SALIM MUST DIE (3 page)

Postmortem

THERE WAS A STERN EXPRESSION ON THE INDIAN PRIME
Minister Dr Singh's normally placid face as he looked at the men sitting before him. Also markedly absent was the sense of calm confidence that one normally associated with him. A renowned scholar and a statesman of stature, the usually even-keeled and soft-spoken Dr Singh was the best man to occupy this critical chair in the turbulent times that India faced.

‘How is it that we never seem to have enough hard intelligence?’ Dr Singh confronted the Home Minister who, despite being a hardened politician with decades of experience, squirmed uncomfortably.

‘That's not normally the case,’ he replied sheepishly, almost under his breath. ‘We detected the attempt well in time….’

‘No! We detected only the red herring that they wanted us to,’ the PM cut in sharply, ‘and that too was just sheer coincidence.’ Pause. ‘We all know the truth.’ Another pause. ‘We all also know that our intelligence set-up is just too fragmented to ever work effectively which is why I am unable to understand the childish attitude the states are showing when it comes to the proposal to set up a National Intelligence Command.’ The PM was so unusually worked up that he actually stopped to calm himself. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen, but this attack is definitely the last straw. I am not going to jeopardize any more lives just because the states are feeling insecure about central interference or because our intelligence agencies are so busy protecting their own little turfs that they don't have time to do their job effectively.’

‘I am completely with you. We have already faced eight major attacks in the past one year and each time we were caught with our pants down,’ the normally recalcitrant Defence Minister butted in. ‘I suggest we go ahead with the NIC right away. We have spent more than enough time and effort going over this issue.’

‘That's exactly what I am going to do. We're going to table this right away.’

‘What would be the NIC's mandate?’

‘As the primary federal organization it will ensure seamless integration of intelligence from all other agencies and sources, with a special focus on terrorism. This will ensure that terror activities meet with a strong, coordinated and focused effort. Nothing will fall through the cracks any more.’ The PM saw the expressions on the faces of the others and added, ‘Look, I don't want anyone to worry; the NIC will not infringe on the scope or resources of any state or agency except to prevent duplication and wastage of efforts.’

‘Okay! Who do you have in mind to take charge of the NIC?’ the Home Minister queried. One could see the politicking starting in his mind almost immediately. ‘I think the best person would be….’ No one would know who he was going to suggest because the PM did not allow him to complete the sentence.

‘I was thinking of bringing in G.K. Rao and appointing him as the National Intelligence Advisor.’

Every single person in that room knew about Rao. After all, the man was a legend in intelligence circles. He was also known to be totally above politics of any kind.

‘Well…’ the Home Minister said reluctantly, almost grudgingly. ‘Rao would be quite… umm… ideal for the job… undoubtedly.’

‘True. He also gets along well with Narayan, the National Security Advisor.’

The instant nods of approval across the room confirmed that the PM had chosen wisely.

‘Good! That's settled then. We shall invite Rao to come on board as the NIA effective immediately,’ the PM said firmly. ‘I am going to tell him to first give all of us a presentation on the prevalent global situation.’

‘We are going to be taught international relations and geopolitics now?’ the Home Minister murmured. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘No harm in that… is there?’ the PM asked, conveniently ignoring the sarcasm.

On that note, the meeting broke up.

STRIDING OUT OF THE MEETING, THE PM HEADED STRAIGHT
for his office. He was reaching for the phone even before he sat down. ‘Dhawan,’ he said into the phone when his Principal Secretary answered. ‘I want you to get hold of Colonel Anbu for me.’

Precisely seven minutes later, the PM's phone rang and Anbu's courteous voice greeted him at the other end.

‘Good afternoon, Colonel,’ the PM responded warmly. ‘How are we doing today?’ He seemed genuinely glad to be talking to him. It was no secret that after the successful retaliatory strike carried out by Force 22 inside Pakistan in the wake of the Delhi bomb blasts of October 2005, the PM had taken an inordinate liking for the perpetually cool, no-nonsense Colonel and respected his judgment.

‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

‘Excellent!’ The PM got straight to the point. ‘Have you been through the White Paper that was circulated by the RAW chief last month?’

‘Yes sir, I have.’

‘And? What do you think of it?’

‘I think there is substantial merit in what has been pointed out,’ Anbu replied. ‘Despite everything that has been done over the past few years, our intelligence services are still very badly fragmented and disorganized. Too much intelligence is just slipping through the cracks.’ As usual Anbu's tone was soft, but totally confident. ‘That is why we have been let down at crucial junctures so often.’

‘I agree with you,’ the PM said. ‘That's why I have decided to go ahead and order the National Intelligence Command to be set up.’

‘That's an excellent decision, sir,’ Anbu exclaimed. ‘But you're going to have a hard time selling it to the states.’

‘As usual you get straight to the point.’ The PM laughed. ‘No, you can bet the states are not going to like it.’ He paused introspectively. ‘But I don't think we have too many options available… not if we want our intelligence up to speed and able to deal with the huge threats to national security that are emerging daily… especially of the terrorist kind.’

‘Very true sir, otherwise the day is not too far when India will suffer a 9/11 of her own.’

‘Precisely! That is why I have decided to go ahead with the NIC and I am bringing in G.K. Rao as the National Intelligence Advisor to head it up.’

‘That's an excellent choice, sir. There are few people better suited for the job. Mr Rao has the temperament and he certainly has the experience.’

‘I am glad to hear that, Colonel.’ The PM smiled, a trifle wickedly for a change. ‘Because this is where you come in. I want you to depute two of your best officers to work with him for a few months.’

‘My officers, sir?’ Anbu had clearly not seen this coming. ‘What pos….’

‘Colonel, Rao will need some trusted hands to overcome the initial teething problems. In any case, you had wanted to depute a few of your people to RAW for a few weeks of familiarization. This is going to be even better, because your officers will get some rigorous hands-on training and also an excellent overview of our national intelligence set-up.’

‘I see what you mean, sir,’ Anbu concurred. ‘It will be done. I have just the right officers to help Mr Rao get started.’

‘I am sure you do, Colonel,’ the PM replied. ‘And finally, one other thing. The NIC will make its first presentation next fortnight. I want you here for it.’

‘That's kind of you, sir. I am sure it will be most educative.’

‘I am sure it will, Colonel.’ There was a smile on the PM's face as he ended the call and asked his assistant to get Rao on the line for him.

At the other end, Anbu did not bother to put down the phone. He waited for the dial tone to return before he punched in the numbers he wanted.

‘MS,’ he said when it was picked up at the other end by Captain Mohammed Sami. ‘Call from the Headman. We've got another assignment… a domestic one this time. Come on over so that I can brief you. And yes, get Khare and Bhatnagar along. They're going to be in the hot seat this time.’

‘Right, sir, I will. Khare is here but Bhatnagar is still at the firing range. I'll call her back and we will be with you in about forty-five minutes.’

‘I'll be waiting, MS.’

Finally putting down the phone, Anbu leaned back in his black leather chair. The room around him gradually receded into darkness and his chair began to swivel gently as his mind wandered away slowly, back along the long, winding road that the calm man now known to the world as Colonel Rajan Anbu had travelled.

Becoming Anbu

THE UBIQUITOUS YELLOW COLOURED TWO-BEDROOM
apartment was situated on the third floor of the building, between Chennai's famous Velankani church and the sea. Lost as it was in the midst of similar looking apartments, this one had two distinguishing features: it was the corner most house in the colony and, being on the top floor, it had a unique view of the sea. The fact that the tiny sliver of sea visible did not make for much of a view did nothing to alter the sea-facing tag, which came with the apartment. Perhaps this was why the family that stayed there always attracted special attention.

Not that there was anything unusual about them. It was your average middle-class Tamil family, deeply traditional, as such families tend to be. On opening the door, you would be greeted by a pantheon of gods. A deep-seated aroma of incense held sway over the air.

However, there was something distinct about the young lad who opened the door and raced down the steps towards a group of youngsters waiting impatiently at the foot of the building. The not-so-tall boy had the darkish complexion so typical of Tamil Nadu, but that was about where the stereotype ran out. Even at that early age, his body language bespoke a leader and his face radiated a particular calm that drew your attention to him like a magnet. When you looked at him you got the unmistakable feeling that you were looking at a winner.

‘You're late, Anbu,’ one of the kids clustered at the foot of the stairs complained. ‘We have been waiting for hours.’

‘What to do, man? Amma would not let me budge till I had finished my homework.’

‘Why are you always fretting about homework? I thought you're planning to join the army… you don't need to study for that.’

‘Right! Tell that to Amma.’ They all laughed as they raced off towards the nearby park.

‘Why do you want to join the army?’ another voice piped up. ‘Wouldn't you rather be an engineer like your dad?’

‘No!’

‘My mother says wars are bad. She says it's wrong to kill.’

‘So does mine,’ the boy named Anbu replied. ‘She also says that India will only be as peaceful and prosperous as the strength of the army defending her.’

Then the innocent excitement of childhood reclaimed their attention and they ran off to the waiting basketball game.

RAJAN ANBU HAD ALWAYS WANTED TO JOIN THE ARMY. HE
had known this ever since he first set eyes on an army man. The olive-green uniform drew him like a magnet. His fascination did not wane with the passage of years. So it surprised no one when his name appeared right on top of the merit list for the entrance examination to the National Defence Academy and, three tumultuous and eventful years later, at the top of the Academy's merit list.

Then came the final year at the Indian Military Academy. This was when the young man really came into his own; unleashed by the rigorous military training, his innate leadership skills threw off the yoke of conditioning that burdens lesser men.

Whether it was during the years of initial training or the years that followed, the one thing that made Anbu stand ahead and apart from the pack was the sheer calm and confidence that he radiated. It surrounded him like a perennial halo that did not even desert him on the icy, head-spinning heights of the Siachen Glacier and Kargil, during the gut-wrenching close combat in the jungles of Sri Lanka or on the bullet-ridden roads of the Kashmir valley.

No one can ever say for sure why Anbu was one of the few who found himself moving from the turmoil of one battlefield to another in quick, nerve-wracking succession. Perhaps it was just bad karma in some past life or simply the fact that the gods had in mind for him a higher destiny, one that needed him to be better prepared than most. And, as those who have felt the heart-stopping rush of a bullet whistling past will tell you, there is no better conditioning than the battlefield….

It was this Buddha-like calm that helped him withstand the relentless roar of the Pakistani artillery guns that pounded his position on the Siachen Glacier. It did not desert him when he was confronted by the bodies of friends and foes, dismembered and disfigured by the savagery of artillery shells. It stood by him when he collected pieces of his comrades torn to bits by the LTTE landmines in the steaming jungles of Sri Lanka. It held him together safely and then delivered him to the Kashmir valley, once a vision of ethereal beauty, now a land torn apart by the conflict between India and Pakistan.

The memories that hurtled him back down those dark, narrow lanes, which he seldom allowed himself to consciously traverse, were neither calm nor forgiving.

DELHI WAS AGAIN REELING UNDER A MASSIVE, RELENTLESS
power-cut, which made the already intolerable heat maddening. In fact, life seemed to be a perpetual power-cut these days. Anbu was struggling to go through the motions of another high-stress day, when the call came. It was Sanjeev Kanal. Anbu and Kanal went back a long way, to their Defence Academy days. There were two things they had always had in common – both loved reading and basketball. The minute Anbu heard the tone of Kanal's voice he knew that something was seriously wrong.

‘Anbu, have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’ A sudden sense of foreboding flailed Anbu.

‘Arjun is… is….’ Kanal's voice faltered. ‘He's no more.’

‘
Arjun
? No!’ Numbness overcame Anbu. ‘What happened?’ he said, struggling to stay calm. ‘How?’ As Kanal told him, the scene played out in Anbu's mind like some horrifying movie.

Arjun's battalion had been ordered to clear a mosque which had been taken over by the so-called freedom fighters, the mujahidin
. Young kids, barely out of their teens, who didn't even realize that they were mere pawns in the unholy hands of some devilish general who, for his petty political ambitions, wanted to divert the attention of his countrymen from the problems their country was plagued with.

Arjun was leading the assault company, from the front, the way he'd been taught. The way the Indian Army always goes into battle.

They cleared the mosque in a few hours and then began combing the area around for militants who'd escaped in the fog of battle. It was the second-last house in the village. Arjun entered right after the point man. There were just two girls in the house, mere youngsters, barely ten years old.

‘Did anyone come in here?’ the point man asked.

Both girls shook their heads.

‘Okay.’ Arjun motioned to the point man. ‘Let's go.’ He turned to follow him as he exited.

Arjun was almost through the door when the little girl huddled in the extreme corner shot him.

‘I don't think Arjun would have even felt the bullet.’

It must have been a fluke shot, because it couldn't have been done better, even if an expert marksman had aimed it. It went clean through the back of Arjun's head and disintegrated his face.

Both the kids went down in a blaze of gunfire as the point man retaliated, his fear ensuring that the magazine was empty before he even thought of releasing the trigger.

‘Hey, are you there?’ Kanal's voice broke into Anbu's numbed reverie.

‘Yes,’ Anbu replied when the question finally registered. ‘I'm right here.’

‘The body is being flown in… it should be here in a couple of hours. The funeral is in the… at… yes, I know… I'm so sorry….’

‘I'll be there, Sanjeev. Of course I'll be there. Thanks for calling me,’ Anbu replied, his mind still numb as he mechanically replaced the receiver.

How can Arjun be dead? It seems like only yesterday that we first met.

Anbu, being the senior subaltern, had come to meet him at the railway station when Arjun had first reported to the battalion after his familiarization training at the regimental centre.

It seemed like only yesterday that they had done the weapons course together. It seemed like only yesterday that they had scaled the icy mountain peaks of Kargil to throw the marauding Pakistanis off Indian soil. It seemed like only yesterday that Anbu had come across Arjun wiping his tears near the bodies of his men.

‘Why?’ Arjun's voice was anguished as he pointed at one of the mangled bodies lying in a neat row before them; the neatness with which they were laid out only served to highlight the horrific shape they were in. ‘He'd just returned from leave after getting married. Why him?’

‘Is there ever any reason? Can there ever be any justification for all this?’ Anbu sighed, waving an arm at the battlefield around them. ‘Come on, Arjun. They've done their duty, now it's time for us to do ours.’ He touched his shoulder briefly, compassionately.

The gesture broke through to Arjun more than the words, pulling him back from that abysmal brink which is often called battlefield trauma and which afflicts even the bravest of soldiers.

‘You're right,’ Arjun whispered, more to himself than to be heard, ‘I am a soldier and an officer… I cannot lose control.’

‘That's right, Arjun. It is our karma to lead men into battle… with no second thoughts.’ The two comrades had walked away, both the stronger for it all.

It seemed like only yesterday that they had met at the Defence Service Officers Institute and shared a couple of beers. Arjun had been on his way home, for the delivery of his second child.

He had called Anbu when the baby arrived. ‘This one is a daughter… thank god… yeah, yeah, she's fine too… and sends all of you her love. Thanks a lot.’ Even now the excitement and happiness in Arjun's voice reverberated in Anbu's memory.

The memories continued to crowd in, and Anbu could feel the tears accumulating, as his mind struggled to come to terms with the reality that Arjun was no more.

He shook his head to clear the fog. He could not cry now. He still had an example to set, a duty to fulfil.
That is what Arjun would have wanted me to do
.

Anbu still remembered that last day, not so long ago, when he had been posted out of the battalion. Arjun had come to the station to see him off. They were standing on the railway platform when the train hooted impatiently and made ready to pull out. Arjun embraced him as Anbu got ready to board the train.

‘Take care, my friend. Don't let life bring you down. Never let faith in god or the confidence in yourself flag. Stand tall and make us all proud. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, let there be honour in your thoughts and your deeds. Remember, although we may not be together, we're all going to be watching over you – just as you will, over the paltan… over all of us.’

‘I'll call you when I reach, Arjun.’ Anbu had hugged him hard and then broken free and run to the now moving train.

Anbu picked up the phone and dialled the number he remembered so well… that he had dialled so often. She was crying when she answered.
Maybe the Army HQ people got through to her first, maybe the media. God alone knows
.

‘Tiny… don't cry… you've got to be strong, baby… the kids need you to be strong… Arjun would've wanted you to be strong… just remember that he was a soldier… soldiers die….’ He could feel his voice begin to break and controlled it with a huge effort. ‘It is their karma to stand in harm's way… it is ours to remember them with pride.’

For a very long time they just held the phone and cried together, brother and sister, he silently, she uncontrollably, her sobs tearing him apart. Then she finally said, ‘Please come over. I need you.’

‘I'm on my way.’ Anbu put down the phone, trying to shut out the sound of the children crying in the background.

Later, as he was driving down, he remembered what he'd said to her on the phone and the thought struck home.
Why do people forget that soldiers have families too? Families who care for them, need them, love them, long for them and wait for them to come home, with fear and hope in their hearts… and so very often in vain
.

Unwittingly, Anbu slowed down as the car came up to the turning from where Arjun's house was visible. He dreaded having to face Tiny.

They all called her Tiny. Not just because she was a little pint-sized runt when she was born, but also because she'd been the youngest one in the family – and a very late arrival at that. To Anbu she wasn't just a kid sister. She was more like a daughter.

With a massive effort, Anbu held back the tears. By the time his hand reached out to ring the doorbell, the calm had returned.

THIS INCREDIBLE, UNFLAPPABLE CALM WAS THE REASON HE HAD
been nicknamed Captain Cool. It is possible the name would have persisted but for the fact that he got promoted and was now a mature major commanding a rifle company of his battalion. Obviously Major Captain Cool did not sound so cool and Major Cool lacked zing.

Not long after, Anbu had found himself commanding the same battalion that he had been commissioned in as one of the youngest lieutenant colonels in service. That was when the nickname evolved and he ended up being named Daddy Cool.

It was soon after this when, having finished his command, he was safely on his way to marking some time as a staff officer in the Corps headquarters that luck and calm had finally deserted him. At least, for those few critical moments, they did….

THE CORPS COMMANDER WAS CLEARLY IN A GRUMPY MOOD
that morning when he strode into the Ops Room. Anbu was the first one he accosted.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘The final details are still trickling in, sir.’ Anbu snapped to ramrod straight attention.
What's with him today? Got up on the wrong side of the bed or
…. ‘But it looks like the Pakistanis were trying to push through a party of infiltrators and things got a bit out of hand….’

‘
A bit out of hand
?’ the General snapped harshly. ‘They fucking fired off enough ammunition to win a small war. I have the whole world and their wives screeching at me all the way from Delhi and you tell me…. What's Division saying? In fact, get me the Div Commander on the line right away.’ Two minutes later, after a brief one-sided conversation, he turned back to Anbu. ‘Tell them to have a bird ready. I want to leave for the Brigade HQ right away. I've told the Div Commander to meet me there.’ He was walking away when he stopped and turned back to bestow a filthy look at Anbu, as though he was personally responsible for the firing going on along the LOC. ‘You're coming with me.’ He strode off.