar of an engine reached his ears. He looked up just in time to see his own vehicle lurch towards him.

  Richa was in the driver’s seat.

  11

  16th September, 2012. Vagamon, Kerala.

  Death, postponed.

  Nazim Qazi was only too aware of the squad around them, the assault rifles in their hands primed and ready, fingers eagerly anticipating the command to fire.

  Death, nonetheless.

  Unexpectedly, rough hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him to his feet. None of the fellow prisoners turned their heads, not even out of a curiosity reflex – instead, just as he had been a few seconds earlier, they knelt with their heads bowed, hands tied behind their back, hoping that their captors would be more merciful than they themselves had ever been.

  Nazim was struck by the cold intensity of the eyes that stared back at him through the slits of the black hood that the man in front of him was wearing. He had seen such eyes before, in the training camps of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, and had no doubt that the man who had pulled him up had killed, would continue to kill remorselessly.

  ‘Nazim Sulaiman Qazi,’ the captor said, and the captive nodded silently. Defiance blazed in his eyes for the briefest of instants as anger fought with reason. Reason won and the suicidal antagonism slipped out of his eyes.

  ‘Kashmir?’

  Again, Nazim nodded.

  ‘Khidar se?’

  ‘Kupwara.’

  ‘Yahan kaise?’

  Nazim had asked himself that question many times, and far too often recently. How had he gotten here, in the company of terrorists, into the brotherhood of those who believed in an Islam that had been completely alien to him ten years ago? Was it the disillusionment with a brother who had joined the Army, or revenge for the father who had paid the price for that act? The impetuousness of youth, of believing that all he needed to bring a government to its knees was an AK-47 and a few grenades, of trusting in an invincibility that was not to be.

  Nazim shrugged, resigned to his fate. Did it matter anymore that he had joined fellow jihadists for a final run-though before they staged their attacks across the southern part of the country? Did it matter anymore that he had spoken up against, and had been on the verge of getting executed by The Pathan for daring to question his orders? Did it matter that the same fighters who had stood by silently as The Pathan sentenced him now shared the same fate that had been pronounced for him?

  ‘Why did you speak up against The Pathan?’

  For the first time in a long while, Nazim smiled. ‘He’s crazy,’ he said simply, imagining The Pathan’s chagrin. Nazim’s contempt for the terrorist known as The Pathan had grown with every interaction, and it was now boiling over.

  ‘But his plan was solid,’ his captor persisted. ‘To strike at the heart of Hyderabad . . . the toll would have been tremendous.’

  The weariness was evident in Nazim’s eyes as he retorted, ‘Yes. And that was the problem.’

  ‘You disapprove?’

  Nazim snorted. ‘I don’t mind a fight between equals, but . . . this is cowardice. Easy prey.’ He spat into the ground, a blob of blood and spittle that landed right next to the combat boots of his captor. ‘Haraami . . .’

  His captor’s eyes narrowed. Then, apparently satisfied, he grabbed Nazim by his shoulders and moved him away from the kneeling prisoners. Nazim caught him nodding at the other gunmen, but was quite unprepared for the sudden and sharp retorts of their weapons firing. He turned around just in time to see the bodies hit the ground, the blood seeping out of their heads.

  The other gunmen were already sprinkling generous amounts of lime into the shallow graves that were just a few minutes old. Wordlessly they worked while he watched, shoving his late-unlamented co-conspirators into their final resting places and covering them with another layer of lime and mud. A few minutes later, barely a quarter of an hour since The Pathan had held a gun to his head, there was no trace of the terror camp, or of the men who had participated.

  Except him. And the gunman talking to him, the one who had pretended to be a jihadi himself but was actually . . . well, what was he?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the gunman near him. ‘I think I may have some use for you after all.’

  Death, postponed.

  The faint smell of cordite and coppery blood tickled his nostrils.

  But death, nonetheless.

  16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  We were just a minute away, according to the director, from the start of the telecast, and I found myself eagerly awaiting the announcement. It is the same morbid nature, I suppose, that glues spectators to the screen as they watch a calamity unfold live – a tsunami, a tornado, a typhoon, take your pick – the curiosity to see how the president would manage to utter such an outrageous pronouncement on television, watched by a billion-plus people across the globe, and then the chaos that would be unleashed by such mindlessness.

  My eyes kept getting drawn to Richa as she followed Sharmila across the floor, a clipboard held close to her chest, occasionally scribbling, sometimes arguing with the director. I didn’t realize I had been obvious about it, though, until Jagannath sidled up to me without me even realizing it, and cl
eared his throat pointedly. ‘You might want to start taking notes yourself,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘Should I get that clipboard from Richa, or would you rather do it yourself?’

  ‘I was just feeling sympathetic towards her,’ I retorted, angry more at myself for being so . . . teenaged. ‘Obviously, she’s just one more pawn who has no idea what she’s been drawn into.’

  ‘Richa’s nobody’s pawn,’ he replied, sounding sincere enough. ‘That girl is a credit to a profession that needs more like her.’

  His compliment silenced me. Two years ago, as my book worked its way towards success and then controversy, I had been in and out of too many studios and talk shows to have anything but contempt for the way they sold their opinions. The peak of my infamy had done little to change my opinion of journalists as scavenging bullies, and the two years of obscurity had done little to make me more tolerant of their kind.

  Or is he counting on my bias? My thoughts on the subject had been voiced in numerous blogs – the only medium that I had available to me – and even the most perfunctory background check would have revealed my attitude towards the fourth estate. Hell, if you ask me, I would have said half the nation shared my cynicism.

  I shifted my gaze to GK. I didn’t know if he was sweating because of the klieg lights pointed at him or out of nervousness, but the make-up lady certainly had her hands full keeping his face presentably dry for the announcement. Despite the air-conditioner running at full throttle, the room was too full of people to be cool, and the make-up lady kept asking for a pedestal fan for GK’s benefit. She didn’t get it.

  As one of the crew members started to count down the final few seconds, Nelson Katara stepped up to GK. ‘He’s asking him to read from the teleprompter,’ explained Jagannath, noticing the way I was straining to hear the exchange. ‘Nelson wrote it himself, although if you want to be generous, you can credit me with an assist.’ He grinned with childlike excitement. ‘Hush now! Ten seconds until we are live . . .’

  Then he leaned closer and whispered in a voice so low I barely heard him myself. ‘Well, not live-live . . . the telecast is lagged by about a minute in real-time.’