THE INDEPENDENCE DAY

THE INDEPENDENCE DAY



Acknowledgements



The story would not have seen this day without the constant help, support and

guidance of Ashish Dange and Kaush Gandhi. Thanks Kaush and Ashish, for making this

a reality!



To

India, my country and my identity



A Story by Deepak Jeswal



PROLOGUE



After closing the door, Sumeet Shukla finished the last gulp. He was five drinks down; his mind

was numbed and dulled. He liked it this way. He was scared of his own brain’s sharpness. It had

been a good weekend; an interesting lay and a mind blowing love making experience; goodness

gracious, how good she sucked. He was amazed.



He switched on his Sony stereo system. 4400 hundred watts metallic sound filled the Spartan

apartment, where he stayed on rent. He picked the remote control and adjusted the tones,

and started for the kitchen.



He was happy today. For once he had an upper hand over his arch rival. Boss had favored him.

He had done his work.



But where the hell was boss? Why wasn’t he picking up his phone? Never mind; tomorrow is yet

another day, he thought.



As he went past the drawing room’s entrance, he staggered. He held himself from falling with

the help of a table in the hallway, above which were a few framed photographs and a mirror.

He looked at his reflection. He was thirty, an average looking Indian with a dark skin, oily black

hair, and two gold teeth that shone when he smiled.



The kitchen seemed too far off, the music too much in the distance. He turned and punched

the volume control on the remote. From the blurred vision he could perceive LED graphics on

the stereo system’s panel moving to a sharp red color – the loudest. Damn, he thought. It must

be the cassette. It still sounded low. He loved loud music.



He entered the kitchen. Without much ado, he kept a pan on the gas, and switched on the self-

ignited burner.



Immediately there was a mushroom like haze of bright light, followed by blasting sound. He

screamed as his linen shirt caught fire.



EPISODE ONE





She had booked airline tickets for 12th August; by the time she reached, it would be her

homeland’s Independence Day eve. This was her way of mental symbolism for the fact that she

was going back to her own country after twelve years; no holidays in between, though she had

nurtured some cherish able memories from her childhood spent in Delhi, the national capital of

India.

Today, she was unsure how much of those memories were factual, and how many of them were

mere fantasies created by myriad Bollywood films that she saw religiously on her Sony DVD;

together, they had morphed into a delightful collage. For twelve years of her dried and rootless

existence in her adopted country, the USA, she was returning to shower it with her nation’s

moisture and love; she hoped her country would accept her back; she prayed she would accept

her country back!



Despite looking fondly at the brochures of a direct 12-hour flight to Delhi of the newly re-

launched Concorde, she had to forego her desire; too expensive, she thought. She had to save

money for the future also. With a heavy heart she booked through Air India, India’s national

carrier.



For the past twelve years since she came to North Carolina’s prestigious Duke university to

pursue a course in business administration, life had been on the move; along with her

graduation, she did a part time job as a book-keeper, and made efforts to save money to bring

her ailing mother here; her father had expired when she had stepped into the teens.



It took her two years after graduation, and an irresponsible but paying job, to get her mother

ensconced snugly back into her apartment and life.



It wasn’t just her mother’s arrival, but probably blessings that came with the old lady. Her

intelligence proved to be a boon; she applied for US Government’s intelligence department – a

grueling procedure involving a rigid resume guideline and excruciatingly difficult background,

medical and polygraph tests; she did not get into ‘the coveted CIA’ but an off-shoot agency –

coding and decoding department, South Asia. Time slid, and she was soon promoted as Senior

Analyst, the last happiness that her mother witnessed before she closed her eyes permanently

to a half-baked dream of seeing her only daughter married.



She met him at the gas station; their cars had bumped. Since that accidental meeting a year

back, they met several times; she met his wife – a sweet, simple and sober lady, but essentially

boring, as she described. It was not planned, but for strange reason they did intertwine more

than friendship between them. There were no excuses from his side; she did not ask for any

either. It was not lust, it was not love; it was something uncertain and unnamed in-between.



It was for the past five, maybe six months that she started to question her situation’s

hollowness; it was beginning to prick her; the clandestine meetings and the weekend sojourns

started to pain; perhaps it was the advancing years; perhaps it was the loneliness, but of late,

she had begun to question the relationship. The answers were primarily mumbles, incoherent

at first, and irritated later on. The mumbles grew in stature to shouts, threats and tantrums.

She could feel the end coming near; and she did not want to sit and await it; she pushed it.



Also, the mechanical existence of the great world of commercialism that United States of

America is, became a catalyst to advance her dissonance; she hated the accent that she had

acquired; she abhorred the neat and structured roads, the prim and proper attitude and the

fastidiousness and shallow existence of this country. She longed to be back to Delhi, its heat,

its dirt, its openness and its brownness; she desired to be back to Delhi, its warmth, its

friendliness, its open arms and its redness.



The last fight with him (outside the theater showing Hindi film, Bunti aur Bubli) sealed the

decision.



“Running away is not a solution,” her friend had told her. “Staying back is not an option” she

had replied. “What will you do there?” her friend had countered. “What was I doing here?” she

had retorted.

There was no turning back, she avowed herself. Arrangements had been made; relatives in

India called up; sale of her meager belonging begun; bank arrangements to transfer funds

arranged. She was moving out forever!



Leaving was not easy; there was a lot debriefing to be done; myriad security checks that kept

her on her toes before she cleared ‘exit approval’ at her organization.



“Think over it again,” the Director told her. “You have a great future here”



“I have. I will prefer a small gain in the open to the secretive rises here. Thank you George for

your help and support, especially in getting me cleared out. I will miss you all, but this is

important to me.”



She stepped out of the non-descript steel and glass building that housed the power nerves of

several Asian countries.



“India, here I come,” she whispered.



India’s Independence Day Eve would have seen the bright and beautiful Naina Verma on its

national carrier, had she not met Rishabh on 12th of August.



*******************

Rishabh Srivastava belonged to the upper echelons of the science industry; he survived the

onslaught of the pink slips that uprooted many of his colleagues. But then, as a nuclear

physicist, he had the brains and the skills that no employer could resist; and certainly not his!

Though he had many ego hassles with his immediate superior, an Indian by the name of Aman

Sharma, still the latter could not do anything because Rishabh was the favorite of the

management. Plus, he and his partner, Sumeet Shukla made a formidable team.



From humble hinterlands of Uttar Pradesh, where his father toiled the hardened soil, to the

swish lanes of North Carolina, Rishabh had had an eventful journey. His marriage to Anuradha,

a girl his father chose, was a logical outcome – a neat arranged marriage, like all good Indian

boys of his society: arranged, definitely, but marriage, hardly!



Neither was Anuradha adept at socializing, nor was she too keen to learn; after initial one year

things had settled to a cozy humdrum; she took care of their house, her paintings and sketches,

and her ‘kitty’ parties with other Indian ladies, and he continued his fast-track career ride.

They talked, but it was confined to meaningless and routine banter of daily chores. It was a

still-born marriage from day one. However, it continued to survive asthmatically on artificial

societal respirators.



Although initially there was sex, by the time the second year ended, it was assigned a role of

another chore, equivalent to the checking of doors and latches that Anuradha did every night;

eventually, at the end of third year, it was confined to special occasions like birthdays and

karwa chauth; by fourth year, even that finished.



Anuradha did not complain or ask; and he did not bother, because for him sex with Anuradha

was even less fulfilling than ‘masturbating with a pillow’. A report confirmed that Anuradha

was incapable of bearing children; and with that, this chore was thrown away like a discarded

piece of clothing. He did not mind not having children, as he was not very keen on them in any

case.



To meet Naina was a lucky stroke; she was all that he had dreamed of in a woman; outgoing,

intelligent and supportive. She understood his psyche, his thoughts and his passion. She would

give priceless suggestions, offer intuitive insights and advance meaningful advice. Her sharp

observation never ceased to surprise, and often shock, him. It was a chemistry that he

enjoyed. He had tried to inform her about everything that he could, especially the nature of

his work; there was no reason to hide Anuradha, and therefore, he did not do so. In any case,

his relationship with Anuradha was over but for the ‘societal tag’



Things were smooth and sunny, but soon dark clouds came on. They had to. They always do.



When Naina first spoke of the relationship per se, he was stunned and mumbled an

unintelligent reply; till then, he had never given a thought to it. He had just flowed with her

along the path of friendship; it did not strike that the bulk of days spent with her should be

labeled as well. But Naina persisted. He was wrenched in a useless situation. He could not

‘divorce Anuradha’ as Naina hinted; there was his family, his father back home, who was the

best of friends with his wife’s parents. How would they react, what will he explain them? That

was not a path he was going to take. In addition to the woes, Anuradha suddenly found a voice.

She started to question about Naina. He averted. She insisted. The house was a battle ground,

where a war could erupt any time of the day, at the slightest of provocation.



He thought he would be able to live through this. Till, the time he realized that she had

already gone and informed her parents. The ground shook beneath his feet.



Rishabh knew he had to take a decision fast; in the past ten years of his career he had

understood enough to know when a deadline was sitting on his head.



India’s Independence Day Eve would not have seen the charming and carefree Rishabh

Srivastava on the flight had he not met Naina on the 12th of August.



***********************************



The steel gray eyes glistened like a metal; cold, yet burning. Sridhar Gautam saw his death in

them. Soon, he felt a warm sticky liquid falling on his hands; immediately, he realized it was

his own blood.



“What is the code?” the man with the steel eyes rasped.



Sridhar closed his eyes as the pain followed the gorge on his chest; his head touched the back

of the table; his face was turned up towards the ceiling, pulled back by the large and uncouth

hands of the man. He felt the knife dig deeper, ripping apart his tissues, soon it would pierce

his heart. It would be the end. Soon. Very soon. His tied legs wriggled and struggled to free

themselves. His hands were tied behind him.



“There is no code” he whispered.



“You can be spared of this pain; I will take you to the hospital. Tell me the code”



As unconsciousness began to blanket him, without realizing, Sridhar found himself uttering the

numbers. The man smiled. With a sharp stroke of his hand, he dug the knife deeper, till it cut

the arteries of Sridhar’s heart.



He left.



Darkness enveloped him. But before it took him in its arms, he knew he had to do something.

He groped under the table, and banged his head on the insides, till he hit what he was

searching for. A tiny button, the size of a pea, lodged there. To the naked eye it seemed a flaw

in the wood, or some mistake by the one who painted the table. But Sridhar knew pressing it

would send signals where they should go.



He hit the button with all his force, and collapsed.



*****************************************

Naina looked around her nearly empty apartment, sighed and as per habit, pressed voice mail

“Option 1” on her telephone instrument; the lift ride was short, and soon she was in the car

park, and driving out towards Research Triangle Park.



She stepped out of the elevator on 10th floor; she saw the familiar gold-plated logo of Bioten

Inc. A gentleman of forty walked past her – Aman Sharma, Rishabh’s boss. Since they had met a

couple of times earlier, she gave an awkward smile to him. He smiled back but did not stop for

any small talk. She was relieved. She had no inclination to do so right away.



Entering Rishabh’s spick and span cabin, she closed the door behind her. He was sitting behind

the PC, typing out an email. The table had minimal furnishing; apart from the PC, there were

two telephones, one an external direct line, and another – a flashing red color – intercom; a

staid but sophisticated pen stand, Naina’s gift to him on his birthday; and a couple of files, all

with ‘Bioten Inc.’ embossed in gold on the covers.



Seeing her, he got up and moved towards her. He was tall with a strong physique, but not

overtly muscular; he had dark curly hair that were cropped short; his face was handsome, but

in an unconventional way.



To his warm and welcome smile, she replied with a cold stare.



“I am leaving” she told him. She kept her purse on the desk.



“You are taking a rash decision, Naina,” said Rishabh, his eyes flashing in anger. She did not

respond; she knew that, anyways. But, she had to get her life moving. For how long could she

carry on a relationship that was always staring at a dead-end?



“It’s been taken,” she answered, fingering the edges of the table.



“But it is not God’s decision that cannot be changed!” he argued. He walked up to her, and

stood before her. Softening his voice, he said, “Please forgive me. Please don’t go. I will make

things happen”



Her large hazel eyes looked up to his deep black one; immediately, she felt her resolve

weakening, as did her knees. “Let me go, Rishabh”



She pushed him aside gently; he did not budge; she stepped to his side, and started to walk

towards the door. With a jerk she was pulled; she found his hands at the nape of her neck

tugging her towards him. She turned with a jolt; her hair fell open; they bordered around her

round face like the dark clouds framing a resplendent sun. He yanked her towards him; even

though she tried to resist her efforts were minimal; she looked deep into his eyes, her own

flickering with a concoction of fear and excitement.



Their lips were close, and his fresh breath fell on her face like a balmy breeze. With his right

hand firmly secured behind her lower back, he used his other hand to remove the strands of

hair falling on her face.



He brought his lips close to hers, and mumbled “You are mine, and I wont let you go” When he

spoke his lips touched her face gently; it stirred a thousand emotions within her.

“This is not right” she said, meaning it to sound forceful, but her voice was weakening.



“This is right.” He planted a kiss on her right cheek.



“This is sin”, her voice floundered.



“This is pure.” He set a mark on her forehead with his lips.



“This is crazy,” she said, nearly whispering.



“This is sanity” He gave a kiss on her left cheek.



“You are married,” her voice hoarsely whispered.



“That is immaterial.” He leaned forward to kiss her lips.



“No,” she said, averting her face, and making one last effort to release from the tight grip; it

was futile; Rishabh’s lips were on her neck, and he had pulled her tighter towards him, where

she could feel every contour of his hard body. Changing the hands of the grip in a swift eagle

like motion, he pulled off the pallu, and was kissing her shoulders passionately. Naina felt her

hands through his soft black hair, pushing his face deep into her neck.



Naina closed her eyes. She did not realize for how many minutes she stood there; but for her it

seemed to be hours – an entire life.



“I promise I will make this work. Please do trust me. I know I have been harsh and hard. But

this time, trust me…” he pleaded.



Her cell phone beeped; with a jerk, she pushed Rishabh, and walked to the table to pick up her

sleek Nokia instrument from the purse. There was a message. She pressed a key to retrieve it.

A frown developed on her face. She pressed the delete button, and said to him, “Rishabh I

have to leave immediately.”



Suddenly, he grabbed her from behind. “Still angry?”



She placed her head on his shoulders, her mobile in her hand. His eyes darted towards it. There

was a two-word message, covered partially by a graphical confirmation. “Delete, ok?”



“No” she said, and simultaneously pressed ‘Ok’ on her cell-phone. The graphic changed to an

envelope falling into a trash can. “But there is something official that has turned up.”



“I thought you had resigned,” he said, kissing her neck, and still holding her from behind, his

arms encircling waist.



“Yes. But people still know my cell-phone number, so I guess they just SMS’d me.”



She pulled out from his grasp and adjusted her blue sari with an efficient and practiced grace.

She rushed to the door, but stopped short when he called out.



“Hey Naina, are you still leaving for India?”



Her hand stopped on the door knob. Turning back, she smiled. “No. I can’t. I am canceling the

ticket.”

She stepped out.



As soon as she was gone, he rushed to his computer, and logged on to the secure internet

server; on the browser he typed the name of the site, entered a few keys and waited. Typing

the words that he had just seen on Naina’s mobile, he awaited impatiently for a quarter of

minute as the hour-glass icon displayed.



The result flashed from Naina’s mobile service provider, the site of which he had just hacked

into, left him bewildered. His mouth dried. His hands became cold. His worst fears had come

true. He typed an URL of a site. He knew what would be coming up; he only wanted a

confirmation. True. It had happened. Immediately, he picked up the red phone and pressed a

button. There was a brief ring, and a gruff male voice answered it.



“We have a problem!”

*****************************************

EPISODE TWO



The man with steel eyes stepped out, and smiled. He had received the information. His master

would be pleased.



Straightening his tie, he merged into the evening crowd of Delhi’s Connaught Place. Taking a

left from Kasturba Gandhi Marg towards Barakhamba Road, he stopped at a cigarette-kiosk to

buy his favorite Gold Flake brand; he reserved his smokes to his victories. Today was a grand

day. He would have two in a row.



Anyone seeing him there would have mistaken him for a tired executive from any of the sky-

scraper buildings of KG Marg or BK Road, enjoying his smoke after a hard day’s work. No one

would realize he had just come after killing a man. His steel gray eyes would elicit a scared

reaction, but overall his persona and physique was of not of the ordinary.



Stubbing his second cigarette, he pulled out his Samsung mobile, and dialed a number from the

address book.



“The file has been approved” he said.



“Good good. You are a man of your words. When will the car be delivered?” asked the static

voice.



“Tonight I shall visit the dealer and inform him; tomorrow we shall be set to deliver”



“Ok. Goodbye”



He pressed the red key on his instrument. To anyone listening to this conversation, it would

seem an ordinary salesman talk of any of the many car finance companies that had

mushroomed in Delhi. He marveled at his boss’s ingenuity; though he had never met Scorpion,

he was already in awe of the personality.



Scorpion had recruited him through telephone. At first, he had been wary of dealing with

unknown voices on phone, but when he checked his HDFC Bank balance the next day, it was

bulging with the promised transfer.



He knew that his name was well known within his circles; people referred to him as the one

who could clasp any prey with a hawk’s mobility. He realized Scorpion meant business; from

thereon, his contact point in India had been a grouchy man called Kokil, or the dealer, as he

had referred to. But, seeing the impeccable work, Scorpion had often started to call him

directly. It was his promotion. He was pleased. The HDFC Bank account grew in stature.



Moving back on the busy rush of KG Marg, he walked briskly towards Outer Circle.



Climbing dingy stairs of Dishnet DSL center at B-Block in the inner circle of Connaught Place, he

reached the reception counter.



“Can I have computer 8 if it’s free? I had made my resume there yesterday?” he asked.



The man at the counter nodded, and handed him a password key to log in. The Hawk sat at

counter eight; on the blue ‘welcome’ screen, he typed out the password and waited a few

seconds to be logged in.

On logging, he opened a word file titled ‘Resume-Pankaj’. At the top there were ‘name’ and

‘address’ columns. Below them was typed, ‘telephone number’. This was blank. He punched in

the code that Sridhar had blurted out before dying.



After waiting for some minutes and browsing through a few uninteresting sites, he left the

place.



An hour later, Kokil entered the café. “Saheb, extra PC’s close kar doon”



The man at the reception grunted a yes. Diligently, Kokil started to switch off the PCs that did

not have any customers. Reaching counter no 8, he read a word file and deleted it before

switching the computer off.





*****************************************************





Naina walked on the familiar tiled surface of her office with a strong gait; she got a few

awkward stares, primarily for two reasons – a) many had thought she had left and b) she had

never worn a sari to her work; she liked the dress, but wore it rarely. Following the dictum of

‘while in Rome, do as the Romans do’ she had always stuck to crisp business suits or casual

jeans, more of the latter. As she passed familiar sights of her erstwhile workplace, she felt an

internal surge of belongingness. She moved towards the heavy sound-proofed doors of her

Director’s room.



The secretary seated outside smiled at her. “Hi Naayna,” she said. “Good to see you back.”

Naina smiled, but inwardly gritted her teeth at the awful Americanized pronunciation of her

name. “Go in. He is waiting for you”



For sure he would be, thought Naina. She had given him a call on her way there. On entering

the room she found the Director looking out of the window at deepening Raleigh skies.



George Stanley turned hearing her footsteps; they had been absorbed largely by the thick

brown carpet, but that was George’s specialty- he could pick up any sound from anywhere, an

instinct that helped him survive the fierce and unfriendly Vietnam jungles many decades back.

Having risen from a field officer level, George knew all tricks and trades of his job, from the

micro to the macro. His leadership was sworn by. The Purple Heart from the ill-fated Vietnam

War was his proudest possession; he had saved all twenty men of his battalion single-handedly;

the wounds from the bullets on his legs were his second most proud possession.



George looked at Naina with his crystal blue eyes, his brows raised at her dress. He did not

comment, though.



To Naina, his cherubic face and thick white whiskers reminded her of Santa Claus; he should

have been sitting in a courtyard somewhere narrating stories to grandchildren, and not here in

this antiseptic brown paneled room strategizing and worrying about South Asia.



Just then, a thought crossed Naina’s mind- all these years having worked closely with him, she

was still unaware of George’s family life. Did he have a wife? How did she cope up with his

erratic work schedules?



George did have a wife. She had died in a terrorist attack two decades back in Punjab, India,

on a visit to Amritsar. Since then, George had made his mission to eradicate terrorism the best

way he could.

“Sit Naina” offered George, as he moved his round frame to his own easy chocolate colored

leather chair.



Naina sat comfortably in the offered chair, across the bulky mahogany table- a place she had

sat often.



She looked squarely and said, “The message that you used to talk about has arrived. I believe

the tech department has still not changed my cell phone from its system, hence the message

reached me”



In her mind, she could still see the flashing message: “Product Defiled” – a message that had

come from all the way from India, when Sridhar had pressed the pea-sized button beneath his

desk.



“Damn these bastards!” swore George. “We should have stopped them five years back!”



Naina looked at him inquisitively. She had never seen her boss swear.



“George, for the past couple of years I was told that if this message comes on my cell phone

ever, I will have to report to you directly. Today, it flashes when I had put in my papers. Can

you tell what this is all about?”



George did not reply, and closed his eyes. He knew Naina was a conscientious worker; he could

trust her. Despite her relationship with Rishabh, she had come out absolutely clean in the

security checks that she underwent for past two months after her resignation. She had been an

asset to the organization, and her brains in coding and decoding had been useful at times when

it was needed the most. She could think on her feet, and that too using her full brains!



Taking a deep breath, George started to speak. “Naina, this is something that no one knows

about, but I guess someone that has to know has to know.”



Naina’s brows furrowed. She leaned forward to listen attentively. Her heart beat fast. What

was she doing in this room again; she should have been at home, checking her final belongings

at this time to depart for Raleigh Durham International Airport!



“Well, I will try to explain as best as I can; I am not a scientist, so I will try to download to you

in the best layman’s terms as I have understood.”



She nodded.



“Good. I am sure you have read Dan Brown’s Demons and Angels. It is a book that must have

interested you a lot. It has explained about antimatter, there is a section where a vial of

antimatter could have blown up the entire Vatican City.”



She nodded; of course, she had read Brown’s novels.



“As the novelist also mentioned, anti-matter is complete opposite of matter; it is composed of

particles whose electric charges are opposite to those found in normal matter. And yes, it

ignites when it comes in contact with matter. So, when they come in contact with each other,

they completely destroy each other and energy is created, or in simple terms a blast. It is the

most powerful energy source – that is, if it can be harnessed. 1 gram of antimatter would equal

‘23 space shuttle fuel tanks of energy.’

“Though Brown’s novel has brought anti-matter into the living rooms of the common man

today, but do you know that the anti-matter theory was first proposed way back in 1928 by

physicist Paul Dirac?”



She nodded. After reading Demons and Angels, she had browsed a few sites on the topic.



“Now, my second question – does anti-matter exist in our world? You would know about the Big

Bang theory about our universe. It is said that after the ‘big bang’ matter and anti-matter were

created in equal quantities.”



“True”



“But there is a prickly question here - if both matter and anti-matter were created together,

then in this case they should have collided with each other, and we should be having only

energy left. That is not the scene. We exist. And we see all the matter. So where did the anti-

matter disappear?”



She raised her eyebrows.



“See, when Dirac proposed about anti-matter in 1928, the missing anti-matter question never

arose. But once ‘Big Bang’ theory was accepted, the doubts also arose. Some scientists

forwarded other thoughts, yet it did not fully satisfy all questions. The fact is for the past

century scientists have been unsuccessful to create ONE theory that would explain everything -

from the creation of this universe to its sustenance and from creation of antimatter to its

disappearance. Even Einstein tried to combine the relativity and quantum theories to create a

universal theory, without being successful”



He paused to check her reaction. She looked blank. “Well, I will make it simpler – let’s leave

the workings out, and cut straight to what a Finnish scientist Jorma Saarni proposed – yes, anti-

matter can exist – but as neutral anti symmetric particles.”



“Meaning?”



“Meaning that antimatter can exist in two states – neutral or anti. In Neutral state the particles

exist and do not cause any damage, even if they touch matter. In Anti state, the particle

proceeds to annihilate everything in its path. Controlling the rate of spin of the particles will

ensure in which state they stay in! This is till date the most accurate theory called UTELE

(Universal Theory of the Energies in Life on Earth). It also solves the cosmos puzzle”



She took a few seconds to digest this fact.



“Are scientists really creating anti-matter?”



He continued, “Yes, now scientists are manufacturing anti matter artificially as well as a

potential source of alternative energy”



She had another question. “And CERN is doing that?”



“Well, yes. That is true. But, CERN is not the only one. National Laboratory for Higher Energy

Physics, or KEK as it is known as, in Japan is the other one” He paused, and stated. “Anti-

matter is currently also manufactured at Stanford Linear Center in USA; California, to be exact.

The success with antimatter has not been spectacular. The problem with anti-matter and is

that it is awfully expensive to create. But creation is not the only issue. A bigger problem is the

storage – the fact that the particles bear the same charge makes it extremely challenging”

A pause later, George continued. “Now, this is where Saarni’s theory comes in – creation of

neutral anti-matter! What I am coming to is what if neutral antimatter is stored and charged

at the appropriate time to create an explosion?”



He stopped again, waiting for her to absorb the information.



“Like in the Dan Brown novel,” she asked tentatively.



George gave a low dry chuckle. “Good heavens, not that way. I mean, it is incredibly

impossible to store the charged positrons in a small canister. And that too move it across half

the continent. And as I said, it is very difficult to store, so it cannot be accumulated in high

enough quantities, even of the order of visible drop. Since the particles bear the same charge,

they will repel each other at an impossibly high force. Brown did not talk about neutral

antimatter at all- his bomb was already with ‘charged particles’ and that cannot be kept in

small canisters! That is where his premise is significantly flawed.”



“Then?”



“What I am telling is that if a strong resistant canister is made to hold, say one gram, of

neutral antimatter and then a sharp volt is given to spin it at the appropriate speed, the

particles will get charged, and repel each other, and create a huge explosion.”



Her jaws dropped in awe. “You mean…a canister with neutral antimatter, charged at the

correct time to create an explosion…”



He leaned forward. With his eyes fixed on her, he emphasized, “Yes, Naina. This has been

created. This is reality, not some piece of fiction by a bestseller author”



***************



Professor John was a God fearing man. He was a regular church-attendee, and he had read his

Bible well. He could recognize the devil, but that it would come in this shape and size was

something that even bewildered him.



He had never experienced pain he did not know how to endure it. Yet for the past two hours he

had endured it – the pain of being electrocuted in his own bath tub, slowly at first, and fast

later on. He was past seventy; he had known his life was short. But, he had never imagined

death would come to him in this gruesome manner. His fingers were chopped and lay forsaken

like pieces of chicken on the wet floor of the bathroom.



The devil had left; it had got what it wanted.



His soul would be free now. “Oh God, come to my help. Relieve me of this pain”



He cried as he realized that his wife and daughter were away. They would not know what had

happened to him. He had to call them up. He also had one last duty to perform. He had to find

some courage. He pulled out the knife digging his abdomen. It hurt. He shouted. It sent a trill

of nerves ringing in his head. No, I must not get unconscious. I must not.



He pulled himself out of the water of the tub, but fell with a thud on the floor. He struggled

forward, sliding on the wet floor. It lessened the pain. He closed his eyes and called for Jesus

for the final strength; the strength that He bore at the Cross. He needed that.



Reaching his study, he pushed his body towards the table. Below it, he knew there was a pea-

sized button. He pressed it with all his might.

Taking help of the table, he stood up. He fell, but his wet hands clasped the edge of the table

with all his disintegrated strength. His phone was there. He could reach it. He would reach it.

He picked it up. Looking through his watered and tired and pained eyes, he pressed the quick

dial button no. one. He could not hold any longer. The strength was waning. Emily, pick up the

phone. Please pick up the phone.



He collapsed on the side of the table, his head hitting the edge. He never got up from there.



The fallen phone emitted a sound – “Hello… Sam, are you there? You there Sam”



***************************************



The room felt stuffy. Naina’s eyes were widened. She looked at the grand-fatherly figure in

front of her; instead of narrating bed-time stories, he was talking about disaster.



She gulped. Hesitantly, and almost, timidly she asked,“How… strong… is the result?”



George sighed. “If that small vial in Demons and Angels could destroy Vatican City, then this

smart bomb, with one gram of antimatter, can destroy Delhi!”



Her eyes popped out. Her heart beat was fast.



“Yes, I know what you are thinking,” he pre-empted her thought. “I mentioned Delhi for a

specific reason.”



“And what is that?” she found her voice hoarse. Her mouth felt like sandpaper.



“Well, before I answer, I have one question for you?”



She raised her eyebrows questioningly.



“Why do you think our South Asia department is here, in far off North Carolina and not in DC?”



She shook her head, and shrugged. It did cross her mind once, but she had found no logical

answers.



“It is because historically US always viewed South Asia, and particularly India, since it is the

largest country there, as a poor man’s place. Only Africa Department finds itself in the inners

of Texas; you can say that for the US government SA was not all that important and hence

placed here. Even though a great leader, Nixon still felt India was a land of mumbo-jumbos led

by the ‘old witch’”



Naina grimaced at the remarks of Nixon that had been recently disclosed, referring to the then

Indian Prime Minister Ms. Indira Gandhi as an ‘old witch’.



“But time saw that India did not remain a toothless land of snake charmers. It has become

nearly a super power, and also has acquired nuclear capability. And so has Pakistan. But

Pakistan is run by US-aid. It is a baby of US. India is not. India thinks with its own brains. This

has created a tension in the government. So, two years back this ‘smart bomb’ or ‘missile’, as

some government officials call it due to habit, was created, though the work on it began five

years back. This was targeted at Delhi, to be used as and when required, if ever! Plus, it suited

the USA not to have ‘weapons of mass destruction’ lying in its own backyard, after all the

brouhaha we made in Iraq. So, let’s say it was storage cum future usage combined”

She gulped.



“You know, the Columbia Space Shuttle did not simply leave for research on January 16th 2003.

It also carried a small extra load, to be deployed in space as a small satellite that no one would

realize. Yes, the same flight that ended in tragedy, and also carried Kalpana Chawla, your

fellow country woman.”



Naina closed her eyes; she recalled how distressed she had been to hear about the shuttle.

Kalpana Chawla was her role model, her ideal idol to whom she looked up to. During the course

of her job she had met her once, and she considered that day to be her luckiest one.



She wet her lips nervously, and said, “You mean this missile, or bomb, with neutral antimatter

is somewhere in the space above us!” It sounded ridiculous. Was this really true? She hoped

not. She was sure she would be woken up soon and get ready to go for the airport. This was a

dream for sure, a result of reading too many novels.



“No, Naina. That is not possible. No missile or bomb can be in space above and deployed from

there. What Columbia carried was a satellite or, say, a switch, to be kept in space that would

send a signal back to the ‘smart bomb’ to be activated. The ‘bomb’ per se is elsewhere.”



“Where?”



“In Delhi. But that is not the cause of worry, because on its own it is well protected. It cannot

blast automatically. The buttons to activate it that will send the signals to the satellite above

are the main issue.”



“Surely, that will be in the US”



“Yes and no. As I said, the US is mired in controversy after controversy in the world forum so it

has stopped being a house of many weapons of mass destruction. It keeps them strategically at

its ‘colonies’” – he raised his podgy fingers to make a quotation sign with his fingers –

“actually, countries that owe their full allegiance to the US. Though the missile can be

activated from here also, there is a back up somewhere else that can also send a similar signal

to the satellite above and trigger the destruction to happen.”



“And where is that?”



“In Kathmandu. Nepal.”



“What?”



“Yes. In Nepal. Not Pakistan as many would think. And it is because of this it is in Kathmandu.

Pakistan is too obvious; anyone would think of it. But Nepal is a small country, obscure

country. No one thinks about it, no one bothers about it. It is a safe haven. Or rather, it was.”



“Was?”



“Well, it was till the time there was an elected government. But the US finds itself in a

quandary ever since the King took over charge in Feb 1st this year. Now, the King is not too

fond of the Americans. But, then he is not too fond of Indians either. But, he needs the Indians

for his and his country’s survival. So, in effect it will not do anything wrong to it. Yet, he will

not help Americans also till the time they start delivering him arms to fight the Maoist

insurgency there. So, Nepal is a riddle for us.”



“And what was this message that I got?”

“Well, the codes to activate the missile are with four people over the world – and two of them

have been taken. But this is not official. This is what we found on our own. We had infiltrated

all four of them to give us access to any mishap, should it ever happen. All four had buttons

that would send messages to four different people here in NC. One was Sridhar Gautam, a

scientist associated with the Nehru Planetarium, whose message you got. The second is a

biologist in Canada; he also had a button that would have activated a message; it reached your

colleague Susan. As we speak, two are left. But then, it seems that the people who are doing

this would find them out soon too.”



“Who are doing this?”



“We don’t know as yet. No one has claimed, no one has contacted us. But for sure, someone is

going deeply into this and even murdering the people to obtain the codes.”



Naina was silent. There was something wrong somewhere. She thought aloud, “You said

‘infiltrated’. Was not this commissioned by the US government?”



“Yes and no, again. The US government did it. But even they have been fooled by the company

that made this bomb. In any case, our department was not told as it should have, despite us

being the part of the same system. They felt that we – or rather, me – are too biased towards

that region.”



“And who created this bomb?”



“Well, that is the reason that we are also here in NC, because the work on such a bomb was

started the same time that the division was set up. It is a NC company.” He leaned forward to

speak “Naina, the bomb was created by …”



Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the subdued ring of the phone. He looked

puzzled. It was on his private number.



***************************

Lata Mangeshkar is India’s biggest singer. At the age of 75, she has achieved what no Indian

has; she is a voice that is known from villages to towns to cities and to all Indians staying

abroad. She has a voice that has inspired many a poet; she has a voice that makes composers

work hard to encapsulate that sweetness in five minutes of their creations.



Her riyaaz, or practice, is of prime importance to her. She does it regularly, every morning and

evening, with her favorite veena, near the window of her simply decorated Peddar Road house

in Mumbai.



It is a known fact that no one disturbs her when she is doing her riyaaz. No one wants to do it

even, for it is akin to listening to Goddess Saraswati, the deity of music and learning.



When her secretary heard the message on the phone, he was a little taken aback, and in a

dilemma. Would he disturb her, or would he ask the caller to call back later. He decided that

the call was worth disturbing Lata Didi, as she is fondly called.



“The Prime Minister of India is on line for you” said the secretary, when she looked at him

standing in front of her.



******************************************

EPISODE THREE



Rishabh entered Aman’s cabin – similar to his in design, but marginally larger in size.



Before he could close the door, he was stopped short by a heavy hand. He saw a large and bald

man with pale white skin enter. He was puzzled to see Graham Scheele. As a security advisor

to the company, Rishabh did not feel that Graham was required. It took him sometime to

register that Aman had a soft corner for Graham that could probably exceed beyond the

boardroom to the bedroom as well. Aman’s alternative sexuality was a hot topic of discussion

in the canteens and corridors of Bioten since long.



“Are we sure we require Graham here?” asked Rishabh; he was in no mood to humor Aman’s

fancies.



“This is a security threat and I think he will be of the utmost help” said Aman, smiling at

Graham, in a gruff voice – it seemed he had a permanent bad throat. He stood behind his desk.



“Hell! He is the internal security man. What does he know about this project?”



Graham cleared his throat, and broke in. “Rishabh, as an internal security man, I have access

to all projects. I have to see no harm comes to employees through any product we make. Plus,

I have to ensure that no employee takes out any classified information.”



Rishabh was aghast. “This is a top secret project, and you are aware of it!”



“Ok guys,” called out Aman. “Cut out the fight. It does not matter which of us knows or not. In

any case Rishabh you should read the company manual in finer detail. All top secret projects

have to be cleared by Security first. So, in that sense Graham has full right to know. Please let

us not waste time, and get back to what we have gathered here for!”



“And where is Sumeet?” asked Rishabh.



“I don’t think he has called in for duty today,” informed Graham.



That was strange, thought Rishabh. Despite being having alcohol problem, Rishabh knew that

Sumeet was a responsible worker. He wouldn’t ever take a leave without information, or

without calling Rishabh at least.



Rishabh took out his cell-phone and rang up the Sumeet’s residence. The call was answered by

a voice machine. He tried the cell-phone; it was again answered by a voice message receiver.

Though tense, Rishabh shrugged, and looked at Aman and Graham.



“He is not available at both his numbers.”



“Anyways, let us carry on. He can join in later if the need be” said Graham, dismissing of

Rishabh’s concern with a wave of his hand. He aligned himself to stand parallel to Rishabh.

“Well, folks, we have gathered here because I believe somewhere something has gone wrong!”



What the fuck, thought Rishabh. Graham was chairing the meeting as if he was the head of the

department, and not Aman.



“True,” interjected Rishabh. “This is not a round table conference Graham. Cut out the intros.

Let’s come to point. Goddamn someone has stolen the codes of Brahmastra” – he winced at the

name, it was a name that he had himself chosen, now it sounded dramatic – “which means we

are courting danger! We have to inform the US government immediately”

“But, this Brahmastra” spoke Graham – Rishabh nearly laughed at the accent – “is a

combination of four numbers that are to be put in a specific order, isn’t it?”



“Yes,” said Aman, his right hand fingers involuntary touching the surface of the desk gently.

“Rishabh had created the codes such that they have to be joined in a certain sequential order.

Then only does the bomb get activated. As an additional security measure we had designed it

such that parts of the codes were with four different people in four nations – Canada, India,

Nepal and of course, the US. All these four are senior ranked and security cleared personnel,

working in trusted positions in their respective countries. And one of them is dead now!”



“Two” interjected Rishabh.



“What?”



“Check the Canadian News site. Dr. Cole was found poisoned today morning”



Graham let out a low whistle. “Hell!” He pulled a chair to sit. Rishabh stood, his hand placed

on the back of a chair.



“Yes,” said Rishabh. “Listen Aman, we have to inform the authorities on this. In any case, you

know that I saw this message on an intelligence person’s mobile phone. They have more access

to our ‘trusted’ people than we do. We still have to get the reports on the deaths officially.”



Aman was silent. He was afraid that what he was to inform would be misconstrued. “We cannot

go to the authorities. They do not really know of the complete situation. I mean, they do not

know that we have these four people in the wilderness somewhere carrying this information.”



How could he say that the management had kept the fact hidden to bargain its own other

future designs – human brain cloning- from the US government? He recalled the eerie meeting

at the Chairman’s office. They would come to know in a jiffy, he had argued. We are giving

them false codes; it’s a crime. “Listen Aman, besides me and Graham, no one else knows we

are hiding these codes from the US government. If they do knock on our doors ever, I know

which four balls to catch hold of!” He shivered at the memory.



“What the fuck is this!” exclaimed Rishabh. “Do I understand that Bioten was commissioned to

make a bomb that will explode inside US, and the government is blissfully unaware of its

activation procedure?”



“The bomb will not explode in the United States,” said Aman, his eyes averted. He knew the

bomb’s location, and had buckled under the board of directors’ pressure - it was a matter of

his job, his reputation and his life. Neither the bomb, nor the activation would ever be

required seeing the present scenario, the chairman had stated. “The bomb is in Delhi; the box

that you see in the vault below is empty”



Rishabh felt dizzy hearing Aman’s words. He held the back of the chair firmly to regain

balance.



“Oh God, that is some consolation!” exclaimed Graham. “We are safe”



“You bastard!” shouted Rishabh, towering over Graham. “Those are innocent people from my

country! Listen, if you are not telling the US government, then I am doing so.”



“Rishabh, we could have told them this. But it is the reputation of Bioten at stake. If the world

or the press comes to know of this, the entire company will be ruined. The US government will

slap its hands off this whole affair, even though the missile connectivity device left in their

own NASA sponsored spaceship. After you called, I had a word with the chairman and he is not

at all interested in making this issue public. In any case, they feel we are unnecessarily making

a mountain of molehill. The code is still safe, since two else people have the balance of it! And

I have just informed the police to keep tight security on Prof. Samuel John in New York.”



“Ok, ok,” said Rishabh. “I get the hang of it. Can we at least change the codes now, so that in

case whoever is doing this cannot activate it? I have the password to log onto it and change it.

Can you mail me the authorization right now?”



Aman averted Rishabh’s gaze, and said, “We cannot change the code with the password that

you have, Rishabh,” he informed heavily. “That has been changed by Sumeet as I had

instructed him to do so. Even the deactivation code – in case the bomb is activated – has been

changed by him”



“Why exactly did you do that?” asked Rishabh, incredulously.



“Because…” Aman stopped short. He could not tell Rishabh directly that he was insecure of

Rishabh, and that his jealousy had made him entrust this job to Sumeet. He could not tell that

how envious Sumeet was of Rishabh’s growth. Aman had found a perfect soul mate to counter

Rishabh in this. It was Aman’s symbolism of cutting Rishabh from his own project.



“…security reasons!” interjected Graham.



Rishabh looked at the two with loathing. The perfect orchestra at work! “So we have to find

Sumeet now.” He threw his hands up.



With a desperate shake of his head, he loosened his yellow tie’s knot. It hung over a rich crème

shirt and beige trousers – corporate dress that he wore sometimes to beat routine.



He dialed both numbers of Sumeet. No response. The answering machine crackled back at him.



They were interrupted by the buzz on the phone. Irritatingly, Aman pressed the speaker button

and screamed. “Julia, I said no calls”



A flustered voice answered back. “I am sorry sir. But Detective Sushant Bhushan is here, and

says it is urgent. It is regarding Sumeet Shukla’s death”



“WHAT!” exclaimed Rishabh. What was the day coming to!



“Send him in” said Aman, and switched off the phone.



Rishabh’s face was blank. There was a heavy silence in the room. The three men looked at

each other in anticipation. Graham got up.



Rishabh broke the silence. “Do you have the password and the code with you? Did Sumeet

inform you?”



Aman shook his head and looked furtively at Graham. The large man shuffled. Sumeet had

called in. But at that time Aman could not pick up the phone. Both Graham and Aman knew

that; they were together!



Detective Sushant Bhushan entered the room with a meaningful stride. He was tall and

handsome with green eyes, and originally belonged to Punjab, India. In many ways, he was still

a strapping farmer that he would have been had he not left India - simple and straightforward.

He carried a file tucked away beneath his arms.



After preliminary introductions, Detective Bhushan explained about Sumeet’s death in ‘a fire

mishap’.



“But there is something else that I have to show you.” He opened the file, and took out a buff

colored envelope. He pulled the flap and took out a photo. “This is a shot taken on the site.

We want to know if you understand this.” He pointed to a spot on the photo.



Aman, Rishabh and Graham leaned forward to look at the photograph.



Rishabh gasped; the friend he had worked with for the past many days was now a black and

burnt piece of flesh lying awkwardly in a soot covered floor. On the floor, beside the body was

a strange symbol, to which Detective Bhushan’s finger pointed – it looked like







**************************************



George Stanley got up in a rage. His round grandfatherly face was red; his whiskers flickered

and his eyes burnt. Naina stared at him timidly. He had taken the call. The change was

instantaneous.



“Come, Naina. I think it is time to confront Bioten people with some harsh truths. They have

played enough hide and seek with us!”



“Bioten?” she asked, bewildered.



“Yes, Naina. Bioten. That is the company which produced this smart bomb – a project led by

Rishabh and Sumeet”



“But Bioten is into…” she started.



His large body loomed over the table. She cringed under his glare. “Bioten is a surreptitious

shop for biological and nuclear weaponry. A company that expanded its reach while the

government fought illogical wars outside!”



He moved out of the room. She followed him into the corridor. Besides his round and large

body, she felt small and diminutive. She struggled to keep pace with him. Despite his bulk,

George Stanley was as agile as he had been decades back in Vietnam. They turned the corridor

towards the elevators. He punched the button several times, as if pushing it would force the

lift to move faster.



His eyes were glacial. She thought best to keep quiet and not ask questions.



The elevator arrived; soon they were in the basement parking, and driving out of the building

in Stanley’s grey Lancer.



“May I ask who had called?” she mustered her courage to find her voice.



“It was the third message” he said. “The third of the codes is lost”



Naina swore under her breath, and closed her eyes. The car whizzed smoothly over the

highway. Her thoughts were in turmoil. She could not believe that Rishabh was responsible for

making a bomb that would kill his own countrymen. She felt revulsion towards Rishabh.

She wished she could leave all this and be on that flight to India!



*************************

Naina looked at the faces of the four men gathered in the cabin – Aman Sharma, Graham

Scheele, George Stanley and Rishabh – each with his own expression of mistrust and confusion;

she avoided Rishabh’s eye contact. None of them sat. No seats were offered. The tension was

simmering.



“Listen gentlemen” said George. “I think we have played enough games. Let’s cut out the fat

and come to the fact – You guys have created this bomb, handed it over to the US Govt. but

smartly kept the activation part hidden away with yourself”



“Even the deactivation!” interjected Rishabh. Aman and Graham glared at him.



“Wonderful. I will be frank; despite our department being part of the govt. we have no clue

where the bomb is in Delhi. So, that means the left hand hides from the right one, and you

have a dick that is already fucking somewhere!”



Naina winced. What was wrong with George? He had never sworn in her presence; today, he

was making obscene analogies.



“I am calling up DC after this. Your trusted people across the globe are being killed, and

probably the codes to the activation are now challenged. But before that, I want to know the

full facts! And before I know the facts, can’t you bloody well change the activation code?”



Rishabh cleared his throat. “No. That cannot be done. The person who changed the admin

password, which is also its deactivation gateway, died in a fire yesterday before he could

inform us about the changes”



George pounced like a hungry tiger. “What the hell are you guys doing here? Do you think this

is some sort of game going on?” He jabbed his fingers in the air, looking at Aman and Rishabh.

George was shivering in anger.



“George, please…” said Aman. “It is a genuine mishap. We did not come to know that

situations would reach a phase that someone will go to the extent of killing people to get…”



“Then you should have bloody well known!”



“We are scientists, and not…”



“Then you should remain scientists, and not keep secrets hiding from the US government!”



“That was a management…”



“I am sure you don’t even know that your men are dying…”



“We do…George, please. Take a seat, I will explain,” said Aman. “Please…”



George’s mouth was pursed, and his fat cheeks were quivering in anger, his eyes bulged out.

Reluctantly, he took a seat.



“George, it is true that there have been a lot of hide-and-seek within this group. We kept facts

away from the US Govt., the US Govt kept facts away from you, and you have also kept facts

away from us…”

“What do you mean? I am not obliged to tell Bioten anything!”



“True. But it is also true that you had infiltrated our own men, so much so that before their

death they informed you rather than us. We were aware of this fact that you had provided

them with direct links in case of mishaps. And it was ok with us. Because, as I said, Bioten is

programmed like an organization. We are not designed to think about future mishaps. All we

had ensured was that the device per se is safe and will never ever go on a blast mode on its

own. And today morning we came to know about these deaths. It is unfortunate that the guy

who was authorized to change the password did not get time to inform us; an unfortunate

coincidence that his death…”



“This is not a coincidence. Nothing is coincidence in these matters!” spat George. “Anyways, I

think the time has come for us to inform the US govt. and also get this matter clean. Maybe

you are not aware but three of these men are dead now!”



Aman’s jaws dropped. He looked shiftily towards Graham, who was red in his face.



“But…” started Aman; the management will screw his happiness if they came to know he had

spilled the beans.



“No buts…” George flung the words, and marched out of the room. Aman looked at Graham

who followed George out of the room. Naina also started to leave.



Naina was at the door; she turned and said to no one in particular. “Really sorry to hear about

Sumeet.”



“Dammit!” exclaimed Aman, pounding his fist on the table. “If only Sumeet …”



“If only you had not played games, Aman” said Rishabh.



“I did not play any games and don’t forget I am your senior here” he glared, his voice getting

hoarser.



“Can you tell us what you plan to do? Can you ensure that the last of the codes is safe?”



Naina had paused near the door; she meant to ask a question, but was trapped in the rapid

exchange of the two men.



“Yes,” said Aman, looking at Graham. “It was lucky that you saw that message on Naina’s

mobile…”



Naina froze. Her heart skipped a beat.



“…we have got to know it in time. We can still stop any mishap,” said Aman.



Rishabh was confused; he looked at Aman, and then at Naina standing at the door. Their eyes

met in a screech of friction. She banged the door behind her and walked out.



“Bastard!” said Rishabh to Aman, and started to follow her; but stopped mid-way. Naina had

reached Graham and George in the corridor.



Helplessly, he saw Naina walk away.

EPISODE FOUR



Rishabh drove his Lexus on the busy street. His mind was in a jumbled array of thoughts- the

morning had started off well, but everything was now in mess.



When he had left his house that morning, he had made a few straight decisions – he knew

would marry Naina, and come out of his sticky marriage. He had managed to stop Naina also;

but that SMS and the ensuing conversation with Aman and Graham had made a dirty secret

tumble out.



It was true initially he had befriended her on Aman’s instructions to keep an ‘eye’ on what the

government was planning – Sick job agreed, but you have to do it, no choices there, Aman had

stated. Later, he had realized that she was not going to tell any secrets, and a few months

later, he did not want any. What she had provided as a person was far beyond what he had

ever hoped for!



He was sad about Sumeet Shukla and recalled the friendly times he had with him – the tired

nights of working, experimenting and waiting for desired results, accompanied with coffee, and

his own passive smoking, as Sumeet was a chain-smoker. In light of the events, he had a hunch

that Sumeet’s death was not accidental. There was a reason to it.



His thoughts maneuvered to Brahamastra - the bomb. The password was lost. And then, he

recalled the strange figure beside Sumeet’s photograph. It reminded him of something. He

could not place his finger. He swore under his breath. It was something that he and Sumeet had

discussed. Or seen. What the hell was it? He hit the steering in frustration. What, what, what?



He took a deep breath. Relax, Rishabh, he told himself. It will come to you. Relax. Deep

breathing. One. Two. Three. Think something else.



He had to stop the bomb’s activation if it began. But how? He had designed it, but it was all

automated. He thought of the design. He was unsure of an alternate way; could it be possible?

It was dangerous. Yet…



Rishabh turned right into Governer’s Club – a prestigious locality. Absently, he nodded at the

security guard while he drove into the community. The half million security gate recognized

the code placed on his car and pulled itself up to let him in. His house was half a mile down.

With blank eyes he looked at the familiar neighborhood - idle retired couples strolling for an

early evening walk, a few joggers, the dog-walkers, and the usual golfers with their caddies.

The grass was trimmed, the trees crisp with no stray leaves in sight, each flower bush planted

with great planning and color coordination. For the first time he noticed this prim look. It was

so prim and organized that it looked artificial to him.



He saw his pride – his house – atop a slight hill; he drove around it.



By the time Rishabh swerved into the driveway of his house and pressed the garage remote

button, he had made his decision- and a phone call.



Anuradha opened the door. He did not talk to her, but rushed to his bedroom, removing his tie.

Taking out his travel bag, he put in a couple of T-shirts, a shirt and two pair of jeans. Opening

his laptop, he placed the photograph of Sumeet’s dead body in the front pocket of the laptop-

bag; then, he connected to wireless internet connection, and entered the desired URLs on two

different window of Internet Explorer



“Are you going somewhere?”

Anuradha stood near the bedroom door, eyeing him suspiciously.



“Yes, a business trip. I will be gone for some days,” he replied, without looking up,

concentrating on the screen of his IBM Thinkpad.



“I thought we had to talk tonight,” said Anuradha.



“This is urgent. But then…”



“You are following that girl!” screeched Anuradha. “I will inform your father. This is enough

now!” He looked up, his jaws clenched in anger. Anuradha looked so timid and furtive. But the

voice had a steely edge to it. He looked into her eyes and nearly shivered.



“Anuradha, let’s face it. This marriage is over. You can inform anyone you want to.”



He pressed “enter”, and awaited confirmation from the sites; meanwhile, he walked past her

to the bathroom to pick up his shaving kit and toothbrush. Anuradha sighed, and walked to the

laptop, and looked at it. She knew it. It was happening.



As he returned, he stopped at the hallway; he had forgotten his watch there. He went to the

large oak polished chest of drawers; amongst some of half done sketches of Anuradha, there

was his Omega quartz waterproof watch. With a half-interest he looked at a sketch; it was of a

mountaineer climbing a steep peak with the help of a rope, his feet on the face of the cliff,

but his weight held by the tough rope. He smiled, she wasn’t bad at all. He picked up the

watch and wore it.



Then, it struck him - the sign near Sumeet’s body. Hell, why had he missed it earlier?



Suddenly, he felt an arm wrapping around his neck. He half turned. “Please don’t leave me”

she sobbed. He turned to face her, and looked into her eyes. They were dry.



“I have been a good wife. Why …” she started.



He was in no mood to argue; he had seen enough of this for the past few months. He jerked

her, and she fell over the sketches on the table.



“Don’t start all over this again. This marriage is over!” he shouted, and walked out.



On the drive, he risked making two phone calls despite heavy traffic.





******************************************





George Stanley dropped Naina at Starbucks.



She needed time to think for herself. The bridges were burnt behind her. She had cancelled her

ticket on her way to her office to meet George. It will take sometime for the next flight. She

ordered for a hot cappuccino, and took her seat.



With her chin placed on her hands, and her elbows on the table, she mused on the past few

hours, peering out at the fast moving traffic with a semi-interest. She was a logical person;

very meticulous in her approach to life; yet she had take a rash decision. Her life’s single

impulsive action stared hauntingly back at her. Naina Verma, the brain behind many a broken

code, the star performer of the US intelligence had sacrificed her thoughts at the altar of

emotions.



It pained her that the man she had befriended for past many months had equal number of

secrets to hide. He was creator of a lethal device that could take the lives of millions of

people; and as of now, the lives were of Delhiites – her own country!



Her mind echoed the conversation in Aman’s room, and about Aman’s last remark. Was this all

a part of a calculated design…did Rishabh ever love her? She brushed the thought aside along

with a drop of tear that was threatening to form on the threshold of her eyes.



She was sorry about Sumeet. They had met often on social gatherings; in fact, Sumeet,

Rishabh, herself and her friend – a dentist - had become quite a ‘gang’ meeting on weekends.

He was a decent man, and had a weird sense of humor. Though he did fuss about their ‘illicit’

relationship, he had sort of accepted it when Anuradha was out of such gatherings. She

remembered how he was interested in her work, and together they had solved many a

crossword sitting at some café or restaurant, a sore point with Rishabh, as riddles never really

interested him.



“Naina” called the counter-boy.



She got up to get her coffee. It was hot. Picking up the cup tenderly, she placed it back on her

seat, and sipped the scalding concoction. It burnt her insides, but it felt good.



The phone buzzed. She looked at the number. Rishabh. She wanted to ignore his call, but an

instinct to take out the acid belching within her, made her accept the call. At Aman’s office

she had been unable to speak to him alone; plus, he had left immediately.



“Yes, Rishabh? What else now?” she said, even before he could speak.



“Naina, I know you are angry with me. But I need to meet you once to clear this

misunderstanding. What you are thinking is not right. I might not get the time again,

please…one last time.”



Now what? “No, Rishabh. This is over!”



“I know it is. But I have to clarify my stand. At least give me that chance. For humanity’s sake,

dammit! I am reaching the airport. I will wait for you outside the gate for half hour. Please do

come! And, yes I have to tell something about Sumeet also…”



The call disconnected. She sat for several minutes weighing her options. Aiport? Why was

Rishabh going to airport?

****************************



The Hawk alighted at Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport. He passed through the

bored immigration counter with ease. As he carried no luggage, he walked out of the terminal,

and hired a taxi. He looked at the address given to him by the Scorpion. “Lazimpat” he

informed the driver. The driver looked at the well dressed man behind him. “Three hundred

rupees,” he doubled the rate. The Hawk nodded. I will deal with you later on. The driver

swerved out of the airport’s long and sloped driveway.



The Hawk was pleased. Everything was going as planned. Today, he will have the fourth of the

password. And then, the Scorpion will announce the war on India begun. For years, these

people have ruled over us. He recalled mother’s rape, when he was young, probably only ten

years old. They had entered their house, pushed aside his father and pounced on his mother.

One by one, they ravaged his mother’s dignity, in front of his eyes; in front of his father’s eyes,

who died of shock. They left, thinking him to be dead. He did not know then who these men

were. They seemed of his quam. But they couldn’t be. His mother told him their religion does

not permit to even look at other women; that is why she was in a purdah. It was so pure. It was

so sensible. Later on, he had heard that the Indian Army men were doing the killings and rapes.

He hated them. He would take revenge.



For the sake of his mother who was still in the infirmary at Srinagar, he was finally on the road

to revenge. Scorpion had shown way. This job gave good money too.



The car stopped. He looked out. There was a jam. They were near the Palace. He looked at his

watch. He would give fifteen minutes to elicit the code. No, the game would not be fun. Ten

minutes would be the maximum. Yes, he smiled. He enjoyed this. Ten minutes. Aah, those

lovely ten minutes.



After he was out of the house, he smiled satisfactorily, and took out his Gold Flake packet. He

lit it and inhaled the tobacco.



Now, one more job to do. He looked at the taxi driver standing besides the dilapidated Maruti.

No, he thought, there are two more jobs to be done!



******************************



The evening skies over RDU International Airport seemed to converge on the opulent building;

Rishabh viewed up and sighed. As he drove over to the now so very familiar airport, he couldn’t

help but marvel at the amount of money spent on the exteriors of the relatively small airport.



As he drove past I-40, a highway, on Aviation Parkway, he recalled the number of times he had

traveled this road to take the highway at this intersection, often on drives with Naina. Today

he was going beyond the highway; today, he was going way beyond her too.



The same metal Triangle Icon greeted him. Two years ago, he was present at the installation

ceremony. It commemorated the hundredth anniversary of the Wright brothers’ first flight

which took place in this very little state of North Carolina. The metal sculpture of an airplane

with intersecting wings was pointing its nose upwards. It was soaring, it was inspiring and for

once during the day today, he felt better; what he was going to do was a noble cause and he

prayed for his success.



He parked his car at the Terminal A parking lot and took the underground escalator up to the

check-in counters. Delta’s check-in counter wasn’t too busy that day; he had only 45 minutes

to spare before the flight would be announced, taking him to NYC, and from there to Mumbai

on its national carrier – the flight schedule which Naina was supposed to take.



He checked-in and walked out waiting.



He was sure she would come, and was mesmerized to see that even in her obvious disarrayed

state, she looked stunning in her sky blue sari.



“Yes, Rishabh. Tell me. What do you have to say?” Her eyes spewed fire. He pulled her to a

quiet corner, just where he could see the other passengers and visitors as well; he was

expecting one more person.



“I will not waste time, Naina. I love you, and that is the truth. I am not a poet, so I cannot

really explain better than being direct about it. Whatever be the initial reasons for meeting

you, this is the truth as of now! It is also true that I worked on the Brahmastra Project. It is

true that I was making a so called ‘bomb’; but then, weapons are made all over the place. It

was my job. It was to be used to the eliminate evil – I mean, at least that is what I thought.

Trust me…I mean, if you can still. I had no clue that the US government will be using this to

install it against India only. And worse, that some fanatic would now be going killing people to

gain those passwords!”



Naina kept quiet.



“Naina, I have designed the device. I have to diffuse it also. I am not sure how much you know

about this device…”



“George told the basics about it” she said flatly, in an emotion-less voice. She told what she

had heard.



“Good. Have you heard of Buckyball or spherical fullerenes?”



She shook her head.



“Fullerene is one of the four types of occurring carbon. The other cousins like diamond and

graphite being more popular ones. They are molecules composed entirely of carbon, taking the

form of a hollow sphere, ellipsoid, or tube. The spherical fullerenes ones are called buckyballs.

I will not go into details and just inform that buckyballs have 100 times the strength of steel,

but at a fraction of the weight.



“Now coming to the bomb, at the core is a Fullerene(Buckyball) nanotube electrode which has

Neutral State Antimatter particles (approx 1 gm) embedded in it. Because of the repulsion of

all the carbon atoms in the buckyball, the antimatter would never combine with its opposite

and no energy release will occur.



“This tube is attached with a transmitter that sends out radio waves of known frequency, so

that a satellite can track it down. This is constantly charged by solar cells. I hope you are

getting the point?”



She nodded, though in reality it was not making much sense to her.



“Now, the bomb has a chip sized micro battery that can deliver very high voltage for

nanoseconds. The activation is done through a device, presently kept in Nepal, as you already

know. On this ‘activation device’ a code is entered- the same code that Bioten kept with four

people in parts. Putting all the four codes together, this device will send a signal to the

satellite. The satellite will then ‘trace’ the ‘bomb’ and send a focused beam of infrared rays.

Got it?”



Again, she nodded.



“Good. The energy photons in the infrared rays are received by a micro receiver in the device.

The micro receiver then collects this energy in a reservoir cell till it has sufficient energy to

‘trigger’ the micro battery. Since the ‘energy photons’ level of the infra-red rays from the

satellite are known, the reservoir cell is pre-designed to complete its filling up in twenty four

hours. This was done to avoid any accidental triggers, giving sufficient time for deactivation.

Once adequate energy is stored in the reservoir cell, it triggers the micro cell. The micro cell

gives out a nanosecond pulse of a very high voltage – as high as 15000 volts!”



She had nearly stopped breathing.

“Yeah that high! And because it is this high, it forces neutral antimatter to spin. It gains

charge and is converted to ‘charged’ antimatter. The charged antimatter particles then repel

each other and cause the ‘explosion’. See this is why the bomb is absolutely safe on its own

and transportable also. The neutral antimatter cannot be charged on its own. And since it is

the ‘buckyball’ electrode, it can survive the biggest attacks as buckyball is so strong”



“And if one has to deactivate the bomb?”



“That is easy. You enter another code, and the signals from the satellite stop. But the problem

is that the six-digit deactivation code was changed by Sumeet.”



“And there is no way other way to deactivate it?”



Rishabh sighed. Yes there should be. He had not tried that out in his research. He nodded

imperceptibly.



“But, why I called you here was about Sumeet…” He looked past her. There he was. He waved

his arm, and called out the name. Naina turned to see Aman Sharma walking towards them.



“Talk to Dr. Kaush Gandhi immediately,” he whispered quickly to Naina. “The insignia that

Sumeet made before his death is the draft of the same sketch that Anuradha had given to Dr

Gandhi for her signboard when she started her practice. She would have some key to this! And

yes book me any flight to Delhi.”



Aman reached them, pushing aside a small child standing with a trolley.



“Rishabh! What the hell are you doing here.”



“Aman, I am going to India!”



“What? How? You can’t leave like this. You are not authorized to,” Aman said in his sore voice.



“Well, I knew that one ticket had got cancelled on Air India flight, that’s how,” said Rishabh,

looking at Naina.



“What do you have in mind?”



“I have in mind to diffuse that bomb any which way. And that is something that I cannot do

sitting here. So either I have to be in India or Nepal, but I don’t want to be sitting idle and

waiting for a mishap to happen!”



“You know you could lose your job?”



“Aman! Can we now please cut out our petty differences? I know you don’t like me. I know we

are not on equal wavelength. But Aman, this is not about you or me. This is about a country.

Our country.” Pointing to the whites moving in and out of the airport he switched to Hindi,

and said, “We have served them enough. We made a bomb that they were planning to use

against our own country some day. What more ironical can be than this? We have again played

in the hands of these whites. We left our country and used our expertise to serve them, and in

return we have got nothing. And what did we do coming here. You and I are fighting, and a

third person is gaining. If this bomb blasts, neither you nor I will benefit anything.



Rishabh stepped forward, and looking squarely at Aman continued, his voice lowered, “Now is

the time to make a difference. Now is the time to remove the cover off this hollow

materialistic life that we have been leading. Now is the time when we can do something and

probably gain back our self-respect at least. Now is the time to repay in whatever small terms

we can to our own motherland.” He placed a soft hand on his shoulders, “Aman- please, inform

the authorities, please inform the Indian Embassy at least! As for me, if I can survive this, I

don’t care a damn about being a servant to the Americans any more!”



Aman’s jaws dropped. Naina looked at the two men, feeling out-of-place.



Rishabh did not wait. He turned, swinging his bag, and walked briskly into the airport crowd.



Aman stood transfixed.

EPISODE FIVE



The clinic of Dr Kaush Gandhi was, as she described it, “a place where patients came in with

their worry and left it at the reception area before entering the dental operatories”



Naina walked into the familiar reception area; posters of healthy, smiling, happy looking

people that adorned walls of the neat room greeted her; as did, Karen, the receptionist cum

assistant. Naina viewed the blank space behind Karen curiously.



“Oh hello Ms. Verma.”



“Hi Karen, working late?”



“Just moving off. Its good to see you. Please do take a seat while I inform Dr. Gandhi,” she

smiled.



Naina sat on the edge of the sofa. She looked around. She smiled at the hint of Indianness- tiny

elephant sculptures, personally handpicked by Kaush, and placed in the seating area. Dental

journals, pamphlets, magazines, and dental information flyers were neatly arranged on tables

surrounding the sofas. The reception desk boasted of latest computer technology of keeping

patient records. Of course, the Indian in Kaush had given rise to a file cabinet with basic

patient information in paper, and the number of files on that cabinet shelf gave away the

popularity of this young doctor.



Inside, Naina knew were three patient operatories replete with state of art dental instruments,

chairs and radiograph technology, done up in sparkling white – “the way the teeth should be!”



“Hey Naina,” called out Kaush, in a faint American accent, peeping her head out from the door

“I am surprised to see you here. I thought you had a flight out today.” Turning to Karen she

said, “You can leave; just make sure you enter the lock code before you go.”



Naina smiled; she had always marveled at the dentist’s constant joie-de-vivre, despite an

immense work load. Apart from running her own clinic, Dr Gandhi was the forensic dentist for

the NCPD. She was short in height, but made up with a brain that seemed to extend from her

head to toes.



Naina entered the room, and again smiled at the success of her friend. They were of the same

age, and had often joked about their respective alma maters’ age old rivalry in basketball.

“It’s like India-Pak cricket rivalry,” they would explain to anyone who found the passion of

their ‘discussion’ getting heated up; eight miles apart, and yet Duke University and UNC loved

to hate each other.



As she took the plush crème seat, Naina’s eyes fell on the wall behind the doctor. There hung

Kaush’s pride -her doctorate in Dental Surgery degree certificate from University of North

Carolina at Chapel Hill. “The best attend the best,” was another of her quotable quotes.



“It’s a long story, Kaushie” said Naina, as she fondly called her friend, settling down

comfortably into the seat. “But, I am here to ask for your help now.”



“Yeah, sure?”



“You know about Sumeet?”

“Of course I do! Poor chap” Kaush shook her head. “In fact, Bhushan is handling that case. It is

still unclear whether it was accident or foul play!”



Oh yes, it had slipped Naina’s mind – Detective Sushant Bhushan and Dr. Gandhi were engaged;

their marriage fixed for coming December.



“Good. Has he consulted you as yet?”



“On this case, no! My role comes in when the identity of the person is unknown; or else, if

there is something definite to be known through the teeth. You know that teeth survive a lot of

things!”



“True. But he must have told you that near the death site an insignia was found similar to what

Anuradha Srivastava had made for your logo. I don’t see it now. The space behind Karen was

empty. But I think you had put it up there some time back.”



Kaush smiled. “I had got that removed a couple of days back as I have given a new sign board

to be made from that one, rather than just keeping a framed sketch. I am surprised that

Bhushan did not co-relate it. But then how does it relate to me?”



“Do you know what that insignia was for?”



“Yeah sure. It was quite simple one that Anuradha had created. I had asked for something that

could do with the teeth, so she had created a Roman 32 with a T – quite imaginative one, since

together it looked like a smiling face.”



Naina closed her eyes. Seconds before his death, Sumeet had made an insignia of a smiling

face. It was a strange one to make just before one’s death. Why had Sumeet made a reference

to an insignia that he knew was at Dr. Kaush’s clinic?



“Did Sumeet visit you some time back?” asked Naina.



Kaush shook her head. “Nopes. The last we met were at Dr. Sudhir’s dinner.”



“Yeah…and the energetic dance that he did on the song ‘kajra re’ was amazing!” recalled

Naina fondly. She referred to a hit number Kajra Re from a new Hindi film.



Kaush smiled. “True. I did not get a chance to meet him after that. In any case, I wasn’t his

dentist also apart from doing his routine check up once; you know it was a common joke –

actually a crib- between us!”



Yes, true. Dr. Kaush was not his dentist, yet he had made an insignia related to her clinic. Was

he pointing to something here?



Think, Naina, think, she urged herself.



“Are you sure that there was nothing else to the sketch?” asked Naina.



Kaush shook her head. “Not that I recall of immediately. It was quite a simple one, and I had

not made any changes to it except for getting my name engraved over it.”



Naina’s eyes snapped open. Yes, she got it. The joke that Sumeet made – so a new trend

would be to have your lover’s name on the teeth!

“Kaush,” she exclaimed excited. “I need you to call Bhushan immediately. You have to do an

analysis of Sumeet’s teeth right away.”







****************************************

Sunanda Mathur was not a bright girl, but she understood the impact of any thing that seemed

out of place.



As a staffer of Rediff, looking after the blogs section, she had a vaguely satisfying job – it paid

well, gave her enough time to pursue her private life, not that there was much to it, and of

course, it did not involve too much hard work or diligence. The biggest positive was that she

got to read a lot of stuff written by people living all over the world.



Placing a lukewarm plastic cup of readymade coffee procured from the office vending machine,

she clicked sites that needed to be updated onto the ‘sizzling list’. For the past three months

she had been following one of them keenly. An anonymous blogger was inspired by Dan Brown

and forwarding a bizarre but plausible theory. She was quite enamored by the stuff that the

blogger put up – there was no regularity but definitely there were proofs and a lot of technical

stuff that made sense.



Yesterday, she had seen a one line post – “Are you sure you will live to see this year’s

Independence Day?”



At first, she had thought it to be the work of an overactive blogger working to create some

sensation to gain readership. But the trend was not such. The blogger did not get much

readership, and whatever comments were there did not receive any reply – so the effort was

clearly not to gain any readership.



Today, there was a new post – a short one page. She contorted her round, baby-like face as she

started to read it. Her eyes widened with horror as she read the account. To verify, she

clicked on a few news sites, and made a couple of Google searches. Yes, the deaths mentioned

were true.



The last line of the post made her spill the coffee.



She rushed out of her cubicle – not to the restroom to clean the stain, but to her supervisor.



**************************

The Prime Minister’s Office, New Delhi is a rush of activity throughout the day. With the

forthcoming Independence Day preparations well into the final stages, it was a mad house of

bureaucrats and officials running amok all over the place.



The call came through an unsecured line. At first the receptionist warded it off; she knew

enough pranksters who love to take advantage of the Prime Minister’s humble persona. If he

had made a public announcement that he was ‘accessible 24*7’ many had taken the same to be

at face value. She transferred the line to the Security Department.



The Prime Minister, in his dapper safari suit, sat with his writers, giving final touches to the

speech that he was to make the next day. As he read the near-final draft, a small fear swept

his heart; was this an intuition? He felt uncomfortable. He had requested for the change of

venue from normal Red Fort to the lawns of India Gate. It was a tradition that had left in its

wake tons of newsprint wasted as the debate carried on whether he was constitutionally

authorized to change the venue or not. It had led to some heated altercations with `the

Opposition, who saw this as an affront to the country.

The Prime Minister took a deep breath, and started to read the printed sheet in front of him.



When the phone rang, and was picked up by an obsequious secretary, the Prime Minister had a

foreboding it was not just an ordinary call.



“There is a man on the other end who talks about…” the voice on the other end said. It was of

the National Security Advisor. The latter explained the nature of the call. “We have verified his

claims over the internet. They seem true. He insists on talking to you only”



“Put him on,” said the Prime Minister, heaving a sigh, and waited for a minute while the call

was connected. He pressed the speaker phone button. The National Security Advisor entered

the room, his face red and his breath heavy; at 80 kilogram weight, it was not easy to run.



“Mr. Prime Minister. I will not waste time in formal preliminaries. I am sure by now your team

would have informed you the details, as also the call trace that they would have done. Don’t

even bother asking me the clichéd question of who I am as you will not get a reply.”



“What do you want?” asked the Prime Minister. “What have you done?”



“That is better; I am happy that the people of India have chosen an intelligent leader. We are

not beggars to ‘want’ anything. Let’s leave that. What we have done is something that you

should actually question your new found friends, the United States of America.”



The Prime Minister was quiet, and gave a low grunt.



“Maybe you are still thinking this to be a crank call. But I would suggest you ask your US

counterpart about something called Brahmastra. Yes, an Indian name for a project to be used

against India! I will call in half an hour’s time. Oh yes, ignore this call at your own risk”



The Prime Minister sighed. Could it possible that the opposition was stooping to these tactics to

change the venue? Still, to be surer, he advised the NSA to double check.





***********************************

In the morning, Aman drove to the Washington DC at a breakneck speed, violating all traffic

norms. He reached the Indian Embassy offices in two hours flat. The conversation with Graham

replayed in his mind.



“If you do this Aman, I will have to report to the Chairman!” Graham had said. “Come on, we

are on same side,” he said, placing a suggestive hand on Aman’s waist.



“No, Graham,” Aman had replied, shoving Graham’s hand. “We are not. You can report to the

chairman if you wish to, but I am not going and informing Indian Embassy!”



Sure enough, Graham had reported to the Chairman. The fax of his termination would have

reached his office by now; but till then, he had managed to use his offices as Director of Bioten

to obtain an urgent appointment with the Ambassador of India to the United States.



He parked his car, and got out, viewing the sprawling building of the Ambassador’s residence.

He breathed deeply. He felt light and happy. He was home today!





****************************

“Sweet heart, you need a break,” said Bhushan, biting into an apple. “Ever since you have

asked for this, you have been working on it non-stop! See, it’s such a lovely morning today”



Kaush looked up from the pictures and reports. She sighed. “Bhushan, you need some work.

Ever since you have been here, you have played five games on the computer, fiddled with my

equipment and nearly broke my lovely little terracotta vase!”



Bhushan smiled. “That’s the fun of being with NCPD, baby! See I will give you so much time

after marriage.” He looked at the calendar – 13th August – still four months and some days to go

for the D-Day!



She laughed. “Sure” and walked to the telephone on her desk. “Hey, Naina, come over

immediately. I have never seen anything like this in my career, ever… ok fine… ten minutes!”



Bhushan walked to her. “I guess I will leave and let you do the talks.” He hugged her, gave her

a kiss, and left. “And yeah, tell your friend to return this file fast” He said, pointing to a white

and blue covered file lying on her desk.



“Dr. Gandhi, Ms. Naina is here to see you.” Karen, her assistant peeked in ten minutes later.



“Thanks. Send her in, Karen.”



“What?” said Naina, rushing in. She had no time for greetings and her friendship with Kaush

was in any case beyond that point of friendly greetings. “You found anything?”



“Yes; a lot actually.”



Kaush handed Naina a file. Naina opened it and tried to make sense out of the figures and

pictures and x-rays.



“Well, it goes this way,” explained Kaush. As she did, she started to pace in front of her desk,

like a school teacher explaining to her class.



“Sumeet retained his teeth even though his whole body was charred and the flesh burnt to

ashes. Teeth are highly calcified and can thus withstand very high temperatures even when

other body tissues get deteriorated. When I first analyzed Sumeet’s dentition, I saw nothing out

of ordinary. So we just went about pulling each tooth and making an exact model replica of his

jaw. Sumeet has visited me once, you recall, and I still have his old radiographs that I took the

one time he was here.



“His teeth were very healthy then and did not look like they would need any restorations for a

long time. However, what boggled me most were six tooth-colored restorations in his maxilla,

the upper jaw - three on the right molars and three on the left, number 2, 3, 4 and 14, 15, 16.

He is missing thirds. Extracted. Four temporary crowns have been placed on these teeth. The

crowns are placed on healthy teeth and are so cleverly done that an untrained eye cannot

notice the very slight elevation that occurs due to caps on healthy teeth. This crown is resin

and I am surprised it did not burn in the fire. The sides are a little worn but they have served

the purpose”



“Which is?” Naina’s heart was pounding.



“To hide what lies beneath them,” said Kaush, stopping her pace, and leaning over the desk.



“Which is?” Naina repeated.

“Letters! Very cleverly carved within a sealant placed on each tooth! See the last page, and

the enlarged photograph.”



Naina was staring at the letters, and the photograph.



Kaush went on. “The cusps of these molars were carved down slightly and a sealant was place

on the occlusal surface. The sealant material is Bis-GMA, a very common resin that combines

ceramics and other materials to give it a lot of strength. When the material is placed in the

tooth it is liquid. It is then light cured, that is UV light cured for two minutes upon and set to

harden. What happened here was that before the sealant was hardened, these letters were

carved within it. This must have been done very meticulously, takes a lot of skill”



Naina was silent, and Kaush spoke again. “By the way, Bhushan left this file, saying that it

might help you. But he wants it back fast”



Naina picked up the file, and studied it – there were photographs of the death site, of the

drawing room – a place which she remembered having partied; she smiled when she saw the

photo of Sumeet’s prized possession- his Sony stereo. There was another shot of the hallway,

and of a few photographs – Sumeet at the Disneyland –“my childhood reclaimed”; Sumeet in

front of a Benz car – “the trident of cars to kill competition”; Sumeet in his office – “meri

karmbhoomi” and Sumeet in front of a pagoda – “meri janambhoomi”



Naina closed the file, and again took up the letters. Her eyes twinkled.



She stood up. “Kaushie, you have been the sweetest friend. Thanks so much. But I will have to

rush now. And yes, I am keeping this file with me.” She pointed to the blue-and-white file.

“This you can return to Bhushan, and say thanks from me”



“You are welcome,” said Kaush, and watched her friend run out.



**************************************************



The sun had set over 13th August’s Delhi skyline. The PM was at the window; watching, but not

looking, at the city light. He did not believe in it, but was the number ‘13’ acting up?



The Home Minister cleared his throat. “Sir, we have to take some action and deactivate this; or

else, we will have to evacuate Delhi”



The PM did not turn; his mind ran past few hours’ events - The National Security Advisor had

confirmed from the USA who claimed “there was such a bomb, but the location was not Delhi”.

Yet approximately an hour later a harried Ambassador to the US had confirmed about Bioten’s

news – there was a bomb, and it was in Delhi.



Then the fax had arrived – no number, no tracing. It just had one line written – “The bomb will

go off on 15th August at 7:00 A.M.” It was signed with a design of a Scorpion.



The Home Minister spoke again, “Sir…”



The PM turned. “Yes, I understand. But can we do anything? The bomb is not where it was

supposed to be!”



The Home Minister raised his eyebrows.



“We will await this gentleman from Bioten to help in this sticky situation. The Ambassador

confirms that there is a way out.”

He sighed. It will be his longest night probably.



He didn’t know that at this time two more people were having their toughest days – one, a man

who was still in air, and second, a lady who was having her longest morning!



*****************************************************************

The first thing Naina did after leaving Dr. Gandhi’s clinic was to drive to the Concorde office.

She was going to India. It meant a screw up on her credit card and her balances when she paid

the card companies, but this was the fastest means to reach India. That the seats were

available for same day’s afternoon 1:30 flight hardly came as a surprise to her; despite hype,

Concorde was not performing well in its second innings.



She hated the fuss the airline was creating – too helpful and too obsequious, she thought, but

then re-starting a project meant they had to keep customers overtly happy. She waited for the

ticket to be processed; a dull weariness was sweeping over her – last night had been hectic;

getting Sumeet’s body out of NCPD’s mortuary was a procedural hassle, despite Bhushan’s

complete help. She had been at Kaush’s clinic, while the latter worked on it, till early morning,

when she left to ‘refresh’ herself. On reaching home, she had nearly dozed off. She had not

even got chance to change when Kaush had called her back.



The ticket was processed. She took it, thanked the counter executive and ran out.



She reached home, and packed a miniature travel bag; in her ‘make up kit’ she placed a few

lipsticks, her tooth brush and her eyeliner. Dammit, she chided herself. You are not going on a

picnic. But these were automated actions; she did it without realizing it.



She looked at the clock above - barely time to reach airport for check-in. She decided against

changing – very uncomfortable to travel in a sari, but so be it!



She recalled she had to inform George Stanley, her boss. Frantically, she ran to the drawing

room. Picking up the sleek multi-functional black phone, she first set ‘answering mode’ to

“Option 2” – her ‘gone to India’ message- she had never used it, but had recorded it to hear

the sound of it.



Then, she dialed the number and spoke to George.



She was not resigning, and yes, she was going to India, to solve and help on this problem. She

explained about Sumeet’s teeth and what she had found below it.



“But how the hell do you know that what you found under Sumeet’s teeth is not the code

itself?” asked George.



“Two reasons – one, I did hear Rishabh telling that it is a six digit code; but even if I heard that

incorrectly, I am pretty much confident that the code cannot be in Hindi!”



**********************************************





Rishabh stretched on his seat.



“Would you like to have anything else, sir?” asked the air hostess, clearing his table.



Some peace, if possible! “No thank you,” he said, absently.

The airhostess smiled and walked back to the service bay to deposit his tray. Rishabh pushed

his seat to ‘recline’ mode, and closed his eyes. He was not sure about his next step, but he had

to do something. He hoped that Naina would have been able to find something from Dr. Kaush.

More than that, he also hoped that Naina had understood him.



Flashes of time spent with Naina swept past his memory’s film. He did not realize he had fallen

asleep, when the announcement woke him up. “We wish to welcome you to India. In a short

while from now our plane would be landing at Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport, Mumbai. For your

information the outside temperature is 32 degrees, and the local time is …”



He adjusted his watch, rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window.



India stretched below him in illuminated dots and lines – like a web of glow-worms placed on

earth. As the plane descended the dots and lines became clearer and formed houses and cars

and people - living people that were at a threat because he had created an impossibly fatal

device. At past-midnight the lights of Mumbai looked beautiful. He stretched again – it had

been a tiring journey with two far-apart breaks – at NYC and London



He sighed.



In a short while the plane raced on the runway, slowed and parked. A few minutes later, he

walked out, giving a cursory ‘namaste’ to the air-hostess.



He inhaled his first breath in India. It was life-giving.



He switched on is cell-phone…mobile phone, as he remembered the Indians called it. The

screen flashed with a message ‘Searching for network’; within a couple of minutes he had the

local service provider’s name on it. He was inundated with messages from the same service

provider ‘welcoming him to India’ and giving him various offers. The last message was not from

the mobile service provider.



It was from Naina. Bless the girl; she had done his booking on Jet Airways flight, early morning-

first flight, at seven a.m. He had some hours to spare.



Post immigration, he walked to baggage claim area, and moved towards the exit beyond it. A

sign-board caught his eyes. He went to the lady near it.



“Hi, my name is Rishabh Srivastava. I have a flight to Delhi on your airlines.”



The lady checked a sheet in front of her. “Yes, Mr. Srivastava” Pointing to a door marked ‘Exit’

she said, “Could you please move towards the door there, our coach is waiting to transfer

passengers to the Domestic Terminal”



“Thank you.” Before moving out of the ‘exit’ he stopped at the exchange counter to change his

dollars to Indian rupees.



The coach ride was small; the rush at the domestic terminal huge; after his check-in, he still

had enough time to board the flight; he moved to the Lounge for breakfast.



He bought a Tata Indicom wireless connection, and connected to the internet. As is wont, his

first step was the news sites- nothing there. Then, he punched in the URL of Rediff. A bold

headline stared back at him “Is India’s Independence Day in Danger?” He read the small

paragraph of news. It did not contain any details except about a dangerous bomb that might go

off in Delhi. It was a vague article, no specifics mentioned.

His next site was Nepalnews.com. Yes, his worst fears had come true. The fourth password was

lost – Dr. Yadav Khanal, Head of Biology, Kathmandu University was found brutally murdered in

his Lazimpat residence.



His flight was announced.



As soon as he entered the plane, he received two messages. He read them, and frowned. He

checked the time of the messages. They were delayed messages that had reached him now.



He kept his bag and the laptop on the overhead bin and sat on his seat, and watched the

passengers stroll in. Dammit! Why can’t they be fast? Why can’t the plane just take off?



Ten minutes later, he stared wide eyed at the entrance.



****************************



The Hawk listened. If he had been in India, Kokil would have been a corpse, but for now, the

Hawk heard the repetition of instructions. At sharp seven activate the bomb. Not a minute

before or later. The authorities have been informed of the same. Match time. He was given

the compiled codes. Don’t fail.



“I never fail!” the Hawk hissed and snapped the phone. His boss should take care in recruiting

other people. Kokil was not of the caliber – not his caliber. He was a class apart. He smiled. He

moved out of the non-descript hotel at Thamel, Kathmandu.



On reaching his destination, he lowered his head. He hated visibility, but dawn came early in

the valley. The emptiness was his enemy. He reached the gateway. The impassive guard did

not look at him, but proceeded to open the gate. Last night, he had received his packet. It

would cure his father’s cancer. He would leave the place after this.



Five minutes later, the Hawk waited for right time. His watch crawled to the hour. He entered

the code that Kokil had given – codes obtained from four dead men, half Hawk’s own

handiwork. He pressed the switch.



Somewhere above a satellite received signal. It searched for its target and started transferring

infra-red rays to an object in Delhi.



The countdown had begun!



*****************************************

For twelve hours on the direct Concorde flight to New Delhi, Naina sat with piece of paper in

her hand, trying to make sense of Sumeet’s message engraved in his teeth.



She avoided eating, and knew that if she had to survive the next day, she should catch up on

her sleep. But sleep eluded her. Like a stuck record, the phrase ran in her mind. She knew she

had to decipher it; and fast. It was clear that the clue lay somewhere in Nepal. Rishabh and

she had to go and search there.



She had sent a message to Rishabh before leaving. She hoped he would be able to meet her.



Dammit! Why couldn’t Sumeet have left a direct message!



She closed her eyes and wondered as to what her friends’ reaction would be about her

cancelled departure and then sudden rush a day later. She wouldn’t know her departure had

one definite reaction. Scorpion had sworn and said, “The lady follows her man – interesting!”

EPISODE SIX

Rishabh turned to the passenger on his side. He was unsure of his next words. Through out his

life he had listened to songs of Lata Mangeshkar; and today, she was seated next to him, in

flesh and blood. What was God doing to him?



He cleared his throat.



“Didi, Namaste, I am Rishabh”



She looked at him uncertainly. He carried on, “Every time I used to listen to your songs, I used

to think that is it possible that this voice could belong to a human being. Today I have seen you

it seems all my wishes have come true!”



Lata Didi smiled, shyly. After more than five decades of success and not a dull moment in her

career, she was still embarrassed of strangers meeting her and eulogizing on her songs. To her,

it was part of a job; till date, she could not understand what drove millions of Indians crazy

listening to her. She knew that there were fan clubs, fan sites and fan groups of her all across

the globe.



The boy, though looking tired and haggard, seemed genuine. She asked, “Are you from Delhi or

Mumbai?”



“Neither,” he smiled back. “I stay in North Carolina, USA”



“So here on work or holiday?”



Rishabh hesitated. In reality it was neither. “Work,” he replied.



The airhostess came in with the fresh towel, and was immediately followed by other serving

candies. Clearly, they too were in awe of the VIP passenger on board. Lata Didi took a couple

of the candies, a child-like innocent gleam in her eyes.



“You are going to Delhi for a concert, or…” he started.



“Nahin. Not a concert. I am performing at the Independence Day function tomorrow. PMji

called up personally. I just could not say no to such a big person.”



Rishabh felt ashamed. All this while he had been boastful and proud that he had reached a

level where he meant something. He was on highest peak of his own profession, and there was

an arrogance that had crept into his demeanor. It was a known fact that Lata Didi would

probably be better known person than even the Prime Minister of the country.



Yet, now when he looked at the lady sitting next to him, clad in a simple zari-and-red bordered

white sari, he considered himself small. He had not achieved even a fraction of Lata Didi, yet

his innocence was forever lost.



With a jerk the plane taxied off on the runway; Rishabh broke from his reverie. Within minutes

they were air borne.



“Lata Didi, though I wish I could have your voice recorded personally as you speak to me, but I

guess that will not be possible. I request for an autograph of yours” Searching his shirt pocket,

he took out his visiting card, and offered her a pen.

She signed in a controlled and neat handwriting – her name in Hindi. Curiously, she overturned

the card and saw the name of the company.



“I work there,” he said. We make bombs! “We manufacture bio-technological products”



“Arre wah! You are doing a great service to the world. You should use your expertise for this

country also. I think bright youngsters like you are required more here than in the USA. I had a

tough time finding someone for the research wing at my hospital”



Rishabh nodded. He looked out at the clouds. “I am now trying to help my country,” he

whispered to himself.



The one hour fifty minute flight ended too quickly for Rishabh. He knew there was an immense

task lying for him at the journey’s end. Yet, he did not want it to end.



As Lata Didi started to move, he asked her. “Can I touch your feet? I am going on an important

mission. I need your blessings”



She looked at his eyes, and nodded.



“I would love to be part of Master Dinanath Mangeshkar Hospital,” he said and smiled. She took

out her visiting card from her purse and handed it to him.



He did not know that he would not need the visiting card after the next twenty four hours were

over.



***************************************

As promised, a car was awaiting for him. The second of the messages that Rishabh had received

at Mumbai airport was Aman’s, who had informed about his visit to Indian Embassy and

confirmation about Indian Government’s ‘offer to take help’.



The first was of Naina’s. She was coming to Delhi by Concorde flight that would be landing in

Delhi shortly.



He sat in the back seat and saw Delhi whiz by him. It was aeons earlier that he had been to this

city. He was surprised to see the changes. The flyovers, especially at Dhaula Kuan, were a

revelation. Though he had read about them, ‘seeing is believing’, indeed.



Many years earlier, his father and he had done rounds of wholesale markets to sell off their

agricultural wares. He remembered he had to call his father and inform his arrival. On second

thoughts, he decided not to. It would worry him. It was better he thought Rishabh was in USA.



One other spot he remembered, as they passed now, was ‘eleven statues’ depicting Mahatma

Gandhi’s Dandi March. He passed the place umpteen times when he made those visits to the US

Embassy for his visa applications.



They turned towards Raisina Hill, and entered the roundabout leading to South Block – one of

the twin structures of sandstone facing each other housing some of the most important offices

of India. Both the secretariat blocks (the other is North Block) flank the President’s House.

Behind him he could see the Rajpath, ending at the India Gate. He turned to view the majestic

structure lording over the wide and neat Rajpath.



There was an elaborate security check, as stern looking men pawed him, and took out each

item from his laptop and bag. After the charade that lasted some fifteen minutes, which also

embarrassed Rishabh as the man patted his body’s discomforting places, he entered the PMO.

He was dazed, and took the small reprieve to consider his surroundings and thoughts. He had

just met the most renowned artiste of the country; within an hour, he was to meet the most

influential person of his nation.



The thick and heavy red printed carpet lent a bright and cheerful ambience to the oak-paneled

room. A heavy desk sat majestically in the center, facing three cream-colored chairs with

exquisite arm-rest. This was the place where policies regarding hundred crore Indians was

decided.



He sat in a chair awkwardly.



The large and heavy door opened, and a team entered the room, led by the man he had seen

the most on television the past few months.



The Prime Minister was followed by four more gentlemen that he recognized – the Union

Minister for Foreign Affairs, the National Security Advisor, the Union Minister for Home Affairs

and the Chief Minister for Delhi. He did not recognize the fifth gentleman in khaki uniform.



“Good Day to you sir” Rishabh bowed to the Prime Minister, who nodded curtly. He looked at

the rest, and smiled awkwardly. Dour glares answered him.



“Yes, tell. We had a word with the US team and the Ambassador explained you would be here

to help us out. Please explain”



Rishabh was unsure as to how much the ‘US Team’ had informed them. Still, he started to

speak. He realized his voice melted under scalding glazes of the gentlemen present. He cleared

his throat.



“This device, or bomb, is created by anti-matter…” he began. For a brief second he hesitated.

It could not be possible that these men would have read a Dan Brown novel. To explain anti-

matter seemed virtually impossible to him. Yet he had to.



He did. After fifteen minutes of speaking, he was unsure how much these men had registered.

The Prime Minister was seated opposite him, his eyes closed, his elbows on the desk and his

fingers touching each other lightly. “Hmmm…” he said. “So what Dan Brown wrote was

correct”



Immediately there was a servile nodding of head. They followed the leader closely, Rishabh

realized.



It made his life easy. He explained how his bomb differed from the novel. He talked about

Sumeet’s death and loss of the deactivation code; he glossed over Aman’s foul play in

between. There was no point in talking about it here.



After his explanation he fell silent. There was no noise in the room besides the hum of the air

conditioner; despite August, Delhi was boiling. He had felt the heat as he had come here.



The Police Commissioner spoke the first. “Sir, if you please, can I say something,” he said.



The PM nodded. The Commissioner looked at the Home Minister, who also gave a hint of a nod.



“I do not understand what this hue and cry all is about. There is a bomb. And we have to

detonate it. Our bomb deactivation squad can do it in minutes.”

“No they cannot,” said Rishabh. “Because this bomb does not detonate till the time the

deactivation code is entered. But I can try to stop it if it has not been activated. Can you

please arrange for me to go to the National Museum”



“The bomb is ticking! It will go off at seven tomorrow, as per the terrorist” informed the PM.

“And it is not at the Museum”



Rishabh sat up in his chair. It was lost! The PM relayed the information that he had received

last evening. The Police Commissioner breathed heavily, and cleared his throat.



“Arre, chhodiye saaheb. Finding one bomb is no big deal. As per the threat of this terrorist, we

have nearly twenty hours; we can pick it up and throw it in Arabian Sea within that time. Sir,

mai toh kahta hun, you give me orders, and see how I will comb this entire city in ten hours;

nahi hoga, we will take help from Gaziabad and Haryana Police”



The Police Commissioner looked at Rishabh with disgust.



“No, Mr. PM. We cannot take the risk the way sir is saying here.”



“You American do not underestimate the power of Delhi Police,” exclaimed the Police

Commissioner. “We can work very efficiently, if we want to” He bit his tongue immediately – a

wrong thing to say at the wrong office. The Home Minister gave him a cold stare.



“Sir,” implored Rishabh to the Prime Minister, ignoring the man beside him. “My friend Naina is

coming with the clue to the code that might help detonate the device. All I need is help from

you to help this city. Else, the impact of the bomb is such that it can ruin the entire the city

along with Ghaziabad and Gurgaon!”



“And where is this ‘deactivation’ device?” asked the Prime Minister.



Rishabh hesitated. He was here on a pure hearsay of Aman. “Nepal”



“What?” exclaimed the PM.



The Police Commissioner got up. “Sir, I think we have to find the bomb. We cannot wait for

this girl to come with some clue and then they will go solving it, and we keep sitting with our

hands on hands!”



“Where do you think you can find the code to this device?” asked the PM.



Again, Rishabh hesitated. This time he was relying on Naina’s message. “Probably in

Kathmandu again”



“Sir, this phirangi has gone mad…”



“I am an Indian …”



“…he wants to go to Kathmandu to find a code-shode, that he is not fully aware, on top of it he

says it is ‘probably’- which means it could be elsewhere. What the hell is happening?” The

Police Commissioner looked at the Home Minister. “Sir, I need orders, and a call to the UP

Police. Two big hands to all the criminals, and we will have the whereabouts of the bomb. Ho

na ho, this is handiwork of some Lashkar-e-Toiba or some such organization.”



“It is not” said the PM.

He told Rishabh about the calls, and the fax message sent by Scorpion.



“Sir, I need your help. I need you to send someone to receive Naina; she is coming by Concorde

flight from USA. And a plane to Kathmandu. I am sure I can find a means to deactivate the

bomb”



“Sir, I need your permission to comb the entire city!” broke in the Commissioner of Police, his

voice raising.



Rishabh looked at him squarely. “Where the hell will you find this bomb?”



The Police Commissioner’s voice was rising. “Any place. Delhi is still not that big that we

cannot find it. It is a bomb, not some needle.”



Rishabh could not control the increase in his volume. “It is a needle!” He sprang up looking

down at the man.



Not to be left behind, the PC got up and stared into his eyes. “What do you mean? You yourself

have described that it has size”



“Yes it HAS, but NOT the way you think”



“Then?”



“The bomb is the size of a kilo sweet box” He motioned with his hands, with a small gap

between them. “Just THIS size. It can be right now in a row of Haldiram’s boxes and no one

will even find it out. It does NOT have the wires and contraptions of your normal bombs. Even

if you find it, how the hell will you ever detonate it! This ‘smart bomb’ is SMART!”



There was a stunned silence in the room.



*****************************************



The Concorde landed with a screech on the runway which created a big din at Delhi

International Airport. Awe-struck, people stared at the sleek plane; efficiently, it maneuvered

the tarmac to reach the ‘arms’ leading to the airport’s entrance. The shiny body dazzled in the

early autumn afternoon sun.



Naina cursed the airline for getting her the last row; as the exit was from ahead, it meant she

was one of the last few passengers to get off the plane. She nearly ran across the passageway’s

steep slope towards the escalators leading to immigration counters. She groaned as she saw a

huge queue at the counter. The slow clerks did not help.



She waited impatiently, her passport in her hand, and her ‘arrival card’ filled up. She looked

around her to see her co-passengers. She reached the ‘red marking’ on the floor after fifteen

minutes. She scanned the activities past the counters. In the crowd ahead she thought she

caught a glimpse. But she was called.



“Madam, please” the counter clerk called. Simultaneously a passenger behind her pushed, and

she walked briskly to the counter and forwarded her passport and ‘card’.



With no checked-in baggage, she moved towards exit. Outside, standing near a railing, she saw

her name’s placard. Phew! Rishabh had sent someone, she was relieved.



*********************************************

Sunanda Mathur knew her time for glory had arrived. The site she had inadvertently discovered

had another post – a rarity for this blog.



“Exactly at 7:00 am on the morning of 15th August, India’s Independence Day, Delhi would

witness its biggest blast. The countdown has begun”



Her supervisor, Karthik Rajashekharan, had looked worried when she showed him the site.

Yesterday, he had asked her to wait a day, though he had put up a small article on this

eventuality, without any specifics. The last post had only mentioned about ‘something to

happen on Independence Day’. Today, a confirmation had been posted. He had seen the

blogger’s registration and traced the IP address. It offered nothing except for a routing to a

proxy server, one of the many offered by findnot.com or ipeliminator.com



He thought for a while. It was an eternal tug of war between ethics and commercialism. This

was sensational. It could create wide-spread havoc. On the other hand, it meant a clear-cut

promotion, and personal laurels that would ensure his place permanently in the journalism

annals.



Also, it was not clear whether the site was genuine or a piece of well-orchestrated hoax. He

decided to do a double-verification.



Picking up his phone, he called a lady whom he was sure would help. The Home Minister’s

secretary who he had befriended a few months back. She was a horny woman, and he had not

really found her great in bed also, but hell, Karthik knew how to keep his contacts developed.

They had helped at crucial times in the past.



“Hey Puneeta, how are you?” he drawled, a lilt to his voice. “Still as hot as Delhi’s weather?”



Sunanda looked bewildered at Karthik. Till then, she had considered her elegant thirty-

something boss a decent man. In office he had never displayed anything more than a

professional demeanor.



“Puneeta, tell me something dearie, is there some sort of a threat or something for tomorrow’s

function at the India Gate?”



The voice at the other end snapped. “How do you know?”



Karthik smiled. “Well I didn’t till this second; now I do. Thanks”



“Listen, Karthik – this is a top secret, and it is not conf…”



“Thanks, dearie. Will see you in Delhi sometime!” If Delhi lives, that is, he thought guiltily.



He placed the receiver down and looked up at a bewildered Sunanda. He smiled sheepishly.



Sunanda hesitated before she spoke. “Shouldn’t we inform the police…”



“Madame Mathur - You have discovered a gold mine. Let us encash that now. Plus this could

still be a hoax. But any publicity is good publicity – so, can you call up NDTV and Zee News

immediately?”



***************************************

The atmosphere at PMO was tense. The men had ceased to sit in their chairs; they stood

around, as if standing would relieve them of tension, or of this problem.

“…our last chance is to get the bomb deactivated through the missing code. I wouldn’t have

come to India if I didn’t care about this city or country. I am not here on an official duty. I

don’t even know if I have a job back home. Please sir, believe me,” finished Rishabh. He

looked at his watch. Forty five minutes wasted. He took out his cell-phone and called up Naina.

It was out of coverage area.



The PM was again in his reclusive mode – his eyes shut his elbows on the desk and his hands in

front of him, the fingers of each hand touching each other lightly.



“Sir, could you please send someone to the airport to receive Ms. Naina Verma,” said Rishabh.



The PM opened his eyes; he sighed and nodded to the Police Commissioner. The man scowled

at Rishabh, and went to do his assigned task.



Without warning the PM looked at the Home Minister and the Foreign Minister, “Make

arrangements for Rishabh’s visit to Nepal; ensure full cooperation from Nepalese authorities. If

need be…” he stopped short and hesitated, “…promise them the arms they are asking for. This

will make them run!”



Rishabh smiled at the situation’s irony- a bargain with arms to fight off one’s own country’s

desperate situation. This is how world politic worked.



The phone rang. The PM picked it up, and listened, his eyes narrowing. “Put him on.”



Cupping the hand-piece, he said, “It is the same person who had called earlier – the Scorpion’s

man”



All the four men rushed to the table, and stared at the white instrument. The PM pushed the

speaker phone and waited. The Commissioner of Police whispered an order into his walky-

talky.



“So, Mr. PM. We see that you have called an expert to help you out.”



Rishabh closed his eyes. How the hell did they know about his arrival? He concentrated on the

voice.



“Well, I will not waste your valuable time. I just wanted to inform you that your expert’s best

friend is with us. So he should stay away from all action if he needs to see her alive”



Rishabh banged his fist on the table in anger. Damn! They knew about Naina’s arrival too. What

the hell? The Police Commissioner scribbled something to the PM on the note pad lying there –

talk more, get time.



“How do we know that you speak truth?” asked Rishabh.



“Ha ha ha … you still doubt our capabilities? You are that boy from USA, no? Anyways, hear it

direct from your bulbul” The man barked an order to someone on the other end. There was a

shuffle of feet. It seemed there was a struggle. Rishabh clutched the ends of the table tightly.



“Rishabh…Bunty …” shouted Naina, but the she was cut. The dull tone of disconnected line

was heard from the instrument.



Rishabh pursed his lips and bent his head down on the table…too shocked to react.



********************************************************

EPISODE SEVEN



When Naina had opened her eyes it took her a few minutes to get her bearing – then it had

come back to her. She had walked out of the airport towards a man carrying her name placard

– then, the taxi ride – the wrong turn. She had screamed. “This is not the way to Secretariat”

The man had turned from his driving seat, and slapped her hard. Her cheeks still burnt from

the slap. She had tried to bite his neck, almost making him lose control over the Maruti car. He

had pushed her; she hit the door on the left. That was the last that she remembered.



Her head ached where she had the hit the car door. She wanted to touch it. She realized that

her hands were tied behind her back. She struggled to open it; but the knot was a tight one.



Naina struggled to try to remove herself from the bondage. Tough luck. Her feet were tied as

well. She looked at her surroundings – it was a small stone room, with minimal furniture and

rough cemented flooring. There was a sofa where she lay and a derelict wooden table in front

of her. On the far corner there was a dust-laden and low-height almirah; on the side of this,

stood a stool holding an earthen pot and a steel glass perched on top of it. Opposite to these,

there was a sort of writing table and on that was kept her travel bag, and her purse. She saw

the small wooden door, set into grey grimy cement walls. On her left side, there was another

door – perhaps to another room.



The room had a tiny window behind her, and arching her back, she realized that she was in

some sort of a top floor. Seeing the construction, she felt the other door on her left would

probably lead to some sort of a balcony. It was latched. Opening it would not be possible with

her tied hands. She had to some how reach up to the window and see where she was.



She jumped from the sofa. It took her a while to regain her balance due to her tied feet, and

also that she was in her sari. She hopped to the window. It was above her height by a few

inches. She tried to stand on her toes, but fell. Struggling up, with the support of the wall, she

tiptoed and looked out. The first sign board that her eyes fell confirmed her surrounding.



She had barely hopped back to the sofa when he returned.



“Ah! I see you are awake,” smiled the man. She looked at him with disgust. He carried a knife.

“Now, chhamakchhalo, let’s call up your yaar to inform of you taking a small detour.”



He took out his phone, and dialed a number and waited. From the instrument’s base that

jutted out of his hands, she saw Reliance India Mobile’s green logo – a company about which

she had been reading quite a lot recently.



“…anyways, hear it direct from your bulbul” He turned to her. “Come on speak to him,” he

barked. She resisted, but the knife was on her neck. Holding her with both his hands, the

phone pressing against her right shoulder and the knife on the other, he hissed, “Dare you

speak anything extra. I will kill you”



She spoke.



After snatching the phone from her, he slapped her that sent her sprawling over the sofa. She

knew resistance would bring more such thrashes. She sat still.



He smiled at her. She would be a good conquest, he thought, rubbing his chin lewdly. She

looked up with a loathing horror; he liked girls with fire and fear in their eyes. It gave him

energy. But first, he had to complete his duties; he looked at his watch.

“You wait for me, baby,” he said. “I will be back soon.”



Naina stared behind his back; she knew he was called ‘Kokil’ when he had called up someone,

and given his name.



He walked out, checking the lock behind him. He climbed down a narrow stair case, and

walked a few lanes to reach the newly opened branch of Bank of Punjab. He was informed

correctly. There was a yellow and black sign board of Western Union. He stepped into the

swanky building. A counter sign directed him. The girl behind the counter smiled and asked,

“How can I help you?”



Kokil gave a big grin – in many ways, sweetheart. These new age banks really knew how to

recruit damn good ‘patakhas’ (fire-crackers!). Anyways, for now he forwarded a slip that

contained a ten digit number. “Expecting money” he said. The girl smiled, and took the slip;

she looked disconcertingly at the man who was leaning a bit too closely. Punching a few keys,

she informed. “Yes,sir. Your money has arrived.” She forwarded a form, with a yellow band on

top. “Could you please fill this up?”



Five minutes later, he was out in the sunlight. This was damn fast! He never knew that in

today’s world money could be transferred so easily. He was working for the right people, he

smiled. They knew how much to pay, and more importantly, how and when to pay. He looked

at the yellow and black sign of Western Union again and smiled. Good.



He walked back, content with the money in his pocket and also about his work done in the wee

hours of yesterday’s morning!



If he had his way he would have chosen to enjoy his ‘maal’ today; but he had strict orders – he

had to wait till today night, before killing off the girl and flying out of the city. But then, he

smiled expectantly, he would extract his pound of flesh before the kill. That is what the money

came for – to enable his departure. His next stop was a travel agent, and then back to the

room, to wait and watch over that girl – till sunset, when his next task was assigned!



*****************************************



It took Delhi Police some half hour to trace the call to Chandni Chowk. Immediately, the

Commissioner of Police was barking orders. Rishabh eyed him with disdain; to him, it was an

unnecessary shout; he was sure that the juniors would understand urgency without being

shouted at, and without obligatory ‘swear-phrases’ that the Commissioner of Police was adding

in lieu of punctuation marks.



But this was the least of Rishabh’s worries. He was thinking of Naina; and her last shout. Bunty.

That was not his pet-name. Was she referring to her kidnapper? He requested the CP to check

for criminals with the name of Bunty.



The CP smiled and looked at him patronizingly. “Do you realize that Bunty is one of the most

common names or pet names in this country? Probably you have forgotten!”



“Yes, maybe. But then she shouted Bunty. You heard that. She could have been referring to her

kidnapper, because most certainly Bunty is not my name. Is it yours?” he added with sarcasm.



The CP scowled, and was again on the phone, again snapping some orders and again with

customary profanities.



Rishabh felt cold in the room; the air-conditioner was effective! With arm crossed in front of

him, he sat in his chair, and viewed the quieted bunch of people around him. The PM had

slipped to his reclusive pose; the Home Minister was typing out an SMS on his mobile; and, the

Chief Minister of Delhi gave him a low smile when he looked at him. The Foreign Minister had

left the room.



Bunty…Bunty…his mind shouted. There had to be a reason for her to call this name.

Bunty…Bunty…Bunty aur Babli. For some strange reason, his mind was playing the title rap song

of this film; the film that he had gone to see with Naina, and the fight that they had the

evening after it.



He remembered Sumeet; and the party in which he had danced on another song from this film –

Kajra Re. How he had sat in that ‘qawwali’ singer pose when the song mentioned old Delhi …

oh my God! Old Delhi. Chandni Chowk. Ballimaran! The song mentions Ballimaran.



He sprang up.



Everyone looked at him with surprise.



“She is in Ballimaran!”



“What?” asked the Commissioner of Police, incredulously! He was now confident that this man

should be in Ranchi – in the mental asylum – not here!



Rishabh explained the reference, and started to move out.



“Where the hell are you going?” asked the CP.



“To save her, what else?” he shouted back.



The PM looked at Rishabh, and signaled to the Commissioner of Police, who ran after him.



*************************************



“Can’t you switch off the siren?” asked Rishabh irritatingly. “Have you called your men? Can I

have your number?”



The Commissioner of Police was not used to taking orders. For one, at his position, he was not

supposed to be here searching for an NRI girl who gets kidnapped on setting foot in Delhi.

Second, he was positively in ‘hate’ with this smart-ass.



He harrumphed a reply; and ordered his driver to switch off the Gypsy’s siren and gave his

number to Rishabh.



It took some more fifteen minutes for the ‘men’ to arrive; and then began a frantic search as

they raided and knocked and disturbed households and shops. Rishabh knew he could not just

sit in the car, and wait for Delhi Police to complete its work. He felt impatient. He jumped out

of the vehicle, and ignored the Commissioner’s shouts. There was a maze of roads in front of

him, intertwined, and snaking into a dense mass. He had to start somewhere; he did. He

pushed the crowds, apologizing to some, and shouting to others.



In a few minutes, the crowd was behind him; ahead was another set of tiny lanes, bordered

with large houses that nearly seemed to touch each other at the top. The sky was almost

invisible through the net of wires as technology had made a disarrayed entry into this very old

section of Delhi. This was the place that housed the residence of Mirza Ghalib, a great poet of

19th century.

Most houses had wooden doors, and there was a narrow drain running parallel to the street,

further narrowing the lane.



He countered the shocked housewives, and bored children, and bewildered elderly men. He did

not care to catch their reaction. She had to be in one of these places. Clearing off in front of

him was a small open square; at the center was a DESU meter. On the ground floor a few shops

had come up, and the upper stories seemed to be residential.



He looked at the shops – and their fancy sign boards. There was a kirana (general) store; a

tailoring outfit; and a video cum cassettes parlor housing some dirty looking, and obviously

pirated, tapes. Outside it, there was a rusted board displaying a half-torn poster of “Bunty Aur

Babli”. He looked around, as the shop-keepers viewed him with curiosity. Through a top-floor

window, on the opposite end, beyond the DESU tower, he saw a man staring at him. Instinct

told him this was it! Their eyes clasped in a silent struggle.



As he climbed the stairs, he realized with horror he was unarmed. Quickly punching the digits

of the Commissioner’s phone, he waited for the connection to get through. Damn! Probably the

signal was not catching. He was on the first floor landing now. His eyes fell on a wooden post

lying in the corner, near betel-stained wall. It looked like the leg of a bed; for now he had to

suffice with this. He made one last effort to call the Commissioner, as he climbed the stairs.



************************************



Kokil stepped back from the window, and swore. The damn bastard was here! Although he had

seen Rishabh’s photo only once, sent by his superiors on mail, he recognized him from the

distance. He moved to the door, and latched it.



Naina stared at him with horror. He moved forward towards her.



“So you seem to be quite popular, eh?” he said. With a swish, the knife was at her neck. She

recoiled in fear. He leaned forward till his breath was on her; it smelled of rotten eggs. She

held her breath, and slipped back till she was pushing against the sofa’s corner. “Baby, I would

have loved to have you” His mouth was on her right cheek, and he bit it. She felt a deep

revulsion, and nearly vomited. Seeing her doing this, he pressed the knife deeper, till she could

feel it rupture the skin. But… I am sorry, I will have to sacrifice you right away…”



Suddenly there was a loud crash.



Kokil turned.



“Leave her alone!”



Even though she could not see him from her position as the man blocked her view, she could

recognize Rishabh’s voice.



Kokil stepped back from the sofa, and lunged. Rishabh stepped aside, but not used to fighting

tactics, could not use the opportunity of the dis-balanced Kokil to hit him.



Kokil turned, his knife in his hand, ready to jump again. Rishabh’s back was towards Naina, and

he held the wooden post with both his hands. He jabbed at Kokil; but the latter was fast and

agile. He tried again, and failed. They moved in circles; from the corner of his eyes Rishabh

could see Naina lying, her eyes terrified.



They moved in circles; an endless chase within a small circumference. Rishabh was getting

tired; he did not realize this was Kokil’s motive; to tire him to surrender. It was an old trick in

fights; if you can’t immediately win over, exhaust them. Rishabh felt weary. It was stuffy; he

found his crème shirt sticking with sweat.



“You have lost this game, surrender!” smiled Kokil. He liked games, and he liked games that he

won. Clearly his opponent was slowing down.



“The game is never won by wrong ones,” Rishabh said. He lunged again, but Kokil dodged. This

time, he was moving towards the sofa.



“Well, I don’t think that needs a debate at all. You are the wrong ones; you will not win, by

your own logic.”



Rishabh knew that if he had to find a means of gaining control over his adversary, he had to

buy time. If this man wanted to talk, he would do so too.



“That we shall allow time to decide.” Another lunge, another dodge.



“Ha ha…time, that is what you do not have,” Kokil laughed.



“Time is what we will create.”



“Do you even know where you have to create it?” asked Kokil.



Rishabh stopped; he was distracted. What did he mean? Kokil had his chance. Rishabh realized

late that this was Kokil was looking for, to distract him. Naina screamed, and Rishabh fell to

the side as Kokil jumped with his knife. The steel blade scraped past his shirt, tearing it away

and the skin below on his left arm. Rishabh felt a seething pain, and the wooden post loosen in

his grip, but he did not allow it to fall. Kokil had missed his quarry, and fallen on the table.



With all the strength that he could muster, he picked up the post and dived over Kokil. But

Kokil rolled, and the post hit the table’s surface with a bang, and splintered into two pieces.



Kokil was up in a micro-second, and looked at the broken weapon in Rishabh’s hand.



“I told you,” he said breathlessly. “You will lose.” Kokil tightened the grip of the knife in his

palm, the point looking menacingly towards Rishabh.



Rishabh knew the odds were not in his favor. The portion left in his hand was clearly a weak

weapon. Still he could hit, and he pounced forward. Kokil stepped aside.



Rishabh’s energy was sapping. He had to find a breakthrough. The man seemed to have been

refreshed with this break; their eyes were locked. Yet, from the corner he saw, what he

wanted to.



Naina had sat up. Her legs were stretched. He lunged forward, making Kokil step back in an

efficient sweep. Now, he had to keep Kokil’s eyes turned towards him.



He stepped backwards. Kokil was unsure. With a loud warlike cry, Rishabh charged ahead, like

a recoiled spring. Kokil stepped back, but his foot caught on Naina’s outstretched legs. He

staggered backwards, and fell on the arm of the sofa, nearly crushing Naina. She screamed

again.



Rishabh was on top, but Kokil’s strong arms had made a shield, and the wooden post only hit

them. Clearly, he was used to pain, and Rishabh’s untrained hits did not deter him. He was at

the same time making effort to stand up. Rishabh hit again. But Kokil was also piercing the air

with his knife.



It caught Rishabh’s hand. The wood post dropped. Quickly he caught hold of Kokil’s thick neck

with his right arm, and stared into the dark eyes. With his left arm, he tried to catch hold of

the knife-holding hand of Kokil. He struck the blade. It hurt, but he held on. He could feel the

skin ripping. Naina sat crouched, crushed between the two fighting men.



It took only a couple of seconds for Rishabh to lose control over his left arm, and with that, his

hold on Kokil’s neck loosened.



Kokil pushed him back, wiping off the sweat from his eyes, his breath fierce and forceful.



The thumps near the door made him look beyond Rishabh. Through the broken door, he

realized that someone was coming there. Kokil rushed out towards the back door. Rishabh

followed. Kokil turned, and gave him a kick on legs, and ran. Unlatching the door, he rushed

out.



Rishabh doubled in pain, but noticed that the door led to a steel stair case spiraling

downwards.



Soon, the room was filled with four khaki men. Finally they were here, thought Rishabh.

Holding his hand in pain, and the hurt arm with the other, he barked. “That way,” indicating

the open door.



Two of the khakhi men followed Rishabh’s hand-direction. The other untied Naina. Her hands

and feet tingled as the blood flowed back. The two policemen started to take stock of the

room.



She ran to Rishabh who was still sitting in a crouched position.



“Rishabh…”



There eyes met; a deluge of emotions ran through them – gratitude, relief and concern. With

her support he got up, and looked at his watch. Three hours had gone since the call had come

at the PMO. Time was running out. He spoke briefly to the policemen. They informed that the

Commissioner was waiting for them below.



“I have to go, Naina. Tell me what you found from Dr. Kaush.”



“No, Rishabh. We have to go.” Their eyes locked. She looked into them deeply. “We are in this

together, Rishabh. I am not leaving you alone now, ever. And we have to win this!”



She touched the wetness on her forehead. “This is a reality that we have to achieve.” He saw

his blood had fallen on her hair parting when Kokil and he had struggled near the sofa, over

her. It looked like a married woman’s ‘sindoor’



He pulled her and hugged her.



********************************



On their return drive, they kept silent. The Commissioner of Police seemed deflated; it was

enough action for him for a day. They stopped for a brief five minutes to have Rishabh’s arm

and hand bandaged at a clinic.

Both Naina and Rishabh had the same thought running in the mind. Some one on the inside

knew each and every move of theirs.



“Aman?” asked Naina, clutching her bag and purse as the Gypsy bumped over another pothole.

Rishabh refuted. If Aman had to play foul he could have done it earlier on. He did not have to

do this. Plus, he did not know of Naina’s arrival to Delhi. Naina pursed her lips. The only person

who knew of her coming here was…



When they reached the PM’s office, Naina and Rishabh froze.



“Oh, Naina – it’s so good to see you all fine,” said George Stanley getting up from his desk. “I

was so worried for you.”



The Prime Minister was not on his chair.



The Foreign Minister got up and said, “Mr. Stanley is here from the US Government’s behalf to

help us in this crisis.” Rishabh raised an eyebrow; till he had left to rescue, it seemed the US

Government had backed off on this.



Looking at Rishabh, the Foreign Minister continued, “We have made arrangement for you to go

to Kathmandu. Mr. Santosh Khanal will meet you there. He is from the Foreign Ministry of

Nepal, and will help your search. I am sure you will have no problem. Mithun, please…”



Another gentleman whom they did not notice had been sitting unobtrusively on the side. He

was dark, of average height, and gave a warm grin to them.



“Hi I am Captain Mithun Bhattacharya. I think if we leave immediately, we should be able to

reach Kathmandu in an hour and forty five minutes, even taking Delhi traffic into account.”



Even though Naina wanted to ask about George’s sudden and unexplained arrival, she knew

time was running out. She would do it later. She looked at George uncertainly, standing with

his hand in his trouser pockets.



As they walked out of the room, George called them. Rishabh turned. George went up to him,

and smiled. “Good luck, young man!” he said. He patted Rishabh’s neck, and said. “Let’s hope

you return successful”



Rishabh gave a slight nod. He did not like the man’s presence here.



Time was racing past – They had only thirteen hours and in that they had to go to Kathmandu,

find the code and de-activate the bomb!

EPISODE EIGHT



On the drive, Rishabh received a call from his father.



“I heard you are in India,” said his father. “And that you have left Anuradha. She was saying

you have left her for good. Beta, a house is made…” It was obvious that Anuradha had called up

there again.



Before his father could start off on the ‘household’ lecture, Rishabh interrupted him. “Papa,

it’s true I am in India. But it’s absolutely false that I have left Anuradha and come here.” He

looked uncomfortably at Naina, as he said this. She looked straight ahead and did not display

any emotions.



“Beta, you know that …”



“I know, dad, all that. But please, I cannot talk right now. I am here on an important work.

That is why I could not even inform you; it was sudden and unplanned. Please, please…” he

pleaded, and hoped his father would understand.



“Beta, it is your life, what can I say?” Rishabh inwardly groaned. He had heard this defeatist

tone earlier too, especially when he had expressed interest to go to the US. “All I can say is

that her father is very influential, and right now very angry …”



“Papa I will talk to you later … that is …” he hesitated.



“Is everything ok?” his father asked.



“Let’s hope it turns out to be ok. Pray for me!”



He switched off the phone. The rest of the drive was in silence.



****************************





Captain Mithun Bhattacharya had miscalculated. It took them longer on Delhi’s crowded

evening rush.



The take off was smooth; the insides of the newly acquired private jet of the Indian Prime

Minister made both Rishabh and Naina gasp. The plush carpeted interiors, with a sober crème

look spelt quality and displayed a keen eye for aesthetics. As they sat on the comfortable

seats, facing each other, Rishabh wondered if the PM really got the time to enjoy his flights

ever. Opposite the aisle he noticed latest office equipment on an elegant desk. Behind him,

there was a small partition, which housed a small ‘bed’ and a board room. A strategic placed

screen showed the flight details and other trivia information. The luxury and the advancement

baffled Rishabh; in the years that he had been in the USA, India had indeed progressed well.



The flight settled to a comfortable drone as it flew over the Indian skies. Naina excused

herself and went to the bathroom to change. A sari was not exactly a dress to go for some

hunt. She came out in a jeans and T-shirt.



“Yes, Naina, tell me now,” asked Rishabh. “What did you find?”



As much as she could, she explained the findings of Dr Kaush Gandhi’s from Sumeet’s teeth.

She ended her crisp narration by taking out the enlarged photographs and the words written on

the sheet of paper that Dr Gandhi had given her.

He looked at the sheet.



Ishwar Maaka Sitara; Darbar Tribhvan Purana



It was senseless.



Rishabh shook his head. “I can’t make head or tail out of this. How did you guess that this was

Nepal only?”



“See, it is a guess, but it is unlikely to be wrong. Two things bind this together – you know what

was Sumeet’s ‘janambhoomi’ as he used to call it?”



Rishabh nodded. “Of course. How could I forget; his mother hailed from Kathmandu! That’s

where he was born”



“Yes, and King Tribhuvan is one of the revered kings of all time in Nepal; in fact, the airport in

Kathmandu is named after him.”



“Hmmm…”



“And, there is an old Darbar there that was the seat of the earlier kings. The present palace

came later. It all points to that.”



He nodded, “I hope it does. I hope there is something that can show the code. It has to be in

six digits”



“Numerical?”



“No; alpha-numerical – three alphabets and three numbers.”



“And where is the activation device”



Rishabh smiled wryly. “In some safe in the museum in Kathmandu”



“This deactivation – is there no other means beyond the code?”



“There is, but I am not confident about it. It could mean a straight fire explosion there and

then even. One can crush the bomb. See, as long as the particles are not fully charged, they

will not explode. And they are embedded in the ‘buckyball’”



And the bomb is already loading its energy to explode, he told himself.



“What is George Stanley doing in Delhi?” asked Rishabh.



“Search me,” she replied. She paused. “Are you thinking of what I am …”



“It has to be – either he is Scorpio or else the Scorpion’s man. See, he is the only person who

knew where we were at what time.”



She closed her eyes and thought. There was something else coming to her mind; it just slipped.



“But why would he be in Delhi, if there is going to be a blast there?”



“That’s what baffled me. But then, he can always get out before it goes off”

“Sir, we are about to land, please fasten your seat belts…” came the announcement from the

cockpit.



Rishabh set his seat upright, looked at the screen, adjusted his watch, and handed over the

papers and photograph to Naina to keep in her purse. Pulling up the window shade, he looked

out at the valley below him. The monsoons had still not departed, and he saw deep and dark

clouds hovering over the green mountains.



****************************************



The PM’s eyes were closed; in his mind, million thoughts waged a cacophonous battle

weakening his reserves, gnawing into his radical thinking and burning his control. Yet, he had

to think. He had to think logically, carefully and take a decision. Decisions! Harsh decisions. He

hoped history would forgive him one day. His failure. His defeat.



Opening his eyes, he said to the Home Minister. “Start arrangement for evacuations of all

foreign dignitaries, embassies and UN members. Don’t tell them anything except that there is a

terror threat.”



The Home Minister looked up quizzically.



“Yes, also clear off the Ministers and their families. But don’t create panic. Please, do it

cautiously.”



“Will that be possible? And Delhiites?”



The PM took a deep breath. He held it. He felt the trapped breath within him squeezing his

heart. He closed his eyes again. “Can we do anything?”



The Home Minister shook his head heavily.



“But this boy has gone …”



“Yes, I know. But there is no guarantee he will be successful. Keep the planes ready. Keep

everyone informed. We shall wait till midnight. If this boy is unable to do anything, start it”



“The Press is waiting. They have somehow come to know”



The PM did not respond.



“And what about you, sir?”



The PM opened his eyes and stared at the Home Minister. “I will not leave this city! Let’s go

and meet the Press. Remember, no confirmations. I don’t want a panic for nothing”



*****************************



At the airport they were met by Mr. Santosh Khanal. He was in his late forties, clean shaven

with a rugged face, and stained and strained eyes. He wore a dull blue shirt over gray trousers.



Around him Rishabh observed the nearly empty airport. A few men loitered aimlessly – a few

them wore traditional Nepali dress – a white ‘trouser’ or Daura Sawal covered with a double

breasted grey garment- an extended coat. His head was covered in the ritual Nepali ‘topi’.

“Welcome to Nepal” he said, extending his hand. Rishabh took the rough hand.



“Thank you,” said Rishabh. “And since we do not have much time, we would request if you

could take us to the old Darbar as soon as possible”



“Yes,” said Mr. Khanal, leading the way out from immigration counters; a short flight down on

an auto-start escalator, they were at the baggage claim area. Khanal had a swift business like

stride, and Rishabh and Naina had to trot fast to catch up with him. He had a slight accent – a

mixture of Nepali and American, where he had studied; his English was impeccable.



“Our car is just outside,” said Khanal, pointing to the exit beyond the baggage claim area.



Within minutes, the trio was out of the airport, in Khanal’s black Toyota. Rishabh sat in the

passenger seat, while Naina placed herself in the rear. Naina looked out at the passing scenes

of Kathmandu. She had been here once earlier on an official tour; it had intrigued her then.

When the car swerved into a tiny lane off the Ring Road, Naina caught her breath. She had

thought the car would get stuck. But obviously, Khanal knew how to drive in the criss-cross of

lanes and by-lanes that constituted a large part of Kathmandu.



“This Darbar palace, does it have anything to Gods or mother or something…”



Khanal chuckled. “The Darbar Square, as it is called, is full of temples”



Great, thought Rishabh, makes life all the more easy, doesn’t it… “But, does it have anything

to do with King Tribhuvan or the mother.”



Khanal peered at him from his eyes’ corner. He was not sure what this man was hinting. He had

received instructions to help the two in all means. He eyed the dirty shirt and Rishabh’s

bandaged suspiciously. Khanal thought for a while.



“Well, there is the temple of Taleju, who is a sacred Goddess here. And of course, the abode

of Kumari, the living goddess”



“What is that?”



“Right from the time of Malla kings, Goddess Taleju was considered to be a ‘living’ one. Now,

how it worked is that no one knew. But the devotees strongly believed, she ‘lived’. One legend

goes that Taleju appeared to King Hari Singh and his Malla successors in human form. This was

so beguiling that one Malla king made an indiscreet overture, which enraged the goddess. She

threatened to abandon him, his family and the valley for good, until he pleaded with her for

mercy. To prevent this sort of thing from ever happening again, the goddess declared that she

would return only in the body of an inviolate young virgin, chosen from the Sakya clan of

goldsmiths blessed by the Buddha. And so it remains to this day. A young girl, aged 4 or 5, is

carefully chosen from the Sakya clan. Her body must be flawless and she must have the 32

specified and distinctive signs that identify the goddess. As a final test, the young candidates

are subjected to an elaborate ritual. The girl who remains calm and selects the correct articles

belonging to her predecessor must be the goddess. Her horoscope is done, to see how it

matches with the king, and then she is installed in her residence. There she will remain, except

on festival days, until she bleeds, either from a wound or the onset of puberty”



Rishabh listened to this, lost. "Was this happening in the present century?”



“Yes. It is. We Nepalis have preserved our culture and tradition very carefully. In a way it is

good also.”

“How?”



“Theoretically, the girl or Kumari is powerful than the King. In one of our festivals of

Indrajatra, on the last day, she offers tika of her protection and endorsement to the king. By

this acknowledgement, he is empowered to rule for another year. Omens are carefully

watched, and the Kumari's favor is considered necessary for the king to be legitimate.”



“Really? And what if the King does not do this?”



“It happened in 1979 or so, the Kumari refused to give the tika of protection to the King, which

sparked six months of riots and civil disturbances before the King gave in and instituted the

changes, in a nationwide referendum, that the Kumari desired”



“Amazing!” exclaimed Rishabh.



“Yes sir, our country is an amazing and peaceful land”



“But is this really a practical way to live?”



“That is what you think so in your western outlook. Even Nepal is changing. We are also

becoming like India – open and democratic – bah! But does democracy really help? We consider

the King a direct descendent of God Vishnu – the God who protects and preserves. The Goddess

and Kumari are his links to the mother – or the earth; this tradition illustrates in a direct way

the idea that the land and the king are one – something that the West talks of, but puts aside

fast- Grail mythos. If there is any one political principle that can be said to lie at the root of

any concept of paganism as a goddess based, earth-centered spirituality, it is this one. In a

sense, it is the only valid form of government, one that enforces the concept of accountability

in a personal and direct way…but now all is lost. The King, the political parties, all are here

only for the power, and not people!”



Rishabh was unsure. It looked too outlandish for his modern outlook, yet at a deeper level, as

he thought about it, it made sense. Perhaps if America had followed these traditions, he would

not have been here searching for a code to stop a lethal bomb.



“How far is the museum from this Darbar Square?”



“The main museum is housed in the old palace that is in the Darbar Square. It has memorials of

King Tribhuvan, King Mahendra and King Birendra – the previous three Shah dynasty kings;

anyways, we will be there in five minutes”



Saying this he increased volume of the stereo, it was playing Nepal’s most famous folk song –

Resham firiri. Rishabh listened to it with a vague interest; too much was on his mind, the

song’s beguiling rhythm registered somewhere in the background.



Khanal drove the car up to a chained road. “From here we will walk” said Khanal.



Looking ahead, Rishabh saw the ancient Darbar Square opening up to him. Two large lions

marked the paved entrance. He could see deep brown pagoda-style buildings arching up to grey

skies. He got out of the car and sighed. Naina, who had been quiet through out the journey,

stepped out, and turned towards Rishabh. “So this is it. The final destination.”



*********************************************





The Hawk smiled.

How interesting and well connected his boss was. And how generous. He had another prey, in

fact two preys. And they were here, in Kathmandu. He knew Scorpio had sounded a bit

disturbed at Kokil’s arrest.



But then, the Hawk knew there was nothing to worry. Even if Kokil spoke, it would be of no

news. Tomorrow, there will be no Delhi Police, no jail…in fact, no Delhi…



He smiled. The Scorpio had promised to meet Hawk personally in Kathmandu for the good work

done.



Yes, he would be well rewarded.



And now, for the work!



************************************************************



The trio walked through the evening crowd at Darbar Square. Youngsters loitered around, with

their lovers; there were a few tourists; hawkers sold traditional wares. They passed a more

‘modern’ looking building on the right hand side



The Square, a World Heritage site, was the ancient seat of ancient Malla Kings; later the Shah

dynasty sat there till the rule of King Prithvi Bir Bikram Shah, father of King Tribhuvan.

However, the seventh century inscriptions in the complex show that it could be more antique,

perhaps dating back to Lichchavi Period.



They passed the first of the large temples – Hanuman Dhoka; King Pratap Malla had installed

the idol of the Lord Hanuman in 1672, and since then the complex was known as the Hanuman

Dhoka Darbar also – ‘dhoka’ meaning a ‘gate’.



“That is the house of Kumari” said Khanal, pointing to a building adjacent to the Hanuman

temple, behind them.



Rishabh and Naina looked at the intricate structure with interest. Two large painted stone lions

guarded the entrance, and lintels over the doorway have laughing skulls suggested the Grateful

Dead or voodoo's Ghedes. Naina shuddered.



“What is this type of building doing here?” asked Rishabh, looking at the white palatial

structure opposite the Hanuman Dhoka Temple.



“That was the Old Palace. The Ranas were the prime ministers of Nepal, and for nearly a

hundred years they ruled the country while the king was merely the figure head. Prime Minister

Jung Bahadur Rana introduced neo-classical architecture of Europe in the nineteenth century.

This was one of the buildings. In fact, the museum is in this building only, though the entrance

is from the other end.”



“Can we go there?” asked Rishabh.



“Yeah,” said Khanal taking them towards the inside of the Square. On their left they saw more

of the pagoda style temples; the carvings on them were minute and efficiently complex.



They saw the old drum house, and Rishabh tried to imagine how it would be in those ancient

times, when this was the center of power. They turned right, at the palace building’s corner.

Ahead of them was a small gate, again guarded with two huge stone white and fierce red

painted lions.

On the left, on a bit higher plane, they saw a large temple. “That is the temple of Goddess

Taleju Bhawani. It was built by King Mahendra Malla somewhere in the seventeenth century.”



A guard stood in front of the palace’s door; the museum was closed for the day. Khanal spoke

in Nepali, and showed his ID card. The guard saluted, and proceeded to open the lock.



The trio entered a courtyard. Inside, Rishabh and Naina looked in awe at the colossal structure.

What interested them was the complete merger of the old and the new style in a seamless

continuum. As Khanal led them to the door of the museum, he pointed to a huge tower, again

in the same pagoda triangular style – “That was built by King Prithvi Narayan Shah, who unified

the three kingdoms of the Valley, and gave shape to the present day Nepal; this tower was

built by him in the eighteenth century. You should come here sometime during the day. It gives

a good view of Kathmandu.”



Rishabh looked at it wistfully … someday – sure … he hoped he had that ‘someday’ still!



**********************************

Sunanda trudged out of the plane.



When Sunanda heard she had to go to Delhi to do the coverage, she had resisted. This was not

what she had bargained for. She wanted fame, but not at the cost of her own life. But Karthik

had insisted. She set forth valid arguments – she was not a reporter, they have already

negotiated with NDTV and Zee, none of the officials will ever say anything. Karthik did not

listen to any excuses. He wanted her in Delhi for ‘the real masala’. He promised her he would

take her out of Delhi early morning. He thrust a train ticket for 6 am.



She sighed, and stepped down the stairs. Such was life! Or such was the end of it? She

shuddered.



**************************************

Rishabh and Naina climbed the old wooden stairs tentatively. They looked up at the expanding

ceiling, the arches and the wooden construction. Their torch light beamed ahead at the worn

out stairs. There was no electricity at this time. Khanal had asked them to go upwards, to the

main room, and have a look at their leisure; he would wait by the car, and enjoy his ‘Surya’ –

the ITC owned cigarette brand.



At the end of the stair case, they saw a door opening into a room; a rope ran parallel to the

landing. One could not cross on the other end, where there was another door, and another set

of stair case. The entire palace was converted into various museums; and the visitors had to

follow a set path through a maze of stairways and passages.



Once again, Naina shuddered. This looked like a haunted house as she flashed her light over the

dust laden arches of the doorway; it was full of spider-webs and dirt.



They stepped into a carpeted room. It was huge. As they flashed their torches, they realized

they were inside the museum, the first of the rooms – it housed large portraits of the King and

his family. They passed the portraits and came to glass covered displays of traditional royal

dresses – during the marriage, the coronation, the honorary army uniform and various others.



Naina stopped and had a close look at the portrait of King Tribhuvan – it was an old one, when

he still wore a small cascading mustache – a trendier version of Hitler’s toothbrush one. She

noticed that the King had a soft but handsome face, a bearing that was regal and eyes that

could command respect.

She looked at his photograph with his wife…then a second one, identical but a different lady.

“He had two wives!” remarked Naina. She stared at the photographs, her one hand on the hips,

and another waving off a fly that was troubling her.



“Hmm…” said Rishabh. He was not interested to know about King Tribhuvan’s marital

shenanigans. He needed the code.



They skipped the section. It told nothing that could relate to Sumeet’s six words found

embedded in his teeth.



“Show me that paper” he asked. She took out the sheet again from her purse.



Ishwar maaka sitara…Darbar Tribhuvan Purana…



“Ishwar...maa...” repeated Rishabh.



“Look, Rishabh” she pointed, her torchlight directing his eyes. “This has the King’s old table,

and his personal bed.”



They moved towards it. In the dim light they saw an old wooden desk, with a heliographic “T”

trademark, on the front. The area was cordoned off. The desk had a few pens, a couple of

books and was traditionally set as if the King could walk in and sit on it anytime.



The customary signboard was affixed here too – “Kripaya nachhanu hola” – or “Please do not

touch”



Rishabh stepped over the cordoning rope, and searched through the desk- the drawers were

empty, and the books were traditional ones in Nepali and English. Nothing. The safe that had

the activation code should have been here. Where was it?



He stepped out and walked to the bed, lying on a raised wooden platform. The bed was of

polished light brown shade, again with the customary “T” mark on the frontal base. It did not

seem out of the ordinary, yet a nation’s King had once slept on it. There was a plaque attached

near the base of the bed.



Rishabh bent down to have a closer look. As he did, Naina also stepped closer; she bent down

and read over Rishabh’s head. In the dim light, her eyes caught a fly sitting near his collar on

the back. She flew it with a swipe of her hand, and read the placard – it gave the dimensions of

the bed. Nothing useful!



She stood up, and again her eye fell on the fly. It was still there. Curious, she touched it with

her fingers.



“Eh… what happened?” he asked turning his neck towards her.



She had seen enough of these earlier in her job. It was not a fly.



“Rishabh…” she said, and pointed to a small button like object in her hand. “You were being

tracked. This is a Global Tracking Device – not the best of its kind, but enough for someone to

track a person within a kilometer!”



“What?”



“It was there on your shirt – it has an adhesive side that can stick easily on most surfaces.”

“But…” He tried to recall- he had been out of airports which had elaborate security checks,

and then double check at the PMO, how could this have not been detected, or…or, was it

placed during one of these checks? His mind replayed the extensive body pawing before

entering South Block; another image flashed on his mind: a voice – ‘good luck’ – and a pat on

his back.



He took the button like instrument and threw it on the King’s bed. “Let it lie there. But if

someone can find me within a kilometer’s range, then I am sure we might get some unwanted

visitations. Let’s hurry”



*************************************



“Dammit!” exclaimed Rishabh. “This place is full of artifacts. How do we even come to know

which one we have to see?”



They were standing in a section behind a wall that housed personal “Interests of the King” – his

bicycle stood below a showcase containing the King’s private 45 colt private pistol. Behind him,

stood the saddle and the riding and hunting paraphernalia.



They moved out of the section, their torch lights beaming thick light in front of them and

forming eerie shadows on the ancient and dead articles. The room’s ceilings extended upwards

somewhere in the dark. A modern looking beam with spotlights marked at specific intervals to

highlight the display objects looked incongruous in the setting. Probably during daytime, when

electricity was there, these would be working.



Another room… and they divided the two walls amongst themselves, as they searched to find

something that could relate to ‘ishwar maaka sitara’ … they had seen nothing about stars or

about God here as yet.



It was awfully quiet inside, but they could hear the rumblings of the skies outside. It was about

to rain.



“Rishabh!” called Naina, her beam pointing towards an object on the floor.



Rishabh rushed to her. The safe! It was a light brown painted iron piece – the logo ‘Chubby’s

Safe London’ was stuck on the front in the kind of curves that were in fashion during the

thirties/forties England. A placard announced that this ‘was the personal safe of King

Tribhuvan. The then Rana Regime opened it after his visit to India in November 1950’ Naina

had studied the history of King Tribhuvan – he had to flee to save his life. The following year

the Shah Dynasty regained full powers, with help from India.



He peered closely. “Look”



She bent down to have a closer look … a thin strip of dust covered the platform where it stood,

yet there was a narrow, almost imperceptible line of cleanliness – as if the safe had been

recently moved.



Rishabh climbed the demarcating rope into the narrow cavity that housed the safe and tugged

at the ‘wheel’ of the safe to open it. It was locked. He tugged, but it did not budge. He peered

at the clean strip. It was not straight, so someone had moved it towards the right, but while

replacing had been careless.



“Hold this,” he said, giving his torch to Naina.

With the help of both his hands, he tried to move the safe in the same position as it would have

been done earlier by the unknown person. It was heavy…but it moved. He took a deep breath

and pulled again. The movement was slight. Another breath. More strength. The safe budged.

There was space behind it now. He could place his hand there. He asked for his torch from

Naina. He squeezed his body on the side, between the safe and the wall. He directed the light

to the smooth iron back side of the safe. It was plain.



He ran his hand on the side, and then on the back. At the base, where corners of the back and

the side met, he found a recess. He pressed his fingers.



Immediately, there was a click. A cavity opened out, hitting his feet. He crouched back to

make space for it. It was on the side of the safe, an imperceptible cleft, camouflaged by

design. It was barely an inch thick, and five inches in length. It was sufficient in dimension to

hold the activation device.



He pulled out the cavity. And his eyes shone as he re-united with the activation device that he

and his friend Sumeet had created.



The slim black device, the size of a normal television remote control but thinner in width,

blinked the ‘red’ LED light on top – the signal for the bomb’s activation. He saw the display

screen. “9.37 hours left”… every second the number reduced…



******************************



This section was full of enlarged and laminated cuttings from the national newspaper

‘Gorkhapatra’. She read several of them – routine stuff: policies, decisions and statutes.

Nothing about God, or mother or the star.



She skipped them.



With passing interest she saw photographs of King Tribhuvan’s travel to various places of the

country – India was prominent. There were a few of Zurich – the city where he breathed his last

in 1955.



Her eyes caught at something. It was a different news. Not related to politics. She read it with

amusement. She focused the beam on the news article and on the photograph. She looked at

the sheet of paper in her hand…the star…could this be it?



“Rishabh!”



He came over and stood towards her left.



“Read this.”



He read the words from the newspaper – sometime in fifties. They were in Nepali.



“Can you make this out?” asked Naina



“No,” he shrugged. “It says that Hitler gifted a car to the King sometime in forties…”



“Yes? Don’t you see…the car is a Benz…”



It struck him… “Of course, the Benz logo – the star…but what does it have to do with the

Goddess?”

Rishabh screwed his eyes, to read further. The two figures huddled together in the darkness,

with just the beams of their torch lights focusing on the laminated newspaper photo on the

wall. It was quiet. Very quiet.



“…and …wait…read the last line…” said Naina. “Let me check the photograph that Dr. Gandhi

took of the teeth.”



Excitedly, Naina opened her purse. Her head bobbed in excitement as she peered closely at the

engravings on Sumeet’s teeth.



“Yes! YES” she nearly exclaimed. “It is not Ishwar…it is Ishwari. See, Dr. Kaush forgot to see

that there is an ‘ee’ kee maatra, along with the word.”



“Ishwari Maako Sitara…the Queen Mother Ishwari’s star…and the last line confirms that the car

was registered in the name of King Tribhuvan’s second wife Queen Ishwari”



They looked at the photograph – a vintage 1939 Benz stood majestically.



“Ok, it has a number too … the registration number…but…” He stopped. “…but this is not three

letters and numbers…and it is written in Devnagari…B k 938…”



“No, Rishabh…see “b” of Hindi in English would be written as ‘b’’a’….but even then that makes

it four…one for ‘ka’…shucks!”



Their sudden surge in enthusiasm deflated…



“Wait a minute … read this …” said Naina …her finger towards one section of the news. “The

original number was U ka 938”



“Yes!” exclaimed Rishabh, with a triumph. “It has to be this. It makes sense… ishwari maaka

sitara…Darbar Tribhuvan Purana … and knowing that Sumeet had an obsession for the Benz and

was maternally originated from Nepal…”



Excitedly, he took out the ‘activation device’ from his top pocket. It showed “6.15 hours left”

They had been in the museum for the past three hours now!



Naina held both the torches, giving him light. She stood close to him, peering in as he typed

the commands.



The beep of the phone was too loud in the silence . Quickly, Naina pulled it out of right trouser

pocket, and pressed the ‘green button’ , she spoke into it. “A bit louder please” Her own voice

seemed to boom in the room.



He raised his eyebrows questioningly.



“The PM” she said; she took a gulp, her whole body shivered in excitement. “Yes,sir. We have

found the code. Yes. Just a minute. A bit louder. The signal is wea…”



In front of him, the large LCD screen blinked “Enter deactivation code”



Rishabh’s fingers were trembling; the wound on his hand throbbe; his heart beat faster… the

two in an island of small light with the darkness around. “The line cut. Anyways, enter the

code…then we will call…”

“U” … “k…” shucks, he had pressed the nearby key H instead…he back spaced…his adrenalin

rushing…



She breathed furiously as Rishabh typed. Outside, she could hear the rain falling.



“..a..9…3…8…”



‘Processing…’ flashed the screen…



They waited…their muscles tense…



‘Password accepted…enter action…1.deactivation 2. delay’



She saw the man from the corner of her right eye…and screamed!





******************************************

EPISODE NINE



Rishabh’s hand stopped mid-way.



For an instant he was confused. It occurred in a flash. The man hurled an object at them.

Naina stepped back, still screaming, and the object hit Rishabh’s hand. The ‘activation device’

flew from his hand. Shocked, Rishabh flung himself to hold it back, but it was on its way to the

floor. He jumped on the floor to catch it. The device fell at a distance of a few inches – and

crashed.



Rishabh stared. His heart froze. His blood burnt.



“No. No. Mr. Rishabh.” The Hawk said. “This is not your day at all”



“You bastard!” Rishabh picked himself up and started to move ahead; Naina stood transfixed.

His eyes fell on the revolver in Hawk’s hands.



“Don’t move. I shall not hesitate to kill. Your dead friends might be proof enough”



Naina was trembling. Rishabh stood inches away from her, but could still feel her shiver

touching his body. He looked into Hawk’s steel and cold eyes. He knew that this man meant

every word he spoke. Rishabh looked frighteningly at the device on the floor. It was dead.



“Tsk, tsk” said the Hawk. “That thing is dead. And so will the people of Delhi be. So will the

people of India one day. Peace shall come.”



“Baah!” spat out Rishabh. “A killer talking about peace.”



“Peace always has a price. It shall be paid. Tomorrow is the first installment.”



“What do you want?”



“That is something you lesser mortals will not understand. We want peace. We want a fair

world”



“What fair world will you achieve by killing innocent people?”



“That is what every Indian thinks of! But a war is a war. People will die. Our people are dead

too. Tomorrow they will be avenged”



“Who are you? Are you Scorpion?”



The man laughed. “No. I am not. The mighty Scorpion will be here in Kathmandu soon”



Naina and Rishabh exchanged glances; so George Stanley had a means of escape from the

hotbed of his deadly activity. Seeing them looking at each other, Naina found the split second

of the Hawk’s diverted attention. In that, she threw her purse on him; the purse caught Hawk

with a surprise and he stepped back, and lost balance.



“Quick, Naina…”



Pulling her by the hand, Rishabh nearly dragged Naina out of the room in a quick jerk. They

closed the door behind them. There was a way to the right; and then another room to the left.

Rishabh had a quick look inside. No, it contained a coffin; this was King Tribhuvan’s last day’s

room. Ahead, there was a door. They entered; on left, it was a dead end, on right a corridor

extended.



They ran towards the end of the corridor. There was a small flight of very narrow wooden

stairs, almost the length of some small aircraft. They heard the footsteps of the man – it was

getting louder.



With a huge cry, Rishabh kicked the steps of the stairs; he was correct. They were ancient;

they crumbled beneath his kick. It was a short flight, so Hawk would be able to jump but this

gave them a few seconds extra, though.



As he ran ahead, he realized that they were moving farther inside the palace. He looked out of

a window in the darkness. Through the thick sleet of rain that fell, he could make out that they

were adjacent to the side they had initially entered the building from.



There was no return point. The Hawk would be there.



He noticed he was in a weapon’s room. He pulled out a spear from the wall. It was heavy, and

would have been used in some pagan war of yore; today, it would be handy to kill another

demon, if need be. The two ran ahead; a door on the side marked the birth room of the King;

they ran ahead.



Turning back, they saw that the Hawk was gaining ground; suddenly a bullet whizzed past

them. Hawk was using a silencer. Quickly, they ducked into the shadows of a large floor-to-

ceiling showcase. They stood with their backs merged to the sides of the showcase, trying to

dissolve into the shadows. Naina, who was getting breathless, cupped her mouth with her

hands, to prevent any sound to come out.



“You two cannot run away” called out the man.



Rishabh realized that the man’s direction was correct. He was speaking towards their end; but,

the man had not judged their exact position. But the room was small. It would be only a matter

of few minutes. He had to find an escape. He had to divert Hawk’s attention.



He searched his pockets; there was nothing that he could throw off. He did not want to leave

the spear. Patting his top pocket, he took out his cell-phone. Twisting his neck out, he saw the

man pacing the room cautiously. It was pitch dark. He hurled the mobile phone; it fell with an

echoing thud on the floor. Immediately the man lunged towards the direction of the sound.



Grabbing Naina’s hand, he jerked her out of the door; and closed it with a bang behind him.

They were in yet another room, but ahead he could perceive a corridor at the end of it. He

sprinted towards it, dragging a tired and breathless Naina. Reaching the corridor, he closed the

door behind him and bolted it – another few second’s respite. The condition of the door was

such that he knew that the man would not even have to use his revolver.



The corridor was a short one – another flight of narrow steps led down. He leaned over the

banister to see what lay below. A door marked ‘King Mahendra Memorial Museum’ stared back.

This was not the right way. He jumped at the ‘No Entry’ sign on the opposite end, with the

support of the spear. It was heavy, and since he could carry it only on his un-hurt hand, it was

uncomfortable.



There had to be a way out from somewhere. As of now, there were stuck in a maze of

mezzanine floors.

He pulled Naina up the rope. He was glad she had changed to the jeans. With a sari it would

have been impossible to run. She stopped for a brief second to catch her breath, and then

followed him.



This time the stairs were even more rickety. On the landing he moved out to the open space.

They were in the old section of the palace. He rushed back. He heard the thud of the killer’s

steps. He had no option. He pushed Naina upwards to the next flight of stairs.



It ended in a circular room; open from all sides. Rishabh realized he was at the ‘tower’ that

Khanal had shown from below. Outside, a strong wind was blowing; the rain came down in fury,

and had entered the circular tower in a small way; the pagoda-style roof was acting as

deterring awning. The lattices of windows were damp, and in the dead dark, his mind stayed

for a straying second on the exquisite carvings.



He looked around. The room was empty. He swore. Why wasn’t life like films where art

directors place props at convenient places? There was only one way out, and from that end the

killer would be emerging any minute. He looked out of the window; there was a steep drop

from all sides.



They were trapped. Behind, the steps echoed.



He thought fast. He pulled out his belt. “Naina, take off your belt and give it to me,” he

ordered. Naina followed his command, and handed over her fancy cloth belt. Rishabh tied the

two belts and stretched them to check strength.



One end, he tied to a lattice of one end of the room – he looked down. This was the other end

of the palace, looking towards the main road that they had come from. The other end, he gave

to Naina. “Stay there, and pull this as soon he comes near to me.” She was trying to gulp as

much air as she could, and nodded.



The killer entered the room, and smiled derisively.



“Stop” said Rishabh, holding the spear in front of him. The killer was in no mood to talk, and

immediately raised his gun to shoot. Rishabh flung the spear, which fell short of the killer, but

was enough to take his mind off the trigger.



Rishabh rushed where the rope was. Angered, the killer followed him.



As soon as Rishabh crossed the rope, he screamed. “Naina pull”



Even before he could turn, he heard the crash. The killer stumbled on the rope, and was

struggling to regain balance. His torso was nearly out of the window. Rishabh recoiled

backwards, and with all his strength gave a kick on the man’s back.



The Hawk could never regain the balance. There was no scream, there was no shout. He just

tumbled on the lower floor’s pagoda awning, slipping away on the wet surface – a Gold Flake

cigarette, damped in the rushing rain, dropped out of the top pocket stumbling silently in its

un-burnt fury.



For a brief instance Rishabh had a look into the shocked steely eyes.



*****************************************



“Where have you two been?” asked a shocked Khanal, after they finally found their way out of

the tower to the ground floor.

“We will explain that in the car, but we have to now rush back to airport, sir,” said Rishabh.



Khanal looked at him with more suspicion. The clothes had fresh stain; the hair was disheveled

and the hands were dirty. The lady did not look any better. But, he had his orders.



“Please, be seated.”



They ran the short distance to the standing vehicle, their heads ducked against the slashing

rain.



Rishabh looked at his watch – 5 hours to go. There was still time. Khanal asked about their

museum adventure; Rishabh explained in brief.



The car swept through wet and empty streets of Kathmandu; the headlights reflected hazily on

the slippery surface. The wipers painstakingly cleared off the sky’s assault from the windshield.

From New Road Gate – the market street leading to Darbar Square, they turned left, towards

Darbar Marg leading up to Narayanhiti Palace – the present day king’s seat. From past to

present: they had traversed an era.



Rishabh closed his eyes. When did this day really start? He recalled his meeting with Lata

Mangeshkar in the morning flight – it seemed ages ago. And his life in USA appeared to be from

some previous birth.



Helplessness engulfed him. He wasn’t sure of his next action. Sub-consciously, he pumped his

fist in desperation. On his other hand, his fingers played with the wound through the tattered

bandage. He got an unusual comfort from his own pain.



When he opened his eyes the car was not moving. He looked around in daze. Had he slept? He

looked at his watch and then at Khanal. It was silent in the car, except for the steady drone of

the rain and a mild hum of the car’s engine.



“What happened? Why have we stopped?” Through the windshield, beyond the slant of the

rain, he could see they were not at the airport. It looked like a residential area; a narrow

street with looming houses. The sky above was dark and dreary.



“Because, it is time for you to meet Scorpion,” said Mr. Khanal smiling at them.



“What?”



Rishabh spoke sharply; Naina, who had also dozed off, woke up with a start. She looked around

bewildered. “Where are we?”



“Oh madam is also awake now,” said Khanal. “So let us meet the Scorpion. I am sorry for your

sake the official who was supposed to receive you had to be silenced. But then, life is cheap in

Nepal.”



Rishabh looked at Khanal; from nowhere he had produced a gun in his hand. “Don’t indulge in

any tricks please. You seem to have nine lives. But I guess those nine are over now. Now, get

out of the car. If you try to run, then be informed that this works. And,” – he pointed towards

the back seat – “tell your lady-love to get out too”



Rishabh turned and signaled to Naina. She nodded and opened her door.

They stood in the rain, the water seeping through their clothes and soul. Naina stood near

Rishabh seeking transient comfort from the proximity. Khanal was out. He pointed to a

building behind Rishabh – it was done in red brick, with a thick sanitary pipe coming out of the

wall; the windows were dark, except for the top most floor one.



“Get inside”



Rishabh and Naina followed the order. They were inside the building, a narrow passageway

with a door at the end, and stairs towards the right, lit by a dim light emanating from a weak

bulb. This was perhaps the back-door entry to the building.



“Climb the stairs”



In a row they climbed – Rishabh, Naina and Khanal. Naina felt the gun’s tip touching her back.

Within, she felt fear. With every step, her heart pulled inwards into a terrifyingly hollow vortex

dangling midway in vacuum. Apart from fear, there was a concurrently another emotion taking

over her - anger. She had her own questions from George. To her, his betrayal was not

acceptable. It was a riddle that puzzled her. She huddled behind Rishabh as he trudged

upwards. Rishabh looked around for escape means, but the stairs were not broad enough.

Khanal was behind, he would shoot for sure. These people were ruthless. He had seen the

unrepentant eyes of the man at the museum; eyes that he would never forget his entire life.



Their wet feet left slimy stains. The stone stairs were cold and chipped. Stained walls

enclosed them in a dirty embrace. At first floor landing there was a wooden door – dark brown

in color, the base worn out and puffed, due to moisture. Rishabh suspected it to be the back

door for the apartment. A rubbish can stood near it overflowing with rot and filth; swarms of

flies buzzed around it. Above, another weak bulb forced the darkness outward.



“Don’t stop. Keep climbing”



They reached the second floor and met a similar door as the first floor but sans any garbage

can. The door was in better condition; the mat outside suggested a cleaner person living

behind the door. The bulb was of stronger wattage and held itself against the darkness with

dignity.



“Ring the bell”



Rishabh pressed the call bell button. Inside, he could hear flutter of footsteps.



The door opened. Rishabh said, “Scorpion?”

EPISODE TEN

Inside, the apartment was shabbily done up. After passing a dirty bedroom, they were taken to

the drawing room. A sofa with matching chairs sat opposite each other. On the far corner of

the room was a dining table – an inexpensive one, the kinds that were found in the seventies

with a sky blue sun-mica top. Similar chairs adorned all over the six-seat table.



The walls were dull pink; at least they tried to look like pink. The grease and the grime had

more or less conquered over the original color. There were old photographs showing Mt.

Everest and Mt. Manaklu on the walls. None of them looked new, and the colors on them had

faded.



From where he sat, he could see that it was a well-worn out house. Behind the sofa-chairs

opposite him, there were clearly marked stains that shown people with dirty and oily hair had

sat. Behind the wall, he fathomed was a small passageway, probably towards the main door.



Naina sat on the sofa chair opposite him. Khanal pulled a chair from the dining table and sat on

their side, equidistant from both – the gun pointed in the middle, ready to spew its fire lest

either of them made any moves.



Anuradha entered the room, and dragged a chair from the dining table, and sat on it. She wore

a rustic salvar suit – from her looks no one could imagine she was the dreaded Scorpion – in her

dress, her mannerisms, and her hair tied tightly at the back, she looked every inch a housewife

getting ready to watch her favorite serial after a tiring day.



“Why, Anuradha?”



He looked at her, and then at Naina, who had lowered her eyes.



Anuradha laughed. “No, Mr. Srivastava. Life is not your Hindi film that I would have taken this

revenge or something for your two timing me. So, just chuck out any such romantic notions. I

am a warrior, and I prefer to be called that; and just the way a warrior has to assume various

charades to overcome enemies, so did I take on the role of your wife for the past four years.”



“Warrior?” he asked disdainfully.



“Yeah, yeah; don’t start off your moralistic lecture, my dear husband!” she said

contemptuously. “It does not befit you since you created that piece of brilliant mechanism that

lies atop the India Gate, thanks to the good work done by my trusted but ill-fated aide Kokil”



Rishabh and Naina looked up together at Anuradha.



“My, my” laughed Anuradha, enjoying the discomfiture of the two. “You really are in love.

What a coordinated and similar expressions that you gave! I mean, any third rung television

serial director would be mighty proud of you both.”



“Can you stop …”



“…playing games? Can’t you even think of original lines to speak?” mocked Anuradha. “Well, I

am here up at 3:30 in the night, trying to play a perfect hostess, and there you say that I am

playing games. How cheap is that, pati-dev-ji” She stressed the polite suffix ‘ji’ sarcastically.



Rishabh sighed and kept quiet.

“Anyways, I have now lost my sleep. Plus there are some three and a half hours to go before

Delhi is lost to the world. The news will take some hour more to reach here. Till then, I have to

be your lovely hostess. So I shall tell you a story. You will definitely like to hear it I am sure.

Actually, I wanted you both dead at the museum itself. But, then I guess in a way it is good you

are alive. And when Khanal called up to say that you have survived that stupid Muslim’s attack,

I thought why not keep you all alive so that you can see our power – or rather, your creation’s

power.”



Rishabh wanted to get up and slap the insouciance woman. But Khanal was sharp. A slight

twitch and the gun was pointed towards him. His fingers were on the trigger.



“So, we come to this story,” continued Anuradha. She pulled her leg up on the chair and sat

cross legged on it. “Well, some years back - actually in 1998 – after the Pokhran tests by India,

a group of nations of the regions decided to teach India a lesson. But, they did not want to

come to the forefront. And of course, they did not want to do the usual stuff of bombing

temples and places of crowd. Since India is riddled with so many terrorist factions, it had got

used to these bombings; it took them in its stride. What this group had to was big. It had to be

better. It had to be spectacular. It had to be something that would bring India to a standstill

and on its knees. A few killings here and there hardly helped. Plus, these were not petty

terrorists demanding a piece of land or a state. The group did not want to conquer India; it is a

futile effort to hold and control India now with its burgeoning population. Plus, this is not an

era where someone can come and colonize a country. The world political pressure works at a

certain level. The group’s objective was clear – to take India back to the pre-Independence

era, but without conquering it. That was only possible with a direct attack on its capital.

Obliterate Delhi – and the nation will be in a mess.



“When America, the grand-dad of all nations, decided not to come too harshly on the errant

Indian child, it was decided that time had come to implement the plan. But, there was a

problem. Who would bell the cat? A nuclear missile from any country would be detectable. So,

a weapon should be deployed in India, but not track-back to any particular country. That is

when the news of the ‘smart anti-matter bomb’ started to pour in around the beginning of new

millennium.



“That is where I come into the picture. The scientist in-charge of the project was Aman – now

Aman’s ‘wife’ or ‘husband’, as you want to see it, Graham, could hardly be a source of

information,” laughed Anuradha, at her own joke. “The junior of Aman, who was the brain

behind the project, was an eligible bachelor. And he also happened to be the son of a father

who was known to an active proponent of the ‘people’s war’ and was disillusioned with Indian

way of functioning. This man called his daughter, and asked her to be a part of this war, as a

soldier. That daughter, my dear husbandji, is me – your wife Anuradha.”



She paused and looked at him.



Getting no reply, she said. “Arre – whatever happened to your film instinct? I gave such a

dramatic pause. At least, give me a clap for it.”



“Clap – bah – you deserve a slap … and so does your father! Being an Indian …”



“No no no” interrupted Anuradha. “That is where you are grossly incorrect. I am not an Indian

though I carry an Indian passport”



His eyes raised in amazement. “Perhaps you and your parents did not do a very thorough

background check on my family before the marriage – kyun, dowry was good enough I guess for

your family,” she chuckled in contempt. “My entire family belongs to Nepal. We changed our

Nepali surname Poudel to a more Indian sounding Paudwal”

“So Nepal is part of that group of countries?”



“Huh! Not at all. The King should have been, but since he always forwarded the ‘zone of

peace’ concept, there was no point in taking him in. But, the King does not represent the

people. We do. And when we were approached, as members of the ‘people’s war’ group we

agreed. It was a time consuming task, and not easy. We have been married for four years now –

see the sacrifice I gave for this war; I even slept with you initially. Every evening when you

were dead sleep, I used to download the data and progress of the project from your laptop.

No, Mr. Srivastava, you are not that smart enough. Even though you had bifurcated your hard-

disk in two sections, it does not take very long for a hacker to break into ‘hidden’ space. And

here, I was back not by an institution, but at least five nations! Now back to the story. The

smartest thing to happen was that USA themselves had lot of factions, and was unsure of what

to do with the ‘bomb’ once it would be ready. They slid it off to India, making life easy for our

group. All I now had to do was just hack your PC in peace”



“You got four men murdered!” spat Rishabh.



“Well, part of the game, isn’t it? Dr Cole in Canada was the easiest. His mistress had some old

grouse and for a small payment readily poisoned him. For two, we hired this character who we

fed wild stories of jehad!”



“And you got Sumeet killed also?”



“Na” she said, smiling with the delight of a satisfied Cheshire cat. “Not ‘got him killed’ – I

killed him – as also Prof. Samuel John. My, my how shocked he was to see his death through

me!” she winked.



It was Naina’s turn to look at her with shock. Could a woman stoop so low? She had met

Anuradha in the past. The woman who sat in front of her was a totally different creature!



“About Sumeet, you see, he had a very soft corner for me in his heart – and a hard one some

place else. He was –how do the authors put it – ‘an easy prey’. Didn’t you realize why he

suddenly stopped complaining about our failing marriage? Anyways, it was not difficult for him

to confess in me about the office proceedings- the insecurities and the corporate rivalry that

you hid from me, despite being your ardhangini” – she made an act of an innocent woman –

“your friend Sumeet used to tell me, after two drinks and some sweet talk. While I got the

technology from your boring computer, I got the other details from his interesting persona.

Plus, we did have a Nepali connection, no? But now that since he had lived his usage, he had to

go, lest he told about us. That night, I was there in his house. I made him dead drunk. And I

left the gas deliberately open” She smiled – a conductor finishing off her orchestra.



“And you knew about his teeth”



“Of course darling!” said Anuradha, with a condescending emphasis. “He was a romantic fool of

sorts – and thought this to be some brilliant idea. He wanted to try it out by putting my name

but I would not allow it. So he used the idea for the new code. But then that was the

deactivation code; it hardly bothered to me – he could have shoved it up his ass for all I care.

Yes, I was quite impressed when you found out about it. Actually, when you left for India all of

a sudden, I had thought you would not come to know about the deactivation code. In a way, it

was good for me that you were going to India. You would get killed in the blast, and I would

live like a poor hapless widow.” She gave a counterfeit sigh. “But just to be sure that you don’t

do any hanky panky, I did put that Global Tracker Device on your shirt. Remember, I came and

hugged you from the behind. You thought it was a desperate housewife’s ploy. Nopes. That was

the only way I could touch you and put that thingy behind your collar”

He tried to remember the day – yes, he had taken off his tie, his collar would be loose, or

perhaps, it could have been slightly upturned too. It would have been easy for her to attach it.



She wet her lips, and continued, “But the real shocker came to me when Naina also followed

you. Now, Naina” – she turned towards the girl – “you sweetie, I would have completely missed

your angle had you not been so nice in leaving your voice mail stating ‘I am going to India’ –

option 2 , I guess , because generally when you would be tom-tomming with my husband post-

office hours it had the message, ‘I am not home’. It took me a while to find out which flight

you were taking, but then how many direct flights fly to Delhi? Concorde is a good option. I was

there on the flight – but you missed me. Well, not really your fault since I was in a little bit of

disguise.”



Naina screwed her eyes. Of course, on landing, she had caught someone, but could not

concentrate due to her name being called by immigration counter clerk. Hell, she should have

paid attention.



Anuradha continued, “I instructed Kokil for your welcome. But you slipped like an eel. To my

shock, when the tracker showed you were going to Nepal, I knew that you were up to

something. So, I sent that stupid guy to kill you. But you escaped even that … then I thought,

chalo, it seems that you are destined to live to see the bombing of Delhi, so be it. Of course, I

am happy some press has reacted too, though I was not really expecting it, since I only wrote

about it on a blog. I hope you both know what a blog is!"”



She finished her narration, and viewed their aghast faces. There was silence. Only the rain’s

muted rustle was heard.



Rishabh eyed his watch- they had to get out of here fast… but how? Without turning his head,

he moved his eyes to have a look at the room – it was bare. Even before he could do anything,

the bullet from Khanal’s revolver would be in him. His eyes crossed Naina’s. She pointed to the

sofa chair she was sitting on. He adjusted his weight. The sofa moved. It was a light one. The

chair on which Naina sat would be lighter. He blinked his eyes in a nod.



“Yes Anuradha” he said, diverting her attention to him. “You are intelligent and a warrior. I

bow to thee.” He bent down as if to pick something up from the floor. Immediately, Anuradha

removed her legs from her position in recoil. The action got Khanal to become tense and rivet

his attention solely on Rishabh.



In less than a split second, Naina got up with the chair; balancing it on one hand, she pushed it

towards Anuradha. The chair was heavier than she had initially imagined, and it scraped on the

floor towards Anuradha and only made her wobble.



Khanal fired, but in the commotion and noise, Rishabh had stood up, and jerked Khanal’s hand

towards the ceiling. With his hurt left hand, he clutched Khanal’s throat, and pushed him

towards the wall. The wound sent a sharp tingle of pain through Rishabh’s body, but he ignored

it, and Khanal’s head hit the wall with a sickening thud. It stunned Khanal, and he slumped to

the floor. Rishabh saw he was only shocked, not dead.



Naina had picked up the chair on which Anuradha had sat, and pushed it over Anuradha, who

had fallen when her chair had wobbled.



Rishabh picked up Khanal’s fallen revolver, and went over to Anuradha shouting to Naina –

“Rush out of here” He placed the gun on Anuradha’s temple, and hauled her up.



Naina rushed to the main door. “It’s locked!” she screamed to Rishabh.

“The back door…from where we came” he ordered.



Placing his arm around Anuradha’s neck, he whispered hoarsely. “Where are the keys?”



“Not on my life.”



“Then it will be your life”



Naina came into the room – “That’s locked too”



“Keys!” demanded Rishabh.



“Ha” said Anuradha.



“Naina, search Khanal…”



Naina jumped over the fallen chairs, and went to Khanal’s slumped body. She looked in his top

pocket, and the trouser pockets. She found the car keys but nothing else. Naina clutched them.



“Ok, Naina…go near the main door, and wait for me.”



Naina did so.



He dragged Anuradha, who was jerking and struggling, but his hold was strong. He reached the

door. Pointing the revolver at it, he pressed the trigger to blast the bolt. The recoil from the

gun shook him. He had never used a gun before.



The impact loosened his grip on Anuradha, who came free and tried to run, but he caught her

by the hair, and pulled her. Anuradha shouted. She struggled, and flayed her arms. The gun

fell. Anuradha tried to jump at it, but Rishabh’s hand was strongly holding her hair.



Naina had opened the door through the splintered bolt, and ran out.



With a sharp push Rishabh flung Anuradha on the wall. He pulled her back, and shoved her

again. She fell unconscious. Rishabh picked up the fallen revolver and sprinted out of the door.

The front stair case was wider than the back ones and he climbed them down two at a time. It

was still raining when he came out of the building. He stopped a sliver of a second to note the

address of the building on the signboard and ran the corner, to the back lane, where Naina sat

in the car, the ignition running.



She backed the car from the alley and turned to the main road.



“Now which way is the airport?” she asked. The road was empty.



“Just drive on. We might see some sign board to get an idea.”



Naina pulled the car into fifth gear and pressed the accelerator. Rishabh turned back to see;

there was no one behind them. The rain continued its assault as the wipers squeaked in their

valiant effort to counter it.



“Look” he pointed. “There is a signboard”



She slowed the speed; Rishabh screwed his eyes to focus on the dilapidated signage and in

Nepali.

“Viman-tal – Airport” he pointed. “Straight. This is the Ring Road”



She drove on till she reached a sort of angular T-junction. “Right or left?”



Rishabh had no clue. There was no signage. There were shops on the opposite end, and the

road stretched openly on both sides –right or left?



“Take right” he said, choosing as a measure of desperation. “Damn this rain. There is no one in

sight”



After some kilometers, he jumped in joy. “There is that junction. Take left. We came from

here…”



After a few minutes, Naina parked the car in front of ‘departure’ building of the International

Terminal. Both jumped out of the car, and went to the entrance.



A guard stopped them. “What?” he asked eyeing the wet couple, and looking at Rishabh – his

hair disheveled, his face stained and his hand covered in a wet, red bandage.



Hell! “We have come from India in a private jet, on our PM’s request” started Rishabh, looking

at the guard squarely in the eyes, and speaking in Hindi. Clearly, he was not convinced.

“Please, understand, our plane is waiting”



The guard was unmoved. Through the window Naina spotted Captain Mithun Bhattacharya, and

screamed his name, waving at him. Captain Bhattacharya was with an airport official. Seeing

the two, he came towards them.



The official spoke to the guard.



“We need to fly out immediately” said Rishabh.



“But, sir, we cannot leave. The weather will not permit.”



Rishabh’s heart sank. He looked at his watch; four fifteen am.



“Captain. We have to.”



“The ATC will not give permission!” argued Captain Bhattacharya.



“Whatever…arrange for it…”



“It is dangerous – we might die”



“We might. But if we don’t go, Delhi will die!”



The two men stood facing each other. Captain Bhattacharya nodded. “Let me try.”



Turning to the airport official, he requested them to take the couple to the departure lounge.



“One more thing,” said Rishabh. “We want Nepal Police to pick up two people from this

address” Captain Bhattacharya noted the address on his pocket diary, and walked briskly

towards the control tower.

Forty five minutes of grueling wait later, they were airborne. The plane heaved and jerked as

it cut through the heavy Himalayan clouds. Rishabh ignored the turbulence and concentrated

on his task ahead. From the first aid box, Naina bandaged his hand. The wound was not looking

good. But Rishabh did not feel the pain. He had to reach Delhi – and in time.



After an excruciatingly painful one hour, the captain announced, “We are about to land, sir. I

have informed airport authorities to pick you up directly from the aircraft”



Rishabh looked out of the window. Dawn had stripped out of its dark shell. The Independence

Day had begun…



…and he had only one hour to save the capital of his country!



*********************************

EPISODE ELEVEN



For Rishabh and Naina, they were their lives’ longest half hour as the car zipped through

Delhi’s empty early morning roads, its siren ablaze.



They sat on the back seat, nervous and scared. Naina placed her hand on his. He turned

towards her. Their eyes met.



“If I fail this, I will fail not my life, but my soul,” he whispered. His voice trembled, nearly in

tears.



She pursed her lips, and took a deep breath, and said reassuringly, “Rishabh. You will not fail

this. I am sure.”



He wasn’t. It was the last chance. The very last chance!



The car swerved sharply and came to a halt in front of a side-door of South Block. They jumped

out.



“I will wait here,” said Naina.



He nodded. The driver spoke to the guard on duty. The PM was with Lataji on ground floor.

Rishabh ran.



*****************************************************



Lata Mangeshkar checked her notes one last time. She looked at the clock above. The function

was scheduled at seven. There were few moments left. Mentally, she rehearsed the song’s

lines, notations, crests and troughs. It was a song she had sung on several occasions. Still, she

felt as nervous as her first performance. A perfectionist to the core, she turned to her

orchestra conductor Amar Mohile and gave him few more instructions.



Her secretary walked in briskly. “Didi, PM Sahib would be here any moment.”



She nodded, and said, “Amar ji, please take the musicians out. A van would be waiting

outside.” Amar nodded and walked out. The musicians followed him in a neat file.



The PM entered the room, and smiled at her. With a respectful bow, she folded her hands and

bowed. “Thank you for giving me the honor of singing on the nation’s Independence Day,” she

said.



“The pleasure is all ours,” replied the PM. “We shall be leaving for the venue in five minutes.

Your car is ready outside”



“Haanji. I am all set.”



Suddenly, the door burst open. Rishabh stood there. The two looked up at Rishabh’s haggard

look; two security men tried to hold him back, while a battery of others followed and stopped

when Rishabh did.



“The bomb is still ticking!” he exclaimed. “Leave me!” he pushed the security officers aside.



The PM’s face was ashen. “What?”



“Yes, sir…”

“But yesterday night the lady…”



“Yes – we had got to the code, and also entered it into the device; but we were attacked and

the device broke. The bomb is ticking away… and I need a helicopter and a crowbar,

immediately.”



Lata Mangeshkar looked at Rishabh, and recognized him from the man in the plane. She looked

questioningly at the two men.



The PM felt a pain run through his body. Was this the end? Was this the ultimate failure? Last

night, he had over-ridden all precautions, on the basis of one phone call. Would history

remember him as the PM who made the wishy-washy decision on basis of one man’s words?



He looked through Rishabh, at the security men. “Call the Home Minister immediately. Get the

foreign dignitaries and the ministers removed now”



“There is no time for that, Mr. PM” shouted Rishabh. “We have only 30 minutes left! Who all

will you take out?”



“Damn it!” swore the PM.



“Trust me, I can do this. Just organize a helicopter and a crow bar for me, please,” pleaded

Rishabh. “I have created that bomb. I know its structure”



“We trusted you…”



“Yes, that’s why I am back also. I could have stayed away from Delhi – I am back because I

care, Sir. I NEED THE HELICOPTER” He nearly screamed. Hearing his loud voice, he felt a rush

of footsteps behind him. The security officials tried to hold them.



The PM looked into Rishabh’s, and kept quiet.



“Believe me, sir. I can do it. I need a helicopter, and a crow bar. The bomb is atop India Gate.

We met Scorpion. She is…my wife.” Rishabh’s voice broke, his eyes wetted. “We have her

arrested in Nepal.”



The PM’s eyes widened. “Your wife?”



Rishabh was pushed; he saw the Home Minister enter. “What happened?”



“It’s a long story, sir. But we need to stop the bomb right away!” said Rishabh.



The PM spoke to the Home Minister. “The bomb is still ticking. The deactivation device broke in

Nepal. Arrange for a helicopter to be brought out immediately to pick up Rishabh NOW and

arrange for the evacuations”



Barely had the PM stopped, the Home Minister looked at a security official, who nodded and

went rushing out.



The PM spoke to Lata Mangeshkar. “I am sorry about this. But there is a bomb that we thought

was diffused - it can destroy this city. I am arranging for your and your musician’s evacuation

immediately.”

“No, Mr.PM,” she said, her voice firm. “No. Mr. PM, I don’t think that is required. I trust this

boy.”



Rishabh looked up, the tears blinding his eyes.



“I don’t know why, but I trust this boy. He has truth in his eyes. I am not leaving…”



“But…”



“Please” she interrupted. “In any case, some day I have to die on this land. So, if death is

inevitable it fill follow me where it can, I am not going to run away from it. Mr. PM, let this boy

do his duty. I will do mine. I will sing for our motherland today … if I have to die, let it be when

I am singing. This is what has been my calling…”



The PM bowed to the great lady. “As you wish…” he whispered, hoarsely. Suddenly, the fear of

death and destruction did not look large. It was as if a Goddess had spoken.



“However, please arrange for the musicians departure…”



“Nahi Lata didi…” called out a voice from outside the open door. “We shall not leave you … if

you will sing, we shall play.” Immediately , the sole voice was joined by a chorus. “Yes. Lata

Didi.”



Rishabh looked with fear and gratitude at the PM, the crowd outside, and at Lata didi.



He looked at his watch … 25 minutes left…



**********************************************



“We heard about a bomb,” said one person. He rushed to the group of media persons standing

outside, in the compound.



Sunanda Mathur’s ears perked up. So the news was correct. Quickly she called up Karthik, and

spoke in an excited voice.



Immediately, Karthik was calling his contacts in Zee and NDTV. They had to know. His news had

been correct.



“Sunanda, just stay put” Karthik said when he called back. “You will soon be a celebrity, don’t

worry…”



“But Karthik…”



The line disconnected.



Sunanda bit her lip. What she had read on the blog confirmed that entire Delhi would blast off

– was this celebration or her death. She chose to keep quiet. Last night, after the rigid denial

from PMO, and the hectic preparation for the function at scheduled time on the same venue,

she had been hesitant. Maybe, the blog had been wrong after all. Now, the bomb was

mentioned again. But, would a singer like Lata Mangeshkar and the PM leave for the venue if

this was true?



The journalists spoke in animated tones.

Naina who had stood outside when Rishabh had rushed to the ‘board room’ on the lower floor

of the South Block, looked at the bunch impatiently and angrily. She saw the flurry of activity

happening. But she kept quiet, and stood in a corner.



She saw Lata Mangeshkar and the PM go out, followed by hoards of swarming journalist. Before

sitting in the car, the PM turned towards the swarm. Immediately, the camera men pressed the

red ‘record button’, the microphones were thrust forward.



“One last time, let me re-iterate, we are all safe. There is nothing to worry. As you can see, I

am going to the function to unfurl the tri-color to the nation.”



Before they could ask anything, he was inside the car and driving off.



The journalists were pushed back by stern officials. Some of the enterprising ones were already

facing the camera and speaking, “This was Mr. PM minutes before departing for the venue with

the assurance that India was safe…this is…reporting for…”



Two girls stood at a distance – each with their own thoughts – their own fears – Naina and

Sunanda.



****************************************



Rishabh was escorted to an open space behind South Block. A grey Indian Air Force machine

roared its might. A uniformed gentleman rushed out towards him.



“Sir, I am Ajay Raina,” he shouted over the din. “Please, this way”



Rishabh nodded. When he stepped into the open cavity, as directed by Raina, he felt fear. He

had never done this. His hands felt cold. His mouth tasted sandy. His feet trembled when he

stepped inside.



Immediately, Raina was at the controls. Soon, they were ascending.



*********************************************



“In good heavens, what is this all about?”



The official looked disconcertingly. “We are sorry Mr. Ambassador. We cannot explain. But

please understand, it’s for your own safety.”



The row of cars proceeded towards the airport’s tarmac. There would be more following. The

first lot had arrived. There was a flurry of activities. The entire airport was simmering. All

runways were cleared off for special flights. With minutes, a few flights would leave.



**************************************

India Gate – the war memorial built for the soldiers who died in the first World War- stands

majestically facing the broad and regal Rajpath.



Designed by Sir Edward Lutyens and completed in 1931, it was India’s symbol of valor and

honor. It has a height of 160 feet and an arch of 138 feet and is constructed out of sandstone.

It has names of soldiers inscribed on it – the faceless soldiers who died for their country;

faceless, but not nameless. Below the arch burns Amar Jawan Jyoti – an eternal flame burning

in commemoration of brave Indian soldiers who died in the 1971 battle against Pakistan.



The Rajpath cuts India Gate round about at its starting point, Vijay Chowk.

As the helicopter flew over from South Block to India Gate, Rishabh looked below. Thousands of

people had gathered to listen to the PM’s Independence Day speech. The lawns on both sides of

Rajpath were full – men, women and children – celebrating their freedom – their sovereignty –

their right to live.







Rishabh knew he owed this right to them. He felt strength seeping in him.



For many on Rajpath’s outstretched lawns, this was a picnic, an outing that conjoined with

their patriotic fervor. Shielding their eyes from the sun they looked up as the low flying

machine brushed over the skies just above them.



“Security ka check hoga” said one. “Foreigner hoga” said another. “Maybe the PM is flying out

to the stage” “No, the PM has reached, buddhu, look there.” “Then it must be some show”

“Show? Today? But it is not Republic Day”



The helicopter cut through Delhi’s clear August skies. The rains were over early this year. At

this time of the day, Delhi was clear, devoid of the polluted brown haze which would blanket it

as the day would advance.



Rishabh looked ahead. In front of the Gate’s round-about, a dais had been set up, behind which

was erected a pole with a folded flag. From here, it looked nearly merged with the structure.



He screamed to chopper’s captain, “Get me right above the top there” He pointed to the flat

top of the gate. Below it he could see the name inscribed - “India”. The name sent a patriotic

shiver. He looked at his watch.



…10 minutes left…



****************************



Naina felt a pat on her shoulders. She turned.



“George? You have not left as yet?” she asked, surprised. At the same time she felt ashamed.

She had mistrusted him.



George Stanley shook his head. “No, Naina. I was not here really on any official calling. I

wanted to help India.”



“But George, you should not be here. You should…”



“I know. But I am sure your friend will be successful. And if something has to happen, I believe

I should die in the same country as my wife did. Maybe, then I can be united with her forever.”

He turned his face as he spoke, overcome with emotions.



She stood zapped.



“Come Naina, the car is ready. Let’s go to the venue.”



She was speechless, nodded and followed George Stanley.



***********************************************

“Yes, it was in the blogs” said Sunanda, facing the camera.



Her heart was in her mouth as she spoke. She did not want a celebrity status that would leave

her dead. She wanted to rush out of this city. But who would take her out. The train ticket she

carried in her purse was invalid now; the train had left nearly an hour back. In a monotonous

tone, she said, “Rediffblogs is one of the best services in the blogs, and we allow complete

creative freedom to our members. This forum has been used to express some of the most

radical and outstanding thoughts”



“So, did you inform the police or the authorities about this particular blog?”



“No, we did not, because Rediff is not here to create unnecessary panic. We had done our own

verifications – no conclusive proof has come out. But by today’s rumor, it seems that the blog

could be true,” she parroted the answers provided by Karthik – use all the words that can set

you free ‘seem’, ‘could be’, ‘reportedly’!



“Who is this blogger?”



“We do not know who the person is – but he or she, as the case maybe, uses the pseudonym of

‘Scorpion’?”



“And how strong has this Scorpion described the bomb”



She hesitated for a brief second. “Probably – just the India Gate…” she lied.



“Thank you, Ms Mathur,” turning the journalist spoke to the camera. “As of now, we only have

reports from a blog that there could be a bomb near India Gate. We do not have any proofs to

this. The PM has categorically denied anything of the sort, and he has proceeded to unfurl the

flag. Could this be just another marketing gimmick by a company, or the work of a bored net-

surfer? We now move to the India Gate…this is Meera reporting for Zee News, Live from

Rajpath”



**************************



The city was abuzz, as the news spread.



“Hey, did you see there is a bomb on India Gate? Switch on Zee News”



“Come on, I am watching DD right now…the PM has already arrived, these private news

channels can make up any news?”



“Paagal ho gaye hain…if there is a bomb, toh live cover karna chahte hai…why cant they stop

it?” spat an old man.



“Bomb?” a housewife said picking up a phone…



“No, ma … I am fine; in any case the bomb is in India Gate, I am in Naraina – that’s twelve

kilometers away…”



“…arre is the PM a full to stand there…”



“Lataji is singing …this can’t be true…”

***************************



A stern looking official in a gray safari suit came over to the PM, and whispered in his ears. He

passed on a slip to him.



The PM opened it.



“The press is talking about the bomb…” was written on the slip, which carried Asoka Chakra

emblem and “From the Home Minister’s desk” inscribed in golden letters. The emcee looked at

him questioningly. He nodded. Immediately, the emcee announced that the PM would like to

speak a few words before the function started with a rendition of a song by renowned and

famous singer, Lata Mangeshkar.



Nearby, the musicians were getting ready with their instruments. Briefly, a few of them looked

at the oncoming helicopter right above them.



“Fellow countrymen,” the PM’s voice exploded over the announcing system. “Please accept my

heartiest wishes on this auspicious occasion of our Independence Day. India is a free sovereign

and dignified country. However, there are attempts to malign its name. We have learnt that

people are talking about some explosion. Please be aware we are all safe. Our nation is strong

and will not cower to any enemies – be it a nation or internal rumor-mongers. Once again,

Happy Independence Day. And now I will call upon the Nightingale of India to mark open this

ceremony with a rendition of a song in her sweet voice.”



The cameras moved from the PM to Lataji. She wrapped the ‘pallu’ of her customary red and

white sari around her tightly, and walked to the microphone, placed in front of the musicians.



Closing her eyes, she read out a shlok (hymn) – a traditional opening for all her concerts and

live performances. As the sweet voice emanated, the crowd started to settle down. Some

looked apprehensively at the helicopter that was hovering above the Gate.



It is said that the nightingale sings the most beautiful when it has a needle stuck in her

heart…perhaps, it is true.



Today, Lata Mangeshkar broke the tradition of her rehearsals; the musicians panicked; the

conductor looked at her surprisingly.



…but the sound that came from her was the sweetest, the most emotional and the most

sensational alaap ever.



Her voice cascaded like the waves of an ocean; the voice rose and fell, picked and dropped,

tingled and tickled; and multitudes of Indians – on the lawns and at their televisions sets – sat

transfixed.



*********************************



Rishabh checked the buckle of the cord for a last time. He looked below. His breath caught. He

had to jump.



Amidst the helicopter’s din he could faintly hear the voice he loved. He looked at the crowd

standing there- and the sprawling city of Delhi. He got his power. He was ready.



The captain gave him thumbs up signal. Rishabh nodded. He went to the edge of the cabin. He

concentrated on the voice and jumped. For a second his breath failed. But soon, the cord’s

reassuring tug caught him. He slid down towards India Gate’s top.

…five minutes left…



********************************



From below many did not notice. They were stupefied by Lata Mangeshkar’s moving alaap.

However, a few noticed with dropped jaws as a man jumped out of the helicopter. They shook

and nudged their neighbors. It was odd. Very odd. Yet, no one was reacting. They shrugged.



Naina, who had reached the podium, looked up at the helicopter; a thousand prayers left her

heart.



Lata Mangeshkar sang on – her eyes closed, her left hand held out in a soft motion,

accompanying the musical notes flowing from her voice. Effortlessly from the alaap, she moved

on to a song that every Indian sings proudly – saare jahan se achcha Hindustan hamara – our

India is best from the whole world.



She sang in a slow tempo; the musicians caught on to her rhythm, they started to play. As

always, music followed her divine voice, like a dedicated devotee.



****************************************



Rishabh felt the cold breeze cutting into him as he descended; his fine hand held a short

crowbar; with the other, he held the cord. It hurt. He ignored it. He looked up, signaling the

captain to release the cord with speed. His eyes peered to look where the bomb was. The top

of India Gate is not wholly flat. He had not known this. There was a slight raised dome, with a

ledge surrounding it. At a level below was another ledge.



He scanned the side away from the crowd – empty; then he looked at the other end. There it

was –a solid black rectangle with the panel of illuminations below it.



As he neared he breathed heavily; the wind seemed strong. He looked at the bomb. The heat

was building up. The box would be hot by now.



His feet touched the slight dome of the top. He was not an acrobat, he struggled to regain

balance. He held the cord tightly. His blood rushed in his veins. He bit his lower lip to divert

pain from his hand.



He looked up – to the right, he signaled.



He slid down towards the right on the narrow ledge around the dome. His feet felt friction

from the sandstone. His body was tense.



The cord tugged, he was caught off guard. He wobbled. His eyes fell on his watch.



…four minutes left…



The movement was sharp. He raised his other hand to regain balance. But, in doing so, the

crowbar slipped from his hand. It fell with a clutter on the dome. It slid down. He followed it.

He stretched his arms to collect it. His fingers were about to reach it. They touched it. It rolled

over the edge. It finally stopped on the second ledge of the arch.



Rishabh’s heart stopped a beat. He stared wide eyed. The second ledge was below. He could

not possible go there, pick up and return. Time was running out. He felt the pulse knocking

through his veins. He punched air in frustration.

Standing on the edge, he realized the cord did not help. It was making him lose balance. In

desperation, he loosened the buckle and let it off. Above, the captain would be surprised – but

he could not help it.



For a split second his eyes fell on the pole in front of him, with the tied flag somewhere below.

His nation. His flag.



He rushed to the black box. He looked at his watch.



…one minute left...



He took a deep breath. He held his breath in excitement. This was the moment – the final

moment. All this while, he had been unsure, but now was the time to test and find out. Since

the device was receiving signals from satellite (filling up the reservoir battery), he could stop

that by crushing the device, or rather the lower portion only. The neutral antimatter would

remain safely embedded in the Buckyball Nanotube electrode. This electrode will survive

normal crush impact because it is about 100 times as strong as steel! All he had to do was

render the receiver dysfunctional.



He bent over it. With no crowbar, he could only break it with his hand or pick it and hit it

against the Gate’s stone itself. But, for that he would have to make a huge impact.



He bent down. The box was not very hot. His hand seared in pain. The bomb dropped.

Heavens, he prayed. Help me!



With a quick rush of his feet, he stopped it.



…eight seconds…



He bent again and hit it. Nothing!



…five seconds…



He picked it up. He was not breathing. He heaved it. Pushed it against the wall. Nothing!



…two seconds…



In desperation he looked at his watch…seven am



…time up!





*************************************************

FINAL EPISODE



In desperation, in fear, in pain, in anger, in failure Rishabh crouched down. He held his head in

between his knees ready to bear the blast’s first impact.



As soon as the man had jumped on the India Gate, the crowd knew something was wrong.

Crowds have a unique cascading affect – like the heat passing through a conducting material.

There was a restless murmur. But Lataji was singing. Oblivious. Eyes closed. Her song was

ended – in a forceful alaap…there was a thunderous silence…



The cameras swept from her to the man above.



What was happening?



The PM got up and looked at Rishabh crouching down.



Naina stared in amazement. She held her breath, her hands in a tight fist and her body stiff

with tension.



What was wrong?



Only the wind’s whistle could be heard.



For half a minute Rishabh sat, crouching, his eyes shut but pained; then, slowly he opened

them. Nothing had happened. He looked at the bomb lying a few inches away from his feet.

The signal was blinking. He checked the timer. Then it struck him – he had changed his watch’s

time to Nepal Standard Time- that was fifteen minutes ahead of India. Now he realized why the

heat of the bomb not up to the level he had expected to be. He had fifteen minutes more!



He stood up.



The crowd let out a gasp; Naina breathed. Her hands opened. She stared unblinkingly at

Rishabh, and let out prayers to the Gods above.



The musicians started to play an invigorating and inspiring piece on their violins – sharp and

fast.



Picking up the bomb, he knew all he had to do was physically ruin the micro-chip, and the

reservoir battery that was filling up from the infra red rays of the satellite. The anti-matter

particles would survive any impact as they were embedded in the buckyball electrode.



Carefully, he held the device in his hand. The heat was picking up. His hand hurt. But he did

not care. Holding it from the electrodes, he ignored the heat, and the pain sent through his

hand to his head. He hit with the base, on the sandstone of the Gate. The micro-chip reacted –

the ‘impact-drive-active’ system sent a small beep. He ignored it. With his might, he picked it

up over his head and brought it down with all his tired body’s force. It took him three hits.



The sound died.



He heard the violin’s rush below, and the wind’s swish below.



He peered into the display screen – ‘chip not found’. He breathed hard, and wiped off his

sweat from his eyes, again with his arms.

He did not want to take chances. He picked up the shattered device and hit twice once more –

suddenly he felt a wave of shock pass his body. The battery had sent an electric pulse, he

staggered backward. He looked downward – he saw the steep fall. His eyes rolled out as the

shock wave ran through his body.



The music conductor’s hands flew in swiftness, as he conducted his mini-orchestra to the finale

of the piece.



The crowd looked with open mouth. Everyone stared at what the man was doing. Suddenly,

they saw the thing in his hand fly open in tiny pieces, and he staggered back forcefully. The

final shock had come through. With a loud scream, Rishabh turned and stepped backward. His

one foot was in air. In a micro second, he jumped from atop the India Gate.



There was a collective gasp.



The musicians nearly stood up from their chair. Their jaws dropped in horror. The crowd at the

lawns stood equally stunned.



On impulse the PM walked forward as if he could stop the fall.



Rishabh was mid-air. His heart stopped. His hand moved to their target. They caught the rope

of the nearby pole. He held it with all his might. He blinked. Strangely, the first vision that

came to his mind was that of Anuradha’s sketch – the mountaineer with the rope. He put his

feet on the pole, and held the rope. With gravity he slid down the pole. The other end of the

rope that had the flag tied started its journey upwards.



The friction burnt the sole of the feet. The rope slithered in his hand – the rough jute cut

pierced it, and he screamed in pain.



As Rishabh glided down, holding the rope, so did the flag go up and unfurled – dropping the

rose petals contained in them. The tricolor waved in the early morning breeze.



The crowd stood up, clapping and cheering. Naina rushed towards him.



The cameras and their owners furiously ran and started speaking into their microphones.



His feet touched the ground. Every pore of his body ached. His face was stained, his hair in an

unruly mop, his cream shirt nearly blackened. His breath came in spurts. Yet he made one last

effort, taking support of the pole, he looked at the PM and smiled and raised his thumb.



Lata Mangeshkar smiled and stepped in front of the microphone and sang India’s national

anthem; everyone rose to attention:



Jan gan man adhinayak jaya he

Bharat Bhagya Vidhata

Punjab Sindhu Gujarat Maratha

Dravid Uttkal Banga

Vindhya Himachal Jamuna Ganga

Uchala Jaladhi Taranga

Tab subh naame jaage

Tab subh ashish maange

Gaahe tav jaya gaatha

Jan gan mangal daayak jaya he

Bharat Bhagya Vidhata

Jaya He...Jaya He...Jaya ...Jaya...Jaya He...



There was a thunderous applause that lasted for ten minutes.





EPILOGUE



Delhi – a city that has seen the rise and fall of several empires is a survivor by instinct. It does

not bow down to fresh aggressors; it fights them back and if it cannot, it assimilates them with

open arms without losing its identity. Legend states that any emperor or man who creates a

new city at Delhi will not last his rule. Yet, Delhi has seen several ambitious men from

Qutubdin Aibak to the Britishers coming here and leaving their stamp. Today, history is seen at

every level of the city as the seven ancient townships have merged to form a cosmopolitan

modern day Delhi.



On the Independence Day, Delhi survived again.



Rishabh and Naina walked hand in hand as they moved to see the city’s colorful sites – from the

lush greens of Lodi Gardens to the monument of Qutub Minar to the testimonials of Red Fort to

the intertwined bazaars of Old Delhi to the modernity of Pragati Maidan to the fun of Appu

Ghar to the serenity of Lotus Temple to the faith of Jama Masjid to the silent tomb of Humayun

– this was their honeymoon – the return of the prodigals.



They stood on a slope facing the Gurgaon-Delhi highway, back after wrapping up their

existence and work in USA. He encircled his arms around her.



“So Mrs. Srivastava, happy?”



She leaned back towards him. She wore a bright red sari, her arms wrapped in traditional ‘red

churras’. “Very much. And now that you have accepted Lataji’s offer to work at her hospital,

all the more so.”



They looked at a plane on its ascent moving above them. “I don’t know how many Rishabhs and

Nainas would be leaving for search of money and power abroad. But, then they will all have to

return one day. Else, peace will always elude them. In the rat race, one always ends up being

nothing more than a rat.”



She nodded and hugged him.



****************************************

Sunanda Mathur placed the coffee cup beside the computer. Her fifteen minutes of fame were

over. She was back to her desk, the same grind and routine. The promotion meant a hike in her

salary, and a fancy letter – in reality, it ended up with more work than she had imagined.



Out of curiosity she clicked a site. It had been months since she had opened the dreaded page.

As the page loaded, she picked up the cup to her lips.



She dropped the coffee as the words flashed back. “We have lost a battle – the war is still on

…”



Then, her eyes fell on a brief line below it – “Sunanda, get back to work! I have managed to get

into this site now” signed Karthik.



THE END