The enemy within!

4

P-82, East of Kailash, New Delhi

India

The home was rented in the name of Mr. Ranjit Singh of Mohalla Malkana, Kapurthala. The man did not exist, except on the passport. The young man who stayed there was Colonel Amarjit Bakshi of Military Engineering Services. He had taken a premature retirement from the services to start his own firm. However, just like his passport, his firm was fake too. The firm he was actually running was the communication interception department of the Research and Analysis Wing for Northern Afghanistan.

He moved out from his home and walked down the street towards Nehru Place. It was peak hour and it was difficult to drive, even for a kilometer in this heavy traffic. He took the turn towards Satyam, and mindlessly wondered into the busy technical market before entering a great rusty tower. He pushed the door of the office at 38^th Floor – R R Lalchandani & Associates. The receptionist escorted him to a chamber, deep into the office area. The man on the other side of the table was a man in his early 50s. A Sikh with an impeccable turban and well groomed beard.

Bakshi presented a small, black box to the gentleman. “This is all the information about the blasts sir.”

The man took over the box, inspected it closely, and then tossed it away casually. Bakshi looked at him with shock.

The man rose from the chair.

Major General Virender Sekhon was a tall man at 6 feet 5. However, in the army circles, he was better known for his tall ethics and remarkable work culture than his height. At 56, he was the chief commanding officer of the communication cell of MES, and worked for the RAW as the head of communications for Asia.

“Bakshi, you’re young, and I want to tell you one thing before you grow up as an irresponsible officer; and that is to use your brain.” Sekhon said calmly and yet firmly.

He continued, as Bakshi listened with his head hung down in shame. 

“This institute is respected by our enemies, not because we use technology, but because we use brains, and looking at this box, I can only say that it originated from Uzbekistan. The question is that why would someone give you a black box obtained from Uzbek intelligence, until it is fake?”

Bakshi’s eyebrows rose involuntarily for a moment as Sekhon spoke the last part. He seemed to be in a thought. Sekhon patted on his shoulder and said again, “ Leave the blast out for now, my boy! Find the traitor in our team first!”

The Dawsons

3

Jalandhar, India

Deborah and Thomas had been on the run since they crash-landed in Sind. Even though, Deborah tried to hide her foreign origins, her language, and her body language revealed a lot. She colored her hair black, wore the traditional dress, and spoke very little. People often took her as depressed or otherwise, sick girl. They had escaped Multan through another truck. They reached Bikaner, from where they took a ride to Ludhiana, where they were given some money and food. Someone told them that they would get some help at Suraj Singh’s house in Jalandhar. Suraj Singh was a scion of an old business family of the city, and was known for his help and charity. Both found it to be their best bet in this unknown land. They took the next train to Jalandhar.

An apparently Euro-Indian lady caught Deborah’s accent as she talked to Thomas. She was passing by at the aisle. She suddenly stopped and looked at Deborah. She turned around and took the empty seat opposite them. Deborah and Thomas stopped talking.

Without a moment’s delay the lady suddenly announced. “Midlands? Right?”

Deborah pretended not to have listened.

“Oh! The typical British way of ignoring people. I know it well!” The lady giggled like a mad woman.

Thomas was offended by now. He turned to the lady and said, rather rudely. “You know a little too much about Britain in this foreign land, lady. Don’t you!

“A little too much, my boy!” The lady said, as the wrinkles on her face deepened. She continued in a hushed up voice. “They don’t like you if you know too much.” She giggled between the words, saying, “The Scotland Yard, I mean. They’re full of shit! But who cares, they can’t do a thing to me till I am here.”

“But why would they do something to you in the first place?” Thomas sounded disgusted by now.

“That is beyond your scope lad!” The lady answered loudly. “But I am a free bird here. They can’t get e even if they want.”

“And why do you think so?” Thomas asked.

The lady moved her head side to side as she laughed. “There’s no extradition treaty.” She said.

Thomas’ brow rose involuntarily as he heard this. He gave a subtle look at Deborah. She seemed relaxed for the first time. Before they could make sense of what they had just heard, the lady turned towards Deborah and snapped roughly at her, “Where in the Midlands are you from, girl?”

“Coventry.” The words escaped from Deborah’s mouth suddenly. She could just regret, what she had let out!

“Oh, Coventry, a shitty place that is.” The woman said loudly, as Deborah’s face turned red in anger. Before she could respond, the lady spoke up again in her shrill voice. “ My daughter was unhappily married there, till they killed her.”

The lady continued unabated. “ Those scoundrels used her for political mileage, and when she knew too much, they killed her. They continuously kept her on sedatives and psychotropic drugs..” She broke down into sobs.

Deborah’s heart melted. She held her hand and tried to comfort her. “Were they political people?” She asked.

The lady just nodded in response, between the sobs.

“I won’t ask you who they were, bur whatever they…” Before Deborah could finish, the lady gave her the most shocking answer that she could’ve ever expected to hear.

“The Dawsons.” 

The Light from the East

2

Bamiyan, Afghanistan

It was evening when Burak regained consciousness. He was at Wazir’s house. As he tried to sit, Wazir helped him straighten-up and recline on the pillows behind him.

“Thank god, you are fine!” Wazir said, as he sat back on chair beside the bed.

“He is great!” Burak replied.

“Perhaps, not for six thousand other people who couldn’t make it to their homes.” Wazir had a remorseful look on his face.

“…including the young guy who wanted to travel to Istanbul…” Burak added. He had a look of contemplation. His life was shaken. For a moment he had felt as if it was the apocalypse.

“Who did it?” Burak asked.

Wazir still had the remorseful look. He thought for a moment and answered. “You never know who could it be. Maybe the Chinese, Russians. Maybe, the Indians or the Arabs. Maybe the Iranians or the Jews. It could be the Americans or the Europeans. It could be anyone.”

“But why would anyone do it?” Burak seemed confused.

Wazir gave a slight smile. “It is a tough question to answer.” He moved toward the window and looked out at the Khanzada Street below, as he continued. “This country has a turbulent past. If you want to know the roots of the blast, you would have to know what happened here is last 4000 years. Only then can you make sense of it.”

Burak nodded in affirmation, but quietly, he had made up his mind to meet his friend Yasser Yazdi, the librarian of the Farsi University.

The Farsi Library, Bamiyan

Next day

Burak reached the University library early in the morning. Yasser listened to his request. He thoughtfully browsed through the catalogue, and answered. “Mr. Burak, we have a great collection here, but none of the books is in Turkish.”

“How would I get one then?” Burak asked.

Yasser smiled.

“Dr. Ahmed Mujeeb.” He said. “He is the head of History at Punjab University at Lahore. The department has a great collection of History books in Turkish.  As far as I know, there is a history course on Afghan history with Turkish option.”

“Great!” Burak smiled. “Where is Punjab University?”

“In India.” Yasser answered. “ I know the chief librarian Mr. Ravi Verma really well. I can talk to him for the course if you like.”

Burak smiled…..

By next week he was ready to move to India. Wazir Khan funded him for the course and stay.

4.1 A call for change!

Chapter 4

The Roll of the Dice

1.

The Royal Crematorium, Patiala, India

Life seemed to have become a run from temples to crematoria for Rajat. It sometimes left him confused and puzzled. He often thought about what lay in store for him? Was it a blessing for him or a lifelong liability?

Today, as he stood in front of a strange crematorium, in a strange city, all he could think of was the probable purpose of him being sent here? He thought of everything that had happened to him since that accident in Bangalore. He sometimes thought that he had become delusional. But this was more than just delusions. Everything that happened had really happened. The accident followed by the death, the relocation to Kolkata, meeting Biswada, and now this. Everything seemed so surreal.

As he was lost in his thoughts, Rajat saw a group of familiar faces in front of him. Faces he could recognize. As his eyes moved from one face to another, his mind recollected their names one by one – Vikas, Tara, Trishna, Rudra, and with them wasVibhu. Rajat stepped back, but then charged at Vikas with sudden rage.

“You bastard! You threw me outside a crematorium in somebody’s body.” Rajat yelled, as he remembered his past.

Vikas calmed him by touching his head with a spell. He said to Rajat slowly. “It was my duty to do what I did. The difference was that I didn’t know the purpose of what I was doing then. I know what I have done now, and why I am doing it.”

As Rajat normalized from the short spell, he asked in a rather feeble voice. “What amount did you get for all this?”

“That time it was actually a lot!” Vikas answered, “but now, I don’t work for money anymore. I realized the futility of it all.”

“Then, why you’ve got me here today? Whom do you work for now?” Vikas asked in a tone of scornful insult.

“Let us get in Rajat,” Vikas said pointing towards the gates of crematorium. “I work for the kids who asked you to come here.”

Rajat looked at Vikas with contempt as both of them walked into the old arched gateway. Others followed them soon after.

Shahi Samadhan was, perhaps, the world’s only crematorium that doubled up as a tourist spot. Its gardens and domed funeral places gave it an air of royal retreat, rather than crematorium. The memorials, or ‘samadhis’ of the royals dotted the beautifully landscaped gardens, lined by shady trees, and flowering plants. It was open to the public, except on the days when it was booked by the royals and old households of the city for funeral. That was the time when it converted into a mourning retreat from a tourist spot. The solemnness of the place was still evident from the fact that there was a temple right close to the entrance, and right in the middle of the funeral grounds was a huge marble platform, covered by marble arches. The place was silent and calm. People meditated, sitting on the marble floor there.

“They want me to help you meet someone here.” Vikas said, as both of them moved towards the central platform. “Let us sit here till he arrives.” He said leading Rajat towards the meditation area.

As both of them sat on the marble floor, Vikas closed his eyes, and soon wandered off into meditative bliss, till he felt a cool and fragrant whiff of air on his face. It suddenly made him happy from inside. He slowly opened his eyes to see another himself sitting in front of him. Only that it was not a body. It was the true Rajat. Not the Pankaj-in-Rajat. It was Rajat’s soul. It smiled and said in a flowery voice in the language of the trees. “They call me Jai these days, for I won the battle from the death.”

Rajat just kept looking at his closest friend. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Jai consoled him in his flowery voice, taking away all the sadness and guilt from Rajat’s mind.

“Don’t worry Rajat, I am perfect. I am happier than I ever was in your body. I don’t feel any pain, any anger, sorrow, hunger or thirst. My friend in the afterlife is with me. Vibhu feels all that I should. But, all I can do is pray for him.”

He continued in his flowery tongue “I live among the trees as the air between their leaves. I dwell among the woods at the Rajbaha woodlands, not far from here. I indicated the Kumars on my willingness to meet you.”

Jai continued. “I just returned from the Himavant. Lord Parashuram burnt his abode and his body yesterday evening. When he moved north to the transhimalayas, I knew that the time for calling you had come. It is the time to get ready for the change!”