Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘Not!’ she snarls out, smiling savagely, eyes closed, muscles clenched, ready for the worst, hoping it won’t hurt too horribly.

  She senses him drawing his arm back and braces for a fist to slam into her face.

  Nothing happens for a moment.

  Then another.

  And then a weird gurgling sound comes to her ears, the sort of sound a sink makes when it’s clogged with gunk.

  Warily, Tinka opens her eyes…

  And discovers that her assailant is now bent backwards like a bow. His eyes are huge and bulging, and his free hand is clawing the air, trying desperately to break free of the chokehold on his throat.

  As she watches, his grip on her weakens, his eyes roll back and he crumples to the ground. Tinka pushes his limp arm off her, grabs the strong hand stretched down to her and scrambles to her feet.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  The voice is urgent and vibrant and very familiar.

  A wild gladness sweeps over Tinka. She almost stumbles, then laughs and slides down to sit on the muddy ground in a relieved heap.

  ‘It’s you.’

  ‘You said you could walk.’ Concerned grey eyes scan her face. ‘Can you?’

  ‘My aunt?’ Tinka looks up, her face fearful.

  ‘She’s with Maddy,’ he replies gently. ‘Look, up there – are you all right?’

  Dimly, she becomes aware of the thrumming of motorcycle engines and realizes that shrouded headlights are glowing dimly in a semicircle all around her. Robust north Indian cuss words float into her ears, and she laughs again, her breath catching painfully in her throat. A chorus of deep, gleeful male voice rings out joyously in the darkness, making nonsense of the baying of the mob.

  ‘Dogggggfighttt!’

  Unsteadily, she gets to her feet, surrounded by the sweet sound of thuds, crashes and whimpers for mercy as the contingent of young officers work through the mob, reducing it to chastened, cringing single figures that scurry away into the gloom.

  And then a sinewy arm hooks around her waist, plucks her off her feet and swings her onto the front of a running Enfield motorcycle.

  ‘I can walk,’ she protests breathlessly.

  ‘To the MH?’ His voice is wonderfully growly in her ear, his stubbled cheek rough against her skin, his breath warm in the December cold. ‘We’re going there now, to the Emergency.’

  ‘But I’m fine,’ she insists. ‘Well, except that everything hurts, and I think I bit my tongu—’

  ‘It’s not your physical condition I’m worried about,’ he replies tersely, his voice reverting to its native cadence in his anger. ‘It’s your mental. I saw what happened back there. You baaawdi booch, Tell-me-na, why couldn’t you just say what the madman asked you to!’

  But Tinka is beyond answering. Shaking with shock, she slides her arms into the warmth of his open leather jacket, buries her face against his wonderfully taut chest and bursts into tears.

  • • •

  ‘That board says no visitors after eight p.m.’

  She is sitting cross-legged in a large hospital bed, dressed in the blue-and-white striped pyjamas that are standard Military Hospital issue. There’s a rough, checked blanket swathed about her, making her look rather Jat-ish, he thinks, suppressing a grin.

  ‘I pulled some strings,’ he replies.

  Tinka sniffs. Her face is very pale, a big purplish-blue bruise stands starkly on one side of her forehead, which her shaken aunt has informed her makes her look like a devout but demented mullah, with his prayer bump a little askew.

  ‘Flirted with the nurses, you mean,’ she says faintly.

  ‘That’s sexist,’ he retorts with a grin.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says, conscience-stricken.

  ‘I can leave if you like,’ he offers, stretching out lazily in the uncomfortable metal chair. ‘And you could take a sleeping pill, like the kind they gave your fui. It’ll put you out for the night.’

  Tinka pulls a face and looks out of the window.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Shaanu draws up his chair closer.

  ‘What’s a hmmm?’

  ‘It’s a non-committal sound meaning no comments.’

  ‘I know that much English.’ He tweaks the tip of her nose gently. ‘And if you’d hmmed more and ranted less during college debates, you wouldn’t have got into this mess today.’

  ‘I didn’t rant!’ Tinka rears upright indignantly. ‘That was a piece of yellow journalism! You can’t possibly blame me for it!’

  In reply, he stands up, tucks her blanket more securely under her chin and looks deep into her eyes.

  Tinka swallows nervously. ‘Wha-what’re you doing?’

  ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’re safe.’

  She wriggles awkwardly below the rough blanket.

  ‘Oh, I know that.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me about this wild, wild life you lived in Dilli University.’

  She rolls her eyes and hunkers lower.

  ‘Please, DU is full of idiots. The guy they quoted in that article is the president of the students’ union. He hates me because I hit him on the head with a temple bell.’

  ‘A what?’ Shaanu repeats, confused.

  ‘A temple bell from Muradabad. Cast iron, with copper plating.’

  ‘Well then, you can’t really blame him for hating you.’

  As he says this, he sits down on the bed beside her. This is done so casually that Tinka feels it would be absurdly prim to object. Besides, he is radiating warmth, and it is a cold night.

  She continues talking, as naturally as possible.

  ‘I had provocation. Besides, it’s wrong for the paper to make it sound like I said those things now, when we’re in war mode, when I actually said them three whole years ago.’

  ‘Ah, but you weren’t famous three years ago.’

  ‘True.’ She sighs. Then her head comes up.

  ‘Was there anything wrong with what I said?’

  He is silent for a long time. So long that she turns towards him to read his expression.

  ‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘But then, you’re a civilian, you can afford to take that point of view.’

  ‘People are just people!’

  ‘No. For us in the fauj, things are more black and white. Abusing the dushman is a cherished ritual for us. It creates a bond and a common enemy and gets the men all fired up.’

  Tinka frowns.

  ‘Shouldn’t love for one’s nation suffice?’

  Shaanu shakes his head, very sure of himself.

  ‘It can’t. See, we’ve studied this and heard countless stories from the trenches, of how when the chips are down and your comrades lie dead around you, only the thought of avenging them helps you find an extra reservoir of strength, a sort of sixth gear – and that’s essential in giving you the winning edge.’

  ‘You become an animal, you mean.’ Her voice is tight.

  He looks at her, his eyes amused.

  ‘And you didn’t become an animal when you hit this guy on the head with a temple bell?’

  ‘That isn’t the same thing at all!’

  ‘Hypocrite.’

  But he says it very lovingly.

  So lovingly that she flushes and looks away.

  ‘You’re too smooth,’ she mutters darkly.

  ‘Matlab?’ One dark eyebrow flies up.

  ‘Chatting me up. Getting into my bed.’

  ‘Saving your life. Helping you run away.’ He grins. ‘Your debts are piling up, Dadyseth. How d’you plan to repay me?’

  She frowns, then smiles.

  ‘You can have some of my blanket.’

  She lifts a corner of it and holds it out to him.

  But he doesn’t take it, just stares down into her face, his expression oddly moved.

  Tinak looks up at him, confused.

  ‘You want or you don’t want?’

  But Ishaan can’t reply. The simple gesture, so redolent of trust, has silenced him utterly. He stares down at her,
feels the sweet heat rising from the slender body in the striped, too-big pyjamas beneath the blanket and swallows.

  ‘Yeah sure, I want,’ he says casually.

  He pulls the blanket over his chest and tucks it firmly over both of them.

  Tinka sighs contentedly.

  ‘So you have to hate the enemy to get the job done?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Look, when you’re going down in flames, the only thing that gives you satisfaction is the knowledge that you’re taking the dushman down with you.’

  ‘And who decides who the dushman is?’

  He throws up his hands. ‘Air Headquarters. The government. The President of India.’

  Tinka’s lips curl scornfully.

  ‘At least I picked out my enemy myself! When you joined the Air Force, you basically surrendered your brain in exchange for the thrill of flying and a cute uniform.’

  He turns to face her too, his white teeth flashing.

  ‘I’m glad you think I look cute in my uniform.’

  Tinka chokes.

  ‘Why do you refuse to take anything seriously?’ she demands.

  ‘Because I like to be happy, yaar,’ Ishaan replies rousingly, clapping her on the back in a buddy-buddy manner she can’t possibly object to. ‘Don’t you?’

  This very simple question, for some reason, silences her utterly.

  She stares at him with mute, hurting eyes, before tears start coursing down her cheeks.

  Shaanu’s been expecting this, somehow. He pulls her onto his lap and hugs her close, her back against his chest, rocking her and stroking her goosebumpy arms with the flats of his palms, like he does for his little sisters when they have nightmares.

  ‘Shhhh,’ he whispers into her ear. ‘Snooty Miranda House girls who dig American singers and Muslim movie stars and have no place in their heart for patriotic Hindu boys don’t break down like this.’

  Which makes her laugh.

  It is a ragged pathetic excuse for a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Presently, her tears subside, and she blows her nose vigorously on the blanket.

  ‘I’m not howling like a madwoman just because of the mob, you know,’ she mutters. ‘I have a pretty solid reason for crying.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ he replies. ‘You don’t have to tell what it is if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She sniffs and pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. The loose pyjamas slide, revealing an angry bruise on her thigh.

  Shaanu’s face darkens.

  ‘Bastard,’ he mutters, running his hand over it gently.

  ‘What about him?’ She looks at him worriedly. ‘How badly did you guys beat him up? Did you bring him to the hospital?’

  He stares at her in disbelief.

  ‘Are you really that nice?’ he demands. ‘Or do you just pretend to be?’

  Tinka blinks, confused. ‘He was maddened by mob mentality, Ishaan. He’s just a vegetable seller.’

  Ishaan.

  That sexy thing that happens whenever she says his name happens again.

  Ishaan.

  Ishaan.

  He is smiling at her foolishly when she adds, with a slight hint of apology, ‘Achcha, how come you’ve been volunteering so much at the refugee camps? You’re there almost every day.’

  Shaanu stares at her for a second, then says, ‘Because my heart bleeds for the poor refugees. Their situation is tragic, and I feel it’s every human being’s moral duty to help them.’

  ‘Oh!’

  It is a small, disappointed sound that makes his heart quicken with triumph.

  ‘Why oh?’ he asks.

  She twists around to look at him.

  ‘I thought that maybe…’

  ‘Maybe?’ Shaanu parries, trying not to be distracted by the fact that her full, soft mouth is right within kissing reach now. Old Kuch Bhi Carvalho rises up inside his head, all skinny and manic-eyed, urging him to swoop down on it, ekdum Baaz-ke-maaphik.

  Tinka colours, bites her lip and makes to move away.

  ‘Nothing!’

  He laughs and pulls her back against his chest, hugging her, his hands warm and snug over her belly.

  ‘I come there to look at you, Dadyseth,’ he whispers into her ear. ‘Every free moment I can get. My friends think I’m nuts. So does my family. I come even though you told me you didn’t want to meet me any more. Why did you say such a stupid thing?’

  For the life of her, Tinka can’t think of a logical answer to this question. Wordlessly, she snuggles into him, sliding her hands down to cover his and tilting back her head to inhale the clean soapy smell emanating from the warm place where his neck joins his ear.

  ‘I forgot why.’

  ‘Good.’

  They sit like this for a while, her head on his chest, his arms holding her close.

  Then, very slowly, he bends his dark head and drops a kiss on her shoulder.

  It is a soft, gentle question mark of a kiss. It is clearly going someplace, though, because when she turns to look at him, he is looking at her already, and the light in his eyes is like a slow burning fuse leading inexorably to a powder keg.

  She smiles, an implet with dimplets, closes her eyes and tilts up her face obediently.

  Shaanu, staring down at her upturned face, feels the exultation he’d felt the very first time he executed a full vertical flip in a cloudless blue sky.

  Tinka opens one eye. ‘You want or you don’t want?’

  He laughs, his arms tighten about her, and his lips land on hers.

  Neither of them is prepared for the kiss that follows. They’d been bracing for an explosion, but what follows is annihilation by tenderness – a laying down of arms, a totally unexpected, unconditional and mutual surrender.

  Stunned by the miracle of it, Tinka falls back against the hard hospital pillow, taking Shaanu down with her.

  He continues to kiss her, his hands cupping her face – his arms are shaking slightly, her hands are in his hair, her lips are welded to his, there is that scent of wildflowers again, there is all the time in world, and, underlying that, there is a throbbing urgency setting the pace.

  And then a weird, ominous thrumming fills the air.

  Tinka’s eyes fly open.

  ‘What’s that? Can you hear it?’

  ‘Huh?’ Ishaan blinks, his gaze unfocussed, adorably confused. ‘What?’

  ‘That. That sound.’

  He sits up straighter, then clambers off the bed and strides to the window to look up at the sky.

  ‘It sounds like…’ He frowns. ‘Shit!’ His voice grows savage. ‘Not now, damnit, when we’re sitting ducks!’

  The throbbing grows louder. Through the window, they can see the shadows in the valley grow sharper and start to move towards them with shocking speed. Tinka puts a hand to her head, feeling disoriented, as though the earth is running beneath her feet.

  ‘Take cover!’ Shaanu’s voice is like a whipcrack. He grabs her by the arm and pulls her down with him below the windowsill.

  ‘It’s an air strike, isn’t it,’ she says hopelessly. ‘It’s the Pakistanis.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies without looking at her, his eyes scanning the skies. ‘They picked a Friday knowing we’d be off-guard, thinking they’ll never strike on their holy day. And this is the hour at which the shift changes at our signals unit.’ His voice is reluctantly admiring. ‘Smart bastards.’

  She glares at him, suddenly angry.

  ‘You sound so happy,’ she says accusingly.

  ‘Huh?’ Shaanu denies this, his eyes still on the starry sky. ‘No no, not happy.’

  ‘Excited, then,’ she says hotly. ‘You want to go up there in your stupid little plane and kill people.’

  He is about to answer when there is a sickening scream of jet engines, and several dark glowing shapes whizz by above them, flying low and fast.

  Shaanu pulls Tinka closer.

  �
�Sabres,’ he breathes. ‘Six of them. They’re doing us proud.’

  ‘Stop talking like that!’

  ‘What?’ He is genuinely bewildered. ‘This is what I’ve been training for, for five whole years! Would you prefer if I pulled a long face or shook with fear?’

  ‘That would at least prove you’re not an unfeeling robot!’

  The grey eyes gleam in the dark.

  ‘Oh, I have feelings,’ he says meaningfully.

  Tinka hastily looks up at the sky again.

  ‘Where are they heading to?’

  Shaanu looks up too. ‘The airfield. The ordnance stockpiles. Our planes. Damnit!’

  Because the shells have started to explode, bright and hot and loud even at this distance. The ground shudders beneath their feet with each impact. Orange flames, lined with thick black acrid smoke, lick the sky.

  ‘Well, we’re officially at war now.’ Shaanu pulls Tinka to her feet, his young face grim. ‘Jumma Mubarak.’

  NINE

  There can be no doubt, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi declares in her midnight address to a groggy, reeling nation, that by carrying out air strikes against India’s Forward Air Stations on the night of Friday, the third of December, 1971, Pakistan has declared war on India.

  ‘Lekin, mere pyaare bhaiyon aur behno,’ her nasal, imperious voice rings with conviction, ‘our brave Armed Forces are more than equal to the task! These people think that by attacking us in the west, they can weaken our resistance to the atrocities they are committing in the east. But that will not happen. In both theatres of the war, the western and the eastern, we will teach them a lesson they will never forget! Jai Hind!’

  As dawn breaks over Kalaiganga Air Force Base, airmen and the Garrison Engineers repair the damaged runway as fast as possible. Debris is cleared, concrete slabs moved into place, road rollers deployed. The smell of hot tar fills the air. Inside the briefing room, all the fighters have reported for duty. The room is packed with young men – taut, alert, clear-eyed, as straight and sharp as bayonets. The sense of excitement is palpable.

  ‘Gentlemen, the enemy launched strikes against eleven air force bases last night.’ There is nothing dreamy or comical about Wing Commander Dheengra this morning. ‘Except Kalaiganga, all the other bases they picked are stationed in the west – Pathankot, Amritsar, Ambala and Agra are the ones worst affected.’