The Conspiracy Of Silence
By: Sumeet Suman Singhal
Tags: Politics, Fiction, Conspiracy Theories, Novel, Intrigue

“The Home Minister decides to test IB, CBI and the Police. He releases a rabbit into a forest and asks them to catch the rabbit. The IB guys go in first. They recruit animal informants throughout the forest. They question plant and animal witnesses. After three months of extensive investigation, they conclude the rabbit does not exist. The CBI goes in next. After two weeks, they fail to find the rabbit. They come back with an affidavit from the lion saying the rabbit has left the forest. Next, it is the turn of the Police. They come back after two hours with a badly beaten bear. The bear is yelling: “Okay, Okay, I’m a rabbit.”

This story is about a hunt for the rabbit.

The

Conspiracy

of

Silence

Sumeet Singhal

and

Sanjeev Malhotra

The Conspiracy of Silence

Copyright © Sumeet Singhal and Sanjeev Malhotra, 2014

First Indian Paperback Edition, 2014

ISBN 978-81-7621-

Published by

Main street

An imprint of Hind Pocket Books

E-14, Sector-11, Noida-201301

The views expressed in this book are those of the author and not necessarily those of the publisher. The publisher is not responsible for the

author’s views in any way whatsoever.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from Full Circle.

Design and layout: Scanset

J-40, Jorbagh Lane, New Delhi-110003

Printed at J.J. Imprints Pvt. Ltd., A-24, Sector-68, Noida-201301 (U.P.)

Printed in India

14/14/01/01/40/scanset/SRK/JJI/JJI/NP275/NP275

Author’s Note

Enter the world of ambition, power, lies, deceit and exploitation where Silence, the main protagonist has a compelling story to tell. At every turn you will be surprised by its audacity, intent and pervasiveness. “The Conspiracy of Silence” is a work of fiction inspired by the attack on the Indian Parliament. An imaginary reinterpretation of the events results in an exciting story.

One of the characters in the book says; “All that we get to read is the blame game. We need to map each big event with the information that is available, find the weakness in the information and test it for an alternate hypothesis. We need to turn the story of the Parliament attack upside down.”

This is our first book. When we started this journey, our challenges were immense. The plot, characters, dates, places, dialogues and chronology; we struggled with all of them. Gradually, we overcame the fear of writing and put our fingers to the keyboard. But some doubts refused to go away. Is the pace of the story too slow? Is the detailing too much or too little? Are the events logical? How will a particular character react in a given situation? We laboured on and soon, almost like a jig saw puzzle, the characters, events and places started to fit into place. They started talking to each other and answered our numerous questions.

Writing “The Conspiracy of Silence was exhilarating.” We enjoyed the challenge and worked relentlessly to provide a good read for our readers. We sincerely hope you enjoy the book.

We would like to thank Mr. Shekhar Malhotra of Full Circle who not only believed in us, in our story and writing skills, but also offered valuable guidance and support in publishing this book.

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Contents

Author’s Note

5

Prologue

13

Part I

The Cradle

17

The Cradle

19

The Devil’s Den

29

The Gladiators

33

The Reprieve

42

The Second Life

48

Part II

Sailor from New York

57

The Sailor from New York

59

The Gambler

65

The Inside Story

72

A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

79

New York Calling

84

9/11

89

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 7

Part III The Attack

91

The Attack

93

The Politician

101

The Bureaucracy

103

The Crack Team

106

Scapegoat

110

The Detention

115

The Interrogation

121

The Spectacle

125

The Carnival

129

Confession

133

Operation Dhairya

136

The Alternate Hypothesis

144

Deception

148

The Terrorist

155

The Trouble Starts

157

The Hacking

159

Mulaquat

167

The Accident?

171

The Funeral

174

The Resolve

180

The Blunder

184

The Hunt: Act 1

190

The Hunt: Act 2

193

The Intimidation

197

The Prisoner

201

The Allies

204

The Rescue Attempt

209

High Court

214

Part IV The Conspiracy

219

Stroke of Luck

221

The Mystery Deepens

227

End of a terror filled life

234

Preparing for a Trap

237

The Blackmail

244

The Gallows

249

The Conspiracy

252

Noor – The Light

265

The Conspiracy of Silence is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Prologue

“The whole history of the world is summed up in the fact, that when nations are strong, they are not always just and when they wish to be just, they are no longer strong” – Winston Churchill

New Delhi, October 2006

General Kaul alighted from his black Audi at Lodhi Gardens. His driver, Ram Lal took the car to the parking. He looked forward to spending the next hour with other drivers.

As he walked towards the walking track, former Finance Secretary Prasad who often joined him for his morning walks greeted the General.

“Good morning Perry. How are you doing? In good health I suppose,” he said.

The General was proud of his physique and fitness. He was sixty-three years of age, strongly built and six feet two inches tall. He was fair-complexioned with black almond-shaped eyes, a round face, chiselled features, light brown hair greying at the temples and had a pleasing personality. He was a keen golfer and chess player. He liked Prasad’s compliment and returned the greeting.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 1 3

“Morning, Prasad, I am fine and in good health.”

The two started their morning routine of a five kilometre long brisk walk.

“The economy is not doing well and the Government appears shaky. I wonder if it will survive the full term,” remarked General Kaul.

“Whoever comes to power, we will continue to get our pension for life. It doesn’t affect us,” replied Prasad as they started their walk.

The early morning fresh air of Lodhi Gardens did wonders to their health and spirit.

Despite the cold, General Kaul was sweating when he returned to his car. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, gulped from the mineral water bottle kept in the car and settled in the back seat of the Audi.

“Shall I turn on the heater?” asked Ram Lal. General Kaul declined with a gesture of his hand.

“Sir I have a request. My wife is pregnant. She is expecting our sixth child. Could I get some advance?” his driver asked.

“You will put the Government’s family planning program to shame. Six children in eight years! Will you ever stop?” he laughed but agreed to give him the advance. He asked to be taken home.

The Audi turned into the driveway on Amrita Shergill Marg and stopped. The polished brass name plate read Retd. General Purushottam Lal Kaul PVSM AVSM VSM ADC. He had bought this exclusive one acre property with manicured green lawns, after retirement.

At home, he continued with his fitness regime and did twelve rounds of surya namaskars.

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After finishing his exercise, he called his steward, “Get me my morning cup of kahwa (Kashmiri green tea) and the morning newspapers.”

He took off his shoes and settled down comfortably on the walnut wood sofa in his study. It was still cold and as the Sun rose, the golden rays of the morning Delhi sun entered the room through the French windows. All major English newspapers were neatly spread in front of him but he did not seem interested in reading them.

He picked up the remote, switched on the television and absent-mindedly started surfing various news channels. India and the US had stepped up defence cooperation, the Government was planning to move the Supreme Court on reservations and a school in Delhi wanted girls to vote on the length of skirts they wanted to wear. Not much was happening, he thought. His mobile phone rang, his son Rohit was on the line. He was calling from Dubai. He took the call.

“Hi Dad, how are you doing? I hope everything is fine. I have settled down in my new job with McKinsey and I am part of the energy practice. I am flying to Delhi next week and hope to spend some time with you,” he said.

General Kaul sounded annoyed.

“I want to talk to you in person about your activities in Dubai. You have landed yourself and me into trouble.”

“What are you talking about Dad? I have not done anything. You must tell me what is on your mind.”

“Come to Delhi and we will talk. In the meantime try to stay out of trouble,” he replied and disconnected the line.

It was nine thirty; a news channel was breaking news; mastermind of the attack on Parliament hanged in Tihar

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 1 5

Jail. Within seconds the news became headlines and all other channels took it up.

General Kaul skipped through various news channels before he switched off the television, and went to the lawn. He called for Rocky his golden retriever who came running from his kennel and sat close to him wagging his tail enthusiastically.

His mobile phone rang again. Though he did not recognize the number he took the call. He heard a woman’s voice on the other side. She did most of the talking, while he listened impassively. She asked him whether he had seen the contents of a brown envelope sent a few days ago. He answered in the affirmative. She requested for an appointment. He hesitated but agreed to meet her next Sunday. As he walked back into his study, he looked tense and uneasy.

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P a r t I

The Cradle

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 1 7

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T e Cradle

“Such is life and life is such and after all it isn’t much. First a cradle. Then a hearse. It might have been better, but it could have been worse.” – Norman

Wisdom

Sopore, October 1992

“You must offer namaz (prayer) five times a day and pay attention to your studies,” said Ahmed Geelani to his seventeen year old son Rizwaan.

“Abba, I am doing well at school. I have to go for an important cricket match today,” he replied.

He often ignored his father’s pleas to pray to Allah and instead took time out for cricket.

Well-regarded by fellow players, he was an opening batsman and bowled well. His mother was proud of him and hoped he would bring fame to the family. He was a good student and everyone expected him to top the twelfth class final examination. Inspired by Dr. Mohammad Sultan Khusroo, the renowned doctor from Sopore, he wanted to join the MBBS course at the famous Sher-e-Kashmir Medical College in Srinagar.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 1 9

Rizwaan’s closest friend, Hamid Gul was a year elder to him. The two grew up together playing cricket. When their team beat Burn Hall School, they were thrilled to get a mention in the Kashmir Times. Hamid had few friends other than Rizwaan. Most parents did not encourage their children to interact with him given his father’s links.

Hamid’s father was a member of a terrorist organization. Hamid often told Rizwaan in hushed tones, tales of Azadi and Azad Kashmir and names of young Kashmiri boys who had simply disappeared, taken by security forces or terrorists from their homes.

Hamid’s father wanted him to concentrate on his studies. “Whenever Kashmir is Azad, it will need educated young men to take it forward. Education will help bridge the gap between us and Hindustan. Otherwise we will always have to depend on Hindustan even after Azadi,” he often said.

Hamid found it hard to focus on studies. It all seemed unreal and irrelevant.

Ahmed’s house was accessible only from a footpath through the local graveyard. He had taken that path every day, for more than fifty years to go to his fruit shop next to the Mosque near the bus stand. The house made of wood, mud, cement and bricks in the traditional Kashmiri architectural style of Dhajji Dewari, had attached wooden balconies with a room called Dub. The timber based frame structure protected the house from earthquakes.

Ahmed was a pious Muslim who offered namaz five times a day, fasted during Ramzan, contributed to Zakah (alms given in charity) and wanted to go for Haj (pilgrimage) with his family. His forefathers had settled in Sopore more than a

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hundred years ago and chose fruit trading as their means of livelihood. He was a cheerful man and his friends called him Zinda-Dilaan Sopore (warm-spirited person from Sopore).

It was nine a.m. in the morning. Ahmed’s wife was in the kitchen cooking her son’s favourite rista (meat balls with gravy).

“You should eat something before you go out to play,” she said.

Rizwaan, dressed in all whites, picked up his cricket gear but refused to eat.

“I am getting late for the cricket match at the Panchayat grounds. I will be back by two,” he said and left the house. He knew if he did not reach the ground on time he would be thrown out of the team.

“The Apple Season has picked up well. Traders have come from as far as Nepal, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh besides the ones from Delhi, Rajpura and Pulwama,” Ahmed told his wife.

“If I do good business this season, we will save some money for Rizwaan’s education. I need to open the shop early today as some buyers from Delhi are coming.”

His wife smiled and got him tea and rista. After having breakfast, he stepped out of the house.

While walking through the graveyard he had a last-minute change of plan. He took a detour, met Imam Bashir Shah at the local Mosque and asked him for the State Haj Committee forms.

The Imam offered all possible help and said, “Allah is with you. You need not worry.”

He thanked the Imam and prayed to Allah to bring good fortune to his family.

Bashir Shah became the Imam of the Jama Masjid (Mosque) at the age of twenty when his father died in his sleep,

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 2 1

leaving behind his place to his only son, who took on the task with complete commitment and zeal. He wanted more men to come for prayers and often invited Muslim scholars from Srinagar to speak at the Mosque. The attendance at his sermons dropped during the Apple Season which pained him. He saw increased affluence, the younger generation’s interest in Hindi films, music and spurious liquor which were widely available in the town especially during the Apple Season, as threats to the disciplined life taught by Islam. He often reminded people of the power of Allah through his sermons:

“Whosoever desires honour, power and glory, then to Allah belong all honour, power and glory and one can get them only by obeying and worshipping Allah alone.”

“The Mosque needs funds to repair the guest rooms. It gets very bad during the rainy season when the roof starts leaking,” he told Ahmed.

“Let the season get over, by Allah’s grace this year is looking good. I will make a handsome donation.”

The Imam walked with him till the door of the Mosque. The thought of the buyers from Delhi was uppermost

in Ahmed’s mind. He knew that Delhi traders were tough negotiators but bought in large quantities.

As he descended from the steps of the Mosque to the pavement, two young men walked up to him and said, “Assalam-o-alakium.”

He had never seen them before.

He replied, “Walekum a salaam,” and was startled as the two came very close to him.

One of them blocked his path while the other reached for his shoulder bag. In a flash, Ahmed sensed what was going to

2 2 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

happen, turned around and ran towards the Mosque, but it was too late. One of the men took out an AK 47 from his backpack, pointed it towards him and squeezed the trigger. The bullets caught him in the head and back and he collapsed immediately. He lay motionless on the road as blood oozed from his body.

The staccato of an AK 47 is a familiar sound in Sopore town. People ran for cover as the attackers escaped on a motorcycle. In a few moments people fled. Shop keepers pulled their shutters down. People crowded behind windows and balconies to see what had happened. There was confusion and anger in their eyes. Such an incident, more so in the peak Apple Season was not welcome.

The BSF (Border Security Force) guard at Baba Yusuf Lane crossing informed his superior on wireless, “There is a shooting near the Mosque.”

The guard did not leave his place as he could do so, only on orders.

At the Police Station about one kilometre away, Inspector Meer Shah heard the sound of gunshots and cursed. He was expecting his cousin from Baramulla, hoping to start talks of his daughter’s marriage with his cousin’s son who lived in Muzaffarabad.

“There goes my day. When will these guys learn to behave?” he muttered under his breath.

He called his subordinate and ordered, “Take out the jeep.” By the time he reached the Mosque, the blood from Ahmed’s nose, mouth and wounds had made a large circle around his body and reached the drain at the edge of the road. He cordoned off the area and asked his deputy to start tafteesh, (the process of recording evidence at the site) and looked

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 2 3

around for possible witnesses. A local journalist had reached the spot and was taking photos. The Imam, who had come out of the Mosque, was talking to him.

Meer Shah lost his cool.

“Leave this place immediately and let the Police do its work,” he told the journalist.

He wanted to make sure that his superiors got to know of the incident from him rather than the T.V.

Rizwaan reached the Panchayat cricket ground late and Hamid chided him, “Get ready quickly. We have won the toss and you open the batting.”

He came to know about the incident when he was batting on twenty. He dropped his bat and immediately ran as hard as he could, his mind completely blank.

Soon he reached the Mosque. The sight of his father lying on the road confused and shocked him. He looked around and saw a sea of khaki: the BSF flying squad and the JK (Jammu and Kashmir) Police.

His Ammi was wailing at the top of her voice and beating her chest. He felt like crying too. He recognized the Imam who was trying in vain to console his mother. He wanted to embrace his mother. He had grown up in the shadow of militancy and had seen death at close quarters. But the impact of this personal tragedy was yet to sink in. He felt dazed and completely cut off from the surroundings and did not know what to do.

The Policemen brought an old used bed sheet and lifted Ahmed on to it. They held the bed sheet from its four corners and placed it on the back of the Police jeep. The jeep rambled towards the red and white building which housed the Government Hospital.

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The doctor declared Ahmed dead on arrival. Later in the evening, news channels reported a killing in Sopore by suspected militants.

Ahmed was buried in the graveyard close to his house and after the customary days of mourning, Rizwaan went back to school. His Ammi opened the shutters of their shop in Iqbal market and took on the mantle of the bread-winner of the house. After school, Rizwaan went to the shop and Ammi would leave to attend to household chores. He studied at night after returning from the shop. They made enough money for the family to survive.

The Police investigations showed the attackers mistook Rizwaan’s father for another man with the same name who was a police informer. The attackers could not be traced and the file was kept open.

January 1993

The Muezzin at the Mosque was responsible for reciting the call for Azaan (call for prayer) five times a day using the loudspeakers installed on the minarets of the Mosque. The community depended on him for correct prayer schedules.

At one p.m. Rizwaan heard the sound of Azaan. He packed his bags, left school and ran towards the fruit shop in Iqbal market. As he entered, he saw people assembled in groups on the left side of the entrance under long tin roof sheds, water-logged lanes badly in need of repair and rotten food stinking in the middle of the Mandi. Closer to his shop, he heard the sound of an AK 47, the heavier sound of a SLR 7.62 used by the security forces and sustained firing. His first instinct was

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 2 5

to turn away but Ammi was waiting for him. He ducked into a back lane and took a short cut to the shop.

The main road near the old bus stop was swarming with Policemen. He saw people rushing into their homes and shops.

“Run and hide quickly. Come inside the building,” someone shouted from the crowd.

He ignored the call wanting to get to his shop as quickly as possible. The sound of gun fire and screams grew louder. He was nervous and frightened but pressed on. He hid behind a drain pipe and saw a BSF constable running past him. The constable saw him from the corner of his eye.

“Ek sala yahaan chipa hai (one person is hiding here),” yelled the constable.

The constable stopped, turned around and pointed his gun at him. He froze and was completely intimidated. They were about ten to fifteen feet away from each other. The constable took a couple of quick steps towards him further narrowing the distance.

He was hit with the butt of a SLR and the constable shouted haramzade (abuse).

As he collapsed and lost consciousness, the BSF men put him inside a truck and drove away.

On Ammi’s request, the Imam spoke to Meer Shah to help trace Rizwaan. Meer expressed his helplessness. “First the terrorists attacked and then the BSF guards retaliated. Both the parties went berserk, bringing out the shaitan (devil) in them. In the crossfire, they killed innocent people,” he told him.

“Allah do not let the people of Sopore see another day like this,” said Meer Shah.

Back in the house, Ammi wailed, “Return my son to me. Get him back as he is innocent.”

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The neighbours surrounded Ammi trying to console her. The well being of her only child worried her.

Besides her, the one person who missed Rizwaan was Hamid Gul. At the time of the incident, Hamid was in Iqbal market and saw Rizwaan getting hit. There was little he could do, except run behind and throw stones at the BSF truck which took away his friend. Hamid did not understand what had happened and why? He had heard stories of people disappearing but this loss was personal. He could not share his feelings with anyone. He felt lonely and cried. He tried to talk to Ammi but she was reluctant to talk. She only wailed and prayed for her son’s safe return.

Qadir Hashmi, a man in his late forties, was his neighbour. Qadir rarely talked or mixed with people around him. He noticed Hamid’s distress and asked him the reason behind his troubles.

“I am like a shikara (boat) without oars,” Hamid replied. “The whole thing is not fair, I feel frustrated and power-less as there is injustice all around. Anyone with a gun, whether issued from the Government armoury or procured illegally is powerful. The average person, who wants to make an honest living, is vulnerable, constantly under attack and used by both sides to its advantage.”

He smiled and said, “I will help you find your oars. Come with me for a walk.”

The walk carried them to the woods at the fringe of the city where two persons, whom he introduced as Azads, met them. He talked with them for over two hours while Hamid listened. They talked about Kashmir’s heritage, living without fear, with justice and equality and wanting to change everything. A certain vitality and buoyancy in the talk mesmerized him.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 2 7

Hamid’s interactions with Qadir became frequent, who invited him to go to the other side across the LOC (Line of Control) and join the Jihad (the holy war).

Two months after Rizwaan was picked up by the BSF, Hamid told his mother he was going out for some work. He lef the house and did not return till evening. His father got worried, made enquiries and waited for him till ten in the night. When there was no sign of him, fearing the worst, he went to the local Police Station and lodged a missing person’s complaint.

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The Devil’s Den

“Once you have been tortured, you can never belong in this world. There is no place that can ever be your home.” – Roma Tearne

Srinagar, Gupkar Road, January 1993

Rizwaan regained consciousness inside a moving truck. Two other persons lay half on top of him, a heavy man with a beard, wearing a pheran (Kashmiri gown) and another younger man who was badly hurt and pleading for mercy.

“Allah Baksh do (God forgive me),” the man repeated. The BSF truck moved slowly and stopped often, Rizwaan

guessed they were in a city, probably Srinagar. The pain in his head was excruciating and his throat was dry. He wanted to sleep but his survival instincts kept him awake. He was wondering what had happened and why? Where was Ammi? Was she safe? When would he get back home? His exams were around the corner and he needed to study. He felt sad and lost. A poem by Habba Khatoon, the Nightingale of Kashmir came to his mind.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 2 9

My friend,

this youth is loss

I lost all day on the way Why were we born? Why did we not die?

Why such beautiful names?

We must wait for the Judgment Day

He wondered whether it was Judgement Day.

The truck was full of several young men like him. One of them was smoking a beedi (cigarette) unconcerned about his surroundings.

He started talking to a bearded guy next to him, “What is our crime? How can they pick us without any reason?”

He did not get any answer.

The BSF had detained him and several others under AFSPA (Armed Forces Special Protection Act 1958). The Act gave the Armed and Para Military forces teeth to counter violence but was often misused. Third degree methods of interrogation were used on suspected terrorists.

The truck came to a halt and someone opened the back gate.

“Ek ek kar ke uttro, koi chalaki nahin. (Get down one by one and don’t be clever).”

Rizwaan was unable to move. He waited for the man with the beard in front of him to move. An acrylic stick came crashing down on the man and he jumped off the truck. He forced himself to follow. He felt dizzy and tried to lift himself but only managed to half drag himself off the truck.

His captors were not bothered. They led him to a room, made him sign some forms and took his photograph and finger

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impressions. Someone pushed him inside a small room with no windows, a mattress on the floor and bolted the iron door from outside. He collapsed on the mattress thirsty, hungry and prayed.

His head was hurting and he wanted to relieve himself. He looked around the room but could not see anything in

the dark. He did not know that he was held in Gupkar Road in Srinagar, a BSF detention and interrogation centre located in a closely guarded large colonial building without any sign. It was particularly notorious for its torture and inhuman treatment of detainees. Vehicles kept coming and going from the building at all hours of the day and night.

The steel door opened and few rays of sunlight fell on his face almost blinding him. He realised it was late morning. Two men came in while the third waited at the door. They chained him and led him to another large room. He could hear sounds of crying and moaning as he passed through the corridor. The room had a few chairs and a table.

He sat on a chair and a burly man in a khan suit came and asked him, “Tum sarhad par se asla laate ho? (You smuggle arms from across the border?)”

Not sure of what he heard, he kept quiet and looked down. He was hit across the face.

“Bak do nahi to jaan chali jayegi (speak or otherwise you will lose your life).”

His tormentors tied his hands and legs to a steel bed kept in a corner of the room and put a piece of cloth in his mouth. Three men leaned on his chest, pumped water into his nose and left him suffocating and choking. They turned him over and beat his back and feet with a long iron rod and hit him with

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 3 1

a leather belt dipped in water till he bled. Blood splattered on the walls in the room. They made him lie down face up on the bed again and applied electric shock to his feet, genitals, chest, and tongue. Two wires attached to either side of his body were connected to a generator with a crank which one of the guards turned. When he cranked faster, the shock was severe, if turned slowly, less so.

After some time the men went away, but came back. They tried talking to him and failing to get any response they tortured him again. At twelve-hour intervals, they untied him, took him to the common toilets, and gave him roti and dal to eat. He did not feel like eating as he had no strength left to chew the dry roti. Images of Ammi’s rice and rista flashed across his mind. The food that he was given seemed fit only for animals. But he wanted to live; he did not want to die and tried to eat whatever little he could.

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The Gladiators

“At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.” – Salvador Dalí

No circumstance and no human could intimidate, dishearten or dissuade Perry. He was a rara avis, an exceptional person.

In the early eighteenth century, his ancestors came down from the mountains to seek prosperity in the Kashmir Valley. Their intellect, wit and flattery appealed to the Mughal Emperor Farrukhsiyar during his visit to Kashmir. On the Emperor’s invitation, a part of the family migrated to Delhi around 1750. The Emperor gave them a large estate near a canal and they advanced politically and economically under his patronage. They became famous under the moniker Nehru derived from the Hindi word Nehar for canal.

The Kaul family which stayed back, held large properties in Kashmir and had business interests in everything that was of any importance in Jammu and Kashmir: carpets, handicrafts, trading, tourism and hotels. Perry’s grandfather was a Wazir in Maharaja Hari Singh’s court. The family had good connections in Srinagar, Jammu, Delhi, London and New York, supported

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 3 3

many charities, schools, temples and hospitals and was well represented in bureaucratic, diplomatic and military circles.

Perry was born on 15th October, 1943 a few years before India gained Independence. At his namkaran ceremony (baby naming ceremony) the priest recited the famous Sanskrit shloka:

ukHkf"kdks u laLdkj% flagL; fØ;rs e`xS%A foØek£trjkT;L; Lo;eso e`xsanzrk A A

(In the jungle the animals do not anoint the lion as king by sprinkling holy water on him but he becomes the king due to his natural abilities.)

The young baby did not understand the meaning. His smile conveyed to his parents that he would prove the priest’s soothsaying correct. The priest named the baby Purushottam Lal Kaul. Among family and friends he was called Perry.

At the age of nine, he joined the prestigious Lawrence School at Sanawar in Himachal Pradesh, the first co-educational boarding school in the world. The military training at the school was of such high standards that after passing out, several contingents of boys went straight to the battlefields of World War 1.

The school was Perry’s melting pot and helped shaped his character. Once while playing football, Perry got into a fight with another student, two years his senior. They came to blows. Perry the younger of the two, was badly beaten up, his shirt torn and covered with blood.

In sheer anger he said, “My dad is very powerful. He can beat up your dad any time.”

His opponent was not threatened so easily and retorted, “How soon?”

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That day Perry learnt an important lesson in life: He needed to fight his own battles.

In another instance, after an inspection, the House Master warned Perry that he needed a new pair of shoes as his current shoes were beyond repair. Perry wrote to his father asking for money. The doting father immediately sent money through a telegram. For some reason the money never reached. Perry had to wear the worn out pair to the next weekly shoe inspection parade. When the house master saw Perry’s torn shoes, the second time he threw them into the dustbin. As a punishment, he walked around barefoot in school for a day. Perry remembered the humiliation his entire life.

He learnt another lesson in life: To be ready for any eventuality.

Perry was a quick learner and was soon excelling both in sports and academics. The school noticed his exceptional talent and made him the Prefect. He won the scholarship awarded by the French Government for best student.

After school, he joined Delhi’s prestigious St. Stephens College and completed B.Sc. Physics (Honours) with a gold medal. At Stephen’s the renowned academician Satish Chandra Sircar, who was the Principal and an old student of the college, guided him.

Perry marched on Rajpath, as part of the Delhi University Contingent, during the Republic Day Parade of 1963 while his father watched and applauded him from the stands.

At college, he excelled in games such as hockey, badminton and tennis, loved music and knew a few magic tricks, which made him popular on campus. He became a member of the Photographic Society, the Bird Watching Society and

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established the Physics & Astronomy Lab which usually met at night to discuss subjects like tensors and relativity.

His closest friend and roommate was Raja Ram nicknamed Bajrang Bali because of his weight. He would often take a few forbidden sips of rum in his room in Allnutt Block. Mr. Wright, a lecturer, while on rounds, one evening, discovered a half empty bottle in his room. He asked what the mud coloured liquid was.

“Only cough syrup, Sir,” said Perry coming to his friend’s rescue.

“Don’t tell me I’ve been drinking cough syrup every evening,” replied the lecturer as he emptied the contents of the bottle in a drain.

After four suspensions, Bajrang was finally expelled. His plea that there being only four gates in college, he could not be thrown out for the fifth time did not find many takers. While leaving he presented the Principal, a gramophone record with the observation: To our Principal, who does not hear two sides of anything except a gramophone record.

The Principal was not pleased and Bajrang was thrown out of college. Perry was the only one who felt sorry about the whole affair.

A war between China and India broke out in 1962 while Perry was in college. His maternal uncle, Lieutenant General M.C. Kachru played an important role in the war and shared tales of thousands of Indian soldiers losing their lives fighting the Chinese at very high altitudes. India’s defeat in the month-long war made a huge impression on Perry’s mind and he considered joining the Army.

After finishing college at the age of twenty-one, he had

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the privilege of choosing any career he wanted and further enhance the prestige and influence of his family. He could study in Oxford like his uncle and join the IFS (Indian Foreign Service), manage the family business like one of his cousins, or join politics. He chose the path of his maternal uncle.

After he cleared the Combined Defence Service exam and the Service Selection Board interview with distinction, he was all set to join the IMA (Indian Military Academy). He got a call from his uncle, Lt. General Kachru who was a product of the first course at IMA. At IMA, his uncle had rubbed shoulders with the likes of Sam Manekshaw, the COAS (Chief of Army Staff) during the 1971 war with Pakistan and the first Field Marshal of India.

“My boy, I am proud of you. IMA is the right place for a young man like you,” he extolled his nephew.

“The life of a soldier is different from that of a civilian. It requires infinite physical, mental, moral and emotional strength to win on the battle field.”

The sense of power, responsibility and flow of adrenaline that a career in the Defence Forces promised, excited Perry. His preference was clearly the Army and he asked his uncle which wing of the Army he should aspire for: the Infantry or the Artillery. His uncle chuckled and told him, “You must love what you do. Always remember the old saying: It is hard to lead a cavalry charge if you think you look funny on a horse.”

GC (Gentleman Cadet) Kaul’s one and a half year training began at IMA in June of 1964 with a buzz cut. He made his first sacrifice for the Indian Army: losing his lovely lock of hair. For the brave and adventurous Kaul the IMA campus spread over fourteen hundred acres at the foothills of the Himalayas with

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the picturesque Tons river flowing through it was quite an eye opener. He moved into a small room in the GC Quarters, in the Kingsley and Collins Blocks and quickly became popular among his batch mates.

He spent many hours in the Central Library at Chetwode Hall. With more than fifty thousand volumes and subscriptions to hundreds of periodicals from across the world; it was like a treasure trove for him.

Among the various sports he played, he fell in love with Polo, the sport of Kings, a passion which would stay with him for many years. The Polo ground in the North campus along the river became a favourite haunt. That is where he met Paddy.

“Why do Polo Players laugh three times when they hear a joke?” Paddy asked and failing to get any response, he solved the riddle himself.

“Once when told, once when explained to them, and once when they understand it.”

Paddy gave a big pat on Perry’s back who turned around surprised, but liked who he saw. Paddy’s full name was Chandrasekharendra Prabhakaran Iyer. He was a tall, dark Tamil Brahmin endowed with intelligence, wit and humour. He was a year older than Perry.

Perry won the first part of the gruelling jungle course Pehla Kadam (first step).

Paddy was not left behind and found his ways through jungles, rugged terrain and nalas (drains) with agility of a panther to win the second round Aage Barh (move forward).

Ckindit, the eagerly awaited event of the course, happened in January. It required physical strength, presence of mind and put every cadet through a tough grind on a fifty kilometre track.

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For the first time in IMA’s history there was a tie. Perry and Paddy shook hands as they collected the winner’s trophy.

Often seen together on and off the field, the two became great friends and enjoyed competing with each other. Perry was physically stronger of the two, while Paddy craftier.

Their course instructor saw the healthy camaraderie between them turn into rivalry over the next few months. Each contest between them replaced healthy competition with winning at any cost attitude. He ascribed it to their young age and hoped that their passions would settle down in due course.

During a friendly boxing match, Perry and Paddy fought like sworn enemies ignoring the rules of the game. The two could have caused serious harm had the referee not stopped the match in time. The course instructor called both of them to his room. Behind his desk, hung a wall hanging with the emblem of the IMA;

“The safety, honour and welfare of your country come first, always and every time. The honour, welfare and comfort of the men you command come next. Your own ease, comfort and safety come last, always and every time.”

“While competition induces better performance, intense rivalry is harmful and counterproductive. It can cause friction, rumours, backstabbing and emotional backlash,” he explained.

“Both of you must realize that you are here to serve the nation and not your own self interests,” he admonished.

“Yes Sir, we will do our best,” they said and left the room. As December approached, the cadets became excited about the passing out parade. The news that Field Marshal Kodandera Madappa Cariappa nicknamed Kipper, the first Indian Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army, was coming

for the parade added to the frenzy.

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Lieutenant General Kachru and Perry’s parents were present at the passing out parade.

It was a Saturday. The POP (passing out parade) had the pomp, show and colour of a grand occasion. Choppers flew past the Chetwode Building showering flower petals. Proud parents of cadets sitting in the stands clicked photographs of their sons in uniform. After the POP, all the cadets assembled in the grounds of the Academy for the piping ceremony. They adjutant of the IMA administered the oath to the Constitution.

As the final moment approached, Perry was nervous and excited. The Master of Ceremonies was about to announce the winner of the coveted Sword of Honour. He half got up from his seat and then his heart sank. The Sword of Honour for the best all round performance and the gold medal for standing first in order of merit went to Paddy; Perry bagged the silver for standing second in order of merit.

Perry’s father saw the disappointment in his eyes. “Cheer up young man. You have a long way to go. You still have many options before you. If you think you can’t make it to the very top, you might as well quit now.”

His father’s words stung young Kaul and he replied confidently he would make it to the top. A promise he intended to keep at all costs.

Out of the hundred cadets who passed out, ten were from the neighbouring countries like Nepal, Bhutan and Sri Lanka. The largest number of cadets was assigned to the infantry, followed by the artillery. Perry joined the Maratha Light Infantry and Paddy the Rajputana Rifles.

Over the years, both of them topped or stood second in their respective training and academic courses, got excellent reviews from their bosses and rose quickly through the ranks.

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There is an old Burmese saying, success requires three things: Kan, Nyan and Wiriya (luck, wisdom and perseverance).

Lieutenant Kaul had all three. In more than three decades of distinguished service to the Army, he planned wisely, instantly modifying his plans as circumstances changed and executed them with coolness, sound judgment, self-possession and confidence. He was a model officer, loved and respected by his subordinates, colleagues and more importantly by his superiors.

Paddy, over the course of time acquired impressive credentials and a formidable reputation. But he was not an easy man to work for. His handling of subordinates and ordering them to do things he would never do himself, often caused antagonism and contempt. He did not command love, confidence, or respect and his cold and abrasive manner alienated people. He kept his distance, never cultivating close relationships or trusting people. His was his own master and he rarely involved others in his thought process. During briefings he hid behind the frame of his large desk often sinking into the chair and constantly played with the glass-paper weight on his desk. When standing, he constantly shifted his body weight from one leg to another. The joke in Sena Bhavan (Army Headquarters) corridors was that his intelligence had shifted from his forehead to his legs and was moving around. The Media was also unhappy with his relative inaccessibility and criticized him at every opportunity.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 4 1

The Reprieve

“Do not be misled by the fact that you are at liberty and relatively free; that for the moment you are not under lock and key: you have simply been granted a reprieve.” – Ryszard Kapuscinski

February-March 1993, Badami Bagh, Srinagar

“I have been promoted and the new posting is at Srinagar as a Brigadier. I will be the Head of the Directorate of Military Intelligence (MI), Northern Command,” said Kaul to his wife excitedly.

His wife, also from Kashmir was happy to hear the news. “Congratulations dear. I knew you would make the grade,”

she said.

“Thank you. Srinagar is a family station and we can live together once again,” he replied.

The life of an Army officer is tough. He is transferred around the country at short notice and quick intervals. As he climbs the ladder, promotions are slow and difficult particularly after the Lieutenant Colonel level.

The promotion and posting was a double bonanza for Kaul.

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Army Intelligence was a sought after assignment in the Army due to its sensitive nature and opportunity for networking. Besides the plum assignment, he would get a chance to play golf at the Army Golf Club in Srinagar. He hoped his roots in the city; personal contacts and knowledge of the local language would help him in work and add another feather to his cap. In early January 1993, he moved with his family to Srinagar.

After taking over, he quickly established contacts with officers of J&K (Jammu and Kashmir) Police, IB (Intelligence Bureau), BSF (Border Security Force), CRPF (Central Reserve Police Force) and the rest of the units of Northern Command.

Kaul visited the BSF interrogation and detention centre on Gupkar Road.

“Welcome, Sir. It is an honour to meet you,” said the Commandant Raghuvir Yadav as he ordered tea and biscuits for him.

“You guys created a furore in Sopore this time,” Kaul said coming straight to the point.

“Sir, we had intelligence that some terrorists who were hiding in Sopore were planning a strike on Srinagar. We mobilized our forces to neutralize them,” said Yadav.

“It seems they got wind of our movement and attacked us in the market. We retaliated strongly.”

“Heard your men picked up more than two dozen boys during the encounter.”

Yadav’s eyes lit up.

“Yes it was quite a catch. Bade murge hath lage hain. Aap ek hafte baad ayeye. Tab tak hum preliminary interrogation kar leinge (We got a big catch. You must come after one week. By then we will complete our preliminary interrogation).”

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 4 3

“If there is something useful, let me know,” said Kaul and

left.

A few days later, a BSF jawan entered Rizwaan’s cell. “Get up and move,” he shouted as he opened the cell.

He untied Rizwaan, who tried to stand up, but collapsed on the floor. The jawan put him on a stretcher and placed him in a covered truck, chained him to a pipe running across the width of the truck. Rizwaan had heard of elimination and encounters and thought his time had come. He looked around the truck but could not see anything in the pitch dark. He heard someone mention the word Badami Bagh and vaguely remembered it was an Army area on the outskirts of Kashmir. Two more handcuffed men and four armed BSF jawans climbed in and sat next to him. The driver started the truck and drove off.

The XVth Corps under the Northern command of the Army was located at Badami Bagh. Jhelum river flows on one side and the place is guarded by steep hills on the other side. It is one of the highly protected cantonments in the country. It is a complete mini city in itself with colonial buildings and wide open spaces where the Army’s word is the law.

The Army’s intelligence interrogation centre at Badami Bagh was under Kaul. Their methods of interrogation were more evolved than the BSF. The centre was well equipped with a couple of VIP interrogation rooms with decent furniture, one way mirrors, audio video recording facilities and an attached toilet for the detainee. As the Army was under the glare of the Media, human right activists and Amnesty International, physical methods were rarely used. A 24 x 7 doctor was at hand to keep an eye on the health of the detainees. Any detainee dying in custody would lead to an enquiry which was best avoided.

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Sitting in office, Kaul told his subordinating Captain Mahender Pratap Singh, “The BSF guys are incompetent. They catch anyone they can get their hands on and send the worst of the lot to us for further interrogation. By the time these boys come to us they are half dead and useless.”

The Captain smiled and agreed. He knew anything useful rarely came out of the exchange of terrorists between the Army and the BSF. All three detainees from the BSF camp were in bad shape and he had asked the doctor for a medical check up. He also sent them some rice and dal to eat.

Rizwaan took time to adjust to the new place. The food was better than at the BSF camp but he knew his troubles were far from over. He missed Ammi, constantly worried about her and wanted to get back to her.

Three weeks later the detainees got dressed for a meeting with Brigadier Kaul. Captain Singh ensured that they were presentable and briefed his boss about them.

“What is the update?” asked Kaul glancing at the intelligence dossier placed in front of him.

“Sir, we have tried our best to get information from them. We have even put them through a lie detector test. Not much has come out. We believe that out of the three only one person, Azhar, has crossed the LOC. He has given information about two new points of border crossing which the Army was not aware of. These points are used not only for human but arms trafficking as well,” said Captain Singh.

“What have you done with the information?”

“We have shared it with the relevant Army units in the field and are waiting for a response from them,” replied Captain Singh.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 4 5

The detainees came inside. Kaul made some observations on the intelligence dossier and asked them to leave.

“Captain what is your plan for the future?”

“Sir, we wish to question Azhar further. We will release the second person Aslam who is a local goon. We will keep the local Police informed about his release,” continued Singh.

“I wish to discuss with you the fate of the third person,” said Singh.

Kaul had seen Rizwaan, a young teenager a few minutes back. He thought he was the wrong guy at the wrong place.

“Please continue,” he said.

“Sir, Rizwaan seems innocent. He is an intelligent boy and is studying in Class XIIth. Since the BSF tortured him at Gupkar Road, there is a chance that if sent back to Sopore he might join the terrorists and seek revenge.” Captain Singh paused. “We can give him a new life outside Kashmir and use him in future.”

“Where do you plan to take him?” asked Kaul. “Delhi,” replied Captain Singh.

“You plan to go to Delhi as well, am I right Captain? Have you found a girl friend there?” chuckled Kaul.

Captain Singh kept quiet, while Kaul made some new noting on Rizwaan’s dossier kept in front of him and then left the room.

“Brigadier Sahib has agreed to give you a new life,” informed Captain Singh with a broad smile as he entered Rizwaan’s cell.

“You are going to Delhi.”

Since Rizwaan wanted to go back to Sopore he was not pleased with the news but kept quiet. “Whatever you say Sir,” he replied.

One week later he and Captain Singh boarded an AN 32

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plane which was returning to Delhi after dropping supplies in Srinagar. They did not talk much during the ninety minute flight to Delhi.

From the Airport, he was taken to the outhouse of an Army bungalow in Delhi cantonment where Lieutenant General Deepak Kumar, Head of MI lived.

The room was clean and Rizwaan shared regular meals with his next door neighbour Subedar Ram Das from Anant Nag. Captain Singh did not disclose his plans and asked Rizwaan not to discuss anything with anyone.

A few days later, one morning, Captain Singh turned up at the Army bungalow.

“We are going to Gopinath Bazaar,” he cheerfully told Rizwaan who was feeling better now.

“Can I call Ammi and talk to her?”

Captain Singh agreed but warned him that he must not tell her about his whereabouts. Rizwaan dialled her number from a STD booth, with trembling hands. He had not spoken to Ammi for more than two months. She came on the line. She recognized his voice.

“Allah is merciful. Rizzo how are you? Are you safe? When are you coming back?” she had a lot of questions to ask.

On hearing his mother’s voice he cried. After a five-minute conversation, he disconnected and walked out of the booth. He looked up trying to hide his moist eyes. Captain Singh was standing there and he looked at him with gratitude.

The two of them shopped in Gopinath Bazaar. Rizwaan bought jeans, T-shirts and sneakers. After that Captain Singh took him to the nearby Army Canteen from where he bought some toiletries.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 4 7

The Second Life

“Although no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.” – Carl Bard

April 1993, Delhi, Jamia Nagar

Monday morning, Captain Singh took Rizwaan to Jamia Nagar in Delhi where they went to the bank branch, on the ground floor of a decrepit building.

The branch was full of old pensioners wanting to withdraw their monthly pension.

“Yeh itne sawaal poochte hain ki bank kam call centre jayaada lagata hai (they ask so many questions that this place looks less like a bank and more like a call centre),” was the constant refrain of the branch manager. He spent most of his time making peace between the customers and a frustrated front office staff.

Rizwaan, wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, walked up to the branch manager while Captain Singh waited outside.

“Aassalaam Waleikum,” he greeted the bank manager. He gave an account opening form, signed by two local references

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with a complete set of supporting documents to the manager who flipped through it looking for errors. Finding none, the manager looked up and checked him out.

“Another student who would hardly keep any balance in his account.” The manager thought that the bank needed customers who would help increase its deposits and this one was hardly the kind.

However, he signed the form and asked Rizwaan, “How long have you been in Delhi?”

“Fifteen days,” Rizwaan answered.

He took the form and joined the long queue at the cash deposit counter. At his turn, he deposited five hundred rupees. He now had a saving bank account, a first step towards starting a second life.

It was noon and they were hungry.

“The chicken biryani here is very famous,” said Captain Singh as they entered the nearby Zam Zam Biryani Corner for a meal washed down with tea.

Rizwaan was absorbed by the sights, smells and sounds which surrounded him. The traffic was endless, pedestrians fought for space on the road, darting in and out of passing vehicles. It looked dangerous but no one seemed to bother. The noise was deafening; cars, buses, auto rickshaws using their horns as if the sheer noise could magically open the road ahead. The place seemed to have something for everyone: hospitals and nursing homes, travel agents, cyber cafes, restaurants and retail shops. He had never seen so many shops in such a small area even in Srinagar. He saw frantic activity and found people in a hurry to get things done. He knew he would need to adapt quickly if he wanted to succeed or he would be left out.

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Captain Singh took Rizwaan to a small hostel in Batla House. After speaking to the manager, he led him to a room on the first floor which was eight by ten feet, had a single bed, a table and a chair, a cupboard and a noisy ceiling fan. A window opened into the front balcony overlooking the street.

“This is your room,” said Captain Singh. Rizwaan nodded and looked around.

“Go to Jamia Millia University tomorrow morning and meet Professor Mohammed Ali of the Sociology department. We have arranged for your admission. Finish the paper work and pay the fees. Here is some money.”

He took the money and thanked Captain Singh.

“I will transfer some money into your account every month. Be careful how you spend the money as in big cities, money can disappear very quickly. Here is my telephone number. Please call me if you need any help.”

“Study well. A degree from Jamia can take you places and transform your life and that of your family,” said Captain Singh as he left.

Exhausted, he kept his bag on the chair and lay down on the bed. He felt lonely and insecure, thought of his home in Sopore and yearned to see Ammi. Life had changed quickly in the last few months. He badly wanted to come to terms with the changes and move ahead. He dozed off thinking of what lay in store. Next morning, the noise of the traffic outside woke him. He had missed dinner last night and was hungry. He shaved, bathed, put on a fresh set of clothes and got ready carefully putting his certificates in a bag. Just outside the hostel, he saw Rahim restaurant. It seemed like a good place for breakfast. He ordered sheermal (sweet bread) and mutton do pyaja (meat curry).

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He took a rickshaw to Jamia Millia University. The beautiful campus surprised him: structures in red brick stone, well laid pavements, prominent sign boards, neatly manicured lawns, parks and ponds, pristine surroundings, trees and benches, ducks and koyals. In complete contrast to the noisy chaotic world of Batla House, the people here were well dressed, exuded elegance and sophistication. He yearned to be a part of them.

He met the Professor who quizzed him about his education. He replied confidently and presented his certificates including the one which Captain Singh had given him. The certificate showed that he had passed twelfth class from J&K Board of Secondary Education. He filled up some forms and went to the admissions counter in the central building. The admission clerk took the forms and after verification asked him to deposit the fees.

He was now enrolled as a B.A. Sociology pass course student, another step in his second life. His dreams of becoming a doctor were over, but he knew that if he did well, new opportunities would come his way. He could get a decent job and convince Ammi to come to Delhi.

On the way back he picked up a booklet about the University’s background from the reception and learnt that the words Jamia and Millia meant University and National in Urdu. The façade of the building caught his eye and he saw that right on top was a star with the inscription; Allah O Akbar. The narration in the booklet said that; “On dark nights, when poor travellers traverse jungles and there is no one to show them the way, they chart their course with the help of stars. The star of Allah O Akbar is the guiding star of Jamia. It symbolizes that Allah is the greatest and he who bows his head before Him only, discovers the truth.”

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Back in his room, he thought he too was a lonely traveller and the star of Allah O Akbar would show him the way. He prayed to Allah to help him in his discovery of truth. He felt better and at peace with himself. With Allah’s grace he thought, one day I will live in Ghaffar Manzil in one of the air-conditioned flats.

He used his spare time to go around Jamia and other parts of Delhi. His favourite haunt was the Central Canteen at Gulistaan-e-Ghalib, the beautiful park next to the Sociology department where he spent many hours discussing philosophy, politics and history and the Zakir Hussain mausoleum which was right next to the University. He also visited Chandni Chowk, Jama Masjid, Connaught Place and other parts of Delhi.

Rizwaan graduated with a second division in 1996 and took admission to the Masters course.

Captain Singh’s visits became less and less frequent: once a month, then once a quarter.

In the last two years, they had met only two times over a cup of tea, some chicken biryani and small talk.

The money sent by Captain Singh every month barely met Rizwaan’s requirements. He was keen to supplement his income. When a friend told him about a part-time job at Haj and Umrah travels he took it up eagerly. Over the years he tried various jobs: mechanic, salesman, STD/ISD booth operator and property dealer. After completing his M.A. in Sociology, he joined the nearby Escorts Heart Institute as a front office receptionist. He was happy to get a salary of three thousand five hundred rupees a month.

Rizwaan had limited contact with his past life. Once in a

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while he would call Ammi from a PCO asking about her health and well-being. She cried over the phone, pleading with him to come back to Sopore.

A few weeks after he joined Escorts Heart Institute he got the sad news that his Ammi had passed away. He was beyond grief and left for Sopore, his first visit in five years, after informing Captain Singh. After completing the rituals, Rizwaan contemplated his future. He had no use for the shop and the house. He asked his friend Hamid Gul to keep an eye on them while he returned to Delhi.

At Jamia, he met a lot of interesting people- intellectuals, journalists, doctors, engineers, finance professionals, university professors and students. He made friends with them, ate with them, went to movies, fought, borrowed and lent money. He also found the love of his life, a very special friend, who eventually became his partner for life.

Her name was Hamida Begum. She used to sit in the second row in the M.A. Sociology class. Every time the professor turned to write something on the board, he would turn around to look at her. He found her large dark brown eyes and mischievous smile attractive. They first exchanged smiles and then class notes. She belonged to Ballia, a small town in Uttar Pradesh and stayed in a hostel.

He took her around the Batla House bazaar with its henna stalls and shops specializing in Lucknow chikan and Pakistani suits. They savoured street-side kebabs, biryani and nihari at Zakir Nagar. At times they took a rickshaw to the Community Center, adjacent to Surya Hotel and tried fast food.

Their marriage took place at the M.C.D. marriage hall, near Khalilullah Masjid, Batla House, Jamia Nagar, on 25th

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December 1999. The nikah (marriage) was a simple ceremony where they declared their commitment to one another as husband and wife. The ceremony of Al-Ijab wal-Qubul (offer and acceptance) took less than twenty minutes. Hamida’s father acted as the Wali and offered the bride to the groom. Rizwaan, wearing his sherwani pushed aside the sehra and accepted the offer.

“I accept to marry your daughter in line with the Islamic Shariah in the presence of witnesses and mehar of twenty-five thousand rupees,” said Rizwaan.

The maulwi (Muslim priest) delivered the marriage sermon by praising Allah. “There is none worthy of worship except Allah and Muhammad is His servant and messenger.” After the ceremony, all the guests feasted at the Walima (the marriage banquet).

Hamid Gul and Captain Singh attended the wedding. Rizwaan noted that Singh came with a large gift for him which was from General Sahib. He was not sure which General Sahib but accepted the gift.

After his marriage he moved from his hostel to a small two room flat in Zakir Nagar at a rent of one thousand rupees a month.

A year later, Rizwaan’s wife gave birth to a baby boy. They named him Noor. Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, he took Noor in his hands. He offered prayers at Moosa Masjid and thanked Allah for his benevolence. The Star of Allah O Akbar had shown him the way seven years ago. He went back to the façade of the University from where he had started his second life. At the very bottom of the emblem, he saw a tiny silver crescent, which expands to become a full moon on the

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fourteenth night. He thought that his son too, a tiny crescent now, would expand to become a full moon and cast light on the world.

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5 6 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

P a r t I I

Sailor from New York

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5 8 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

The Sailor from New York

“There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be” – John Lennon

New Delhi, May 2000

The British shifted India’s capital from Calcutta to New Delhi in 1911. The new capital was designed by Edwin Lutyen and Herbert Baker. Over the centuries, a lot has changed in Delhi save for one thing: its character – ambition, power, politics, murder and deceit linger in the air, almost as part of the weather. The city is a sprawling mega-polis filled with the privileged haves and the not-so-fortunate have-nots. It is a place of the naïve and the cunning, a city with a golden heart, a hidden dagger and an iron fist.

Delhi is also a city of arrivals and departures: everyone comes here wanting to arrive, only a few leave. His destiny brought him to Delhi much against the wishes of his wife Sally. He couldn’t have known then that his fate would be inextricably linked with the city and it would become his last port of call.

The flying time from JFK (John F Kennedy Airport,

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New York) to Frankfurt and from Frankfurt to IGIA (Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi) is roughly the same totalling about seventeen hours. The flight change, difference in time zones and resulting jet lag is taxing on the body and soul. No matter how many times you go up and down the aisle to stretch and how much water you drink, you still remain dehydrated.

He reached Delhi tired and groggy. Thankfully, he located his baggage quickly and moved towards the exit with a loaded trolley. It was good to be on terra firma again.

As Tom moved out of the automatic exit doors into the city, he almost lost his breath. A hot blast of the unbearable summer air struck him immediately. The smells: strong, pungent and a nauseating mixture of sweat, food and urine and a loud cacophony that is so unique to India, engulfed him. He felt faint but a gulp from his bottle of mineral water gave some relief.

A swarm of people pushing and cajoling from all sides: tenacious touts, persistent taxi drivers, beggars and eunuchs, accosted Tom.

“Sir, want hotel? Cheap rate. No taxi fare.” A hand stretched out to grab his luggage.

He remembered all the advice to avoid giving in to such peddlers and felt like a sacrificial lamb in the midst of a pride of lions. The metal barricades separating the passengers from the waiting crowd prevented him from being consumed by the sea of humanity.

That is when he spotted her: an Indian girl with a big dot on her forehead standing peacefully in a corner. She had a small white placard in her hands with his name Tom Peter written

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on it. He guessed she was in her late twenties; a tall woman with a toned figure and cute dimples. Her natural curly hair, bright smile and chiselled features struck him. He thought she looked like an ethereal beauty in her yellow sari, a hint of makeup and minimal jewellery.

Her bright doe eyes conveyed an alluring mix of intelli-gence, sensitivity and passion. Aspiring model meets perspiring journo; he mentally started writing the first few words of his autobiography. He moved towards her and she greeted him with a big smile.

“Hello, Tom. Welcome to India,” she said.

“My name is Kriti Sharma. I am from the Delhi Bureau. Good to have you here in India.”

“Thank you for coming all the way to the airport. I wasn’t expecting you,” Tom said.

They waited for twenty minutes before a white Maruti Esteem arrived. She helped him load his luggage and guitar into the boot of the car.

“Imperial hotel, Janpath,” he politely told the driver.

Jet lagged, tired and slightly fazed, all Tom wanted to do was reach his hotel room and crash. However he couldn’t resist talking to the beautiful woman sitting beside him.

“It is boiling in Delhi,” he made casual conversation and asked the driver to turn up the air conditioner.

“Right time to be here,” she smiled and added, “The political environment is heating up too! Professionally, you are here at the right time.”

He was jolted back to reality and realized she was referring to his appointment as South Asia Bureau Chief of the NYT (New York Times), at New Delhi.

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He looked at her more closely and noticed her long white dangling earrings, which jingled every time the car swerved or went into a pot hole.

“When do we start work?” he asked.

She took a closer look at the stoutly built, fair-complexioned man with a lock of unruly brown hair falling over his small eyes, sitting beside her in the car. She realized he was so disoriented that he was struggling to even make small conversation.

She ignored his question and started off.

“Hi, I am Kriti Sharma, twenty-nine years old. I was born and raised in New Delhi. I am a gold medallist in Psychology from Delhi University, had a brief tryst with modelling, then the television industry as VJ. Journalism attracted me and I worked with the Times of India for about a year. Recently, I have moved to the Delhi Bureau of NYT.”

He was not expecting to hear her resume. They laughed in unison as the car pulled to the porch of the hotel.

She helped him with the luggage and bade him a good-bye saying, “You rest today. I will be back tomorrow morning to take you around Delhi.”

The smell of her perfume was quickly subsumed in Delhi’s heat. He reached his hotel room and unlocked the door.

Tom, thirty-eight years old, had visited India before but he hadn’t been to Delhi. He was a happy-go-lucky person. His twin passions in life; music and writing kept him happy and contented. Delhi’s heat could do little to lessen his grit and determination. He had a lovely wife, Sally a flight attendant with American Airlines whom he had left behind in New York.

He grew up in New York, and displayed an exceptional talent for music and academia from a young age. Music was

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his first love though he never pursued a formal education in it. He was known to break into a song while strumming his guitar during birthdays and parties. He exuded great charm and won many friends wherever he went. It was difficult to escape his charisma.

He completed his post-graduate studies from the Michigan State University in 1984. While at the University, he was the editor of the college newspaper Michigan Riser. He spent a summer at the Denver Post and quickly moved on to the

Philadelphia Inquirer before joining the Houston Chronicle. After a few years, he moved on to the Chicago Tribune and then to the NYT in 1991. Tom started at the Los Angeles Bureau, successfully moved to the Ohio and Paris Bureaus before finally moving to New York in 1998 as political correspondent for South East Asia and Middle East for NYT.

His skills as a political journalist won acclaim due to his investigative pieces on the 1991 war in Iraq and the growth of Al Qaida and its money laundering activities. He was the first to uncover a secret ISI (Inter Services Intelligence) plan to send terrorists to the Indian city of Mumbai.

Tom received a call from the hotel reception at eight-thirty the following morning. Kriti greeted him with her customary bright smile as he stepped out of the lift. After a long and leisurely continental breakfast at the Imperial’s coffee shop, they strolled to the market nearby on Janpath.

The riot of colours and melange of handicrafts, gemstones, jewellery, incense sticks, flowers, dry fruits, shoes, books, wooden elephants and walking sticks fascinated Tom. He noticed Kriti’s great passion for shopping and bargaining.

“Two hundred rupees for this bright purple scarf,” she

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haggled when the asking price was two thousand rupees. Both parties finally agreed on three hundred rupees.

“Do you come here often?” asked Tom.

“Oh yes. I love this place. Buying from a store is so boring. Here you need to work hard to get what you want at the right price,” she said.

Lunch was a sumptuous buffet at the Le Meriden Hotel in Janpath. He was thinking about his first assignment in Delhi; an interview with Devinder Singh Malkani, India’s NSA (National Security Adviser). Malkani had recently played a prominent role in the release of the hijacked Indian passengers in Kandahar in December 1999. The Government of India had awarded him the Padma Bhushan in January 2000, for his role. Malkani was also a good friend of Tom’s boss Jonathan.

Tom was curious to know if Kriti had any leads on Malkani. “Do you think the NSA made a blunder by exchanging four terrorists for the hijacked passengers in Kandahar?” he

asked her.

She replied indirectly. “You should meet my uncle Retired Colonel K.L. Sharma who was with MI. He retired from the Army in 1998 and will certainly have a perspective.”

They spent the evening enjoying the pleasant breeze in Connaught Place. A candle-lit dinner and light music on the roof top terrace of hotel Hans Plaza rounded up their day. Tom was back in his room by eleven-thirty p.m. He felt tired and lonely and was missing Sally. He wondered about her possible reaction to the sights, smells and sounds of Delhi. He phoned her in New York to tell her how he was doing. He did not mention Kriti.

6 4 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

The Gambler

“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in; their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.” – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

New Delhi, May 2000

With a strong sun, temperatures touching forty-five degree centigrade, low humidity and hot winds (called loo), the Delhi summers are punishing. At that time of the year, the Amaltas tree sheds its flowers creating a yellow carpet on the sidewalks and brings some colour to the dry surroundings.

The World Trade Tower, just off Barakhamba Road, housed NYT’s Delhi office. It was only a fifteen minutes walk from Tom’s hotel and he chose to walk hoping to get a feel of the city. He took the lift and reached the office on the tenth floor. The staff greeted him warmly and welcomed him.

There was no sight of Kriti. He settled in his cabin which had a huge window overlooking the busy nerve centre of Connaught Place and ordered coffee. He was going through the morning newspapers when she walked in full of energy doing a Hi as if he was an old friend.

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“Hope you had a good walk from the hotel to the office,” she said.

He disliked the sudden show of warmth and affection. After all he had met her only three days earlier.

She put a dossier on his desk marked: Dr. Devinder Singh Malkani, NSA.

“This is for your meeting with him on Friday, at twelve-thirty p.m. at the Delhi Golf Club,” she said.

He liked the show of efficiency and professionalism.

The Delhi Golf Club, on Dr. Zakir Hussain Road in Nizamuddin, is one of the oldest golf courses in Delhi and probably one of the oldest in Asia. Founded in 1920’s as the Lodhi Club it became the Delhi Golf Club in 1951. Starting with only eighty members, at the time of India’s independence, the club now boasted of more than two thousand five hundred members. The club has two courses – the Championship eighteen-hole called the Lodhi Course and the shorter nine-hole Peacock Course. It is an oasis of green in the heart of Delhi full of birds, peacocks, monkeys, langoors, historical monuments and tombs from the Mughal era. It is a favourite meeting place for the glitterati of Delhi: diplomats, politicians, bureaucrats and Army generals who come here to play golf and broker deals.

When Tom reached the club, the reception told him that Malkani was waiting in the Pub, situated on the terrace of the Annexe building. He found him seated on a corner table dressed in a brown suit, pastel shirt and a red tie. At seventy he had lost most of his hair, but still seemed agile and alert. His stern Buddha like gaze was unsettling.

Tom was nervous and excited about meeting the most

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powerful man in the Government after the Prime Minister. Fortunately for Tom, he loved to talk.

“Congratulations, Sir for getting the Padma Bhushan,” he complimented him to break the ice.

“Thank you,” Malkani replied. “You have been in Delhi for a week now, how are you liking it?”

And then without waiting for an answer, he started, “Anyone taking you around? Tried Indian food? I must warn you that it is very spicy. If you need any help, let me know.”

Tom noted the emphasis on any. Clearly Malkani was a man who could get things done in Delhi.

“I have not seen much of Delhi so far Sir, the heat is killing,” Tom replied.

He nodded and changed the topic. “How is Jonathan? He has been with the NYT for a long time. We were in touch when I was India’s ambassador to the US way back in the late eighties. Has he married again?”

Tom owed this appointment to his boss Jonathan. “Sir he is fine. He got divorced for the sixth time last autumn. He is leading a happy bachelor’s life.”

They both laughed.

Tom recalled the contents of the dossier given to him by Kriti. Malkani was born in Lahore (now in Pakistan) in 1930 in undivided India. His father the Late Prakash Singh Malkani was a freedom fighter and was close to the Nehru-Gandhi family and rose to become the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh (a northern state of India). After completing his doctorate in Physics from the U.S. in 1953, Malkani joined the IFS in 1955. He served in various important positions; India’s political attaché in Moscow and later as India’s ambassador to Pakistan

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and the United States. He became head of DRDO (Defence Research and Development Organisation) in 1996 and later India’s first NSA in 1998. It was widely believed that the then Prime Minister conceived the office of NSA especially for him. Indian intelligence agencies like RAW (Research and Analysis Wing) and IB (Intelligence Bureau) reported to the NSA and not directly to the Prime Minister. Cabinet Ministers, Chiefs of the Defence Forces, top bureaucrats in the Ministry of Defence, Home and External affairs were not happy with the office of the NSA.

Tom set the tone for the interview.

“Sir, the last five years have been quite tumultuous for India. Three General Elections, the Prime Minister has changed office five times, the nuclear test in Pokhran, the Kargil war with Pakistan and more recently the Kandahar hijacking.”

Malkani took the cue. But as was his habit, his answers were ambiguous and he answered in parts.

The English styled, fully stocked bar had a tempting collection, but Tom had other things on his mind. He ordered fresh lime while Malkani settled for a gin and tonic.

“Let’s start with the last incident first,” Malkani said sipping from his glass.

“On Kandahar we were left with no option. We had to release the terrorists to save the lives of innocent Indians as the hijackers were serious about blowing up the plane.”

“Sir was a military intervention considered?” asked Tom “In the seventies the Israeli commandos successfully rescued over a hundred hostages, mostly Jews held by pro-Palestinian hijackers at Entebbe Airport in Uganda. There was least collateral damage in terms of lives of passengers lost.”

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Malkani knew about the incident. It had happened when four militants had hijacked an Air France flight, flying from Israel to Paris via Athens, with two hundred and fifty passengers on board and taken the plane to Uganda.

“No. The risk was too high. Too many lives were at stake. Our military doctrine does not allow for a covert operation in a foreign country. We doubted our military’s ability to carry out a successful operation and besides the Taliban Government in Kandahar was sympathetic to the hijackers,” he replied.

Realizing he had fixed views, Tom moved on, “What prompted the second nuclear test in Pokhran in 1998?”

He paused and said, “India shares long borders with Pakistan and both are nuclear powers. Nuclear deterrence is a corner-stone of our Defence policy. Amidst reports of clandestine nuclear-military cooperation between Pakistan and China, Pakistan test fired its medium range ballistic missile Ghauri in April 1998. We exploded a nuclear bomb in Pokhran, a month later to send a strong message to the world, although we were ready for it way back in 1996 when I was heading the

DRDO.”

It was one thirty p.m. and Malkani called the steward. He was a frugal eater and ordered a salad. There were some very interesting items on the menu but Tom stuck to pasta.

“Sir, was the Army happy with the outcome of Pokhran – II,” Tom asked.

He was uncomfortable with the question. “It was a political decision and not a military one. The Army lacked the ability to deliver the bomb and wasn’t pleased with the explosion.”

“But it did result in a war with Pakistan one year later,” persisted Tom.

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“You mean Kargil in 1999,” he said, “It was a misadventure by an ambitious Pakistani General. He stabbed us in our backs and he paid dearly for it. If we had acted on the information about infiltration across the border on time, we could have avoided Kargil.”

“Sir, I have heard the Army was planning a coup. It planned to take over the Government somewhere around 1998 before the nuclear bomb test,” Tom provoked him.

“I do not comment on speculation. Army Generals across the world are ambitious. They need to be controlled. Otherwise there would be no difference between our country and Pakistan,” he countered.

The atmosphere was quite heavy with all the political talk and Malkani changed the topic. “I have heard you sing and play some of Kenny Roger’s numbers on your guitar.”

Tom nodded.

“My son is coming back from the U.S. next month. He is a great fan of Kenny Rogers and Bob Dylan. You must come over to our house for an evening together. In case you manage to cultivate a girl friend in Delhi by then, please get her along as well. Won’t tell your wife,” he gave a warm smile and Tom smiled back.

It was two thirty p.m. when Malkani, excused himself and

left.

On the way back to office Tom played Kenny Roger’s “The Gambler” on his car’s music system.

On a warm summer’s evening on a train bound for nowhere, he said, “Son, I’ve made my life out of reading people’s faces, and knowing what their cards were by the way they held their eyes. So if you don’t mind my saying, I can see you’re out of aces. For a taste

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of your whiskey I’ll give you some advice. If you’re gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right. You got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table. There’ll be time enough for counting when the dealings done.”

Tom wondered how Malkani knew he liked Kenny Rogers. He realised he had just met the Gambler who knew how to play his cards well.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 7 1

The Inside Story

““The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible,” – Oscar Wilde

New Delhi, May 2000

Tom stayed late in office that evening as he was expecting a call. The phone rang and he picked it up eagerly.

“Hi Tom, how are things with you?” It was Jonathan on the line.

“Feeling liked a boiled egg,” said Tom.

“You need to careful. Delhi’s heat can knock out anyone.” “Thanks Joe, I will be careful.”

“How is Buddha doing? I hear he has become very powerful.”

Tom knew Jonathan was referring to Malkani.

“He is a shrewd fellow and it is difficult to get anything out of him. Give me time, I will get you a good story.”

“Take your time, build your contacts and you can use mine anytime. Don’t go around poking your nose, not initially at least,” Jonathan said before disconnecting the call.

Tom was deliberating on the day’s events, when Rahul,

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the intern, walked in. He was in his early twenties and doing a course in journalism and mass communication from Jamia Millia University.

“Rahul, how are things with you?” Tom asked. “Great chief. Are you staying late?” replied Rahul. “Yes, I have to catch up on some work,” said Tom.

Rahul, a talkative person saw it as an opportunity to humour the boss.

“Have you heard the joke about the three politicians in the U.N.?”

“No,” said Tom as he leaned back.

“Here it is. The Prime Ministers of Israel, Pakistan and India are attending a seminar on building sustainable world peace. The Israeli P.M. comes on stage claims Israel is a peaceful nation and adds: If you attack us we will demolish you. Next, the Pakistani P.M. reiterates his commitment for peace and says: If you attack us, we will nuke you. Finally it is the turn of the Indian P.M. He comes on stage and says: We have always stood for peace. But if you attack us we will retaliate and stop playing cricket with you.”

Rahul chuckled as he finished the joke. Tom smiled. Later in the evening, on his way back to the hotel, Tom

wondered if there was a message in the joke. Did people in the country and the world outside see India as a soft state?

Tom was exhausted by the time he reached his hotel; he undressed and lay on the bed.

A copy of the latest edition of Asia Today was on his bedside table.

The title of the lead article drew his attention: Is the Indian Army getting restless? It talked about demoralization of the

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India Army because of lack of modernisation, technology, weapons, spares, poor pay and allowances. In a recent instance, the Government had cornered most of the credit for the victory in the Kargil war leaving the Army restive. The article was long and Tom was drowsy but he could not stop reading. It gave him a new perspective on the relationship between the Army and the Government with many interesting implications. He switched off the TV to concentrate on the article. His mobile phone rang.

Kriti was on the line.

“Hi, Tom how are you doing?” She asked in her husky voice, “Have you finished dinner?”

Tom realized he had forgotten to order dinner.

“No he said. I shall order room service. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Someone is working very hard,” she laughed.

Tom wanted to explore the ideas and issues in the article he was reading.

“Can we meet your uncle, the one who retired from the Army recently, on Sunday?”

“Yes, of course. Let me talk to him and confirm back. Take care of yourself and do not forget dinner. Good night,” she hung up.

It was refreshing to talk to Kriti. He smiled as he picked up the menu to order dinner.

DSOI (Defence Services Officers’ Institute) at Dhaula Kuan, Delhi Cantonment, is a club for serving and retired Defence officers. Its main attraction is cheap liquor and food.

Kriti dazzled in her pastel maroon sari when she met Tom at the DSOI reception around seven-thirty p.m.

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Kriti’s uncle, retired Colonel K.L. Sharma joined them a few minutes later.

He was a man in his early fifties with patches of hair on his head. The mixture of white and black hair had turned his moustache grey. He appeared a happy man.

He shook hands with Tom and Kriti and the three proceeded to the roof top bar which offered a good view of Delhi. The evening was cool with a mild breeze blowing. They chose a corner table and ordered drinks and snacks.

“Tom, I am glad to meet you. My niece Kriti talks a lot about you.” He sized Tom.

“Great Sir, I was keen to meet you as well and asked her to set up the meeting. She loves to talk and is a good listener as well which makes her a great journalist,” said Tom.

They all laughed. The bearer arrived with their order; a large Royal Challenge whiskey with lots of ice for Colonel Sharma, a gin and tonic for Tom and a Bloody Mary for Kriti. The bar was getting crowded and noisy. They moved to the balcony carrying their drinks. Kriti told Tom that her uncle had spent the last ten years of his career with MI at Sena Bhawan.

Tom set the tone for the conversation.

“Did the Indian’s mishandled the Kandahar hijacking?” he asked the Colonel.

“The Government botched it up big time. We had intelligence that post Kargil, ISI and Taliban were planning a major hit; bombing of a major Indian establishment or hijacking of a civilian plane. We even shared the intelligence with IB.”

“Was the intelligence specific?” asked Tom.

“Yes. We caught some mercenaries in Kashmir and

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intercepted radio chatter. It added up and we were sure that if a hijack happened it would be from one of the SAARC countries but everyone ignored the tip-off. We missed another golden opportunity when the hijacked plane landed in Amritsar where we should have ambushed the hijackers.”

“Once the plane landed in Kandahar, I believe there wasn’t much you could do,” said Tom egging the Colonel on.

“No son. As per plan, we flew a team of the best commandos of the Army Special Forces to Delhi who conducted mock drills on an A300 Airbus parked at Delhi Airport. We were ready to take on the hijackers in Kandahar and the chances of success were high,” said the Colonel. “We discussed the plan with the NSA and arranged the logistics. But the orders never came. The NSA ditched us and the Government released the terrorists. It was a complete disaster.”

They were hungry and moved back inside. Kriti was busy playing with her longhair, while following the conversation while Tom tried to understand the functioning of the Govern-ment. She ordered a cottage cheese vegetable sizzler for herself and tandoori chicken platter for Tom. She insisted he would love it and Tom fell in line. The Colonel refilled his glass and ordered a chicken steak (rare and not well done) with French fries.

“I live close by in R.K. Puram and come here quite regularly. In the nineties a large peg of Royal Challenge was only ten rupees but now they have increased prices. It is still cheaper than what you pay in outside in a bar but how can the Government allow necessities of life to become so expensive?” he lamented.

It was peak time and the food took forty-five minutes to arrive. The Colonel was high and did not need any prodding to talk.

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“There is a lot more to the story but I can tell you strictly off the record,” he continued. Tom nodded his willingness to listen off the record.

“The Kargil war was fought in May-June of 1999. At that time the NSA, who was the PM’s favourite was very powerful. He convinced the Government that MI knew as early as April that Pakistani agents had entered Indian territory. The Commander of the Northern Command, sat on the information and did not act in time,” the Colonel revealed.

“When the war ended, the Government gloated over the victory. It ran advertisements in foreign publications including The Times and The Washington Post, highlighting its achievements,” he continued.

The Colonel winked. “Now you can add up and understand what happened. The Army won a war in very challenging circumstances, but the NSA undermined its efforts by claiming that it sat on crucial information.”

He took the last bite from his steak. “I guess Kandahar was the last straw which brought the Army and the NSA in direct and open confrontation.”

He realised he had too much to drink and regretted what he said.

“Who was heading the Northern Command at that time?” asked Tom.

“Lt. General Prabhakaran Iyer,” he replied. “He was the one who had formulated a plan to send commandos to storm the hijacked plane in Kandahar. Much against the NSA’s wishes he became the twenty-second COAS a year later in October 2000.”

It was eleven p.m. and Tom thanked the Colonel for his

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time promising to meet again. On the way back he dropped Kriti in Jor Bagh giving her a goodbye kiss. By the time he reached his hotel it was past twelve. Tom felt elated with the information swirling around in his head; he knew that he had a good line to work on but instead settled for a good night’s sleep.

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A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

“We are born in one day. We die on one day. We can change in one day. And we can fall in love in one day. Anything can happen in just one day.” – Gayle

Forman

New Delhi, May-July 2000

It was Tom’s birthday. The ring of his mobile phone woke him up. It was Sally on the line. She was calling from the airport about to board a flight from New York to Washington D.C. She sounded cheerful.

“Happy birthday, Tom. We are missing you back here. Hope you are having a great time in Delhi and trying your best to stay out of trouble.”

Tom was delighted to hear her voice.

“Thanks Sally. I am fine and missing you and mom. I hope to be back in New York sometime in August if Jonathan permits.”

They continued to talk for a while, before Sally said love you Tom and hung up.

Sally was always in a hurry, wanting to do a lot in life before

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she ran out of time. They were planning to have a child ever since they got married two years ago. Tom’s job and his posting to Delhi had upset their plans. Tom felt lucky to have such a beautiful and caring wife.

He got up shaved, took a bath and put on his favourite cream coloured shirt, grey trousers and a green tie. The tie was a gift from Sally on his thirty-fifth birthday.

He walked the fifteen minute distance to his office. On the way he got another call on his mobile phone. It was Kriti on the line.

“Hi Tom, happy birthday, we are all waiting for you in the office. Come quickly,” she sounded as if she had let go off a big secret.

“Thank you for your wishes. I am on my way,” he said. Tom entered the office to find the entire staff waiting to

wish him. A huge bouquet of red roses, a birthday card and a black forest cake from Wenger’s awaited him. Tom had a hard time blowing out all the thirty-eight candles on the cake, as Rahul clicked pictures.

Tom noticed someone standing quietly in one corner dressed in a dazzling white sari, a diamond necklace and Elizabeth Arden perfume. For a moment everyone in the room seized to exist for Tom. Rahul trying to smear his face with cake icing jolted him back to reality.

Tom settled down in his office cabin. His mind was still on the story. He called up Jonathan.

“Happy birthday Tom. How are you? Hope you have settled down. Have you finished the Malkani story or are you going to interview him again?”

Jonathan’s birthday wishes flattered him. Joe is getting old

8 0 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

but thankfully he still has a good memory. He acknowledged the birthday greeting.

“No, a second round is not required. The story is almost done.”

After he hung up, Tom realised that he hadn’t told Joe anything about his meeting with Colonel K.L. Sharma at DSOI.

The Sunday edition of the NYT published Tom’s article with a headline; “In a democracy, the Army needs to be controlled: India’s NSA.”

Below the headline was a smiling shot of Malkani. Jonathan had given the story a prominent place: three columns, left bottom, on the page opposite the editorial page. The story was two thousand words against the three thousand he had filed. The fact that Jonathan did not change the headline surprised Tom and he hoped he had not pushed his luck too far.

Next day, Malkani’s secretary called to convey his boss’s unhappiness with the headline. Tom got the message but did not worry about antagonizing Malkani.

Kriti walked in with a smile. His feeling of slight unease dissipated.

“Congratulations Tom. Your piece on Malkani has created a stir in Delhi’s political circles,” she said.

She had this habit of talking in riddles. Tom thought he would find out later what she really meant. There were other things on his mind.

xxx

Tom and Kriti did several rounds of the city in the white Maruti Esteem as finding a house was Tom’s top most priority.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 8 1

“It is spacious, well-ventilated and overlooks a nice beautiful park,” said the property dealer.

Tom and Kriti were standing on the first floor balcony of a three bedroom apartment in Defence Colony.

“Yes, even I think so. I quite like the place,” said Tom. “Sir, Defence Colony is the one of the posh areas in Delhi. It is quite popular among expatriates,” added the property dealer.

“Let’s take the place,” Kriti shortened the decision-making process for Tom.

“The nearby market has some great food joints which we can try out; Sagar Ratna for authentic South Indian cuisine,

Colonel’s Kebab famous for tandoori chicken and kebabs, Moets for sizzlers, Swagath for coastal food and Kent for fast food.” She went on and on.

Tom moved into the apartment in the first week of July, just as Delhi experienced its first monsoon showers. Moisture laden South-Western winds, travelling from the Arabian Sea hit Delhi in the second week of July.

The joy that the arrival of monsoons brings to Delhi surprised Tom. He always thought that rains were messy but for Delhi it was deliverance from the summer heat.

The evening news reported that medium to heavy rains in most parts of the city lead to traffic snarls at major traffic intersections and water logging. Hundreds of people getting back home from office found themselves stranded.

Tom felt the change in the pulse of the city. He took out his guitar and sat on the balcony strumming Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall. Kriti was sitting next to him and little drops of rain fell on her beautiful face.

He furnished the house with cane furniture and rugs purchased from the nearby Lajpat Nagar market. The pink

8 2 S U M E E T S I N G H A L & S A N J E E V M A L H O T R A

coloured curtains in the bedroom were not to his liking even though Kriti insisted they looked cute.

The monsoons also reminded Tom of home. He knew he could persuade Jonathan to give him a few days off. A month later, Tom boarded an Air India flight to New York, to see his wife and mother.

T H E C O N S P I R A C Y O F S I L E N C E 8 3

New York Calling

“Every traveller has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it more from his wandering.” – Charles

Dickens

New York, August 2000

As the flight landed in New York, ten thirty a.m. local time, Tom was happy to escape the heat, humidity and incessant rains of Delhi. With temperatures ranging between twenty-