by R. SREERAM
That made sense – if GK got cold feet or went off-script, it would give Nelson and Jagannath time to contain the damage. I asked him if that was the case but the only response I got was a casual shrug. Before I could press the matter, the countdown trickled down to four seconds and I silenced myself. For the moment . . .
Three . . .
Two . . .
One . . .
As if a wand had been waved, everyone fell silent. And then, with his first few words, we stepped off the cliff and there was no turning back anymore.
16th September, 2012. Siliguri.
The knock on the door was crisp and professional.
Kuldip Razdan opened the door to find a troop of armed officers of the Indian Air Force, their long rifles held against their shoulders, their manner deferential yet aloof. The soldier who had knocked clicked his heels together before taking a step back and joining the others, who were lined up facing each other on either side of the doorway. As if on cue, a senior officer appeared at the far end of the column.
He marched majestically to where the prime minister stood and saluted smartly. Protocol was protocol, after all, and the man standing before him still held office – technically – until the president terminated it.
‘Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat, sir!’
Kuldip Razdan smiled through his beard. ‘Kashmir?’ he asked.
The group captain nodded silently.
Kuldip Razdan was pleased. A fellow Kashmiri, a Pandit just like himself – perhaps that bond would loosen the lips enough for him to get to the bottom of the conspiracy around him. He wondered if there was an agenda to the group captain’s visit, or if it was merely part of the protocol in greeting a VIP on base. If it was the former, then the group captain would probably request the privacy of his quarters; if the latter, then the PM would have to order that the rest of their conversation be private.
GC Tej Bahadur Bhat solved that dilemma. ‘If it would please you, sir, I would prefer to talk to you inside.’
So he did have an agenda after all, Kuldip Razdan mused. He nodded majestically – although to the group captain, it seemed little more than a listless bob of the head – and preceded the other Kashmiri back into the quarters.
The group captain closed the door as soon as he stepped in. It escaped Kuldip Razdan’s notice that all noise from the outside was cut off completely, for the room had been recently sound-proofed as an added precaution just a few days before Kalyug’s schedule was accelerated. The soldier checked his watch before withdrawing a small radio from his pocket and placing it on the small table near the bed.
Before he could say anything, however, the PM fired off the first salvo. ‘I demand an explanation, Group Captain! How dare you – and the people who commanded you – divert an aircraft carrying the prime minister of India and hold him – me – confined like this? What is the meaning of all this? Do you realize that you could be court-martialed for this? Even executed?’
It was the most animated anyone had ever seen the prime minister since the Indo-US defence deal, the group captain thought. As much as he would have liked to let loose with his own tirade against the politician standing in front of him, he held his tongue – a good soldier always followed orders. That, and the fact that the room was wired for sound.
‘In a few minutes, sir, President Gopi Kishan is going to address the nation on a sudden – and unavoidable – development. That will make everything crystal clear to you.’ He picked up the radio and turned it on. It was already tuned to Akashvani, the national radio channel, and the faint voices of the newscaster streamed through the speaker. He turned up the volume.
‘While some sources have indicated that the president is taking a step to arrest the sliding economy and law and order situation in the country, we have not yet been able to confirm if this is the case. If indeed this is what President Gopi Kishan will announce, it will perhaps be the first time since Dr A.P.J. Kalam that the head of the state is defying party and politics in national interest.’
National interest, my foot! Kuldip Razdan thought, furious. I was right – it’s GK who’s doing this! Stealing it when he realized there was no way he could ever be prime minister instead of me!
Angrily, before he could stop himself, Kuldip Razdan stabbed the group captain’s chest with his finger. ‘This is absurd . . . beyond absurd! Mrs Pandit will never stand for this, and GK will have to back down. Get me back to New Delhi right now, Captain – and that’s an order!’
Kuldip Razdan was astonished at the speed at which the soldier’s eyes went stone cold, was taken aback at the fury in them. ‘You are not in a position to give orders, Mr Prime Minister,’ said the latter, his teeth gritted, his restraint obvious. ‘I suggest you shut up and listen to what the president has to say.’
Stunned, Razdan took a step back, his hand falling limply to his side. ‘B-but . . . I gave you an order . . . You are a traitor . . . a traitor to this nation and to this uniform if you don’t obey me.’
Before he could stop himself, Tej Bahadur Bhat grabbed the lapels of Kuldip Razdan’s jacket. ‘A traitor? You dare call ME a TRAITOR?’ he roared, his face merely inches away from the politician’s. And then, as suddenly as it had risen, the fury subsided, replaced with contempt. Roughly he released his grip and stepped back. As the channel aired its trademark jingle, he pulled at the hem of his shirt and adjusted his cap.
The jingle faded into silence. Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat held the other man’s confused gaze. ‘Have you ever visited the refugee camps in Delhi?’ he said, a perverse pleasure in his voice as he anticipated the impending shock of the president’s announcement. ‘Do you even remember 1989, Mr Prime Minister?’
24th April, 2012. New Delhi.
Richa was in the driver’s seat.
How? That question befuddled Raghav before his reflexes took over. Dropping the gun, he jumped to his right, towards the major-general, and grabbed him under the armpits. The momentum carried him over Major-General Qureshi’s back but he did not release his grip. Qureshi was pulled over as well, and rolled over him and away from the speeding car, which swerved away from them and banged into a parked car to their left.
The parked car’s alarm started to ring.
Raghav jumped to his feet and rushed to the passenger’s side of his car. Jerking it open, he found Richa slumped over the steering wheel. He feared the worst, until she moved her head and groaned. A slight trickle of blood started to run down the side of her face.
‘Richa?’ he asked, leaning forward into the car and slapping her cheeks as gently as he could. ‘Richa? Can you open your eyes? Can you –’
His words were cut off as a strong hand pulled at the waistband of his pants, and as he stumbled backwards, clearing the door, the other hand encircled his neck. The thick forearm cut off his air without mercy, even as his right arm was wrenched behind his back, pushed against his spine, bending it, causing pain, pain and a roar in his ears, like a wall of water rushing through an empty tunnel.
‘She . . . needs . . . help,’ he managed to choke out, pointing a shaking arm towards Richa. ‘Head . . . bleeding . . .’
Without warning, as abruptly as it had been applied, Qureshi broke the choke-hold. In one smooth motion, he slammed Raghav against the frame of the car, rocking it, before whirling him around and kneeing him ferociously in the gut. The combination of the choke and the blow brought Raghav to his knees, coughing violently for air, giving the major-general enough time to check on Richa.
She was starting to come around, he noted, relieved. The blood concerned him, until he noticed the plastic cuffs also stained. Reaching in, he pushed hair off her forehead and noted gratefully that there was a very small gash, possibly just a scrape of the skin, most likely caused by the impact of her head against the cuffs.
She was safe, which meant that he could turn his attention back to the despicable middleman who must be holding some, if not all, the answers to questions he wanted to ask. There was one that had be
en pushed to the top of his mind in the last few seconds.
‘Snap out of it,’ he ordered Raghav, pulling him to his feet and leaning him against the very frame he had banged him against. ‘Take deep breaths. And stop being a baby.’
Despite the agony, Raghav managed a weak smile. ‘One minute,’ he gasped. ‘What about Richa?’
‘Just a scratch,’ replied the soldier gruffly. ‘Now shut up and steady your breathing. Whoever taught you to fight did not teach you the first thing about getting back up.’
This time, Raghav obeyed without comment.
There was a rustle of fabric as Iqbal Qureshi pulled a compact knife out of his belt and cut the plastic handcuffs. Richa groaned, a hand now going to her forehead, the eyes still closed, and it was quite evident to him that she had been stunned by the impact, and nothing more serious. He had seen enough battle to make that diagnosis instinctively.
He found a half-full bottle of mineral water in the space behind the gear-stick and twisted the cap open. Pouring a fistful into his hand, he splashed it against her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered, the face scrunched up in a wince, but she was conscious once again, her eyes slowly focusing on the strange spectacle of the major-general with an impatient look on his face.
‘That was the most foolish thing I’ve ever seen anybody do,’ he told her the moment her eyes had opened completely. The dismay in her expression must have been evident, for he immediately looked contrite. ‘Also brave.’ He shook his head, unable to stop himself. ‘But stupid, too.’
‘I thought he was going to shoot you,’ said Richa, pushing a few strands of stray hair off her face. ‘When he –’ She stopped mid-sentence at the sight of blood on her fingertips. ‘Am I injured?’
‘Apart from pride and a scratch,’ Major-General Qureshi muttered, ‘there is nothing to be worried about.’ He looked at Raghav, noticing that the latter was steadily growing stronger with each breath, the breathing itself shallower and easier now. The Army man in him was impressed at his fitness levels – officer class, maybe just a Qureshi-style tweak away from being one of the best in his class.
Richa climbed out of the driver’s seat and flung the broken cuffs at Raghav, narrowly missing him. ‘We have Mr Raghav Menon to be worried about,’ she pointed out.
‘Perhaps,’ said the major-general, turning to Menon. ‘But if he wanted to harm me, he would not have pushed me out of . . . the way. Just now. So at least for that one act of kindness, I should assume that there is some valid reason why he’s in the middle of all this.’
‘There is,’ interjected Raghav, surprising both of them. He held up his hands in mock-surrender. ‘But before that, I have a question for the two of you. What’s Urdu for justice?’
16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.
Click.
Every time he blinked, Jack-nee-Cox relived that moment when he thought his life was over. A few pounds of pressure was all it would have taken for him to die an obscure death, and the reality of how unremarkable his life had been so far was depressing him beyond anything he had ever experienced.
Click.
The two men had had a good laugh about it. Their laughter had been as taunting as it had been loud, almost vulgarly sadistic, and it had stung him deeper than a bullet could have. His handler had been dismissive and equally contemptuous of the Indian spooks and spy catchers, and for the first time since he’d arrived, Llong started to understand the human psyche better. Men were the same everywhere – there was the same need to believe that you were better, the same need to posture.
Click.
‘I don’t know why they think you’re worth it,’ the one who had pulled the gun on him had told him as he was holstering his weapon. ‘But the control room’s asked that we keep you safe in case we have to deal with the Americans later. Mind you, they’ve asked – not ordered. So don’t start thinking you’re indispensable – we could still shoot you and walk away without anyone asking us a single question.’
Click.
16th September, 2012. Washington/London.
President Timothy Jackson pressed the blinking button on his console. ‘Good morning, Alan. I assume you’re just as upset as I am about what your former colony’s up to.’ His chief-of-staff winced – with WikiLeaks still online, it was always better to err on the side of caution, and comments like the one his president had just made had the potential to tick off a well-heeled section of the citizenry that he had cultivated with a lot of effort.
Across the Atlantic, inside the building at 10, Downing Street, Prime Minister Alan Carter cocked an eyebrow at his only companion, Sir Harold Holmes of the Secret Intelligence Service. The older man shrugged indifferently, having spent a lifetime catering to the whims and fancies of ministers too often too immature to be entrusted with the information he brought them. He was happier with Alan Carter, however, because the man showed at least a spit more spine and discretion than any of his recent predecessors, and even more so because Sir Harold Holmes really did not care too much anymore. Doctors had given his lungs only a few more months before they collapsed completely, and without a spouse to nag him about moving to the countryside, Sir Harold was pleasantly reconciled to spending his last days in the city he adored.
The British premier chose his words carefully, knowing that his BBC was a lot less amenable to political spin than the American networks. ‘India is one of the world’s largest democracies, and so yes, we are worried about concentrating all that power in one individual.’
The White House resident rolled his eyes. Why was it always so goddamn difficult to find common ground with the incumbent Brit? Suppressing his natural attitude under Winston’s reproachful glare, President Jackson glanced at Andrea Simps. The secretary of state seemed to be completely absorbed in studying her nails, alternately holding them up to the light and then closer to her eyes. Sighing within, missing his interrupted sleep, President Jackson agreed with the prime minister.
‘Yes, yes . . . what was it your bard said? Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely?’
Not exactly the Bard, Alan thought, but chose not to pursue the point. Gopi Kishan’s address would air any moment now, and he did not want to miss a single word of it.
‘Something like that,’ Alan said. ‘And I presume you’ve been caught by surprise as well?’
The ball had been lobbed back rather nicely, Sir Harold thought. The reply would need some adroit shot-making . . . admit you have, and risk losing face; pretend – or maybe admit – that you had prior information, and you risk condemnation for not sharing it earlier, or preventing its occurrence outright. Yes, Alan Carter might have made a fine tennis player after all.
There was a slight, unmistakable pause before the reply, which told Sir Harold that the next statement from the American president would be a lie. ‘We did receive some vague reports of talk of a coup,’ said President Jackson, and Sir Harold could not help a smirk. The cousins had been just as clueless. ‘We were trying to verify it before we shared it with anybody else – and the sources were too senior to risk exposing – but it seems the schedule has been accelerated.’
‘In such a short time?’ Alan asked. It was a rhetorical question and both men knew it.
‘The reason I called, Alan, is that I think the two of us – I mean, the US and the UK – should pool our resources in stopping the crisis there from getting worse.’
‘I’m quite sure your secretary of state would tell you that she can handle this crisis single-handedly,’ said Alan, eliciting a nod of appreciation from Sir Harold, who was obviously enjoying the exchange.
President Jackson glanced at Andrea Simps, who pretended to have not heard a single word of the exchange.
‘Diplomatically, yes, I am sure she would,’ he said, knowing full well that the Brits probably wanted him to spell it out in case they needed to assign the blame later. But dammit, he couldn’t allow this to happen on his watch, could he? ‘I am talking about mobilizing our resources on the ground jointly so that w
e can maximize the impact of any action we take to ensure peace in the region.’
In other words, thought Alan Carter, repeat Afghanistan and Iraq.
‘I’ll have to get back to you on that, Mr President. I will need to check with my intelligence chief to know what we can afford to activate on the ground.’
Andrea Simps abruptly stood up and walked over to the president. ‘Mr Prime Minister,’ she said in her most courteous tone. ‘Andrea Simps here. Just wanted to say I appreciate your confidence in my abilities. I’ll try not to let you down. Oh, and could you check with Sir Harold right now – he must be with you? Our agent who tails him reported that he walked in about an hour ago, and hasn’t left since.’
Sir Harold Holmes, the director of the SIS, chuckled.
Even as the British prime minister tried to think of a reply, the American secretary of state pressed the button that disconnected the call.
Alan switched his console off, clearly irritated. ‘I can’t stand that woman,’ he told Sir Harold, who was still smiling.
‘That woman is the least of your concerns,’ Sir Harold replied, pulling out a kerchief and dabbing the corners of his mouth. ‘Are you going to order me to co-operate with the Americans?’
The British premier shook his head mirthlessly. ‘We’ll chart our own course there, but let’s keep our options open. Gone are the days when Bush said jump and Blair asked how high.’
12
There comes a time in the history of every nation when it looks itself in the eye, and wonders where it has gone wrong from the path it had set itself. When every citizen fears that the future is only going to get worse, and the thought of tomorrow – and this nation – brings dread, not anticipation.
That, sisters and brothers, that is where we are at today.
The crossroads of destiny stare us in the face. There is one road before us that will lead us back to prosperity and happiness; there is another that leads us back into ruin and darkness. Destiny is asking us, maybe even mocking us . . .