Calling Sehmat Read online

  Her mind raced back over the entire episode from the moment she’d rushed to meet her father-in-law. If only she had been more careful, she wouldn’t have had to destroy a life. Returning to the scene of the murder, she visualized the chronological order of Abdul’s last moments. She had hit Abdul head-on, crushing him under the wheels. She was sure he’d died instantaneously. She wasn’t bothered about the truck either, it would have been found by now.

  Drinking was a common practice amongst army drivers. The truck’s presence near the drivers’ quarters would make the overworked, underpaid babus dismiss the case as one of drunken driving. But she still had a nagging doubt about Abdul. She had no means of finding out his status and had to wait like a sitting duck for daybreak.

  The only bright spot in the entire gamut of things was that she had fulfilled her duty and had transmitted some extremely vital information. Her father would have been proud of her work, though she was not sure if her act of damage control was sufficient to keep her head afloat.

  11

  For the hundredth time, Mir read the note: Pakiz moving troops to Chumb. War inevitable. Subs setting sail to east coast. Attack on aircraft carrier imminent. Monitor following coordinates.

  The implications were serious. He stroked his jaw in deep concentration as he carefully considered and analysed the dead reckoning (DR) positions where the subs were to be positioned. Transferring the positions on the chart, he encircled the areas and stepped back to take a macro view.

  As per Sehmat’s information, Pakistani submarines were being stationed not only in the Arabian Sea that surrounded the heavily guarded Western Command of the Indian Navy, but also in the Bay of Bengal that housed warships under the Eastern Naval Command. The more he analysed the report, the more clear it became to Mir that Pakistan was bent upon confrontation. Reports of support from the American fleet, present in the vicinity of the Arabian Sea had possibly skyrocketed the Pakistani government’s morale.

  Mir’s office was keeping a close watch on the rapidly rising graph of red pointers on the map. With each passing day, more Pakistani troops moved closer to the Indian border, with battle tanks and armoury, indicating the impending Pakistani attack. However, experts and war analysts on the Indian side remained divided on whether such a gathering of troops would lead to a full-fledged Indo-Pak war. ‘Pakistan does not have the wherewithal,’ they strongly felt. ‘Pakistan cannot open war on two fronts and survive,’ they repeatedly opined. And the analysts did have strong reasons in support of their arguments.

  At that time, Pakistan was heavily engaged with its trouble-torn eastern state where the public at large had come out in revolt against the step-motherly treatment it had received at the hands of its rulers. To curb the uprising, the Pakistani government had stationed huge army contingents and paramilitary forces under a Lieutenant General at Dhaka. Logistically however, it was a nightmare for the state, separated by the huge land mass of India on one side and an even bigger seafront on the other, to govern effectively. Poor communication systems, unmanageable expenditures and prolonged delays in providing logistical support to its massive contingent were enormous challenges in themselves.

  Taking on a much larger country like India and at the same time militarily curbing the uprising in its own state located far away from mainland Pakistan logically appeared nothing short of suicidal. A seaward-bound submarine attack on Indian shores was even more difficult to fathom for the Indian think tank. Besides, climatically, winter was not best suited for war as the prevailing low temperatures in the northern region could cause untold miseries. The intelligence reports were thus viewed with suspicion and not taken at face value.

  Despite their strong logic, Mir wasn’t convinced. Sehmat’s information, based on her first-hand knowledge, was too precise and accurate to be ignored. It was safer to assume that Pakistan was likely to engage India in the thickest of winters, much against past convention. The counter-view analysts argued that the Pakistani forces could utilize the surprise element and inflict maximum damage in quick succession before seeking the help of Western countries to enforce ceasefire. And there could be no bigger damage to the Indian pride than the sinking of its flagship, the mighty British-built aircraft carrier, INS Vikrant.

  Pakistan was displaying its will to go to any extent to achieve its aim by sailing Ghazi, Hangor and Mangro into Indian waters even as it was engaged in a dialogue with the country. As if propelled by a sudden brainwave, Mir rushed to the Navy Chief. He looked like someone who had just solved a jigsaw puzzle. And it was all because of one daredevil woman, Sehmat.

  ‘I would give due weightage to the information and position Vikrant out of harm’s way, maybe over here, till we are fully assured of her safety,’ Mir said, picking up a small model of INS Vikrant, and placing it at the Cochin harbour which was well protected from the possible sub attacks. He then turned towards the Admiral with raised eyebrows, expecting to be commended for his valuable contribution.

  It was now the Navy Chief’s turn to get in on the act. After all, the Indian intelligence services were not supposed to decide where and how the naval fleet would move. Analysing the enemy submarine positions on the chart, the Admiral lifted the model from its position at the Cochin harbour and positioned it at the Andaman harbour. His face displayed tension, unhappiness and wrinkles of dissatisfaction. ‘I hope your intelligence report is correct, Mir. The carrier has some boiler problems. This move will practically put her out of a job.’

  ‘The information is correct, Admiral,’ replied Mir almost immediately. ‘We are lucky to be forewarned, for these subs are not easy to detect.’ Mir’s mind was racing in all directions, his thoughts invariably hovering around Sehmat’s safety. He was almost certain that Sehmat was in grave danger. She couldn’t have transmitted such a long message so accurately without it getting picked up by enemy receivers as well. Plus her ‘do or die’ attitude over the past few days had further added to his fears. Excusing himself, he left the war room and rushed to his office. He tried to reach the Indian Embassy in Pakistan, but each time the call got disconnected. ‘Bastards!’ he spat aloud and pressed the intercom button as hard as he could with his right thumb.

  Startled, Javed, his assistant, came running in. ‘Call the Indian Embassy. Tell the High Commissioner that I am reaching Islamabad by the first flight tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Javed replied and took the receiver from Mir’s hand, replacing it on the cradle. It was rare to see his boss, who always maintained his composure during trying circumstances, so shaken up. Without uttering a word, he left the room. Moments later, Javed was busy cancelling Mir’s appointments for the rest of the day, including the dinner that his boss was hosting for his daughter’s in-laws.

  Back in the briefing room, the Navy Chief was huddled with the other Admirals, brainstorming on the numerous probabilities and options. In comparison to the army, theirs was a younger and more inexperienced force that had never been put to the test. The lone aircraft carrier, INS Vikrant, was one of their main weapons, capable of launching air attacks from the middle of the ocean. But it was also vulnerable to submarine attack and thus needed to be protected first. Any damage to the floating airstrip could not only result in the loss of thousands of men on board, it could also demoralize and severely embarrass the armed forces. For Pakistan, on the other hand, Vikrant was the coveted trophy they aspired to acquire. Having faced defeat in every showdown in the past, its desperate Generals were pushing hard to level scores at any cost.

  12

  Major Mehboob stood helplessly by Abdul’s bedside at the military hospital. Blood oozed from his head and most parts of his wrecked body. His breathing was slow and laboured. The doctors attending to him had given up hope and said as much to Major Mehboob when he had rushed in, demanding to be allowed a visit.

  ‘It’s a miracle that he has survived this long but I am afraid there’s no hope. It’s a matter of a few minutes in fact. Same old story of drunken driving by these reckless jawans,
I am afraid. We ought to do something serious about it. The only word he uttered repeatedly was your name. It took us a while to figure it out and link it to you. It seems as if he wants to tell you something,’ the surgeon said helplessly. Leaving Abdul in Major Mehboob’s custody, the doctor exited the room, lamenting the growing lawlessness.

  ‘Thanks, Colonel,’ Major Mehboob said to the departing doctor as he bent over Abdul, surprised to see the faithful servant staring hard at him. Abdul’s eyes were strangely gripped with fear, his lips on the verge of saying something. Then he tried to move, and from under the blanket, he managed to pull out his right hand. It was covered with thick, dried blood. He painstakingly opened his tightly held fist. His broken fingers made crackling noises as he did so, exposing two small metal pieces. He emptied them on to his master’s hand.

  Mehboob gingerly took the scraps in his hands, trying to fathom what the dying man was saying. ‘Yes, Abdul, what is it? Tell me?’ he said gently.

  Abdul tried as hard as he could, gathering every ounce of strength. His lips moved rapidly but no sound came out of them. His head had suffered the maximum damage. Mehboob bent down to bring his ear next to Abdul’s lips, simultaneously encouraging him to speak.

  Using all his energy, Abdul managed to murmur inaudibly, ‘Hhh . . . hhh . . . mat, mat,’ and then with an agonizing groan, gave in to the darkness of death.

  Mehboob stared at the eyes that were still wide open and glued to his face, pleading him to solve the mystery. ‘Abdul, Abdul! Wait! Tell me, please, Abdul!’ Mehboob shook the lifeless form, urging him to come back to life and throw light on the baffling shreds of metal.

  On hearing him shout, the doctor rushed in and pulled Mehboob away from the dead man. Balancing himself and shrugging the doctor away, Mehboob walked back to Abdul’s side. He then gently placed his palm over his forehead and closed his accusing eyes.

  The Major took off his cap and stood in silent respect for a while before walking back to his car. With the metal shards still clutched in his hand, Mehboob tried to make sense of what had just happened. What had Abdul wanted to convey? Whatever it was, Mehboob knew it was vital. Abdul had tenaciously clung on to life, demanding to see him. There was something he wanted to say to Mehboob. Whatever Abdul wanted to say was serious and connected to the metal pieces that were now in his possession. But what was the old man trying to say? And where did the pieces of metal come from?

  All through the journey, Mehboob kept looking at the bloodstained black pieces. He turned them around, pulled and pushed the tiny metallic rods and even tried to bend them. The more he attempted, the further he felt from solving the mystery. As the car halted at the haveli’s portico, the driver jumped out and ran across to open the rear door, only to find the Major still deeply engrossed in examining the two pieces. ‘Sir,’ the driver said respectfully, breaking Mehboob’s reverie.

  Mehboob slammed the door of the car in frustration and walked past the prying eyes of servants and jawans. He appeared visibly disturbed. His head was splitting with the effort of deciphering Abdul’s last message. There was no beginning or end. Abdul had died carrying a deep secret with him.

  As soon as he entered the main hall, he summoned the servants and broke the news, keenly observing each face, to look for any suspicious reaction. Failing there too, he asked for Sehmat and briefed her about Abdul’s death and the two metal pieces that he had mysteriously left behind.

  Sehmat had trained herself not to show any signs of relief at the news of Abdul’s death. Had the Major observed her closely, he would have noticed her lack of expression at the bad news, but he was too preoccupied to notice the beads of sweat that Sehmat cleverly wiped off using her forearm. Recovering quickly, she expressed shock and dismay, and feigned ignorance about the two pieces displayed on the table. However, it soon became clear to Sehmat that the Major was not going to rest till he unveiled the truth. ‘Abdul has been murdered in cold blood,’ he repeatedly told his wife, Munira, who too urged her husband to unravel the mystery. She had immediately returned to the haveli after hearing about Abdul’s death. It now became clear to Sehmat that she would soon have to decide her brother-in-law’s fate as well if she wanted to protect the operation.

  Back in her room later, Sehmat sat heavily on her bed, feeling an enormous weight descend upon her. Killing Abdul was a necessity. But she had no way to find out if Mehboob really remembered Abdul’s final words. She realized that she could not take any risks at such a crucial hour. Her brother-in-law would probably recall the servant’s dying words once he got over the shock.

  Pacing the floor of her room, Sehmat concluded that she had no choice. The incident had triggered a chain reaction. And to protect her country’s fate, she would have to kill yet again. An hour later, she slipped into a burka and left for Jama Masjid, announcing that she wanted to offer prayers for the departed soul.

  Using the most crowded entrance to the mosque, she slipped into the nearby phone booth and dialled a number. She stood at a vantage point from where she could see the road clearly. Once done, she returned to the cool interiors of the mosque and waited for a reasonable amount of time to pass. Half an hour later, she went back to the waiting car. She was about to sit in the car when a woman’s pleading voice made her turn around.

  ‘Madam, please buy this umbrella. It is very good and you will find it very handy. I need the money to pay for food for my family.’

  Sehmat’s driver immediately rushed to her side. He blocked Sehmat from the woman and asked her to get inside the vehicle. Sehmat complied. He then closed the door and ran back to the driver’s seat. He was about to start the car when he heard Sehmat talking to the same woman through the window.

  ‘How much do you want for this umbrella?’

  ‘So very kind of you, Madam. Please give me whatever you like.’

  Sehmat pulled out two crisp hundred-rupee bills from her purse, handed the money to the woman and took the umbrella. The driver was about to advise Sehmat against paying such a large amount for something so useless, but stopped himself short. ‘These rich people,’ he thought to himself with disdain, and pressed the accelerator. Driving expertly through the crowded road, he looked at Sehmat’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her face was pale and drawn, a picture of grief.

  ‘You should not have given so much to her,’ he rebuked her kindly. ‘They are always begging around the mosque,’ he said, his voice softening at the sight of her unhappy face.

  ‘It is completely okay. I have helped a starving family in Abdul’s name. May God grant peace to the departed soul,’ Sehmat’s voice was low and filled with emotion but rang like the chime of a cuckoo clock in the driver’s ears for a long time. He was visibly moved by Sehmat’s gesture and refrained from further conversation. Sehmat saw a look of approval cross the driver’s face in the front mirror. She anticipated that word of her charity in Abdul’s name would spread to everyone at the haveli. She wished that to happen because she needed every bit of support if she had to pull herself out of the current mess.

  Back in her room, Sehmat locked the door and placed the umbrella on the bed. She then carefully studied the handle and located a tiny press-button. She unscrewed the handle gently and took out a cylindrical bottle wrapped in a small piece of handwritten paper. She read the note: ‘By pressing this button, you can inject tiny drops of mercury into a human body. Though the process will not hurt, the mercury will act soon and within hours the person will suffer a heart attack.’

  Sehmat tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. She waited till the bits of paper disappeared and then screwed the handle back to its original position. A faint click indicated that the mercury cylinder inside the handle was primed. She then placed the umbrella at the back of her closet and turned the key.

  An hour later, the telephone rang with one short ring and disconnected. Springing into action, Sehmat positioned herself near the phone. When it rang again, she snatched it from its cradle and whispered breathlessly
, ‘Yes, go on. This is me.’ For the next couple of minutes she listened intently to the caller. Then, without saying a word, she replaced the receiver. She went back to the closet, pulled out the umbrella and left in the same car, carrying an ordinary-looking handbag.

  ‘Please take me to Main Bazaar. I would like to buy clothes for the poor so that Abba Huzoor can distribute them when he arrives tomorrow,’ she directed the driver. The driver acknowledged with a nod of his head.

  He shook his head sadly when they passed the broken barricade.

  ‘Someone must have been absurdly drunk to have done this last night, Madam,’ he began conversationally. Sehmat did not respond and the driver remained silent till they reached the market. Alighting from the rear seat, Sehmat directed him to take the car to the parking lot and wait for her return. She then headed for the market complex and disappeared into the ladies’ toilet.

  Minutes later, a woman clad in a black burka emerged. She was carrying an umbrella in her hand. Walking past the complex, the burka-clad woman hailed a taxi. Fifteen minutes later, she was walking briskly towards the office of ‘Bureau of Inspections’. She looked at her watch before entering the compound. She climbed the stairs to the first floor and then waited for an agonizing twenty minutes near the open window. A car approached the building and stopped at the entrance. The door of the car flew open, letting an army officer clad in a dark-green uniform step out. He began climbing the portico stairs. Sehmat lifted her veil to watch him carefully for a few moments, satisfying herself of his identity. She then pulled the thin cloth back over her eyes and slowly began descending the stairs.

  Major Mehboob was coming from the other end, climbing briskly. He had a brown paper packet in his right hand, the contents of which were known to Sehmat. She stopped a few yards away from him and pretended to struggle with the handle of her umbrella. When Major Mehboob reached where she stood, she tripped and deliberately fell on him. Being the gentleman he was, Mehboob held her by her arms and steadied her till she regained her balance.