BLOWBACK (16 page)

The chowkidar was still showing them around when a truck belonging to Prakash Packers & Movers pulled up outside the complex. There was a flurry of activity as the luggage began to be brought in. The madness lasted two days. By the end of the second day, the house had acquired some shape and was beginning to look more like a home.

Exhausted by the effort, but glowing with the joy of setting up home with the man she loved, Tanaz collapsed on the sofa and called out to Iqbal, who was busy trying to load up the fridge. Half-empty shopping bags from the neighbourhood Reliance Fresh store were strewn all around him.

‘I still can’t believe we have our own home now.’ Tanaz got up and slowly pirouetted, surveying the room lovingly. ‘And such a pretty one at that.’

‘I know.’ He stopped unpacking and went across to her. ‘It does seem unreal, doesn’t it?’

Tanaz’s reply was lost as Iqbal’s lips closed on hers. They kissed, long and deep. Before it could go any further, the doorbell rang. The loud, jarring buzz shocked them apart. They exchanged a glance.

‘Who could it be at this time of the night?’

‘Let me check,’ Iqbal whispered as he moved on soft feet to the door and looked through the peephole. Tanaz instinctively inched closer to the .22 pistol she had taped to the underside of the square four-seater dining table just a while ago.

The woman who stood outside, peering expectantly at the door, was in her early thirties. She was holding something in her hands that looked like a tiffin-carrier.

Iqbal looked back at Tanaz with a shrug and whispered, ‘Some woman... looks like one of the neighbours.’ Then he threw back the bolts and opened the door.

‘Hello.’ The woman had a soft, shy voice. She pulled the chunni closer around her face when she saw Iqbal in the doorway. ‘I’m Zubaida, your neighbour. Is your wife home?’

‘Tanaz,’ Iqbal called out. ‘Why don’t you come in, please?’ He gestured to Zubaida, stepping away from the door as Tanaz came forward to greet her.

Tanaz’s head was pounding. The young RAW agent had never imagined she would have to play the coy housewife with the neighbours and was totally unsure of how to begin and what to do. She decided to fall back on the various family soap operas that she had surfed on television during their stay at Kasauli, while Iqbal was busy with the training that she had been exempt from.

‘Hello Zubaida, I am Tanaz. And this is my husband, Iqbal.’ They exchanged courteous salaams. ‘Come on in. I’m sorry, we are still in a bit of a mess, so…’

‘No, no, I understand what it must be like.’ Zubaida smiled back at her. ‘That’s why I brought some dinner for you… I know your kitchen can’t be up and running yet.’ She held out the tiffin-carrier. ‘I only got back today from my parents’ home and learned that you had moved in.’

‘Oh, that’s so kind of you.’ Tanaz took the proffered food. ‘But you really shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘Nonsense! That’s what neighbours are for. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything else. I am just across there.’ Zubaida pointed at the apartment door at the far end of the corridor. ‘In fact, we are the only two occupants in this block so far.’

There was a slight, somewhat awkward pause. ‘Now I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have tons to do,’ Zubaida said. Then she was off with a wave and a smile.

‘Phew!’ Tanaz closed the door and leaned back against it with a smile. ‘I’ve never done that before.’

‘Get used to it… it’s what normal life is all about.’ Iqbal took the tiffin from her and putting it down, took her in his arms again. They resumed where they had left off when Zubaida had rung the bell, the unpacking forgotten.

T
he following Monday saw the start of the new diploma course in business management at AIM. The course had fifty-nine students; thirty-eight male and twenty-one female. One of the thirty-eight males was the young man named Iqbal Khan, originally from Aligarh who, according to his resume, had worked briefly with a couple of small BPOs in Lucknow and Delhi, before he decided to upgrade his skills and enhance his career prospects. Had anyone decided to investigate his credentials, they would have run into a dead-end since the first BPO had been swallowed up by an MNC and the second had shut shop not long ago.

‘The best legends are those that stick as close to reality as possible,’ Ankita had said in her briefing to them. ‘That way, you are not forced to learn any extraneous data and are less likely to make mistakes. You’ve lived in Lucknow and Delhi, so you must be familiar with those little details that you would be expected to know. And in case someone decides to go checking on you, they won’t find anything out of sync.’ There had been a tiny hesitation before she resumed, ‘Even the deaths of your mother and sister will bear out.’

Iqbal winced when she said that.

‘I don’t want to capitalize on your loss, Iqbal, but even the manner of their deaths will strengthen your cover. The fact that they were martyred…’

‘They were not martyred!’ Iqbal almost shouted. ‘They were murdered by those bastards…’

Ankita had patiently explained to him that once he left the base at Kasauli, he must live his cover down to the smallest detail, at every moment, in every possible way. That, and only that, would get Iqbal past their suspicions and deliver him into their midst.

Iqbal understood her logic. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it.

‘Walk away from all the liberal thoughts that you’ve grown up with,’ Ankita had said, ‘and internalize the fact that you are, in every which way, A moral and religious hardliner. Adopt the most narrow-minded, Taliban mindset and learn to live it. It will act like a beacon and draw them to you.’

‘How can I pretend to be something I’m not?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Iqbal. You don’t have to pretend to be anything that you are not. You have to become it… in here…’ Ankita had tapped her forehead.

‘That sounds impossible.’

‘Impossible? No. It will certainly be hard in the beginning, but not impossible. Start with the things around you.’

‘For example?’

‘For example, the way you treat Tanaz.’

‘What’s wrong with the way I treat Tanaz?’

‘Nothing, Iqbal. That’s the point. Don’t you get it? Haven’t you seen and heard the way these hardliners treat women?’

Iqbal remembered the disdain and contempt with which the doctor and the others at the camp in Pakistan had treated Tanaz, and he bristled at the very thought.

‘But that’s not me! How can I force myself to…’

‘You see the point I am trying to make, Iqbal? That is not you… exactly! You have to think like one to become one. Get it?’

Iqbal had nodded. Yes, he got it, but he didn’t like it.

‘I understand the dilemma, Iqbal,’ Ankita had said sympathetically, ‘but you must realize that your act has to be word perfect. Your lives depend on it. And the only way it can happen is if you stop playing the role and start living it.’

Iqbal remained silent.

‘Why do you think it’s so hard to find someone to successfully execute an infiltration?’ Ankita said softly. ‘The person who is ready to go undercover for a prolonged period of time must be exceptionally strong in the head. He has to retain his essence and his values even as he becomes someone else and starts living the life of a totally different person. Which is even tougher than it appears because the persona he has to adopt is invariably that of an enemy, of a person with a radically different mindset.’

This disturbing medley of thoughts reverberated through Iqbal’s mind as he surveyed the classroom. Somewhere in this lot was the person who would lead him to his goal…

F
or the first few days Iqbal, like everyone else attending the course, was immersed in the process of settling down, getting to know people and sorting out the day to day administrative hassles that are part of the territory when one moves to a new city. It was only by the end of the week that life began to take on the normalcy of a fixed routine. And it was only then that Iqbal began to take stock of the other students at the institute.

He began to assess each one of them. The intelligence inputs had been unequivocal, though not precise. Pune had become one of the major hubs from which YPS recruited gullible youngsters. Everything seemed to point to this and the profile of the students who attended AIM’s courses was almost perfectly in line with what the terror groups were looking for. That was why Anbu had chosen this particular institute.

Which one will it be? Iqbal asked himself often as he discreetly studied the others. How can I attract their attention without appearing to do so? How and when will someone approach me – if they do. Until then, I just have to live the lie…

T
hey were coming out of the institute after classes. Tanaz was waiting near the gate for Iqbal so they could go straight to the doctor’s for her monthly checkup. She was already in the fifth month of her pregnancy, and luckily things were going well. She looked beautiful now, in a pale pink salwar kameez, her head partly uncovered.

‘Wow!’ one of the men walking past Iqbal whispered to his companion. ‘Check out that chick near the gate.’

‘What a knockout!’ His companion gave a low whistle. ‘Wonder who she is waiting for.’

‘Lucky bugger, whoever he is. Man, that’s what they call visual Viagra.’ They both sniggered.

Iqbal felt a violent surge of anger. ‘Shut your dirty mouths, you morons.’ Balling his fists, he hissed at them with such ferocity that they both backed off immediately. The other students walking past looked towards them, surprised by the rage in Iqbal’s voice. Breaking free from the crowd of students, Iqbal walked out to Tanaz.

‘What is wrong with you, you stupid woman? Where is your shame? Cover your damn face!’ His tone was low but bursting with anger and it was loud enough to be heard by the other students in the vicinity. Several of them, especially the female students, stared at him in shock before they hastily looked away, unwilling to embarrass the woman who had just been so rudely admonished in public. The two men who had made the lewd comments made themselves scarce.

‘I am sorry.’ Tanaz’s face went beetroot red as she quickly used the chunni to cover her head and face. She knew Iqbal was only living his role, but that did nothing to reduce the angry pain of humiliation. She could feel the pitying glances thrown her way by the other students as they passed by.

‘You should be! Come!’ Iqbal kept walking, allowing Tanaz to fall in behind him. They got into the autorickshaw that Tanaz had come in and drove off. ‘I’m so sorry, jaan,’ Iqbal whispered to Tanaz, holding her hand tight as they drove away. Her fingers returned the pressure; she knew how much the whole scene must have hurt Iqbal.

T
wo young men on the fringes of the crowd exchanged glances when they heard Iqbal’s heated outburst. They didn’t say anything to each other then, but over the next few days they kept a sharp eye on Iqbal, observing him carefully.

Their attempts to befriend him began with a casual sharing of the cafeteria table, and a few days later, a request for some class notes they had missed out on. The first direct approach only happened a fortnight later, when Iqbal sat down for lunch in the campus cafeteria. Having got there first, he was sitting alone at a corner table near the window overlooking the open fields.

‘Mind if we join you?’ The young men came up, their food trays in hand.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Hi! I am Abid,’ said the shorter of the two. He gestured at his companion. ‘And this is Imtiaz.’

Iqbal responded to the introduction with a polite smile.

‘You’re not from Pune, are you?’ Abid asked as they sat down.

‘No. Aligarh, originally, though I grew up in Lucknow.’

‘Really? We’re not that far from each other then.’ Abid smiled at him. ‘I am from Azampur. In fact, we’re both from Azampur.’ He nodded at Imtiaz.

‘That’s good. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard a lot about it.’

‘You have? Good things, I hope?’ Imtiaz chipped in with a broad, somewhat flaky smile.

‘Of course!’ Iqbal smiled back. ‘My father was a staunch follower of the Deo –’ He broke off abruptly.

‘You were saying.’

‘My father had many fond memories of the place.’

‘Had?’

‘Both my parents have passed away.’

‘Oh! Sorry to hear that.’

Iqbal merely shrugged in response.

The two men exchanged glances. Abid couldn’t help the tiny smile that crossed his lips. Imtiaz frowned at him. From the corner of his eye, Iqbal watched the expression on their faces.

‘So, Iqbal,’ Imtiaz asked after a while, ‘which mosque do you go to for your prayers?’

‘I have yet to find one,’ Iqbal replied hesitantly, with the slightly embarrassed air of someone who doesn’t go at all, but is ashamed to admit it. From his training, Iqbal knew that most terror groups preferred to recruit the religious newbie because his views would be unformed, and he would lack a vocabulary to respond to religious debates. Also, there was no danger of such a person having been brought to the anxious attention of the local police for any overtly zealous religious activities.

‘That’s bad.’ Imtiaz clucked reprovingly. ‘Why don’t you come with us? We go to the mosque in the market just behind Khadki station.’

‘That would be great. Where do you stay?’

‘We’re at the AIM hostel. You?’

‘I’m just down the road… at the residential complex opposite the railway station.’

‘Perfect! That’s an easy stroll from here and it’s on our way to the mosque in any case. So we can go together from now on.’ Once again, the two of them exchanged a brief glance and Iqbal felt a leap of anticipation.
This has to be it!

O
n their third trip to the mosque, Abid introduced Iqbal to a man they happened to run into as they emerged after evening prayers. It appeared to be a chance encounter, but Iqbal’s instincts told him otherwise.

‘Trust your instincts, Iqbal. They seldom let you down
,
’ Tiwathia had often reminded him. Iqbal decided to do so now.

‘Iqbal, meet Asif, a very good friend of ours,’ said Imtiaz.