‘Benji, you farmer,’ he explodes. ‘Not Behenji.’
‘Whatever…’ Shaanu waves this explanation away. ‘Chal na, yaar, I have to meet Tinka…’
‘And I’ll take you there,’ Maddy capitulates suddenly and totally, much to Shaanu’s delight. ‘I’ll take you there in style, so nobody will suspect you’re a ratty Indian, and I’ll wait for you outside. And in case you get into a mess, I’ll whisk you away in my getaway car.’
Shaanu’s face brightens.
‘Getaway car?’
Maddy turns around, leans on the parapet wall and directs Shaanu’s gaze to a snazzy silver Ford Mustang convertible parked in the driveway below.
‘That baby.’
‘Wow! Whose is it?’
Maddy winks. ‘Just a lady who happens to be a Pat Boone fan. She thinks I do a mean imitation.’
Ishaan’s jaw drops.
‘Bastard, what have you been doing here on English Road?’
‘You want the car or not?’ Maddy demands. ‘I’ll pretend to be your driver and drive you to the Intercon. They’re sure to let you in when they see those wheels.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Shaanu nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘Thanks, man.’
Maddy snaps his fingers together.
‘And let’s take a couple of those Sten guns stashed downstairs!’
Ishaan’s eyes glow with gratitude.
‘Thanks, man. You’re a real hero.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Maddy says gruffly. ‘You and Raka are the heroes. Not me.’
‘You’re Harry Rose’s hero,’ Shaanu insists, grinning.
Maddy’s face grows wistful immediately. ‘Harry rhymes with marry,’ he sighs.
‘And rose rhymes with woes.’ Ishaan finishes lacing his shoes and straightens up with the air of one expecting flashbulbs and applause. ‘How do I look?’
Maddy takes in the cocky stance, the lean, sinewy arms emerging from the rolled-up overall sleeves, the dark hair slicked back to carefully careless perfection and the laughing grey eyes.
‘Not bad.’
Shaanu’s eyes narrow. ‘What d’you mean not bad, fucker?’
Maddy grins.
‘I mean a tiger had sex with Zeenat Aman, and the baby that popped out was you.’
• • •
The Crystal Ballroom at the Intercontinental Hotel is living up to its name. Crystal glitters in its ornate chandeliers, twinkles in the champagne flutes borne on silver trays by uniformed bearers, flashes tantalizingly from perfumed bosoms and delicate earlobes. The very laughter of the ladies tinkles like crystal, as distinguished-looking gentlemen bend over their hands and lead them to the dance floor, while the five-piece orchestra plays ‘On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree…’
Descending the red-carpeted double staircase, Tinka is conscious of a feeling of complete surreality. Not far away from here, Indian soldiers are crawling on their bellies through mud and slush. In the lanes of Old Dacca, West Pakistani soldiers and Bihari Razzakars are engaged in bloody clashes with student leaders and Muktis. Aircraft carrier USS Enterprise has led a section of America’s Seventh Fleet into the Bay of Bengal, and Soviet warships have been sent from Vladivostok in retaliation. The Soviets have vetoed America’s resolution to have a ceasefire declared in the region by the United Nations Security Council – a ceasefire upon which all of Yahya Khan’s hopes were pinned. The only ceasefire happening at the moment is the four-hour mini-break decreed by the Red Cross to allow stranded civilian expatriates to flee the city. In spite of all this teeming activity, here is the Intercontinental Hotel, brimming with Christmas spirit.
‘Aren’t you leaving?’ one of the scruffy journos, almost unrecognizable in his spruced-up, ‘party’ avatar, asks her as he plucks two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and hands her one. ‘I thought all the Americans were on the flight to Islamabad.’
Tinka feels a jolt on hearing herself being described as an American. But that is what your passport says, she reminds herself. And your employer is American too.
‘I’m staying till the bitter end,’ she replies gaily.
She is, however, sending out some of her precious negatives and voice recordings on the Islamabad flight. Everybody is. It’s their last chance to send out material. After tonight, it’s going to be a fight to the finish.
Now she clinks flutes with the man beside her, takes a big swig and looks about for Leo and Julian.
‘Well well, that’s quite a transformation!’ exclaims a slightly inebriated voice behind her. ‘The grubby prawn has become a swan! There must be a very grotty rim of grime around your bathtub, wench! I hope you rinsed it clean!’
It is Julian Arnott, looking dapper in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, nursing a balloon-sized glass more than half full of sherry. He is holding out both arms in an extravagant gesture and gazing at Tinka in unconcealed, donnish delight.
It must be admitted that she has sort of pulled out all the stops tonight. Dressed in a long, clingy, ridiculously Hollywoody sleeveless dress, she is easily the most dazzling thing in the room. Her arms are smooth and glowing, her lips Christmassy red.
‘Clearly the ravishing Harry Rose has got Tinka’s competitive juices flowing,’ Leo smirks from besides Julian. ‘Eh, Tinka?’
‘You’re both looking very smart yourselves.’ Tinka smiles. Then she adds, ‘I shopped at the boutique downstairs. I’ve decided to stop moping and move on.’
Julian beams. ‘Excellent decision! You look lovely.’
She winks at him. ‘I know.’
She smiles brilliantly around the room and quite a few men go red, clear their throats, throw back their shoulders and stand up straighter.
It does feel lovely to look good again, Tinka admits to herself, basking in the glow of a hundred sucked-in paunches. Really, I’ve been behaving ridiculously! I do not get all dressed up to attract the male gaze or retain it – I get all dressed up for myself!
‘So, how deep does this transformation actually go?’ Julian asks presently.
‘I’m wearing sexy lingerie,’ she replies. ‘And I’ve slathered myself liberally with Afghan Snow. Does that answer your question?’
‘No. But I’ll retract it and ask you another.’ He cocks his head to one side like a bird and twinkles at her. ‘Do you think I’m too much of a spring chicken for you?’
Tinka throws back her head and laughs. ‘Yes!’
‘Tinka!’ Leo’s cheery voice comes floating out to them. ‘Abandon that shrivelled-up bag of bones and come meet some delicious young West Pakistani officers! Why do you insist on giving them bad press all the time, huh?’
Tinka looks at Julian.
He puts a thin, wrinkled hand into the small of her back and propels her forward.
‘Go, go!’
With a laughing rebuttal on her lips, Tinka walks over to the group Leo is standing with, very conscious that she is sashaying seductively. What is wrong with me, she wonders, even as she offers her hand to the handsome officers, recalling Harry Rose’s assessment of the men in this war.
West Pakistanis are the vainest.
And at first glance, it does indeed seem this little contingent from Lahore has a lot to be vain about.
‘The lovely lady journalist from WWS,’ Leo announces. ‘Tehmina Dadyseth. Say hello, boys.’
‘Hello, ma’am,’ the officers chorus, gazing at her with open admiration.
Tinka smiles back at them, feeling decidedly big sister-ish. Except for the fact that they’re undeniably cuter, they are practically indistinguishable from the Indian officers she’s met in Kalaiganga.
‘How are you all?’ Tinka asks. ‘Looking forward to the little break from the fighting tonight?’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ they chorus.
Tinka sips her champagne, not knowing what else to say. A bearer stops at their group with a plate of hors d’oeuvres and everyone focuses on picking kebabs with toothpicks.
&
nbsp; ‘So, have you seen Play Misty for Me?’ one of the officers gulps out finally. He’s very young and Tinka is vividly reminded of Dilsher Singh. ‘What a scary movie it was, to be sure! Scarier than even Psycho!’
He ends his question with a nervous laugh.
‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Tinka replies politely.
‘Oh really?’ They are all surprised. ‘We’ve seen it! And Fiddler on the Roof too. Don’t you see cinema in Amaarica?’
Tinka explains that she’s basically from Bombay.
They receive this news with sympathy.
‘Oh, then, of course, you wouldn’t get to see the latest Amaarican movies,’ one of them says somewhat condescendingly. ‘You must be watching only Russian Circus and all over there.’
Which is actually true, Tinka has to admit to herself. How mortifying!
Aloud she says, ‘Don’t you think life is scary enough at the moment without watching scary films?’
The posse of officers registers surprise.
‘Scary?’ scoffs the youngest one, the nervous gulper.
‘Oh no no no,’ says the tallest.
‘What’s there to be scared of?’ demands the fairest (who is a bit too fair to be lovely, to be honest).
‘Not Indians, surely?’ says the largest. ‘Indians aren’t scary in the least! Not to full-blooded Pathans like us, anyway!’
Tinka smiles politely at this cocky sally, though she has started to feel oddly deflated inside. In fact, she realizes as she sips her champagne again, she is fighting a feeling of utter desolation.
What did you think, you little idiot? That if you dressed up and looked your best, you’d summon him out of nothingness with the magnetic force of your beauty alone?
She feels like slipping off her high heels right there on the edge of the wooden dance floor, throwing them across the room and running back to her room to cry her heart out.
And then a relaxed, curiously vibrant voice speaks up behind her.
‘I think Indians are bloody scary, personally.’
The hair at the back of Tinka’s neck prickle. Goosebumps form on her smooth bare arms. She turns and sees a slight, straight figure dressed all in PAF green standing behind her. His dark hair is swept back from his handsome forehead, his lean body somehow radiates both complete casualness and tightly suppressed energy, and his eyes are agleam with pure, cocky enjoyment.
‘Squadron Leader Bilawal Hussain.’ He clicks his heels gracefully and holds out his hand. ‘We have common friends, I believe, Miss Tehmina. Such a pleasure to meet you.’
Tinka takes the proffered hand like a girl in a dream. It grips hers firmly, his grasp cool but somehow intimate. Her head is whirling. She has to put up a hand in a vain attempt to steady it.
‘How … how…’
Ishaan’s eyes widen warningly. The pressure on her hand increases.
Tinka pulls herself together, wishing she hadn’t downed two glasses of champagne.
‘How nice to meet you, Squadron Leader!’ she manages to say, with perfect aplomb.
She is rewarded with an appreciative gleam from the laughing Kota-grey eyes.
‘Please call me Bilawal,’ he beseeches. He drops her hand and looks at the little knot of officers hovering protectively around Tinka. ‘So you don’t find Indians scary? Weren’t you taught, in your very first term at Kakul, that underestimating the enemy is the gravest blunder in armed combat?’
‘No, sir,’ says the nervous gulper. ‘I mean, yes, sir.’
‘You look too young to be a squadron leader, sir,’ says another, immediately infatuated.
But the tallest of the officers, a major, isn’t impressed.
‘Respect is one thing, fear another,’ he sneers. ‘Are you from Tezgaon? You lot didn’t exactly cover yourself in glory before the enemy.’
‘Yeaaah,’ chimes in Tinka, who has just remembered that she hates Ishaan Faujdaar. She plucks another glass of champagne from a passing bearer, knocks it down in one smooth gulp and squints down at him, her cheeks flushed. ‘You got wiped out by the IAF! I marvel you can show your face at parties!’
The army men snicker.
‘We do all the heavy lifting around here,’ the major says martyredly. ‘PAF is just faff.’
Ishaan ignores this crack, spears a shammi kebab from a plate at the bar and raises his eyes to look directly into Tinka’s. ‘I’ve showed my face at this party,’ he says deliberately, ‘because there’s someone here I absolutely had to speak to. And there was no other way to get to them.’
Tinka’s heart gives the oddest thump. She stares at him, her eyes reflecting anger – and fear for him – and helpless longing. ‘Then I won’t detain you any longer,’ she says jerkily. ‘Please go and find this person you’re looking for.’
She waves her hand in a you-are-dismissed gesture, leaving the snubbed Shaanu with no option but to bow politely and walk away. Her eyes follow him, angrily, hungrily. Then one of the Pakistani officers addresses her, and she turns to him, her manner arch, her smile glittering.
Julian Arnott, who has been watching this exchange with interest from the sidelines, now makes a beeline for Shaanu.
‘Hello there, friend of Tinka.’
Shaanu wheels around.
‘I wish,’ he says with a rueful smile. ‘Actually, we just have common friends.’
‘I have common friends too,’ Julian admits. ‘Everyone does, you know, it can’t be avoided nowadays, but it’s terribly common to call them common. What you meant to say, I think, is that you have friends in common, which is a different thing entirely.’
‘If you say so.’ Ishaan’s eyes have skittered back to Tinka. ‘My English is pretty basic.’
You’re pretty basic, Julian thinks but doesn’t say. He likes this young fellow. Could he be the mystery man who has got Tinka all wound up? But this fellow claims to be a PAF Fighter. His dungarees look loose though. Borrowed?
He decides to probe a little.
‘What plane do you fly?’
‘F-86 Sabre,’ is Shaanu’s glib response. ‘They’re the backbone of our air defence here in Pakistan. We rig ’em out with Sidewinder missiles or Browning machine guns or Napalm bombs – well, at least we used to, till the bloody Indians cratered the crap out of our airfield. Now we are grounded and outnumbered, and the fate of our fair nation is in the hands of those … those army men there.’ He glowers at the officers still talking to Tinka.
‘Your fate is actually in the hands of that army man there.’ Julian directs his attention to the doors of the banquet hall, through which Nikka Khan has just made his entry, followed by his gun-toting guards and the massive-impassive wooden-faced ADC. ‘Nikita Khan, as the Russians like to say. What do you make of him?’
For a moment, Shaanu doesn’t recognize the Butcher of Bengal. The man looks so shrunken compared to his newspaper photographs, almost a non-entity. Then,
‘He’s my biggest hero!’ declares Shaanu, deciding that if a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. ‘What a man!’
Julian looks at him quizzically.
‘Really?’ he drawls. ‘So tell me, what do you admire the most about him? His fake British accent or his hideous human-rights record?’
‘Well, a leader needs to be a leader,’ Shaanu says easily. ‘With no self-doubt or namby-pamby squeamishness.’
He produces the last word rather proudly – he has picked it up from Maddy, who once used it to describe the ruthless manner with which Dilsher Singh used to press out his pimples in the bathroom mirror of the Sarhind Club.
Julian’s gaze grows even more quizzical.
‘No wonder Tinka didn’t like you.’
Shaanu’s eyes grow stormy. He starts to deny this charge, then changes his mind and settles for a flat, resigned, ‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to meet him?’
The question comes from Leo, who has just joined their group, arm in arm with the major who has been fawning over Tinka.
‘Oh, I har
dly think—’ Julian starts to say hurriedly, but Ishaan interrupts him.
‘General Khan? Sure.’
The major raises an eyebrow. ‘Absolutely sure?’
Shaanu’s grin grows challenging.
‘Why? Don’t you know him well enough to perform an introduction?’
Leo bursts out laughing.
‘PAF man is cocky, huh?’ he says appreciatively. ‘So do you know the general well enough to introduce people to him, Major?’
The Pakistani major has stiffened in outrage, but now he chuckles and drops his arms about Ishaan’s and Leo’s shoulders. ‘Come along.’
‘No-no,’ Julian says agitatedly.
‘Relax, grandfather.’ Leo grins good-naturedly. ‘I’m with the Army now – the general won’t eat me!’
The old man watches them go, consternation writ large on his lined face. Then he curses colourfully under his breath and follows them.
The two officers stride over to where Nikka Khan is conversing with a knot of balding white dignitaries.
‘General!’ says the West Pakistani major easily. ‘Here’s one of your dashing air warriors from Tezgaon. Squadron leader Bilawal Hussain.’
Ishaan clicks his heels together smartly. ‘Sir!’
‘At ease, soldier, at ease.’ Nikka waves a gracious hand, his Tumbola accent very much in evidence. ‘Squadron Leader, eh? You must be the 2-I-C … I’ve heard of you, your boss says you’re a real fire-eater.’
Shaanu ducks his head gracefully. ‘Thank you, sir!’
Nikka looks him up and down and slowly licks his lips.
Sshviccck!
‘He also called you a bloody giraffe.’
Julian, hovering at the back of the group, groans inwardly. From the soles of his polished shoes to the top of his Brylcreemed head, this so-called PAF Fighter can’t be more than five-feet-six inches tall.
Shaanu throws back his head and laughs.
‘Sarcasm! Our CO’s a real joker, sir!’
‘He also reported,’ Nikka’s voice grows softer, more speculative, ‘that your plane went down a couple of days ago…’
‘And so it did!’ Shaanu agrees. ‘Crashed into a paddy field, taking a pesky Gnat down with it. I hitched a ride into the city with a party of farmers.’
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