Game of Anarchy - Teaser Excerpt!

“I hereby solemnly swear in the name of God that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India as by the law established and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully serve in the regular Army of the Union of India and go wherever ordered by land, sea or air, and that I will observe and obey all commands of the President of the Union of India and the commands of any officer set over me even to the peril of my life.”

Oath taken by Gentleman Cadets,
On being commissioned as Indian Army Officers

Prologue

A Friendly Banter: Delhi University Campus, 2003

Three friends are sipping hot tea at a roadside joint near their college at DU North Campus; infact enjoying the last day of their graduation, seemingly free of burden of the semester exams. The monsoon has set in early; it is usually extremely hot and dry in Delhi at this time of the year. The light drizzle kept them confined under the tarpaulin sheet on the narrow pavement when a speeding car splashed a large puddle of water on them, insensitive to the plight of the pedestrians.

“Bastard! Can’t he drive properly? No way can our country be saved through democracy any longer. It has gone to the dogs,” proclaimed a guy in his early twenties, shaking off the water from his trousers.

“What, you pissed off due to the water logging? Stop cribbing yaar,” countered a female voice in the same age bracket.

“Is it rocket science to get the drainage working as it should? Am I asking too much?” exasperation evident in his voice.

“Nope Samar, but come on man, in this rain, any city would be ten feet under,” the girl tried to reason.

“So why fucking pay taxes and fund the government which is incapable of fixing simple things like bloody drains. So that they can funnel it to their own Swiss accounts instead?” Samar countered.

“Why don’t you join politics then?” smiled the girl, trying to infuriate him further in a friendly banter.

“And then what Rita? Try cleaning it from inside till I’m neck deep in shit? And fight with pigs that enjoy playing with shit and degrade to their level?” A sarcastic laugh escaped from Samar.

“Maybe Samar. It’s worth a try buddy. But I have decided. I would rather enjoy exposing the politicians and their escapades for a living.”

“Hah! Great! God save the poor bastards. They don’t know what’s in store for them. It would definitely suit you.”

“You really are going to be a journo? Like Barkha Dutt?” the third and the last person in the group asked incredulously.

“Yeah, why not Raghav? It’s a decent career. And I get to be independent as much I want. So what have you guys decided?”

“I am going for an MBA in US. Everything’s arranged. Flying off 20^th of this month,” informed Raghav.

“What! You telling us now? The brain drain continues for the rich,” joked Rita, cynicism in her voice, “and what about you Samar?”

“Sorry. What? I missed it,” replied Samar, sipping last few drops of lukewarm tea.

“So what were you thinking? What have you planned after grads?”

“Well, I was thinking about the permanent solution to the problem our country is facing. Maybe a coup is the need of the hour. These corrupt politicians won’t die soon nor will they quit even if they have steel balls replacing their hips or pacemakers pumping their hearts. It seems their asses are cemented to the chairs with feviquik till death does them apart. Only a coup can save the country now.”

Rita and Raghav were dumbstruck for a moment and then laughed out loud at his nonsense comment. Samar joined in the laughter as well.

“You are going nuts Samar. So what’s your plan for the future?” queried ever persistent Rita once the laughs subsided.

“Planning to join the Army guys. Atleast guns speak louder than the words,” replied Samar crisply.

“Enough of serious talks fellas. We should celebrate our last day of college. Who knows when we will see each other again? Let’s hit Connaught Place. Happy hour should be on and party’s on me,” announced Raghav, checking his expensive Tag Heuer watch, as he started jogging across the road towards his parked car in the drizzle.

Rita and Samar followed his lead, quickly running towards Raghav’s luxurious Honda Accord, flopping through puddles of water before they get completely drenched.

It was the last time the friends partied… till fate brought them together years later under completely different circumstances; when their innocence and naivety would be restructured by ideological differences under veneer of deceit, concealment and ruthlessness.

The Ingredients

Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others.

— Edward Abbey

Event 1

Seventy pairs of military grade shoes treaded on semi-dense shrubs – almost in a perfect unison. The patrol party was tasked to clear the path and look for anything out of place as a part of the standard road opening protocol ahead of the 2-day bandh declared by the Maoists. It was a little past the lunch time.

Abruptly the patrol leader raised his hands, signalling the party to stop. The column immediately crouched on their knees, guns at ready. He whispered to his second in command, “The birds have stopped chirping. Something is ou….”

Hell rained on the party – ack-ack of AK–47 gunfire erupted all across the trail followed by bangs of grenades being hurled at them, shredding barks and leaves in their path.

The patrol leader screamed at the top of his voice, “AMMMBUSHHHHH… take cover, fire at will!”

Firing his INSAS at the unknown enemy in the jungle, patrol leader looked around searching for his Radio operator. He located him few metres away, head blown off, beyond recognition. A bullet whizzed past his ear making him crouch further and crawl through recently dead bodies of his comrades, reaching for the radio set. BOOM! A severed foot landed just in front of him. He looked around, finding his party of seventy vastly outnumbered, less than half alive at the moment, he roughly counted.

He had to call for help. Ignoring the bloody foot lying in front of him, he tried to raise alarm quickly punching in the keys of the radio at the set frequency. No answer from the other end. Roving his eyes hastily over the set, he discovered the radio was fried, conveniently placed out of order by a couple of bullets. DAMN! He said to himself, the last words he would ever utter. Even before he could anticipate, a bullet tore through his heart, earning him an instant death.

Chapter 1

“As the reports are coming in, in a major Maoist ambush few hours ago in Chhattisgarh, atleast 46 CRPF jawans have been killed and over a dozen injured at Dhaurai located in Nayaranpur district. Initial reports suggest that as many as 200 naxals took part in the ambush. For more details, we have Sanjeev Sahu joining us live from Chhattisgarh for Channel 7.

“Sanjeev, what exactly happened?”

“Well Nidhi, CRPF road opening party was actually coming back to their camp after doing its job, basically securing the area ahead of the 2 day Maoist bandh starting tomorrow. It seems that heavily armed Maoists attacked the group around 2pm this afternoon. This is the preliminary information which we have received at the moment from Union Home Secretary. But it is expected that the death toll may rise in the next couple of hours as there are quite a few critically injured jawans being reported.

“Reinforcements have been rushed to the area. Five helicopters have been pressed into service by the Indian Air Force to evacuate the injured and dead and bring them to Raipur, the state capital for further treatment. No Maoist casualty has been reported yet. It is to be noted that this is the second major attack this month by the Maoists. Nidhi?”

“Sanjeev, any details on the ambush itself, how it was carried out, the kind of weapons used by the Maoists, the tactics employed to attack the party and how this played out?”

“Well the entire CRPF party which was attacked was seventy strong, armed with INSAS, the standard weapon of Indian Security Forces. As per the standard operating procedure, they were in a long queue like formation when attacked from both sides. Based on few weapons recovered from the sites possibly from dead or injured Maoists, automatic weapons mainly AK – 47s and Chinese made AK - 56s were used. Grenades and small arms were also used in the attack based on the bullet and shrapnel injuries sustained by the jawans. We still don’t know if any IEDs were employed. We are not sure if the party was lured into a trap. All we know at the moment is that the Maoists had positioned themselves clearly at an advantage allowing them to gun down so many jawans; a direct ambush strategized to levy maximum damage on the road opening party. Nidhi?”

“Thanks Sanjeev for the update. To all viewers of Channel 7, we will be back with more news on this in an hour. Moving on to the next major topic of the day, the newly elected Chinese Premier’s maiden visit to Delhi has…”

The TV volume went mute.

A stout man with a huge pot belly commented, “Bhenchod, what am I going to tell the Prime Minister? That we have been fucked again?”

“Nah Mantri-ji. Don’t be disheartened. Cite him the lack of infrastructure and poor weapons with which we have armed our jawans. It will not take much for PM to convince the Finance Minister for another grant. That will allow us more budget to purchase weapons. And leave the rest to me,” a confident voice assured him from across the table.

“If I listen to you, it will not be long before FM is also given additional responsibility of Home Ministry. I will be an emasculated Minister without Portfolio. And then what? Perform mujra without balls? Who knows how long I would be in Cabinet then?” burst out Mantri-ji, frustration clearly evident in his voice.

“Come on Mantri-ji. Please calm down. Here, have some water,” he handed him a glass of water kept on the table. “Just this once. OK? You know the terms. Nothing would be compromised. You are aware of my track record…”

Mantri-ji Chandramohan Reddy pondered for a moment taking a sip from the glass. Then hunching forward in his seat, clearing his sweaty brows, looking directly at the eyes of the person sitting in front of him, pointing his index finger, spoke in a sombre tone, “Just this once Mr. Chaturvedi. Politics for me is not a 20-20 match. I intend to play the entire Test Match, both innings and multiple series if possible. Keep this in mind.”

“Of course Mantri-ji! Of-course! Thanks for your approval. Nothing would be amiss. Trust me,” Mr. Chaturvedi beamed a thousand-watt smile at his benefactor.

“I would be fucking dead the day I trust anyone. Don’t fucking tell me to trust you. Such a word does not exist if you want to survive in politics Chaturvedi,” shouted Mantri-ji, losing his cool. Regaining his composure, he spoke, “Have enough answering to do to PM about the last weapons upgrade supposed to happen. Now this Maoist attack. Even bloody protests going on at India Gate for Lokpal. Timing could not have been worse. Now leave. Need to think alone.”

“Sure Mantri-ji. I will be in touch. Just pass on the next tender to us.” Mr. Chaturvedi stood up, knowing full well when to make himself scarce.

While on his way out, he smiled at the turn of events. Greed is one factor which never fails to amaze him – how well it can be utilized as a potent weapon. It even turns the best with honest intentions weak at their knees.

Chapter 2

Sunday has been a real crowd puller. The usually fun-filled and relaxed atmosphere at India Gate has transformed into a hotspot of mass movement against corruption. Motabhai’s push for Lokpal bill has gained momentum of epic proportions throughout the country, India Gate being the epicentre of the movement. Thousands have thronged at India Gate. Maybe for the first time since India’s independence, middle-class poured onto streets in such huge numbers largely apolitical to show solidarity with Motabhai and his campaign. Entire families including children participated in the movement wearing the typical white Gandhi cap with ‘Mein Motabhai Hoon’, “I am Motabhai” imprinted on it which became the latest fad in no time. Active support and presence of cricketers, social activists, former civil servants, spiritual gurus and other eminent personalities gave immense creditability to the movement.

The movement has reached a critical mass, which slowly and surely tilted in favour of the public. If the PDA government has to stay in power, drastic steps need to be taken. Time is of essence. The general elections though few years away did not seem so far away now. People’s Democratic Alliance’s (PDA) rule for the last three years resulted in one scam after another – skeletons tumbling out of the closet; rather graveyard tumbling out of a rat-hole would be a more apt description. It seemed that the free for all public funds was up for grabs for the elected representatives without restraint; Ministers competing amongst themselves, trying to outperform the other in terms of the sheer amount involved in scams – mind boggling figures, even the most adept at maths would often fail to count the number of zeroes present in some thousand lakh crores of rupees.

A conversation between two ministers comparing notes at the end of the day would have typically sounded something like this (more or less based on the cartoon characters published in a leading national daily).

Minister 1: “Today was awesome man. Have passed ten projects in a day. Highest ever. My balance has increased by a princely five hundred crores.”

Minister 2: “Bas, that’s it? I have been smarter you see. Just passed the most complex and difficult project, the Yamuna Clean-up Plan and have pocketed a cool five thousand crores. Who gives a fuck about Yamuna man?”

Minister 1 sulked. He now wanted the portfolio of Minister 2.

Another Scenario:

Minister A: “You see; I had told you last time that the amount involved was a thousand crores. You did not believe me. You believe me now?”

Minister B: “Yes, I have read today’s newspapers. But I’m sure you must have read yesterday’s paper. The fish-gate scam my Ministry is involved in, is worth a lakh crore. Looser! Hah!”

Minister B punched the air in jubilation. Minister A banged his desk out of frustration!

Final Scenario:

Minister Hush-Hush: “Oye, the papers got it all wrong fortunately for the first time.”

Minister Ubercool: “How so?”

Minister Hush-Hush: “The amount mentioned in my Swiss Account, they missed out a zero. Hehehe…”

Minister Ubercool: “You sure counted the zeros right?”

Minister Hush-Hush: “Well, there are 11 zeroes in a thousand crores right? They printed 10.”

Minister Ubercool: “They got it right you idiot. There are 10 zeroes only.”

Minister Hush-Hush is crestfallen due to his depleted bank balance. Minister Ubercool is overexcited; his bank balance is now slightly more than his compatriot.

Amongst all the din and slogans at India Gate, a mobile rang. It rang for the umpteenth time, but the person carrying it was utterly unaware, totally engrossed in the activities around him. He suddenly checked his mobile finding 17 missed calls from different numbers. The weird fact being, he did not recognise even a single number – none of which seemed to be from India.

The moment he was about to put it back in his pocket, the phone rang again. He picked up this time walking towards a quieter area. Voice from the other end questioned, “Am I speaking to Ramadhir Mishra?”

Mishra replied in a cautious tone, “Yes. Who is this?”

The voice replied, “It is immaterial, who I am. More important is what I am about to say.”

“Sorry, what do you want from me?” Mishra replied in a confused tone.

“Nothing much Mishra-ji. Now listen carefully,” the speaker replied in a measured business-like tone, conveying importance attached with the matter. Mishra silently listened to the voice for the next 2 minutes. Brows creased as he made note of few details on a piece of paper.

“Now, what should I do with it?” Mishra-ji questioned once the voice stopped.

No answer. The call disconnected. In his forty years, it was the strangest call he had ever received. It spooked him a bit.  Trying to gather wits, he sat down on the pavement, wondering about the call – struggling to make sense of it. He reread the details he had noted down on the paper again. Nodding his head disbelieving what was just conveyed to him, he carefully put the paper in his chest pocket.

Ramadhir Mishra looked at his watch. It was around 3:30pm in the afternoon; not that late. He stood up and slowly started walking. His destination was barely 3 kilometres from where he was now. On the way he made a call, which will prove fatal.

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

“Good Evening viewers of Channel 7. This is the 8 o’clock news with Rita Grover. Starting with the major headlines of the day. There has been a show down at India Gate by the supporters of Anti-Corruption Bill. Chances are the demands will be met by PDA coalition to accommodate the changes requested in the initial draft.

“There has been a devastating attack carried on CRPF jawans by Maoists in Chhattisgarh today afternoon. As per the latest reports, death toll has now increased to 59. Six jawans are critically wounded and still fighting for their lives. This is the second such attack in this month by Maoists.

“Chinese President Jin Huan’s maiden India visit was a lacklustre affair receiving a lukewarm response given the more pressing issues the government is facing. Meetings scheduled earlier to take place with President Huan has been cancelled today by the Prime Minister. Instead he was met by the External Affairs Minister Dhanraj Joshi after which President Huan left for an early trip to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal.

“DRDO today tested the K-15 Sagarika Missile which coincides with the visit of the Chinese President but the importance has been downplayed by the Defence Ministry. It is expected to arm the indigenously built advanced technology vessel INS Arihant.

“On the Sports Arena, India has won…

Once the show ended at 9, Rita quickly checked her cell for any missed calls. Finding none, she was worried. She dialled a number. It rang, but no one picked up. She tried a couple of more times. No luck. Her shift would get over in an hour. She was expecting the call since evening. There is something wrong – her subconscious silently started churning out one possibility after another. She decided to wait till midnight and then let it go. No point getting stressed up unnecessarily, she consoled herself.

She decided to head for cafeteria and grab a quick bite. On the way, she checked her emails on the mobile. There was one message which stood out. It was more of a subtle threat originating from an unidentified email ID. The message read:

Dear Ms. Grover,

With utmost respect for your dedication towards journalism, would solemnly request you to refrain from snooping around. Things are not as it always seems; and you might regret if the truth tumbles out. Some stuffs are better left alone or else bodies will burn.

Pay heed for your own good.

Yours Sincerely,

A well-wisher.

It infuriated Rita further. She was not new to such threats. It was an occupational hazard. And she has come to accept it as a part and parcel of her life. Four times there have been attacks on her life, but she survived every time. She even procured a licensed firearm and learnt how to shoot. She was more than confident of taking care of herself. It was the party at the other end who was afraid. Not her. She nodded her head at the thought – Not her and she will not give in.

Then it dawned on her. It is all the more imperative that she speaks with the person she was calling earlier. But it was not under her control. She decided to concentrate on her snacks instead and forget about all the worries for the time-being.

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

At the other end of the capital, within the corridors of power at Raisina Hill, five most powerful men of the country conferred together. Discussing, debating, planning. The conclave included the Prime Minister, the Defence Minister, the External Affairs Minister, the Home Minister and the Finance Minister – in short the entire Cabinet Committee on Security minus the government officials; main cogs of the wheel of Indian democracy running the country – all belonging to the majority party within PDA.

It was an impromptu meeting set up by the Prime Minister. Cabinet Secretary and other government officials were not invited. It was more of a strategy brainstorming meeting rather than an official one; best held behind locked doors.

Prime Minister Manohar Kishore Lal, called by his initials MK within close circles, spoke in a thoughtful tone, “We are in a precarious situation my friends. At this rate, it would be difficult to sustain our alliance. If two or more regional parties decide to withdraw support, elections would be in 6 months instead of 2 years.” Scratching his chin, he continued, hardly mincing words, “Moreover none of you guys have been able to stop the haemorrhaging of scams. Public confidence is abysmally low; natural and expected. And now it is pouring out onto our streets, a dangerous combination. Anti-Corruption Bill needs to be reviewed accordingly. But more important is, what are we doing to improve our image? To bring back public confidence? I doubt how long my credibility alone will help us survive.”

The room was silent. No one offered an answer, deciding to play the wait and watch game rather than putting forward the wrong foot inadvertently.

“OK, let’s start with Home Ministry. Reddy, it was a turkey shoot today. What happened? More than two years and still no improvement? Our jawans are still being butchered mercilessly. You asked for a grant for purchase of weapons. Gave you one. You requested for Air force help. It has been provided. How can this happen again? Every time Maoists score a brownie, it bolsters their confidence. And rest of India watches, cursing us for the mishap. Force has to be met with force my dear chap, but also with incentives. I see no improvements in our internal security.”

Reddy mumbled, “Sirjee, there were sporadic intelligence about the ambush. The patrol party was alerted. But it seems that the Maoists had local help.”

“Of course they had local help,” thundered PM. “And locals will continue helping them. And why not? They have every right to do so. In the last 65 years of independence, Maoists have taken better care of them than the Indian Government.”

Turning to the Finance Minister, PM spoke, “Siddiqui, I would need a status update and complete breakdown of the money we are spending on improving the infrastructure in the Maoist-hit areas.” Looking back at Reddy he continued, “Unless you win the people back, our mission will be failure. I have always told you it has to be a two pronged strategy, Reddy. First improve the infrastructure; half of the things will sort out itself. Rest can be taken care of through force wherever required. Force alone cannot be the solution. Also declare financial rewards for families of slain jawans if you have not already done so.”

“Yes MK. But Sirjee, it seems that Maoists are having outside help. We have recovered Chinese made weapons. COBRA Team even confiscated weapons manufacturing unit which had hallmarks of China and Pakistan helping them,” Reddy spoke, trying hard to achieve lost ground, ensuring that not all blame falls on him. “Also there have been reports that few of the INSAS rifles with which we have armed our jawans jammed during combat. Now, I understand that it is being rectified, but till then, would suggest arming them with better weapons, for that Sirjee, I would be requesting for another grant which should cover it.”

Pin drop silence precipitated in the room. Finance Minister Altaf Siddiqui was about to speak, but was signalled by the PM to remain quiet. MK thought for a moment and then replied, “Outside help and local help, huh? Hmmmm…What is the guarantee that if I get you this fund you are asking such a thing would be averted in future? Now, before you answer Reddy, please hear me out first. The answer is none. Don’t think that I don’t know what is happening. But I would get you the funds one last time to redeem yourself. And then…,” PM kept the words hanging.

“Thank you MK! The money would be well utilized I promise,” Reddy quipped in the best possible manner. One would have got the impression that his mouth started watering at the mention of receiving the grants.

“MK, I would try to get the funds arranged, but I am in a tight leash. Not much to spend elsewhere especially unbudgeted expenses. You know the situation,” Finance Minister Altaf Siddiqui justifying his tough position.

PM spoke in a patronising tone, “I know your talents Siddiqui. I know you will find ways to make it happen. You are a doer. I have full faith in you.”

FM nodded at PM’s suggestion, pride coursing through his veins for the recent shower of appreciation by the PM and made a note of the amount to be passed to Home Minister for his so called arms procurement. He should ask for an audit of the money spent some time later. The thought relaxed him a bit.

 Home Minister Reddy also visibly relaxed. He had more information about the Internal Security matters but decided to take up one on one with the Prime Minister, lest others take an advantage. He has to win back the confidence and backing of the Prime Minister – the minor threat by the PM few minutes ago had an ominous tone he thought.

“Now about the Chinese Delegation,” started the Prime Minister directing his thoughts towards his External Affairs Minister, “I want you Joshi to handle it end to end. I will meet President Huan for just about 30 minutes. Send junior ministers and secretaries to meet his delegates. We have to send a strong message to China to stop meddling in our affairs which includes arming Maoists albeit surreptitiously.”

“Yes MK. Consider it done,” came the quick reply.

Then turning towards the Defence Minister, “Can you ask the NSA to broach the topic of Chinese incursions near Sikkim with the delegates and assess their reaction? I know their reply. But would like to check if they have changed their stance a bit on the border incursions, especially after the last fiasco.” Prime Minister was referring to the friendly fire which resulted in the death of 15 Chinese soldiers near Sikkim a fortnight ago. No papers reported the matter. It was known only at the elite echelons of both the countries.

Defence Minister Pankaj Desai smiled, “Yes sure.”

“And by the way Desai, I have a dozen reports at my desk regarding the military upgrades and procurements about to happen. Also that of senior postings. The upgrades are mired with muck. But find out a middle way. Regarding the postings, I have few doubts, which I will discuss with you later after which we have to send it to President for final appointments in a week max.” Pankaj Desai’s face turned partly ashen hearing the last sentence. A lot is at stake; he cannot afford to fail at any cost.

“Cannot delay the postings any longer as the key Strike Corps are without commanders for the past month, I believe. Doesn’t augur well for us as a regional power, does it?” the PM nudged the Defence Minister.

Desai acknowledged, nodding his head at the comment.

“Last thing on my agenda tonight is the report I have received from RAW Secretary. It is of grave concern. Heed carefully…”

The meeting continued for another fifteen minutes before being adjourned for dinner.

Chapter 3

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The shots resounded within the huge soundproof room. The targets – three empty beer cans blown to smithereens. The shooter was happy with the results. Next he crouched and started push-ups counting till fifty. Once done, he immediately rolled over on the floor and let out another 3 shots from his firearm hitting three more cans at a distance of more than hundred metres with precision.

Now replacing push-ups with pull-ups, he started counting down from fifty. The moment he reached zero, BAM! BAM! BAM! Three more shots hit targets in a different direction this time. Next on the list was fifty crunches followed by BAM! BAM! BAM! The cycle continued another eight times. It was the limit of physical exertion which was being tested followed by his level of stability under extreme duress. Only break in the entire regimen was to set up the targets, reload his weapon and occasional sip of glucose water.

Next was a five mile hike uphill and back – a total of ten miles, to be covered in less than forty minutes followed by 500 hits on the punching bag till his arms ached. Final activity was to skip atleast five hundred times or more till his legs gave out. The entire set of activities took him roughly four hours daily. His target was to achieve it in three. Just a month left – his imaginary deadline to meet the physical requirements.

Once his final set was over, he lied on the floor, chest heaving due to strenuous exertion and punishing regimen. After a fifteen minute well deserved break, he got up slowly and walked towards the corner of the huge room where few of his belongings were kept. He plugged in the laptop to check if internet was working properly. While the laptop was running diagnostics, he checked his cell. No messages. That’s good news. As soon as the net connected, he logged into his Skype account to check for any messages. In quick succession he checked the Facebook account, personalised page and his Gmail account. No messages again.

He checked his watch. It was around 7am. He called up a number to check if the package has been delivered. Hearing from the other end of the line, smile broke out on his face. Things have been finally put in motion – at last the wait is over.

He made one more call from his secure satellite phone. Only a single person had his number. As soon as the call was answered he spoke in concise, cryptic manner, “Dove has flown. Eagle has landed. Dragon will fly. Parrots will parrot. Rat will burrow.” No response from the other end. The call was simply disconnected. The message has been transmitted.

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

The first rays of the sun hit her, lighting up her beautiful stress free face devoid of makeup. She looked few years younger. The rays nudged her slowly from the slumber. She pulled the covers over her head, trying to grab few more minutes of sleep, going back to her dreamland.

The alarm on her phone started ringing. She quickly snoozed it, entering into the dream zone once again. The alarm rang once more. Too soon. Her hand crept out of the cover and hit the silent button.

In less than a minute it rang again. Her head slowly crept out of the cover, checking the phone. It was the caller she was trying to reach yesterday. Sleep disappeared in a jiffy. She was wide awake now. The transformation was amazing. She hit the accept button, croaked, “Hello? Mishra-ji?”

An unknown male voice spoke from the other end, “Is it Ms. Rita Grover?”

Hesitantly, she replied, “Yes. Who is this?”

“Hello Madam. This is Inspector Dahiya, Noida Police.”

“What! What happened?? Where is Mishra-ji?” alarm in her voice.

“Sorry to wake you up Madam. We have recovered a body from Noida-Greater Noida Taj Expressway today early morning.  Based on the identity papers on his body, we believe he is Ramadhir Mishra. We checked his call logs and your number was the only one he had dialled. Also we saw several missed calls from your number on his cell. Hence we wanted to check with you.”

Rita was hit with a bolt from the blue – dumbstruck.

“Hello Mam. Are you there?”

Rita barely managed to say, “Yes,” still half groggy.

“We need you at the morgue Mam for the final identification. We have not been able to locate next of his kin yet. You are our best shot. Can you please make it in an hour for the identification?”

Rita checked the clock on the wall. It showed 7:10 am. Traffic was yet to pick up. If she left in fifteen minutes, then she can make it to Noida in less than an hour, South Delhi being pretty near to Noida. She replied, “Yes, I will be there.”

She noted down the address of the morgue, quickly feeding it into her Google Navigation for easy search. In next ten minutes she freshened up, quickly donning a pair of worn jeans and top. She took out her car. There was very little traffic at 7:20 in the morning.

It took her roughly 15 minutes from her place at South Extension I to reach DND toll. And from there, another 20 minutes before she reached the morgue at Sector 125, Noida. Traffic was sparse; people mostly travelling from opposite direction – Noida to Delhi at that hour.

As soon, as she reached the morgue which was a single storey building located at one corner of a desolate stretch in Noida, she was greeted by Police Inspector, whose name tag read Sunil Dahiya. And what he revealed subsequently stumped her completely.

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

The main page of morning newspapers carried major headlines of the earlier day.

“MAOISTS BUTCHER 67 JAWANS IN CHATTISGARH.

Home Minister announces relief packages for Slain Jawans.”

ANN, Raipur: In another instance of failed dialogue between the Maoists and the Government, 67 jawans of CRPF’s 62^nd Battalion laid their lives in a deadly ambush which was carried out in Dhaurai, Nayaranpur district yesterday. This is the second such attack this month. Maoist leader Shibu Bomkai has acknowledged the attack and vowed more such attacks will follow if the government does not stop Operation Green Hunt at once and give in to their demands.

It is to be noted with concern that there has been limited success in disarming the Maoists; Government claimed that Maoists have been receiving outside help which harbour anti-Indian sentiments. This raises more…

Another Clipping:

“MEETINGS CANCELLED WITH CHINESE PRESIDENT.

Insurgency and Lokpal keep the Prime Minister Busy”

BNC, New Delhi: Chinese President Jin Huan’s maiden visit to India seems to be jinxed. The visit has colluded with a number of events taking place. Lokpal agitation and the Maoist insurgency appears to have kept the Prime Minister occupied; key agenda of the Government being remaining in power and avert an early General Election. The Chinese Delegation was met by External Affairs Minister who seems to have been given the charge in the absence of the Prime Minister. It is a shrewd diplomacy of sending a message to China that India prefers to maintain its dignity and sovereignty in the face of China denying visa to India’s erstwhile Defence Secretary Subhash Sharma.

The Chinese President decided to pay a visit to the Taj Mahal, as all scheduled meetings were cancelled for the day. He expressed gratitude and praised the hospitability being…..

Prof. Pranjal Bannerjee skimmed through the remainder of the news. There nothing of much interest. The news was coated with sugar he concluded; more menacing than was actually conveyed. World would destroy itself soon. The paper was full of killings, murders, rape and massacre. On the bright side he thought, it provided him enough fodder for assignments for the day for his MA Political Science class. Looking at the wall clock, he cursed loudly. He was getting late for class. He threw the paper on the table, standing up to get ready.

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

The body was lying on a stretcher near the freezer covered with a white cloth, splattered with dried blood. The stench of death was overpowering. Covering her face with stole following the inspector, Rita entered the dimly lit room. The constable in charge removed cover from dead-body slowly. Shock registered on Rita’s face. It was indeed Mishra-ji.

Rita nodded and quickly walked out of the room to get fresh air with the inspector in tow. Rita was no stranger to observing death from close quarters – thanks to her profession. It signalled a bad start for the day. Turning around, she asked the inspector, “Can we get tea somewhere nearby?” She needed the hot brew to clear up her mind. Inspector Dahiya asked her to follow him.

They walked out of the small compound where the morgue was located towards the tea stall across the road, ordering two cups. As soon as tea was served, Inspector Dahiya questioned, “So how did you know him?”

“Professionally you can say.” Pausing a bit, thinking hard how she met him and their relationship evolved over the years, she continued, “Have known him for a little above five years now. He was a man of principles as far as I know him. Lived a very frugal life and had very few friends. Fighting injustice was his only aim.

“He gave me my first major break in journalism and I have every reason to thank him for where I am today,” Rita recalled. She was reminiscing the time when she was a beat reporter for a leading magazine trying to unravel scams but coming up empty handed every time. It was her inexperience which played against her till she met Mishra-ji when someone referred her to him. It was a whole new ball game since then. Mishra-ji guided where to look for cracks and how to separate the wheat from chaff; identify the dishonest from the honest ones. It has been a valuable lesson for her. And she has been leaping in her career from one channel to another after every scam she has exposed since then. She was even nicknamed “Scam Queen” for unearthing scams every other month. Any channel or newspaper who’s TRP needed a boost atleast thought once to hire her given her penchant to expose the corrupt and bring them to justice. She was now the Senior Correspondent for Channel 7 and very soon wanted to be the Editor. But it has to be kept on hold for the moment. The next question from Inspector Dahiya brought her back to reality.

“Why did he call you yesterday? Did he tell you anything? I am hoping maybe you can shed some light why he was killed?” queried the Inspector.

Rita thought for a moment, composed herself before answering, “He called me up yesterday around 3:30pm, sounding excited. He told me that soon he is going to unearth the biggest secret ever and we would make big news. It will bring the Government down and fundamentally change the way we function as a democracy. That’s it. He wanted me to wait till 6pm. And maybe based on the materials he would be gathering, could be shared on the 8 o’clock evening news on Channel 7, where I work.

“So I waited till 6. I called him up tired of waiting. No contact since then. He did not pick up nor did he answer. That explains why I called him up so many times. I was worried but not to the extent that he might get killed. Next thing, I get news from you today morning about his death.”

“Hmmm… That partially explains things. Atleast the murder motive seems to be clear. There are vested interests in keeping the secrets which he was trying to unravel it seems.” Commented Inspector Dahiya.

“How was he murdered?” questioned Rita.

“He seems to have been strangled. Though we have to wait for the post-mortem report for the confirmation. His body was sighted by a passer-by on the Taj Expressway who alerted the Patrol Police. I was called around 6am since this area is under my beat to attend. His ID cards and everything were in order. Nothing stolen.”

“Did you perform a thorough search? Anything important you recovered?”

“Nothing of importance as you mentioned which will shake the government. There is a possibility that even if he had any sensitive documents on him, it might have been confiscated by the killer before disposing off the body.”

Rita nodded her head at the logic. It made perfect sense.

“One thing which seems to be a bit odd though is a piece of parchment that we retrieved from his back-pocket which the killer might have overlooked.”

“Can I have a look at it?”

“Yeah sure. Here it is.” Inspector Dahiya handed it over to Rita. Few words were scribbled on it.

At first glance, Rita could not make any head or tail of the details. Nor did the Inspector. On permission from Inspector Dahiya, she copied down the words, since the paper retrieved from Mishra-ji’s body is now a part of the murder investigation.

Rita was confused. Especially after noticing that ‘BOTS’ was circled. BOTS must have been important. It did not make any sense. What was Mishra-ji referring to? Taj – Taj Mahal? Taj Expressway? Taj Mahal Tea? The last hint brought smile to her face – an irrational thought to creep up at such an inopportune moment.

She did not dwell on it further. Their tea was over. Rita queried, “Am I needed any longer?”

“Nope,” replied the Inspector. “Since we are through the identification, post mortem would be done soon. No kin located yet. So can’t help. Hope there is no claim later on.”

Rita suddenly turned depressed. She realised that the last rites have to be performed and did not know much about Mishra-ji’s personal life. Not sure what needs to be done, she suggested the inspector, “Please can you visit his home? He might have some numbers there. Check out with his landlord, if you can. You might get a clue if there are any close relatives who can perform the last rites. I will be available for any help required. Please let me know once the post-mortem is done. He was a dear acquaintance of mine.”

“Sure,” acknowledged Inspector Dahiya. “Will let you know. Thanks for coming at such a quick notice.”

They said their byes. Rita decided to hang out, not in a mood to go office any soon. She wanted to have some more caffeine in her system to let her think through clearly. Starting her car, she finally decided to head for Barista at Sector 18, Noida which was hardly 5 kilometres away from her present location. It would be a welcome break from the depressing morgue atmosphere.