The Phoenix

by Bilal Siddiqi

  On his first day in prison, he caught the attention of one Afghani warlord, who had been captured in Kandahar. The warlord, a bit of a bully, commanded the respect of many of the Muslim inmates. A few days into his jail sentence, Aryaman was ambushed at the dinner table. Caught unawares, he was thrashed severely with metal plates and cutlery, and was dragged to the warlord, who had begun to take his pants off so he could sodomize Aryaman.

  But little did the bully know that he would have to pay dearly for this.

  Aryaman, having recovered from the thrashing somewhat, got to his feet. Before the warlord could bat an eyelid, his two lackeys were flat on the ground, knocked out. One of them had made the mistake of carrying the fork which was used to scar Aryaman’s back earlier. Aryaman grabbed this fork and stabbed the warlord in his eye and kicked him in the groin. The warlord slumped to the ground, blacking out instantly.

  That was that. Nobody ever messed with Aryaman in the jail again.

  Now here he was, having his last shower at the prison. The hot water dripped down his largely grey, tangled hair and ran down his chest. He rinsed himself thoroughly, thinking of starting life afresh. As if it were that simple!

  He was trying to ignore the crude conversations of his fellow inmates but something caught his ear.

  ‘The new kid,’ one tattooed bully scoffed. ‘Time to initiate him into our world.’

  ‘A fine piece of ass,’ said his friend, a bearded hulk of a man. ‘Waiting for us.’

  Aryaman finished his shower and towelled himself dry. They would overpower him in no time, he thought. The guard was patiently standing at the door, waiting for him to finish.

  ‘Leave the kid alone,’ Aryaman said, wrapping the towel around his waist. ‘Why don’t you two just fuck each other instead, until your assholes bleed?’

  The two men looked at him, taken aback. They were going to have none of it.

  ‘What do you care?’ one of them growled.

  ‘Isn’t it your last day?’ the other one chimed in. ‘Do you want to go out on a wheelchair? Or even worse, a stretcher?’

  Aryaman shrugged as he walked towards the exit.

  ‘Just a friendly warning,’ he said softly. ‘Leave the kid alone.’

  The bearded man towered over him, blocking his way.

  ‘You know, I often wonder if any of those stories about you are true. Are you that tough? Or is it a myth spread by your people, so that nobody touches you? Because you’re still a government employee after all.’

  Aryaman met him with a piercing glare, but addressed the other guy.

  ‘Why don’t you come and take your friend away before you both find out whether what they say about me is a myth?’

  The other man walked towards Aryaman, but not to take his friend away. It was now two against one.

  ‘Guess you’re going to find out then,’ Aryaman said, icily.

  Aryaman had spent enough time in the prison’s shower area to know about the seemingly innocuous things that could be used as weapons. He was always ready. For someone built like Aryaman, muscle-flexing was not much of an option. He would have to let his agility and swiftness take charge. He would wait for them to make their first move, after which he would slide on the slippery floor towards the washbasin and mirror. That would be an advantageous spot to station himself, in order to limit a frontal assault and take his assailants by surprise.

  It usually takes five seconds to understand an opponent. But Aryaman didn’t even need that. He instantly knew the big guy was going to take the first shot at him. And so it was. Just as the big guy threw a punch with his right arm, Aryaman dropped to his knees and propelled himself forward on the slippery floor through the gap between the two men. Both of them took a second to turn around. Enraged, they let out a yell and charged at him. Aryaman ripped the mirror panel off the wall and sent it crashing into the big guy’s skull. With the remaining shards of glass in his hand, he slashed hard at the other man’s bare chest.

  A few sharp pieces of glass were lodged in his arm, but he ignored the pain. He bent over and punched one of them repeatedly on the face, reducing his nose to a bloody pulp. The other guy was still reeling from the attack with the mirror.

  Blood, mixed with water, streamed towards the drain. Aryaman stood up, looking at the two men he had floored. He was panting, which surprised him. The years had taken their toll. When he was younger, this was barely enough combat to get him warmed up, much less tired. He caught his breath and walked to the door, which he knocked sharply. The guard turned his gaze towards him, nodded once and opened the door. He looked at the mess behind Aryaman, appalled.

  ‘Saved your ass,’ Aryaman said. ‘Quite literally.’

  Aryaman walked past him nonchalantly. The guard looked at the two men still writhing in pain. He then turned to Aryaman and asked, ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Wanted to “initiate” you,’ Aryaman said, sounding tired. ‘Their words, not mine.’

  He walked to a mirror and began combing his beard with his fingers. The guard still seemed frozen in his place.

  ‘They’re not dead,’ Aryaman continued. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The guard nodded nervously. His eyes followed Aryaman.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a thank you,’ Aryaman said. ‘But who’s complaining.’

  The guard didn’t respond. And after a brief pause, he said, ‘You can change into your civilian clothes. You will leave in an hour, after the paperwork is taken care of. I believe your mother is outside, waiting for you.’ He then left, to clean up the mess in the shower area.

  Aryaman looked at his cragged, lined face in the mirror. His mother was alive after all. But was any part of his old self still there for her to recognize?

  3

  Few islands in Lakshadweep have human habitations. Fewer still are open to visitors and tourists. The island that housed the maximum security prison, the Quarry, was certainly off limits to one and all.

  Aryaman put on the simple white shirt and starched trousers that the jail authorities had provided him with. Accompanied by the young guard and two other officials, he stepped out of the prison gates. He squinted at his surroundings, the sun hitting him hard in the face. He hadn’t been in an area this open for quite a while.

  ‘Got a smoke?’

  The young guy nodded.

  ‘Care to give me one?’

  The other two officials were eying the guard accusingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t . . .’

  Aryaman sighed and started walking down the path that led to a small motorboat, which would transfer him to the island where his mother was waiting. The two officials got on the boat first. They stood straight, at attention. From the cold expression on their faces, they seemed ready to use their guns in case he did anything untoward. Why they thought he would do so was beyond him.

  As Aryaman got on board, the young guard extended his arm for a valedictory handshake. Aryaman was slow to respond, but he felt a cigarette and matchbox being pressed into his palm. He concealed them in his pocket and, smiling to himself, took his seat.

  The boat began to speed towards the other island, which didn’t seem very far. The blue water, the strong gusts of wind, and the greenness at the shore—all felt so unreal, worlds away from what Aryaman had got used to. So alien. He took in a lungful of air and closed his eyes. The two officials were observing him closely.

  ‘Just out of curiosity,’ Aryaman addressed them. ‘Had that kid passed me a cigarette, would he have lost his job?’

  The officials shrugged as though in unison.

  ‘Not really,’ one of them said curtly. ‘But isn’t it highly unprofessional? I mean, I wouldn’t go handing over cigarettes to criminals who want to bum smokes off me.’

  The word ‘criminal’ seemed to linger in the air. Aryaman struck a matchstick against the box and lit his cigarette.

  ‘Criminality comes in all shapes and sizes,’ he said. ‘The guys you work for are bigger criminals than I am. Go shoot your mouths
off there.’

  The rest of the trip passed in silence. The man in charge of navigation pulled up at the island and anchored the boat. Aryaman stepped out and walked with short but assertive strides on the sand. He took in one last drag and dropped the cigarette on the beach.

  The two officials led him through a pathway flanked by trees. He walked behind them, trying to take in the beauty of the land where he had been imprisoned. But strangely, he felt nothing. He was a free man now. He wanted to feel something. Anything. His mind soon complied, but he wasn’t thinking about himself. Rather, he thought of Amarjyot Bhushan; of Amarjyot’s son and wife, not of his own son and wife. He thought of the other deceased members of the Phoenix 5, Madhav and Jennifer; not of his own deceased father. He thought of Randheer; not of his friends.

  They entered a little shed. There were a few chairs and a large table with documents laid out on it.

  One of the officials pointed at a chair. ‘Take a seat, Mr Khanna.’

  Aryaman sat down, but not on the chair the official had pointed at.

  ‘We are going to bring in an analyst to evaluate your physiological and psychological condition before we transfer you to Delhi.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Aryaman snapped. ‘I am not joining the agency again. What do you guys care about my mental or physical state?’

  ‘It’s a formality unless you show signs of extremely disturbing behaviour,’ the official said. ‘Besides, we don’t particularly care. The system does.’

  ‘Pretends to care,’ Aryaman resumed. ‘Get this damn formality done with. I want to see my mother. Send her in.’

  ‘After the psychiatrist evaluates you, I’m afraid.’

  The officials stepped out of the shed. Moments later, a distinguished-looking elderly man walked in. He took his seat across the table from Aryaman, who lay slumped defiantly on his chair and did not make eye contact with the psychiatrist.

  ‘I understand why you are not keen to go through this.’

  ‘Do you?’ Aryaman stared at the ceiling. ‘Is anybody ever keen to go through this?’

  There was a cold silence. Aryaman shifted his gaze to the psychiatrist.

  ‘Let’s go through this, sir.’

  The psychiatrist switched on a tape recorder. Aryaman was eyeing it with contempt.

  ‘For the record, I am Dr Bhupendra Varma, the in-house psychiatrist with the IRW,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘My subject today is Mr Aryaman Khanna, just released from the Quarry. To be determined whether he’s fit to resume life as a civilian or requires special rehabilitation.’

  Aryaman let out a derisive laugh.

  ‘Tell us about your stay at the Quarry, Mr Khanna.’

  Aryaman knew the drill. They would ask him standard questions. Seemingly innocuous. Borderline funny, even. If he lost his mind at any point . . . But he would have to be in control. He shouldn’t let this get to him. He shouldn’t snap. Because that would mean months at a rehab centre. And honestly, he would prefer returning to the Quarry instead.

  ‘I have stayed in better conditions,’ Aryaman said, straight-faced.

  ‘Did you make friends there?’

  ‘I don’t make friends easily.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Trust is a currency we don’t part with too generously in the world of intelligence.’

  Varma nodded and pursed his lips.

  ‘Have you ever had suicidal thoughts?’

  ‘No.’ Aryaman once again avoided eye contact.

  ‘None at all?’ the psychiatrist asked, writing something down in his notebook.

  ‘Well,’ Aryaman said softly, ‘I did think of violence a lot. But not of inflicting it upon myself.’

  ‘And who was the recipient of your violence?’

  Aryaman grinned. ‘Your bosses wouldn’t like to hear their names spoken in this regard. So I would not like to cross that line. Honestly, I don’t think I need rehab.’

  ‘That’s for us to decide.’

  There was an element of certainty in Varma’s voice. He offered a glass of water to Aryaman—probably an olive branch—but Aryaman refused it.

  ‘So what did you spend most of your time thinking about in the Quarry?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Your wife? Your kid? Your mother?’

  Aryaman nodded. But that wasn’t the whole truth. He had spent most of his time thinking about the incident in London; about where it all went wrong.

  ‘I think about my country.’ Aryaman’s hands began to tremble, partly in fear, partly in rage. ‘I think about everything we did for it. Amarjyot Sir. Jennifer and Madhav. Randheer. Myself. We put everything on the line to take decisions that the men in charge didn’t have the spine to take.’

  ‘Isn’t that unfair? Isn’t that a myopic way of looking at justice?’

  ‘Then tell me a good way of meting out justice to a bastard like Maqsood Akram. Is there one?’

  There was no response.

  ‘I thought as much,’ Aryaman said, now red with rage. ‘I spent years in that damn shithole for an act that your superiors may have very well gloated over after doling out their warped version of justice. The world would have celebrated the death of that scumbag Akram. Your bosses must have clinked flutes of champagne to a victory that was actually the Phoenix 5’s. That was actually the victory of Amarjyot Singh.’

  Varma prodded him further. ‘Do you want to say more?’

  ‘To what effect?’ Aryaman stood up. ‘To be called clinically insane? To be tossed into another unhealthy environment where people who have no clue about my life will tell me how to rebuild it? Fuck that. I am sane enough not to snap your neck and leave right now. That should help you make your decision.’

  Aryaman walked out of the shed, knowing full well that this could work against him. But he was in no mood for nonsense. He glared at the two officials, who seemed intimidated by his body language.

  He walked past them back towards the beach, but they followed closely behind.

  ‘Stay the fuck away,’ he growled.

  He was heading out for the sea when he lost his balance and fell, not far from the shoreline. His eyes welled up as he stared at the water. Eventually, the sound of waves breaking against the shore soothed him.

  Back in the tent, Bhupendra Varma made a call to Bipin Sharma.

  ‘It went as expected, sir. He’s bitter for sure. But not incoherent or insane.’

  Varma interrupted himself to down a glass of water.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘You could probably keep him under surveillance for a month to determine his behaviour. But I think that would a waste of time. He’ll work his way into normality once he meets his mother. His wife. His kid. He seems like a guy who can bounce back.’

  Aarti Singh was often told that she was a brave woman. Some even said that she had the strength and endurance of a man. And she hated that. It irked her that her qualities were defined in relation to those of the opposite sex. In fact, she would argue, women were stronger than men. Most men she said this to would snigger and not pursue the argument any further. Such was the nature of the world she had chosen to work in.

  Aarti was with the Indian Army Medical Corps, the unit that primarily provided medical services to soldiers—both serving and veteran—and to their families. For a large part of her career, she had been posted in Kashmir. She was made to work in tandem with active IRW agents, providing them with healthcare aid when required. In those days, she had met an agent, Suryaveer Khanna, who had been severely injured in combat. Suryaveer was on the verge of death when she first saw him. He was rescued in time, but his injuries were severe. It was Aarti who cared for him in those days and nursed him back to health. Neither of them could help falling in love with each other.

  Soon after, their stint in Kashmir over, they returned to Delhi and got married. Aarti was pregnant a year later, but fate played its cards. Suryaveer was called back on an urgent mission in Kashmir. He thought of opting out of it, but Aarti pushed him in
to going.

  ‘By the time you’re done,’ she said with a gentle smile, ‘our baby will be born.’

  So Suryaveer went to war, and he never came back. He died in a bomb blast. His body, Aarti was told, was never recovered from the site of the blast; there was probably nothing left of him. She remembered hearing the news from Suryaveer’s colleagues, their faces grave. Her response had been to gently close the door on them, having acknowledged them with a nod and thanked them for bearing the news with such dignity. She walked towards the cradle that held her newborn son and watched him as he joyously flailed his arms. Then, she allowed herself to break down. Maybe this was her fault. She had sent her husband, the man she loved more than anyone else, to his death. Her unnamed son had been left without a father. She wanted them to name the child together. But that wasn’t to be. In a moment of weakness, she cursed herself and smashed an ashtray against the wall. The baby remained unfazed. She sat at the edge of the bed and calmed herself down. If she could, she thought, she would do it again. She would sacrifice love for the nation. Her father had served the nation. She had served the nation. Her husband had served the nation. Soon, her son would follow in their footsteps.

  She lifted the baby in her arms and looked at his smiling face with great resolve. That moment she decided to name him Aryaman—a Sanskrit word that loosely translates to ‘companion’—since he was all she had.

  Aarti Khanna was waiting patiently for her son. She had been given the option of meeting him in Delhi, but she insisted on flying down to Lakshadweep. Ashish Singh, who knew of the sacrifices she had made for the nation, did not want to deny her this small request.

  Aarti wore a salwar kameez and had cut her grey hair short. She walked with a slight limp. Despite what she had gone through in life, she came across as an optimistic person, always meeting people with her courteous, disarming smile.

  Awaiting the return of her brave son, Aarti felt a sense of pride. Aryaman was a man of great integrity. His colleague Randheer had met her after the sentencing and had told her everything. Reporting the facts, Randheer had broken down, and she had consoled him like a mother. She had explained that Aryaman’s resolve came from his father. ‘It is hereditary,’ she joked. But Randheer could see that Aryaman was just like his mother.