Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

‘Dishoooom,’ Shaanu breathes, goosebumps pimpling his arms as his wingman’s lethal burst of cannon-fire shoots across the blue. The armourers have loaded tracers at every fourth link in the ammunition belts, and their streak is visible even in the afternoon sun.

  It is nothing, absolutely nothing like firing at the targets they’ve trained on at the ranges. Shaanu is conscious of wanting nothing more, at this moment, than to open fire himself.

  Then Jana’s voice, in a cry like ice-cold water.

  ‘Guns jammed!’ he is calling, his dismay audible even through the crackle. ‘I had him in my sights, behenchod! My guns jammed after I fired!’

  Ooooohhhhhhterrrri.

  ‘Cycle gun dip switches, Jana,’ Shaanu reminds his wingman through gritted teeth.

  There is the kind of pause you only notice in slow motion, and the click of a mic in response. Then Jana’s Sabre lurches, black-rimmed orange-hearted flames flaring out of its wing root.

  It is a short burst, but it is enough.

  ‘Woooohoooo!’

  ‘Got the fucker!’

  ‘Jai Mata di!’

  Seconds later, the Sabre’s canopy flies off, and Cocktail formation is rewarded by the sweet sight of a Pakistani pilot ejecting. The abandoned Sabre, well and truly on fire, is nosing over, almost directly underneath Shaanu.

  That should make the 14th Punjab happy, Shaanu thinks with grim satisfaction. One down, two to go.

  He is still scanning furiously for the lead Sabre when suddenly there’s a sharp explosion below him. The abandoned Sabre has exploded. Jana’s Gnat, behind the exploding Sabre, and Shaanu’s above, are both peppered with debris, rattling against their fuselage sides and bellies. Rocking inside his tiny cockpit, Shaanu’s eyes widen.

  ‘Jana, you’re streaming fuel! Drop tanks, drop tanks!’

  Jana straightens for a moment and jettisons his holed auxiliary tanks, and is immediately and visibly flying lighter. Shaanu’s head is still swivelling, looking for the lead Sabre, his neck and shoulder muscles beginning to ache.

  And then Gana, from off to the north, crows blood-curdlingly over the R/T:

  ‘Murder, murder, murder!’

  It is the brevity code, signifying that he too has hit his target. In the distance, the Number Two Sabre, which Gana has been pursuing, is spewing thick black smoke and veering into a seemingly uncontrollable nosedive.

  As Shaanu watches, whooping at this second kill, Gana fires again and his Sabre judders, turning helplessly over and over as it falls out of the sky.

  In the midst of the smoke and debris and the belly of the dark grey cloud, Shaanu spots the lead Sabre again.

  It has gained altitude and curved around, to lock-in behind Jana’s Gnat. Jana has nosed down, to follow his own victim, and the lead Sabre is now well-positioned, behind and above him, ekdum Baaz-ke-maaphik.

  The bastard waited for us to spend our ammo, Shaanu realizes with reluctant admiration, as he reefs around, grimacing at the rise in G-forces, pulling up into a wing-over to get behind the lead Sabre. But he doesn’t know I’m locked and still loaded. Okay … here … I … come…

  ‘Baaz, you’re smoking!’

  ‘Bail out, Baaz, bail out!’

  Huh?

  He looks around. The cockpit’s hot, too hot, he realizes, it’s coming from underneath; the metal of his ejection seat is actually scalding him, where the upholstery ends and his overalls are in contact with the metal edges.

  He stares down in vague disbelief.

  This is it.

  You’re gonna burn like a dry safeda leaf inside a red-hot chullah now.

  If you’re lucky, that is.

  If you’re unlucky, you’ll end up legless, paralysed, good-for-nothing, a broken, pathetic vegetable.

  For the first time in his short life, fear claws at his heart.

  Should’ve prayed more, I guess. Too late now.

  Shaking his head, he shifts in his seat and tucks himself on the cushion of his parachute pack, intent on getting the Sabre into his sight. His hands are slippery with sweat, the plane feels horribly imbalanced and hard to manoeuvre, but he has to get that lead Sabre before it gets his buddies.

  ‘Bogey behind you, Jana, six o’clock high!’ he shouts back into the R/T. ‘Sabre, Jana!’

  Maddeningly, he doesn’t respond.

  The R/T, Shaanu thinks, his heart plummeting through his stomach like a stone. The bloody R/T’s packed up.

  He is in a classic tail-chase, tightening his turn for position behind the lead Sabre, who is in turn jockeying behind Jana. The Gnat can turn tighter, but the Sabre carries missiles and can fire from well over a mile away; Shaanu has to close to within a few hundred yards for his cannons to be effective. As Shaanu grits his teeth, pulling to shave off those last few degrees by which the Sabre is off-boresight, the Sabre itself is steadying behind Jana’s Gnat, and Shaanu knows that the Sabre pilot is hearing the audio tone in his earphones, indicating missile lock.

  ‘Mana, break!’ Shaanu yells in frustration. ‘Break, break, BREAK!’

  Helplessly, in sickening slow-motion, he sees a flash, as one of the Sidewinder missiles carried by the Sabre ignites and arrows through the air, straight for Jana…

  And misses.

  ‘Yes!’ Shaanu doesn’t know why the missile failed to track and doesn’t care.

  The Sabre corrects, recalibrating, preparing to shoot again.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Shaanu breathes, ignoring the increasing heat as his Gnat closes in. The Sabre is expanding steadily and almost fills his gunsight.

  And Shaanu fires.

  ‘Dishoooom.’

  His shells shoot out of their cannon muzzles with a short, thick growl that sounds like pure sex.

  The Gnat judders with the recoil as a huge, red-hearted, black-rimmed fireball blooms in the sky. Throbbing, acrid and hot as hell.

  Ishaan sags with a relief so exquisite he feels physically weak. Dimly, he hears the others’ voices.

  ‘Hain?’

  ‘Where’d that come from?’

  ‘Was he above us? Fuck!’

  Shaanu grins.

  ‘Three out of three, boys,’ his voice crackles over the miraculously restored R/T, hoarse with triumph. ‘We did it. Let’s go home.’

  • • •

  News of their victory reaches Kalaiganga base before they do. The FAC from the 14th Punjab has radioed, jubilant. Two Pakistani pilots have been taken POW, and the Pakistani forces on the ground have been routed. Boyra salient has been wrested by the India-Mukti Bahini combine!

  When the Gnats pull up over the airfield, Jana-Gana-Mana scooting ahead like over-excited escort vehicles, the lead Gnat lagging behind drunkenly, smoke still billowing from its belly, a cheering crowd is waiting for them.

  Shaanu is given priority clearance and touches down first, while Jana and Mana get in line, and Gana cheekily zooms ahead to perform a series of victory rolls over the airfield, causing the ATC to austerely chastise him to ‘please maintain circuit discipline, Mr Gonsalves’.

  Shaanu pulls to a stop, flings back his canopy and emerges, his sooty face exultant with triumph. He is immediately lifted out of his cockpit by a posse of cheering airmen and carried around the field on their shoulders.

  In the verandah of the main building, pilots from the MiG squadron and the helicopter service come rushing in to congratulate the Streaks. Deengu talks incoherently about a similar air battle he had in the ’65 war and Carvalho cackles, clapping Shaanu on the back so hard that he starts to cough. Even Pomfret cracks a sour smile.

  And then the Faujdaar brood comes careening in, hysterical with excitement, and smacks into Shaanu, almost knocking him off his feet.

  ‘What are you lot doing here?’ Shaanu exclaims as they thud into him one after the other, like a cricket team that has just won a Test match.

  They wriggle with delight. ‘Oh, we were here anyway, so the ATC said might as well let them listen in! We heard all the R/T talk! We saw you land!’ Sulo draws
a deep ecstatic breath, her eyes glowing with hero worship. ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab, you … are … great!!!!’

  ‘Shaanu the great, born in a plate, in nineteen forty-eight!’ Jaideep Singh capers around madly. ‘Die paki paki, dhain dhain dhain!’

  Shaanu scoops him up by the scruff of his collar and sits him on his shoulders. ‘Whoa, hero, relax! Achcha,’ he lowers his voice, his eyes searching the crowd hungrily, ‘where’s that train-wali didi?’

  ‘She went to the bathroom,’ Sneha says. ‘She didn’t look well.’

  Jaideep Singh, clutching onto Shaanu’s head for dear life, sucks in his breath excitedly. ‘Oohh teeeeriiii! Raka bhaisaab and Maddy bhaisaab are here! Daaru gain?’

  Because Raka and Maddy have rushed in, whooping excitedly, faces flushed with pride, bearing crates of beer. Everybody swoops down on it with delight.

  ‘To the Streaks!’ shouts Deengu, grabbing a beer and attempting to spray it about like champagne. ‘To our heroes! To the Bottle of Bayra – I mean, the Battle of Boyra!’

  ‘Yaayyyy!’ shouts Jaideep Singh, and immediately has his bottle confiscated.

  But before the four victorious pilots can get even a taste of the celebratory liquor, there sounds the throbbing of a motorcycle engine, and an official olive-green Enfield bike with a uniformed Dispatch Rider behind its handlebars, comes roaring with great pomp down the road. The DR parks the bike and strides down the verandah at a clip, bearing an olive-green satchel. He stops before Pomfret and salutes smartly.

  ‘At ease,’ Pomfret says warily.

  The rowdy crowd quietens, lowering their bottles from their thirsty lips. DRs are sent out to deliver only very important, high-level messages. What could this mean?

  The Rider, a tall, dark Rajasthani with a black pencil moustache and flashing eyes, inclines his head and holds out the satchel.

  ‘GOC saab ne bhijvaya hai.’

  Everybody looks at each other. The General Officer Commanding. From Calcutta. The biggest shot in this half of the country. What have they done to attract his attention?

  Pomfret clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing uneasily.

  ‘Whuh-what is it?’

  The DR holds out the satchel again, his very white teeth flashing in a grin of benign bonhomie.

  ‘To be cunjshoomed by the heroes of Boyra.’

  And with a neat flourish, he rips open the satchel to reveal two glistening bottles of Johnnie Walker scotch whiskey.

  • • •

  Tinka waits only till the lead Gnat touches down and Shaanu is lifted out, safe for the moment. Then she walks out of the viewing room as unobtrusively as she can, runs full tilt down the four flights of stairs, makes straight for the foyer bathroom and is violently sick in the sink.

  When she emerges, white-faced and clammy, the celebration has moved to the main dining hall. But Shaanu is waiting in the foyer, chugging water from a green jerry can. He lowers the can when he sees her, his face flushed, his Kota-grey eyes sparkling.

  ‘Well?’

  His voice is low and teasing and, like she had told him earlier, insufferably cocky. It’s also incredibly hot.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she manages to say sincerely. ‘You were fantastic.’

  He takes a step closer. She takes a corresponding step back, bracing against the wall.

  ‘So?’ His tone is extremely meaningful.

  ‘So?’ she repeats.

  ‘So I’m the best, right?’

  The dimplets flash at this, but fleetingly.

  ‘You’re not … too bad.’

  Then her pointy chin wobbles and her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Hey…’ Shaanu’s voice is tender. He cups her chin gently and raises her face to make her look at him. ‘What’s wrong, Tell-me-na?’

  Wordlessly, she lunges forward and grabs him in a fierce hug. He laughs, surprised but also pleased, his arms closing around her slender body, hugging her back tentatively. And even though his smoking Gnat touched down a full twenty minutes ago, it is only at this moment, as he rests his chin on top of her head, that Ishaan feels he has truly come back home.

  They stand like that for a long moment, her face mushed up against his chest, her heart thudding next to his.

  When she pulls back, Shaanu’s heart is in his eyes. He smiles down at her adoringly, like a man in a dream.

  Tinka gives him a brief, tremulous smile and quickly looks away.

  ‘Goodbye. And I’m sorry, but we can’t meet ever again.’

  ‘Wait…’ Ishaan’s smile falters. ‘What?’

  Tinka nods resolutely, wheels around and hurries away.

  SEVEN

  It doesn’t take Kainaz Dadyseth long to notice that her niece is behaving in a rather odd fashion.

  First, she has started avoiding the Anchor Bar. Whenever she has to cross it, she hurries past, head lowered, like a naughty child sneaking past the principal’s office.

  Second, whenever the club bearers climb up to their suite to inform her that there is a call for her from AFS Kalaiganga, she tells them to say she isn’t in.

  Third, she has started going to bed extremely early. She sets out for the refugee camp at six every morning, and when she comes back in the evening, she showers, gets into bed with a P.G. Wodehouse novel, polishes off a club sandwich from a plate placed atop her chest and goes to sleep.

  Sick of the hollow giggling that accompanies the Wodehouse reading, the breadcrumbs on the bed and the general atmosphere of listlessness, Kainaz decides to tackle her niece.

  ‘How are your Brylcreem boys?’ she asks brightly one evening. ‘Aren’t you going to catch up with them? Shaanu has become quite a hero after Boyra!’

  ‘No, yes,’ says Tinka dully as she turns a page.

  ‘Matlab?’ Kainaz demands.

  ‘No, I am not going to catch up with them. Yes, he has become quite a hero. Satisfied?’

  ‘No!’ Kainaz snaps. ‘Why don’t you just meet him if you miss him so much?’

  Tinka turns another page. ‘I don’t miss him.’

  ‘Balls!’

  Tinka puts down her book.

  ‘I cannot believe you’ve picked up that vulgar phrase.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an old woman.’ Kainaz moves closer. ‘Why must you work so hard, darling? You rise at the crack of dawn…’

  ‘Because the light is best then!’

  ‘And spend the whole blessed day in those squalid camps! Surely you can let your hair down and indulge yourself in the evening?’

  ‘I don’t have any hair left to let down. And they aren’t squalid!’ Tinka’s eyes blaze with indignation. ‘They are important. They matter. Why don’t you come with me tomorrow and see for yourself?’

  ‘Fine!’ Kainaz sits up. ‘But only if you come down with me to the bar tonight and sip a beer and dance and chit-chat with young men like a normal person!’

  ‘No!’

  This is said so vehemently and in such a trembling voice that Kainaz’s anger dissolves.

  ‘Tinka,’ she says, distressed. ‘Bachche, what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Tinka replies in a thread of a voice, whipping herself around to face the wall.

  Kainaz looks at her small, stiff body and sighs.

  ‘I’ll come with you to the camp tomorrow,’ she says. ‘It’s high time I see how you’re spending your days…’

  She is as good as her word. The next morning, when Tinka gets up, she finds the other side of the bed empty. When she walks down to the breakfast room a little later, Kainaz is already at one of the pretty antique tables, elbows on the red-checked tablecloth, ploughing martyredly through a platter of fresh fruit.

  ‘You don’t have to wear blue-and-white, Kung fui.’ Tinka rolls her eyes. ‘You’re not a nun. It’ll just be confusing.’

  ‘I’ve worn what I’ve worn,’ her aunt replies tartly. ‘I’ve ordered you a cheese om— darling, why are you toting that big ugly bag?’

  ‘It’s my turntable,’ Tinka replies. ‘I don’t want a c
heese omelette. Let’s go.’

  The guard at the front gate greets Tinka like an old friend and helps them procure a cycle rickshaw to take them to the camp. The icy wind stings their cheeks as they coast downhill, bumping bone-rattlingly every now and then over potholes, clutching at each other for both balance and warmth. Impulsively, Kainaz kisses her niece’s cheek.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Lily the tinka-tinka-tink!’ she says. ‘Lead me to these sad refugees!’

  But she sobers up when they get to the camp.

  Rows of thatched bamboo tents are lined up as far as the eye can see. Blank-eyed women, many of them pregnant, sit before woodfires, stirring pots of boiling rice. Half of them carry fitfully crying, painfully emaciated babies in their laps. Their bony, angry-eyed menfolk lounge sullenly on string beds under the trees. There is a pungent smell – a mixture of rancid rice, rotting sewage and burning plastic.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Kainaz in a subdued whisper as she walks through the scummy green, fly-infested puddles towards the tents, her patent leather pilgrim pumps already soiled. ‘No wonder you’re reading P.G. Wodehouse like a maniac. I would too, if I were you. Where do you practise?’

  ‘Under those trees.’ Tinka points to a scraggy row of kachnaar trees. ‘C’mon.’

  Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she hurries to the shade of the kachnaar. Once there, she puts down the bag, stands with her legs planted wide and claps her hands together authoritatively.

  ‘Geetu Geetu Geetu!’ she shouts.

  There is a murmur within the silent tents, followed by an excited rustling, and then the flaps of almost half the tents part and children pour out in an animated flood.

  ‘Geetu Geetu Geetu!’ they chorus. ‘Geetu Geetu Geetu!’

  ‘Oh. My. Goodness.’ Kainaz fui has to sit down on a rickety bench.

  Tinka laughs and claps again as the children rush up, pushing and tumbling, and stand before her in three bedraggled lines.

  ‘Guh…’ they burble. ‘Gooh…’

  A few stragglers rush in, throwing them off their rhythm, and they have to begin again.

  ‘Gooh…’ they chorus, more cohesively now.

  ‘Goooo… d…’ they gain confidence and volume, ‘morning miss!’