Let Bhutto Eat Grass 2

by Shaunak Agarkhedkar

  Climbing in the dark had been painfully slow. Reaching the limit of his endurance, he had finally decided to rest till first light before moving on. Once he crested the hill, all the towns from the plains below would disappear from view, leaving him no point of reference in the shadow of wooded slopes by which to navigate.

  The cold, wet, and mud-smeared rotis tasted divine, and by the time he had swallowed the last tiny morsel, he could feel his strength returning. Looking towards the east, he urged the sky to lighten.

  At first light, he crested and saw the Ling river flowing through the valley on the other side. The range he was on ran from the south-west, where it rose just before the centrifuge facility, to the north-east. Left without any alternative, Sarfaraz headed away from Kahuta, staying near the top of the range to avoid having to climb up and down unnecessarily. It became easier as the sky brightened, and by dawn he had travelled nearly two miles.

  Sunrise found him on top of a steep hill with hamlets on either side. In the distance he saw larger mountains stand proud. Heading there would be foolish, he thought, for each steep slope climbed meant an equally steep slope to be descended. Instead, he climbed down the northern slope and crossed the Ling river once more, this time denying it both his shoes. Beyond it, he climbed up the next hill, then followed its ridge as far as it would take him before descending again. Slope by slope, ridge by ridge, he patiently worked his way north. By afternoon, the river was out of sight.

  As the sun began its descent towards the horizon the wind picked up, blowing through the valleys as wildly as the torrents that flowed through them after a thunderstorm. Sarfaraz’s stomach ached. He had hoped to find a bird’s nest or a fruit-bearing tree, but fate wasn’t about to let him off that easily. Shivering and exhausted, he found a nook between the thick trunks of two trees and snuggled into it, pulling as much soil and detritus around him as he could find to form a windbreak of sorts. He was breathing hard and fell asleep while mumbling to himself about eating all the goats in his village once he got back.

  It was pitch black when he woke, roused by the distinctive sound of twigs snapping underfoot. He reached down and retrieved the blade strapped to his calf. There was an intruder in his house, perhaps even more than one. He reached for the matchbox that always lay next to his bed but felt the cold earth. Breathing slowly now, he sat up after leaning heavily on his elbows for support. His stomach burned. Another twig snapped somewhere in the distance ahead, and a gust of wind caused the valley below to howl. This wasn’t his house. Struggling to his feet, he grunted loudly, then listened. There was no response. Crouching to feel near his feet, he picked up a stone and threw it in the direction of the twig. It clattered harmlessly, but then he heard something move, a small animal by the sound it made. He waved his arms and shouted loudly, sending whatever it was scampering away. Feeling relieved, Sarfaraz shivered in the cold as he scanned the surroundings. After a couple of yawns, he settled back into his nook to rest.

  When he woke up, it was still dark. He felt warm and rested and decided that it was time to move. But getting to his feet proved impossible. Each time he tried to put his weight on the right foot, the ankle buckled and he fell down. Breathing at a rapid clip, he began feeling the leg for injuries. His heart was pounding and, despite the dark and cold, his skin was flushed and covered with sweat. The calf and shin were intact, as was the knee. He could feel the top of his ankle outside the boot, and it appeared firm. Unlacing the boot, he was hit by the smell of rotting oranges and wondered if he wasn’t, in fact, inside an orchard. The pain that shot up his leg when he tried to take the boot off convinced him otherwise. He sank back into the nook and waited for dawn.

  The sun was high in the sky when his eyes opened again. The first thing he did was turn to a side and vomit. His nostrils were filled almost immediately with the odour of shit mixed with the sweet fragrance of oranges. With considerable effort, he overcame the stabbing pain in his stomach and around it and managed to prop himself up on his elbows. The bottom of the Salwar was wet and sticky, and he deduced that it was the source of the smell or part of it. That scared him. Then he remembered the oranges. Once more he tried to take the boot off, and once more the pain overcame his resolve, causing him to let out a scream.

  The blade was a foot away, lying half buried under some leaves. He grabbed it and slid it between his skin and the boot. The sound of a balloon deflating slowly reached his ears and the smell of oranges crowded out that of the shit caking his clothes. He gritted his teeth and sliced, taking some skin off with the leather. Two more slices and the shoe fell off, revealing a dark purple mass of flesh where the foot used to be. He could see large bubbles formed under the skin, and poked at one with the blade, popping it in the process and releasing gas. This was familiar. One of his neighbours had suffered this specific malady back at home two decades ago. Sarfaraz felt curiously calm. He tried standing up one final time, hoping that without the shoe to squeeze it, the foot would hold up. But he sank back down. His neighbour had lived four days after it had happened, each hour spent in hellish agony, screaming for death through every waking moment. Opium had only helped so much.

  Towards the end of that day, as the sun dropped below the trees, Sarfaraz Minhas said a prayer begging forgiveness for what he was about to do. Then he reached for his blade.

  SIXTEEN

  Despite the Director’s blunt assessment, hope endured. For two days conversations between Sablok and Arora tended towards the conclusion that the Prime Minister would soon realise his catastrophic error and make amends by green-lighting an air strike.

  Three days later, however, that hope turned to ash when Mishra’s asset in the Pakistan Army sent a terse warning through an unusual go-between that two Air Defence Regiments equipped with anti-aircraft missiles had been deployed to cover Kahuta and more were on their way.

  Briefed about the changed circumstances, Vayu Bhavan did not hesitate to warn that the existing plan was no longer feasible or adequate. Additional aircraft would now have to be deployed to suppress air defences, and at least a squadron’s worth of fighters would be needed to temporarily contain any interceptors launched by Sargodha, which was believed to be on high alert.

  ‘If they didn’t have the appetite for a covert strike by a small force on an undefended target, there really is no question of the Prime Minister approving what will be needed now,’ Mishra relayed, crushing all optimism and hope.

  An analysis of the three agents’ files led the Wing to four locations along the LoC where they were likely to try and cross over. Mishra sent suitable alerts to sector commanders of the Army, but his efforts ended there. Even though Sablok and Arora had identified places within Pakistan where the agents might seek shelter—areas where the agents had operated earlier and were likely to have built strong relationships—Mishra refused to order any assets to monitor for them. It made little sense to expose greater and greater parts of their network to the deep state in the vain hope of rescuing those who had already been written off.

  ‘The agents will sink or swim on their own,’ he said, bringing Sablok’s argument to a swift end.

  ***

  In January things had quietened down at the Wing. Sablok had made up his mind.

  ‘I’ve leaned on whisky and self-pity for far too long, sir,’ he said.

  Mishra read through Sablok’s resignation letter.

  ‘The cold, clammy weather of this place bothers my leg. I’ve been giving thought to relocating to someplace warmer,’ Sablok added.

  ‘Delhi’s weather bothers everyone, Captain. Even those people who say they love it. I’m going to do you a favour and forget you mentioned weather as your reason for resignation.’

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but I’m going to forget that too. Tell me, has Pakistan halted its nuclear weapons programme?’ Mishra asked after he had finished reading the letter, then conti
nued after the young man shook his head, ‘Then your responsibility hasn’t ended, has it?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing special, sir. The last four years of my life...they’ve amounted to nothing. And I’m not sure I can continue in a profession where—’

  ‘So you’re going to quit when things become difficult?’ Mishra asked, his eyes deliberately glued to the letter even though he had finished reading it.

  Sablok bristled. ‘Sir, that’s hardly—’

  ‘When I agreed to let you into my section, Captain, I was given to believe that you had tenacity and resilience beyond the ordinary soldier. What I see before me now would shame a Drill Saab at Chetwode.’

  ‘That’s unfair, sir,’ Sablok replied.

  ‘See, that’s the thing, Captain. Six months earlier you wouldn’t even have bothered with soft concepts like fairness. What changed?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I’m just not sure I can continue the work I’m doing when it will all come to naught because someone decides that the lives of our assets are expendable.’

  ‘Governments change, Captain Sablok,’ Mishra said. He paused, then continued, ‘As I said earlier, I will do you the favour of ignoring your resignation.’

  He tore the letter to pieces and threw them in the burn bin next to his desk.

  ‘Please burn it and return to your duties,’ he said to Sablok, handing him a matchbox. ‘And don’t be so quick to quit habits that have nourished you for years.’

  After the initial blaze of activity petered out and it became evident that they couldn’t salvage even the least bit of what had been painstakingly built, metaphors and clichés rushed to fill the empty hours that Arora suddenly found himself in possession of. Like shipwrecks revealed by the departing tide, questions that he had long avoided began to emerge. A half-pint of Peter Scot was soon inadequate, and sullen headaches became constant companions. Things seemed to improve a little with the news that an agent had crossed over at Uri, which was where they had expected Mhatre to sneak back. The suspect was in custody of the Brigade posted there, and Arora was dispatched to identify and bring Mhatre in. It was someone else, though, so Arora left him to rot in his jail cell. On his way back, at New Delhi airport, he booked the next flight to Dabolim. Almeida had bequeathed many documents to him, which the lawyer in Panaji, a tubular Goenkar with a flourishing moustache, solemnly handed over to the portly gentleman from New Delhi.

  Back at Main, Arora sought out Mishra.

  ‘Does the Pakistan section still need me, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘It does, Mister Arora. And in the future I would appreciate it if you did not question your own relevance. That’s my job.’

  Over the next few weeks Mishra noticed a significant change in Arora: he seemed less distracted, less tired, and the hangovers appeared to have become inconspicuous.

  ‘I would like to know your thoughts on infiltrating Kahuta again,’ Mishra said to him one day. They were in his office.

  Arora’s eyes lit up.

  Over the next hour, the two of them drew up a tentative plan. But each man knew within his heart that even if, against all the odds, they tasted success in the endeavour, it would all be for nought.

  ‘They won’t provide us with the funds, and they won’t give us the orders. All they will do is let our people die senseless deaths,’ Mishra remarked, his eyes betraying none of the cynicism that his words professed.

  ‘This government will go eventually, sir. All of them do,’ Arora replied.

  ‘And till that day finally arrives on its mission of mercy, the government will continue inflicting upon us its prejudices, pursuing peace at all costs with an enemy for whom the word “peaceful” is the biggest slur.’

  The next day, Arora awoke early in the morning. After shaving and cleaning himself, he dressed in his best formal attire and drove his Lambretta to Tughlaq Road. He stood under a tree for a quarter hour, building up courage for what he was there to do. If discovered, it would be the end of his career, perhaps even the end of much more than that.

  At Bungalow number 12, he walked up to the security hut and handed over his identity card, seeking a few minutes of the occupant’s Personal Secretary’s time. He watched nervously as one of the men guarding the bungalow opened the log book to note his particulars from the identity card, but stopped him in time.

  ‘Top secret,’ he said.

  It was his real identity card.

  The guard did not know how to react, so he called the Havildar over. One look at the identify card and the Havildar slammed the log book shut.

  ‘Forget he was here,’ the Havildar sternly warned the guard.

  After a quick telephone conversation, presumably with someone inside the bungalow, Arora was patted down and then led inside. In an anteroom leading off the entrance hall, he was welcomed by the Personal Secretary.

  Arora explained that he needed to see the Personal Secretary’s boss to inform him of matters concerning the safety of the Republic. After answering a few questions as directly as he could, he was promised five minutes with the Deputy Prime Minister. Arora sat in the guest room rehearsing what he would say. There was much left to be done.

  The End

  AFTERWORD

  Like its prequel, Let Bhutto Eat Grass: Part Two is a work of fiction. It was inspired by a few facts and references in the public domain, but makes absolutely no claims to historical authenticity at all.

  There are references within this book to an event narrated in accounts by officials who would have been ‘in the know’ during the late 70s and early 80s. Some may find that event controversial, and I will take this opportunity to explain my thoughts about it.

  Prime Minister Morarji Desai is alleged to have let slip during a telephone call with Zia-ul-Haq (Chief of Army Staff and Chief Martial Law Administrator, Pakistan) the fact that RAW had provided him intelligence about Pakistan’s activities in Kahuta. This has been referred to in public sources including the book Kaoboys of RAW by B. Raman, an intelligence officer who was part of RAW since its founding in 1968 and went on to head its counter-terrorism division before retiring in 1994.

  The allegations carry weight given Mr. Raman’s credentials as well as the fact that Mr. Desai remains the only Indian to be awarded the Nishan-e-Pakistan, the highest civilian award of that nation.

  Mr. Desai’s hostility towards RAW and its founder Mr. R. N. Kao has also been recounted in his book by Mr. Raman. The actions of drastically reducing its budget and operations in 1977 have also been documented by Mr. Raman as well as academic sources such as an article in the International Journal of Intelligence and Counterintelligence. These appear to lend further credence to the allegation.

  I have no means of validating it, however, and clearly wish to state here that I do not endorse the allegation. I have attempted to view the hypothetical decision of sabotaging Kahuta from the perspective of a pacifist Prime Minister. Within the context of a weak economy in 1977 and the potential repercussions, I find persuasive arguments both for and against sabotage. As is typical of real life, we must learn to live with uncertainty and doubt.

  “I prefer perplexity, doubt, uncertainty, not just because it provides a more ‘productive’ literary raw material, but because that is the way we humans really are.”

  —Jose Saramago