KALYUG (5 page)

‘Then you are no better than the ones you replace,’ I retorted.

‘Isn’t that a rather simplistic interpretation?’ Menon asked. ‘What if I could offer you the basic rights that any nation should offer its citizenry? What if I told you that there would be law and order, there would be safety and security? That you would be allowed to write what you wanted without fear of persecution? That your standard of living does not depend on the whims and fancies and ignorance of a few people you may not even trust your garden to?’

‘The promises you make are the same ones that we listen to every few years at election time,’ I pointed out. ‘Nobody’s kept them till now – so why should you be any different? Why should the average Joe on the street trust you, who owe him nothing, as opposed to the reps he’s elected? At least, they need to go back to him to get re-elected.’

‘True, but see how well that’s served him. He sees his rep only when it’s time for a re-election. And then at the next election. By then, he’s given up. If he still bothers to vote, it’s not out of faith or belief. It’s out of hope. That somewhere down the line, the rascal he voted for will turn over a new leaf and does what he’s voted in for.

‘But if I am that representative, I am not interested in turning over a new leaf – because I know I am not going to please all the people all the time that way. It’s easier to just keep telling them what they want to hear. I’ve got other interests to protect – so I’ll just keep giving them lip-service.’ He held up his palm to stop my objection. ‘I know what you’ll say. “
But I give them that dignity – that I, at least, pretend that they are important to me”.
’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘That’s the bullshit we are all tired of. It’s like the waiting system you get when you call a bank and they put you on hold, play piped music and tell you that you are their most valuable client in the whole world . . . and then you find out that they can’t do anything to help you because their
policies or political compulsions
forbid them to! That’s where we are today!

‘The whole system has forgotten whose system it has to be. Of the people. By the people. For the people. Yet, you and me, your average Joe on the street, we are the ones who feel the most disconnected from it. I don’t want a pat on my back and a lollipop. I want solutions. I want a life. I want a guy who will do all the things he is supposed to because he signed up for it.

‘That’s our team. We’ve signed up to give this country what it needs. A government that’s efficient, a government that works and responds. A government that will at least make a genuine effort at doing all that it is supposed to be doing . . .’

Looking at the flush on his face, I knew he believed deeply in what he was saying. I still didn’t – and I am sure he saw the scepticism in my face, for he suddenly smiled that patronizing smile of his.

‘I can see you are still unconvinced, Mr Selvam. We thought you might be. That’s why we’ve invited you to be a part of this. You don’t know this, but I was a big fan of your book when it came out – and I quit my job at the time because I was asked to run a press conference humiliating you. I am not asking you to join us, Mr Selvam – but I am asking you to walk with us. To observe, and to keep us honest. You will be our mouthpiece, and our conscience-keeper.’

I would like to say I thought about it long and hard, but truth be told, what were my options, really? I was either with a single mad-man, or with a group of them, and in neither case was my lot better off. I had nothing further to lose by tagging along. The moment I thought of how I had been struggling with my second book, I knew I was hooked. If nothing else, I thought, I will get a story out of this. A foothold, for a writer. Impossible realities.

‘I’m in,’ I told him. ‘On my terms.’ I had no idea what my terms were – but I didn’t want to come cheap.

‘Great,’ he said, extending his hand. I shook it. Again, a bone-crusher.

‘So where are we going now?’

‘New Delhi,’ he answered readily enough, surprising me. ‘Rashtrapati Bhavan.’

3

22nd March, 2012. New Delhi.

Syeda Qureshi walked out of the Fortune Mall with her hands full. Summer break for their only grandson would start in a week and she was looking forward to spending time with him. The packages in her arms – the toys that she believed were the rage now, guided by her conversations with the neighbourhood kids – were the bribe that every doting grandparent paid.

Placing the packages inside her car, she glanced up at the blazing sun. A thin trickle of sweat made its way down her forehead and she used her handkerchief to mop it up, savouring the momentary cooling that its evaporation afforded her. She had been born and brought up in old Delhi and had gone through worse summers without breaking even a drop of sweat, but being stationed in cooler hotspots like Kashmir and Assam seemed to have broken her adaptability to the heat.

Just as she slammed the boot shut, her phone vibrated once.
Call me
, read the message from her husband.
Urgent
.

To the wife of Major-General Qureshi, nothing could have seemed stranger. The last time he had contacted her during the day was more than a decade ago, when he had been stationed in Kargil, and he had called to say that the last hill had been captured. To this day, she could remember his
elation as well as her own – but she had never admitted to him, never dared to, that his safety, which the end of the war promised, mattered more to her than whatever he was fighting for.

Locking the doors immediately, for this was still New Delhi, she pressed the speed-dial on her phone even as she started to head back towards the shade that the mall offered. The line was busy; she tried again.

This time, he picked up almost immediately. He sounded rather breathless, ‘What happened?’

‘What happened?’ she repeated, puzzled. ‘You’re the one who sent me a message asking me to call you. I don’t understand . . .’

‘I didn’t . . . I got a message from you – saying you were in some trouble . . .’ A pause, as Major-General Qureshi tried to make sense of everything. Ahead of him, a few yards away, people kept moving in and out of the office of the defence secretary – the man he had come to see. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Major-General Qureshi realized for the first time just how capable his unseen enemies were.

And he hoped this was just a warning.

‘Where are you?’ he asked urgently. ‘What are you doing outside?’

Before she could say anything, he heard a sudden staccato burst through the cell phone. Almost immediately, as if from even farther away, there came the sounds of shrill screams. Then a muffled boom . . . and a choked voice that sounded like his wife’s was cut off abruptly.

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

Shantanu
@sir_shanxalot
2m

Guns and boms at 4tune! Pak-attack? Saw sum ppl fall dn outside. Gls frnt blown. Trapped on gr flr! #Delhi #FortuneMall #Help!

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

‘Let me see if I understand you correctly. You are telling me that your men – my soldiers – have walked out of their bases, abandoning them, because of the major-general’s death?’

‘Yes, sir. They want a transparent inquiry into his death. And death penalty awarded to anyone even remotely involved, whether it was a suicide or a murder, as is suspected.’

‘It
was
a suicide,’ the defence minister thundered from his seat. ‘We’ve already released a press-note to that effect.’

The brigadier who had spoken – from the Infantry – ignored the minister’s input. He met the general’s gaze defiantly.

The general was the one who looked away this time, but not in defeat. He glanced at the others seated in front of him. ‘If you were to get in touch with your commands, how many of you are sure your men are also not walking off their bases right now?’

The brigadiers and major-generals squirmed uncomfortably in their seats. The news that had unnerved them so was still sinking in; it was close to impossible to believe that there was such a serious breakdown in discipline within their ranks, but in the face of incontrovertible proof – with people actually just leaving their bases – it had to be accepted. And the possibility only too real to discount.

‘What is the meaning of this, General?’ the defence minister asked, gripping the armrests of his chair. ‘What is happening to your Army, to your men?’

The general turned to him with a smile even as he gestured with his hand for the brigadiers to resume their seats. ‘My Army? Ministerji, was it not just two days ago when you made it very clear to me that this was not
my
Army? That this was the
government’s
Army, that you paid the wages, that you’d decide how it should be run, and who should be running it?’

The minister opened his mouth to reply, but the general pre-empted him. ‘Wasn’t that just after you’d ordered me to cashier – and court-martial, if possible – Major-General Iqbal Qureshi for asking questions you don’t want to answer?’

‘That is a secret matter,’ exploded the minister, his face reddening. ‘How dare you reveal its details!’

The general’s smile grew wider, though it did not reach his eyes. ‘Unlike certain parasitic worms here,’ and he looked directly at the personal secretary as he said it, ‘or certain officers who owe their rank to birth, not merit,’ this time a pointed glance at one of the two lieutenant generals, ‘we are all honourable men, here, Ministerji. And we are all sworn to secrecy where national security is concerned.’

The general held up his cane and pointed it straight at the minister’s face. ‘And our soldiers abandoning their posts is a matter of national security, which I suggest you address right away. As a matter of fact, I’ll go one step further and give you a hint. A full, fair and transparent inquiry into Major-General Qureshi’s death, as well as all the deals he had identified as suspect. Because if you don’t,’ he glanced at the watch, ‘our defence capabilities are going to be seriously hit in the next thirty minutes. Right now, we have four thousand soldiers off base. Imagine the press if it’s forty thousand.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ The outburst came not from the minister, but from the personal secretary. ‘I know your type. These are just empty threats. You wouldn’t dare –’

The general pointed the cane at him. ‘One more word out of you, you son of a bitch, and I’ll have you shipped to Siachen in your underwear.’

The cane returned to its perpendicular state. The general turned his attention back to the minister. ‘Do you know the mark of a leader, Ministerji? I’ll tell you, because I’d like to think I’m a decent leader. You back your men. Your good
men, not scum like him. You don’t give them bad equipment because the contractor paid for your campaign. You don’t force a quota system on them that does not recognize merit. And you sure as hell don’t drive a good man out of the service. Major-General Iqbal Qureshi was a good man. Like others, here in this room right now, and those who’ve left us when they couldn’t take it anymore. Men I’ve been proud to serve with.’

The general turned his back on the minister and addressed the brigadiers and the major-generals. ‘Sometimes, like in 1857, a line is crossed. And the only way forward is to make a statement that will be felt, not just heard. Rest assured that no action will fall on any of the men under your command – as long as they maintain law and order, do not take their weapons out of the base and return to active duty as soon as the government gives in. I will not tolerate the cost of even a single bullet during this exercise.’

The defence minister got out his chair and walked over to the general. ‘You have no idea what you are doing, General. I’ll have your head for this.’

The general patted the minister, mustering as patronizing a smile as he could. ‘I would say the same, Minister. You have no idea what you’ve done, the damage to the only institution that keeps the nation in the image it was created in. Don’t take it personally, but people like you created the mess we are in today. It just so happens that this is taking place on your watch.’

The minister grabbed his hand but froze when he saw the flash in the general’s eyes. He stumbled back a step, an involuntary retreat, before falling back on the only mode of confrontation he was comfortable with. ‘I don’t understand why this is such a big deal, General.’

The general covered the short distance between them with a single step of his own and stabbed the chest of the nervous
minister. ‘By itself, it isn’t. Ten years ago, we would have thrown ViFite out the window and gone on with our business. We would have mourned the Major-General and returned to our stations.’ He lowered his hand. ‘But it’s the latest in a long list of grievances we have, issues that none of you has ever bothered to listen to, much less act on. Our memories run deep, Minister, but only
almost
as deep as the wounds we have suffered at the hands of those who were supposed to take care of us while we took care of the nation. Not anymore. Think of this as a wake-up call. Do not take us for granted. We may be soldiers, but we are citizens too.’

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

The Americans weren’t the only ones who had paid for ‘suites with good views’. The rest of the intelligence community had also descended on the International Conference Centre and booked identical rooms – twin-bed, air-conditioned, with a mini-bar and a good view of the building that housed Julius Room. They were aware of each other’s presence, for this was not really such a secret event that it had warranted their deepest-cover agents, and subsequently, there had been quite a few familiar faces at breakfast earlier that morning.

Jack cursed under his breath. With each passing moment, he was getting better at convincing himself that something momentous was happening – and he wanted to be the one to report it first. Spies, like news agencies, set a lot of stock on who’s the first to report something.

There had to be some way, he thought frantically.
A country with thirty million cell phones, but not a single one that works at a time when I want it to.
He glared balefully at the display on his device, willing it to show some sign of a connection. The ‘Emergency Calls Only’ button stared back at him with an equal amount of disdain.

No sooner had this thought occurred to him than his eyes fell on the telephone between the beds. With a sudden exclamation, he virtually leapt towards the instrument. Dismissing the thought of how unsecure the hotel line was, he stabbed the keypad and waited for Reception to answer.

After a few immensely frustrating rings, just as he was about to hang up, the call was answered by a suave voice asking in unaccented English, ‘Reception here. How may I help you?’

‘I need to dial a number in the US. It’s very urgent.’

‘Very well, sir. Which room is this?’

‘Two-oh-five.’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll call you as soon as I connect.’

Triumphantly, Jack hung up and reported the conversation to his colleague.

John gestured towards the phone. ‘How does he know which number to dial?’

A second passed. Then another. The third was punctuated by the sound of a hand slapping against a forehead. ‘Damn!’ Jack lifted the receiver again. ‘Goddamn!’ he said, pressing the hang-up button a few times. ‘Now the phone lines are dead too!’ He slammed the receiver down in frustration. ‘What the fuck do I do now?’

‘If you’ve got a pigeon,’ John offered laconically, ‘I’ve got some pen and paper . . .’

Fifteen minutes later, 22nd March, 2012. Online.

Breaking News: Terror Attack in Delhi

In a brazen move reminiscent of 26/11, a group of armed men has carried out an attack in Fortune Mall in New Delhi. According to early reports, a gang of four masked gunmen arrived at the mall at around
2 p.m. and started firing indiscriminately at the crowd. Explosions have also been reported, although only one blast has been confirmed so far. Sources suggest that the terrorists have fled the scene with the Anti-Terrorist Squad in pursuit, but authorities have refused to divulge any more details at this point of time. –PTI

16th September, 2012. Mumbai.

‘Get GK on the line,’ Gyandeep Sharma barked at his niece. As Leela frantically tried to comply with his request, he continued, ‘If anybody can reach Pandit or Patil, he can. Don’t go through his PA – try him on his direct line. Here,’ he said, tossing her his phone, ‘use this.’

Before she could complete his request, the door burst open and his secretary stood there looking absolutely frazzled. ‘It’s our Delhi office,’ she said without preamble. ‘It’s been raided. Income Tax.’

‘Impossible,’ Leela spoke up. ‘It’s a Sunday.’

‘Don’t know about that,’ replied the secretary. ‘I just got a call from our branch head. He said it’s been raided and he’s being arrested. His phone’s switched off now.’

As if on cue, Leela’s own phone gave a shrill whistle. She answered it hurriedly. Gyandeep watched as her expression grew graver and her side of the conversation was restricted to monosyllables. He made a move to take his phone back but she held up a hand. Irritated, he glared at her as she finally hung up.

‘That was our legal counsel from Kolkata,’ she explained before he could say anything. ‘Our Kolkata offices have been raided by the Enforcement Directorate. Everything has been sealed and impounded. Every senior officer who reported to office today has been arrested.’

Gyandeep stared blankly at her. In the fifty years that Infinity had been in operation, not once had there been rumours of wrong-doing. Now, in the space of minutes, two principal offices, thousands of kilometres apart, had been raided. Even before he voiced his instructions, he already knew what his niece would learn. ‘Find out if Bangalore is still online.’

His niece shook her head after a short call. ‘Same as Delhi. Income Tax. But the CBI’s in the picture too – Sara tells me that they are just waiting for the IT people to finish so that they can execute their own warrant.’

Gyandeep groaned at the irony. For years, the Central Bureau of Investigation had proved to be the ruling alliance’s tool as often as not, in harassing and intimidating the Opposition. It was a joke across the country that the CBI stood for Central Business Interests – a taint that refused to be wiped irrespective of the number of cases the organization tried to solve fairly.