KALYUG (4 page)

John downed his drink with a grunt of satisfaction as he studied his compatriot. Though they had both been stationed in New Delhi many times over the last decade, this was the first time he was working together with ‘Jack’ – and he was sure he did not trust him any more than when he had met him the first time, at one of the consular dinner parties. Operatives within the CIA learnt early on to develop a mutual distrust without being disrespectful, especially in the Asian stations. It was just a fact of life that could not be attributed to any particular cause, and John had accepted it a long time ago.

Jack, John decided, was certainly excited. By itself, neither
the drill they were witnessing nor the gathering they had come to observe was noteworthy. Maybe there was one more terror alert from RAW, India’s – he always had to stifle a snigger at the thought – answer to the CIA; maybe the elected representatives were going to blackmail the government, again.

The coincidence of both, he had to admit, could not be dismissed just as easily. If this were across the border – any of the five that outlined India – he would have already assumed that yet another coup was taking place and acted accordingly. This being India, he did not know what to make of it. If he had been able to make calls as usual, he doubted he would have wanted to alert anybody at the embassy; but now that he couldn’t, he really wanted to let his station chief know.

22nd March, 2012. New Delhi.

‘And now,’ he had said softly, ‘you will get the hell out of my office.’

As he drove towards his meeting with the joint secretary at the Ministry of Defence, Major-General Qureshi relived the satisfaction of scaring Raghav Menon out of a few years of his life. The cheek of that bastard, he thought, satisfaction instantly segueing into indignation, walking into my office and trying to fuck with me. I’ll show him what happens when you mess with my Army!

Raghav Menon had scrambled out of his office in a hurry, leaving his visiting card behind. That card was now safely in the major-general’s pocket, a souvenir he intended to drop off at the Ministry. He had also already dialled the number that was at the back of the card, only to be answered by an IVRS that was completely anonymous – no names were mentioned, just a request that he dial the extension he wanted and then press hash.

He was lost in thought as his vehicle weaved through the traffic, worrying about the report that he was carrying, about the families who had lost valorous sons not in battle – as a soldier should be lost – but to corporate greed that had supplied them with inferior materials for their protection against the fading winter of Kashmir. Seventeen good men had perished because the fatigues supplied to them had torn in the cold climate, rendering them completely helpless against chilling winds and the snow. His report was proof that corners had been cut by the vendor – and he was determined to stop more fatalities from happening.

His last order before leaving for the meeting had been issued to his commanding officer in charge of the Himalayan Corps, a division that was now guarding the northernmost state against invasion and terrorists. The quartermaster was to recover every fatigue manufactured by ViFite Pvt Ltd and re-equip the soldiers with older, tried and trusted fatigues.

The rot went deeper than the fatigues however. ViFite supplied most of the equipment that was used in the northern theatre – including ammunition, MRE rations, transport, housing and early-warning systems. A rot in one product typically meant the rest was also suspect. And an Army that could not depend on its tools was a sitting duck for its enemies.

He had no doubt about the outcome of his meeting with the joint secretary.

An even deeper inquiry would be ordered, perhaps into all of ViFite’s dealings; an audit would happen simultaneously to ensure that everything the Army had fell within acceptable tolerances. Quantities and qualities would be re-examined, perhaps re-configured to stricter standards. The prognosis was ugly, but, in his opinion, a necessary medicine for a better equipped force in the near future.

He arrived at the offices of the Ministry of Defence and was waved through after a cursory check by the police guards manning the entrance. Despite his devotion to the uniform, Major-General Qureshi couldn’t stop himself from muttering a contemptuous, ‘Civilians!’ at the lackadaisical attitude. The most important building where the security of the nation was concerned, and you could walk in with a bomb in a suitcase. Almost.

As he pulled out his mobile phone to switch it off, it rang. The caller ID was blocked, as was normally the case when he got a call directly from the joint secretary, and so he assumed that it was a call to check on his ETA. ‘I’m almost there,’ he said without preamble. ‘I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’

‘You won’t, if you want to keep everything you hold dear,’ said the voice at the other end. Major-General Qureshi froze in mid-stride as the voice continued, ‘Turn around and walk away right now. Throw that report into the dustbin on your way out and go back to your office. A new report will be
wait –’

‘Who is this?’ thundered the major-general, causing a lot of heads to turn in surprise. He whirled around in a complete circle, suspecting that he was being watched, looking for anyone who looked even slightly out of place. Their momentary curiosity sated, the bureaucrats and other civil servants had already returned to their respective concerns. Major-General Qureshi had just completed a full turn when he caught a glimpse of Raghav Menon walking away from him.

‘Hey, you,’ he shouted, going after Raghav Menon.

‘A new report will be waiting for you, Major-General Qureshi,’ broke in the voice on the phone more insistently. Qureshi paused again, confused. He could see Raghav Menon ahead of him – and he could also see that his quarry did not have a phone with him, nor the tell-tale bulge of a Bluetooth headset. At the same time, as if on cue, Raghav Menon turned around and gave Qureshi a clear view of his front.

No wires. No mic. Even as Qureshi took in Menon’s closed lips, the caller warned him one final time. ‘Do not pursue this, Major-General Qureshi. I would hate for something bad to happen to such a decorated officer of this country.’

The line went dead.

16th September. In the air over central India.

I stared at Raghav Menon with the triumph of one who has the right answer. He stared right back at me as if he couldn’t give a damn what I supposed.

Then he shrugged and said, ‘Maybe. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you are right. Wouldn’t that really be a catalyst for a coup?’

‘Perhaps.’ Despite my reservations, I found myself considering the implications. Major-General Qureshi had not really been a popular figure, at least in the eyes of the public, even when he had come out with all sorts of allegations against the government. His vitriol had been particularly centred around deals with a little-known firm called ViFite, whom he accused of colluding with the government in providing Indian soldiers with less than acceptable materials, but the case had quickly died down and, with more sensational stories for the media to pursue, faded into oblivion.

Until a few days back, when the major-general had resurfaced with purported proofs that the malaise was deep-rooted and had already corrupted the other branches as well. Coming as it did on the back of another exposé on the sale of natural resources such as spectrum and coal, his allegations had provided a fresh burst of energy to the Opposition. This time, despite the grandstanding from all the political sides
and the spins imparted by doctors, the spotlight had remained firmly on Major-General Qureshi.

The same papers that had once questioned his mental balance – hinting at the time that he had become unhinged after his wife’s death during the terrorist attack on 22nd March earlier this year – had been full of testimonials from brother officers for the past couple of days, building into a crescendo that painted the man as an officer and a gentleman his men would follow into whatever hell he led them, unquestioning, with unshakeable faith that he would lead them back safely.

That had been the picture that every Indian had gone to sleep with on Saturday night. The next day, the whole country had woken up to news of his unnatural death.

16th September, 2012. Near Pune.

‘Madam?’

One of the most powerful women in the whole world – as labelled by numerous magazines – looked up as her personal secretary climbed into the chopper. In his hand, he clutched a small rectangle she immediately recognized as a portable video player.

‘What is it?’ she asked impatiently. The meeting with Patil had been an unwelcome – but unavoidable – intrusion into her day’s schedule and she was eager to get back to New Delhi as soon as possible. She was meeting with European representatives of firms that wanted to set up nuclear power plants in India, undoubtedly a discussion that would take hours. She also resented the fact that it was Patil’s turn to leave earlier this time. Already, his chopper was a distant speck to the north, speeding towards the airport. She consoled herself with the thought that her personal jet would take her back to the capital before Patil. He was, after all, flying on the national carrier, notorious for its last-minute delays.

‘This was left for us at the farmhouse,’ he said, handing over the player. ‘I had security check it out. It’s genuine.’

She took the player from him as he belted himself in. Within the minute, the chopper lifted into the air smoothly as Mrs Pandit finally figured out how to operate the player. Nothing happened for a few seconds after she pressed the ‘Play’ button; then the screen flickered a couple of times before a graphic started to play.

In the next few minutes, as an unseen narrator exposed each and every secret of the family that would render them a national pariah for generations, Mrs Pandit clenched her fist so hard that she drew blood from her palms. Yet, as if caught in some morbid fascination, she could not bring herself to switch off the video. She was vaguely conscious of her secretary listening in on every word.

‘If this were ever to come out,’ said the narrator as a final graphic of the entire family – four generations of them – lit up the screen, ‘You know none of you will ever be able to look at each other again. If you do not want this to happen, you will not make any objection to what happens today. Make the slightest noise, the smallest hint of protest, and what you have seen now will beam to the entire nation.’

A pause. Then, ‘Think of this as an election you’ve just lost. And lost badly. You are going to be out of power for the next five years and there is nothing you can do about that. You lose nothing by waiting for five years, but if you don’t . . . do you want to take your family down with you?’

16th September, 2012. Ghaziabad.

‘Do you know who we are?’ screamed the Young Turk at the commandos around him. Now that the room was silent of any other voice, his baritone boomed around the room. None of the commandos responded with even as much as a twitch.

Joseph Karpov Thevaraparambil jumped off the table and moved towards the main door. Behind him, shuffling rather hesitantly, a group of delegates solidified – although they took care to remain at least ten to fifteen steps behind him. If he got through, then the others could follow – but if he was stopped, they could easily melt back into the crowd before the commandos did anything . . . rash.

Just as Karpov himself was about fifteen feet away from the exit, the PA system came on with a high-pitched whine. Every single delegate in the room turned towards the noise, only to see a couple of commandos move towards the sound system and manipulate the switches on the board. The whine abruptly stopped; a few moments later, one of the commandos plugged a USB stick into the media console.

The screens behind the stage instantly came to life. One by one, each of the delegates present had the privilege of watching the complete dossier of his professional and personal life scroll by – including the details of declared and undeclared incomes, secret lives, hobbies, undiscovered – or to be more accurate, unfiled – crimes and secret memos written to each other.

A voiceover commenced a few minutes into the slideshow. It started on the cheery note that a copy of the same had already been sent to every member there, just in case they had not been able to note down all the details about someone else from the same constituency, before reminding everyone that the commandos were, in fact, real commandos and fired real bullets. That reduced the murmur of whispers that was building up back into a barely audible hiss.

‘I am sure that you will therefore cooperate quite thoroughly with these fine gentlemen,’ continued the voice. ‘Now, as to why you are here. Ladies and gentlemen – and other elected representatives. In a few hours, you will find yourself in a
momentous occasion in the history of our country. Till then, purely as a safety precaution, we shall have to confine you to this wonderful hall. With the exception of being able to go outside or talk to anybody outside these walls, you will have complete freedom to do whatever you want.

‘Feel free to mingle, or chat with long-lost friends and comrades. Perhaps you will even merge all your different factions back into one party once again . . . Lunch will be served in a few minutes. It’s just a matter of a few hours. Cooperate, and you will not have to regret it.’

16th September, 2012. In the air, heading towards north India.

‘I don’t get it,’ I admitted finally. ‘The timeframe’s too short. Major-General Qureshi’s death was announced late last night. It’s been just over fifteen hours – that’s not enough time to marshal the forces you would need for a coup. Not to mention the minor – I might even say inconsequential – question of overcoming public opinion that’s sure to be violently critical of some nut taking over the government.’

‘Ah,’ said Raghav Menon, with the pleased look of a teacher who has spotted the fatal flaw in a student’s argument. ‘But what if the forces – just the amount we need – are already in place? What if the first line of opposition – the politicians themselves – are bought out, or blackmailed into supporting the coup?’