KALYUG

by R. SREERAM

  Qazi wondered if the conspiracy the emissary had hinted at would die a natural death now. He doubted it. There were so many layers that went into mounting such well-planned attacks that the absence of a player was rarely felt. The Pathan and the emissary were all, at the end of the day, as easily replaceable as the gun-fodder they sent to their deaths.

  Would the Indian authorities be able to stop it? He doubted that too. Years of corruption, leakage, nepotism and lack of will had eroded the anti-terror mechanism. If he had not seen with his own eyes his group being taken out so professionally and so ruthlessly, he would have had even less faith in the system’s ability to respond. It was a well-cherished belief among his former colleagues that 26/11 had, with the vulgar showmanship that succeeded it, demoralized the forces instead of motivating them.

  He didn’t have to wonder why he was being summoned to New Delhi, though. As one of the targets mentioned by the emissary – and faithfully reported to his new handler – no stone would be left unturned in the quest to defend the national capital. It stood to reason that he was dealing with a governmental, if highly-secretive and competent – as much of an oxymoron as that seemed – agency, and as such, the head office would be within a stone’s throw of the power centres. But what if he chose not to obey? What if he simply walked away? Asking him to come to Delhi, instead of latching on to him in Hyderabad itself, was symptomatic of the laziness he had come to expect from the government.

  But he was curious. What was this agency anyway? He needed to know. Travelling to Delhi would not curb his options – perhaps it would be even easier to vanish in one of the biggest, most chaotic cities in India.

  Changing his direction, he set off towards the railway station. Chalo Dilli, he thought with a smirk. Inshallah.

  The New National Times, 26th September 2012.

  (Reproduced with permission from Sri Karamchand Patil’s official blog)

  Life after GK.

  Perhaps no ruler has symbolized the ‘fatal flaw’ more than Duryodhana, one of the more tragic characters in the Mahabharata. Under his rule, the kingdom flourished, his subjects were the happiest; yet, under his rule, they went to war and millions perished. His fatal flaw was the ego that prevented him from giving even five villages to the Pandavas when he was the emperor of the whole world. After his death, Hastinapura started to decline.

  History has been replete with leaders whose fatal flaws have damned them for eternity. Would we have hated Hitler so much if he had left the Jews alone? Would Saddam Hussein have fallen if he had embraced the approaches of the United States of America? Would Nehru’s legacy have been better if he had only been more decisive when it came to his beloved Kashmir?

  When President Gopi Kishan Yadav announced the Emergency on the sixteenth, I, like many of you, had my misgivings. Democracy may have its headaches, but it is still a far better alternative than any other. To concentrate all those powers in the hands of one man is a recipe for disaster because no one, not even the best among us, is free of at least one fatal flaw.

  The attack on the president two days ago has proven once again how precariously we are perched on the wall of destiny. His Emergency was avoidably unfortunate; his demise, now that the Emergency is in effect, would be catastrophic. The nation mounted an angry tiger when the Emergency was brought in, and the nation cannot afford to dismount until the tiger – the ills that have created this situation – is quelled.

  Is GK the best man for us in this situation? Over the course of our long association, there have been many times that we have agreed to disagree, and I hold all possible respect for him as a technocrat and a fellow parliamentarian. But what India needs right now is a man of vision, integrity, openness and humility, and I leave it to you to judge GK for yourself. We cannot afford to compound our troubles with a Duryodhana who will stubbornly lead us to our demise.

  In our situation, there is no one who is indispensable. Indeed, in any unit bigger than a family, there is no case that can ever be made for irreplaceability. We have seen how the US reacted two days ago to the possibility that its president could pass away – automatically, the vice president was readied to take his place the instant such a calamity happened. When that is the fate of the ‘most powerful man on earth’, can our president’s be any less fleeting?

  Life before GK was hard. Life under him, perhaps hindsight will be a better judge. But life after GK is what we should always prepare for. India has the leaders. India just needs the leadership.

  26th September, 2012. Washington D.C.

  The welcome-back committee was conspicuously missing the chief-of-staff as President Timothy Jackson was wheeled back in by his wife. The official photographer took a few snaps that would later be released through the PR department and left after a few minutes; the more inconsequential staff members and Capitol colleagues left soon after, the purpose of their visit served. His wife was among the last to leave, and she did so reluctantly.

  The vice president, hiding his disappointment at a thwarted promotion well, hung around until he too was excused brusquely. As he passed through the doors, the president could not hide the contempt he’d felt ever since he had come to know his running mate personally. A colourless, vaporous presence – that was the phrase that always ran through his mind when he thought about his deputy. His last valuable contribution to Timothy Jackson’s presidency had been to carry, just barely, the Southern states.

  He was finally left alone with the people he wanted to talk to. Andrea Simps, looking suitably sombre, had the seat across the desk; to her left sat DNI Craig McSmith with his characteristic air of incompetence and cluelessness. Devon Barres, the head of the Secret Service, sat at his customary spot near the doorway.

  ‘Where’s Winston?’ the president directed the question at Barres, knowing that the Service had taken his friend-and-attempted-murderer into custody immediately after the call.

  ‘Camp David,’ replied Barres. ‘He sticks to his story. But when we got to his home, there was no one there. His family backs him up.’

  ‘I’ve known him a long time,’ said the president. ‘I still can’t believe it was that easy for someone to get to me through him.’

  Barres cleared his throat. ‘Mr President, you realize we still have to proceed against him for attempting to kill you. There is little else we can do.’ Pre-empting his objection, Barres added, ‘He could have always come to me, or even to you, and we could have worked out something without risking your life. Maybe you could have acted sick and that would have given us enough time to –’

  ‘Save it,’ said the president, waving away the explanation. ‘I’ve thought of little else these last two days. But keep a lid on it. I don’t want anyone else getting any ideas.’

  He turned to the DNI. ‘Craig, have you been able to retrieve the agent who went missing? Jack?’

  The shoulders drooped even more. ‘No,’ he replied in a voice that barely carried to the other side.

  ‘Have you mounted any operation to locate and rescue him?’

  Instead of replying, McSmith merely shook his head.

  ‘Do you know who leaked his details to the media?’

  McSmith shook his head again.

  ‘Then,’ said the President, his voice as cold as ice, sliding over a piece of paper on his desk, ‘I suggest you sign at the bottom of that sheet and get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.’

  ‘What’s this?’ the DNI asked, though he knew the answer.

  ‘Your resignation,’ Andrea Simps answered before the president could. She cocked an eyebrow at the stricken director. ‘Effective immediately, I’m sure.’

  The DNI opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. His eyes darted between Jackson and Simps, looking for kindness, finding none. After a few seconds, the president tapped the paper impatiently. Left with no other choice, Craig McSmith complied. He signed.

  And without another word, got up and left.

  The president tracked his exit. ‘Devon, make s
ure he leaves the building immediately. Send the word out to Langley that he is officially on the shit-list. Revoke all access.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr President.’ Devon nodded and got up from his post.

  Jackson waited until Devon had shut the door behind him.

  ‘I thought your Powerhouse never failed.’

  Andrea Simps had been expecting the question. She was ready. ‘It was a trial run. They were testing for vulnerabilities and reaction patterns. But I thought we would be backing off now –’

  ‘Now that I’ve been threatened?’ Jackson retorted angrily. ‘Do you think I’d back down now, after everything that’s happened? Those bastards have just made it personal.’

  27th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  ‘The papers say the US was behind the attempt.’

  ‘I saw those reports too. We’re tracing their sources, but to be honest, I’m sure it leads back to Powerhouse. They’re the only ones bold enough to attempt something like this.’

  ‘But they failed,’ GK pointed out. ‘And Powerhouse never fails.’

  ‘Jagannath feels that it could have been a trial run. Testing our defences . . .’

  ‘In other words, until you find the assassins, I’m going to have to watch my back?’

  ‘You have us and the NSG to watch your back, sir. We’ll keep you safe.’

  ‘That would have been more reassuring if I weren’t heading to the final rites of the men who died protecting me, Nelson.’ The president watched the world pass by in a blur as his motorcade drove towards Shahid Ghat. ‘Can you take out Powerhouse? Will that make a difference?’

  Nelson could easily imagine Jagannath shaking his head even before GK had finished. And unfortunately, he had to agree with his lieutenant’s assessment. ‘I doubt that. Irrespective of what happens to Powerhouse, the order to assassinate you might still stand. We can’t take that chance. We have to find the assassins, take them down and then take out Powerhouse before they can hire anyone else.’

  28th September, 2012. Chennai.

  The phone rang just as I was sitting down for breakfast. As soon as I heard his voice, I had a déjà vu moment – from twelve days ago, to be exact.

  ‘Hi Selvam. Raghav here. How are you?’

  ‘Depends on why you’re asking. If it’s just a courtesy call, I guess I’m good,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘What? No how-are-yous or where-were-yous? Come on!’

  I smiled despite my misgivings. ‘Ok, I’ll bite. Where have you been?’

  ‘Can’t tell you. But how about you join me for breakfast?’

  ‘I was just about to have mine.’

  ‘Pack it,’ he said, ‘And while you’re at it, pack a set of clothes. We’re flying back to Delhi this afternoon.’

  28th September, 2012. INSAF HQ.

  ‘Raghav’s back in the country.’

  ‘Was he tagged on the way?’

  ‘I doubt it. If he had, they wouldn’t have let him get away – not after poisoning their president. He must have made a clean exit.’

  ‘And Selvam?’

  ‘Raghav’s accompanying him here.’

  ‘Keep Selvam in sight for a couple of days. Then let him meet the chief justice and sign off on Qureshi’s death. In fact, it’s almost not worth the bother – with everything that’s happened, Qureshi’s almost forgotten news.’

  ‘It’s better to get the formalities done and dusted. We don’t want anyone chancing on an open enquiry later. Speaking of Qureshi, Nawaz agrees with me. The Bangalore attack was most likely just a test. He thinks the big one will happen here, in Delhi, maybe more spectacular. And a bit of chatter we picked up indicates it might be a Jacob hit.’

  ‘Christ!’ Nelson’s exclamation surprised Jagannath – it was rare, and therefore quite strange, to hear the older man swear. For as long as he had known him, Nelson had seemed to have ice water in his veins. ‘Jacob rarely misses.’

  ‘Neither does Nawaz Qureshi,’ Jagannth reminded him. ‘The guy’s a freak when it comes to counter-insurgency, and if there’s one person who can probably anticipate Jacob’s every move, it’s him.’

  29th September, 2012. Singapore.

  ‘Jacob says we’ll know when we see it on the news.’

  ‘He’s probably worried about leaks,’ the chief said, placating his protégé.

  Every time Gyandeep saw the protégé, his heart tugged. His own protégé had been taken from him, unnecessarily. Arrogantly. The thought kept his fury burning brightly.

  ‘President Timothy Jackson wants to finish the job,’ the chief told him with a satisfied smile. ‘Apparently, INSAF pushed the wrong buttons. Now he’s mad and wants his revenge. Wants not only the assassination but chaos all over the country as well.’

  ‘And then he can ride in on his high horse to the rescue?’ Gyandeep asked bitterly. ‘Who does he think he is? The Kalki avatar?’

  The chief chuckled. ‘Unless India’s got reserves of oil only he knows about, I doubt he’s going to want to ride to anybody’s rescue. It’s just his ego he wants to feed. It’s no secret within the Intelligence communities across the world that INSAF penetrated the security around him like a hot knife through butter. I think he wants to make an example to discourage other nations from trying anything similar.’

  29th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  Richa joined us for lunch the next day.

  ‘Are you his chaperone?’ she asked Raghav with a wide grin as soon as she saw both of us. ‘Or you, his?’ she asked me, her eyes sparkling. Beautiful.

  ‘You know Selvam,’ Raghav said, getting up to greet her with kisses on both cheeks. Jealousy flickered somewhere within me, leaving its warmth behind. ‘Somebody needs to look after him in a big, bad city like this.’

  ‘But then he rarely goes out anyway,’ she said. ‘Or calls you up as promised.’ She gave me a pointed look.

  I winced, making it look theatrical enough to mask the emotions within. So she did expect me to call . . . and I had been about to, so many times, chickening out every time because I had no idea how to start. Or rather, because I didn’t want to risk a false start.

  ‘This is the twenty-first century,’ Raghav said, flagging a waiter. ‘Who said men have to call first? You had his number – you even emailed me for the landline when I was . . . away. Menu and bottled water, please.’

  I enjoyed watching the blush spread across her face.

  29th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  For two days, the new ‘routine’ had not changed. Qazi found a room for rent at a hostel near the Red Fort and attended prayers at the Juma Masjid five times a day before engaging the students from a nearby seminary in an impromptu discussion on the religion for a few minutes. Every time he walked away from the mosque after the prayers, he worried for a few minutes if he would be able to accomplish what his handler had asked of him the moment he knew Qazi had reached the capital.

  ‘There is an attack planned for next month,’ the handler had told him over the phone. ‘Find a way to get into some of the radical groups in Old Delhi. Even if they aren’t involved in the actual attacks, someone might know that little bit more than what we do. Like when, where . . .’

  Qazi had chosen the Juma Masjid for many reasons, but chiefly for his familiarity with the mosque, having spent two years at a nearby madrassa when he was younger, and the fact that it had one of the biggest congregations in the city. With so many Muslims attending the prayers, there was a higher likelihood of getting lucky.

  And it would have to be luck, Qazi thought. Good or bad, Inshallah, but he was not a detective. His debt to his handler had been repaid when he had passed along the news of the impending attacks. He was doing this because he knew nothing else that could occupy his time.

  It was better to be bait than to wait, he thought drolly. A devout young man in peak physical conditioning would be noticed. Qazi was not banking on being at the right place at the right time; he intended to be sought out for the honour. Someone was bound to take not
e of the young man who was so passionate and committed about his religion.

  And then?

  Inshallah.

  30th September, 2012. Thiruvananthapuram.

  There was a newcomer amongst the cleaning crew at the party offices that morning, but no one noticed. This newcomer was noticeably slower than the others, constantly looking as if he were overawed by his surroundings, but no one noticed. He took a longer time cleaning the four rooms assigned to him, but no one noticed. When he left, his paunch had reduced considerably. But no one noticed.

  A few minutes after eleven in the morning, just as the meeting of the local wing of the party was called into order, the bombs exploded. The explosions, strategically planted for maximum structural damage, cracked the beams and achieved the desired effect. Within seconds, the floors above collapsed into the hall below. Those who were too slow to get out were crushed.

  The dead outnumbered the injured.

  30th September, 2012. Kolkata.

  The office of the Communist Party had just received news of the blast in Thiruvananthapuram when a powerful explosion on the street outside shattered all the windows on that side. Immediately afterward, the sound of screaming souls and honking horns filled the air.

  Many of the comrades who were gathering for a meeting to discuss the tactics of the next week’s struggle against the government rushed outside, most of them eager to help in any way possible. Scores of injured greeted their eyes; the mangled remains of the tram, under which the bomb had been planted, lay on its sides, a crushed car cushioning it.

  The second explosion happened in one of the cars parked along the side of the street, the blast even more powerful and deadlier than the one under the tram. The metal of the car turned to shrapnel that shredded everyone unfortunate enough to be in its path; the shockwave radiated outward, crushing the organs of those already weakened by the blast; the heat ignited the vehicles on either side within seconds.

  The entire street became an incinerator within minutes.