Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Chandra. ‘That was not my intention at all. Let me start from the beginning.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘As I’ve told you already, my name is Chandra Prakash and yes, I am a Pakistani and a Hindu. There aren’t many of us left, as you know. Those of us who weren’t killed, converted or forced to flee the country were marginalized through other means. I was born with a gift. Well, two gifts really. Natural athleticism and supportive parents.’

  ‘Modesty too,’ said Vikrant dryly. ‘But what’s your point?’

  ‘I’m getting to it, sir,’ Chandra said politely. They began to leave the bright lights of Lahore behind, as he continued. ‘As a child, I participated in every sport you could think of, with the exception of squash. I hated squash. My dream was to represent my country on the national stage. Islahuddin Siddique and Hanif Mohammad were just two of my heroes. Would you believe I played five sports at the domestic level?’

  ‘Five? Impressive,’ said Vikrant, warming to him finally.

  ‘Indeed, but when the time came to focus my energy on one spent, I picked football and signed up for national selection. Needless to say, I was not selected.’ His tone suddenly turned darker. ‘According to the Pakistan Football Federation, “disciplinary and miscellaneous issues” prevented me from being a part of the team. What they meant, of course, was that I wasn’t Muslim.Even Yusuf Youhanna had to convert to Islam and when Danish Kaneria did not, he was eased out of the cricket team. In a placatory gesture, they waited until I was past my prime and offered me the job of national coach,’ Chandra said.

  Waris, Vikrant and Brijesh were listening intently by this point.

  ‘National coach? I could have taken Pakistan to the World Cup with my on-field abilities. Instead, they consigned me to a safer role, where there was no danger of a Hindu stealing the limelight from their “purer” players. Can you believe that? And through it all, I had to silently suffer things that no other national coach would or should have to put up with. Insubordination, death threats for substituting players, the list is endless. And all of this was reinforced by a very narrow-minded management.’

  ‘Must have been tough,’ offered Vikrant.

  ‘It was, sir. It most definitely was,’ said Chandra grimly. Then he regained his cheery demeanour. ‘But it wasn’t all bad. The commissioner of police in Lahore at the time was something of a football aficionado. During the off-season for the national team, he invited me to his office and told me he believed the Pakistani Pelé was waiting to be unearthed from within the Lahore Police football team, and that I would be the man to do that. He said that if I agreed to coach the Lahore Police team during the off-season, a number of my day-to-day problems would disappear.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Brijesh, as he noticed the series of police checkpoints that had been set up on the way. The police personnel manning these checkpoints simply waved the van through. Very unlike any nakabandi he had ever seen – but this was a police van.

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff. Being randomly rounded up and harassed by the police, not being allowed to buy a house, being followed, having my phone tapped … Unexplained detention of my Hindu relatives. Things like that. It was too good an offer to refuse and so I took up the job. Over the years, I found that job more fulfilling than the national-level one. With the revolving door of footballers coming into and leaving the team, I hardly saw most players for more than a couple of seasons. With the Lahore Police team, it was different.’ He smiled, as he pulled over to the side of a fairly deserted stretch of the highway.

  Chandra made his apologies and went to relieve himself behind the trees. Waris, Vikrant and Brijesh didn’t say a word for fear of being overheard, but the furtive glances they shared indicated that they believed Chandra to be genuine. But what did his story have to do with Karachi and Mahmood Azhar, they wondered. Well, they had the best part of a thirteen-hour-journey ahead of them and it seemed they would have no option but to trust this man—for now.

  35

  Lahore, outskirts

  ‘Seems like there’s only one way out,’ Waris said, taking a deep breath. ‘But I need to make a call first.’

  He picked up his Thuraya and activated the speaker phone.

  Within two seconds an unfamiliar voice could be heard at the other end.

  ‘Hello Mukesh, kaise ho? Saab ghar main hain?’

  ‘Jee haan,’ a puzzled Mukesh replied.

  ‘Unhe phone dena,’ Waris said.

  ‘Jee kaun bol rahae hain?’

  ‘Main unki sasuraal se bol raha hoon.’

  ‘Lekin sahib toh shaadi …’

  ‘Phone do saab ko jaldi!’

  Waris’s bark was enough to send the man into action. He immediately rushed to Sky’s study and handed the phone over – telling him it was his sasuraal, though he was sure Sir had never got married.

  ‘It’s okay, he must be my baap,’ Sky replied.

  ‘Hello, Sayed saab, you’re calling on my driver’s cell. How did you get his number?’

  ‘The power of reserve knowledge, it’s always handy.’

  ‘So you and your friends have kicked up a major storm, miyan. It’s damaging the TRPs of Big Boss.’

  ‘Well, then we’ve killed two birds with one stone. I never really enjoyed that show.’

  ‘Who knows, maybe after you come back, you can enter as a contestant,’ Sky said, with a chuckle.

  ‘From one stressful environment to another, eh? Listen Aakash, carefully, I’ll be quick now,’ Waris said, using the Hindi term for Sky.

  ‘I’m all ears, Sayed saab, go on.’

  ‘We are on our way to Ihcarak,’ Waris said, reversing the name of Karachi.

  ‘I knew the moment I saw this on TV that you would be unstoppable. But they will be swarming like ants all over the place, how will you—’

  ‘We will go as Mr India. Don’t worry. If we can bring one of their most secure structures to the ground, we can easily take down a less secure one.’

  Waris looked at the rest of the team, who were trying to stifle their laughter.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ Sky asked

  ‘We are planning to return to our native village and we need you to send the transport.’

  ‘I have just emerged from a talkathon with the PM.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘You’ll have to return sooner. “Right away” were the exact words.’

  ‘Well, he can wait for the photo ops. We have work to do.’

  There was a brief silence. Waris heard a sigh from Sky.

  The team looked on in rapt attention, observing Waris’s reddened face.

  Then, finally the phone crackled on the other side. ‘How much time do you all need for the Friday prayers?’

  ‘We can leave around dinner,’ Waris told him.

  ‘Fine,’ Sky said. ‘I’ll tell him. But after that, we extract you.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we called.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sky replied. ‘But do you have any idea how we can do that?’

  ‘The same way those boys came in,’ Waris said.

  ‘Through water?’

  ‘Yes, water. Except, with some style. After all, we aren’t some gun-toting teenagers.’

  ‘So what do you expect?

  ‘Send us a fish,’ Waris demanded, going cryptic again.

  ‘What the fuck? You want to start a war?’ Sky said

  ‘Well, you have to put them to use sooner or later. Now seems like a good time.’

  ‘Okay, I guess I can organize that, but I can’t get into their territorial waters.’

  ‘Then you catch us in international waters. Leave a speed boat at a fishing village, along with scuba gear.’

  ‘I will send you coordinates before Friday,’ Sky said and cut the call.

  36

  14 November

  En Route to Karachi

  ‘You’ve been driving non-stop for a few hours now. Let’s pull over and get some tea. What do you
say, Chandu?’ asked Waris, who had warmed up to the football coach enough to start bestowing terms of endearment upon him.

  ‘Excellent idea, we’ll stop at the nearest dhaba,’ Chandra replied jovially.

  ‘Good, I could do with stretching my legs for a while,’ said Vikrant lazily.

  ‘Self-centred as always, eh, Vikrant?’ joked Brijesh.

  ‘You know it,’ replied Vikrant, with a smile. He sat up and spoke to Chandra. ‘You know, you have yet to complete your story.’

  ‘We’ll get to it as soon as we’re back on the road, I assure you,’ smiled the football coach, as he spotted a row of parked trucks in the distance, on the side of the road.

  Chandra switched on the left indicator and switched lanes to reposition the van, so as to be able to turn off further up the road. He followed the parked trucks until he arrived at a small shack surrounded by charpoys, and pulled over. All four climbed out of the van. Vikrant was the first to drop into the comfort of a charpoy and stretch lazily. They asked the little boy in a browning white vest and blue shorts with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder for four cups of tea.

  ‘How much longer till we get to Karachi, Chandu?’ asked Waris, as he looked around at the serene surroundings.

  ‘Not too long. I would say anywhere between nine and ten hours.’

  ‘That seems like “not too long” to you?’ asked Vikrant in shock.

  ‘Well, when you live in Pakistan, you get used to waiting. From waiting for the government to collapse to waiting for some religious group to come after you to waiting for your sports teams to make you proud and, of course, waiting to get your due. Waiting, in this country of ours, is something of a regular occurrence.’

  ‘I suppose it’s something you have experience with too,’ said Chandra, as Brijesh looked at him. He continued light-heartedly, ‘Like waiting for those damn Hindi movies to finally get over. Am I right?’

  Vikrant chuckled, as Waris burst into laughter.

  ‘So, you watch a lot of Hindi movies, Chandu?’ asked Waris.

  ‘I used to watch one as soon as it was released. Not so much any more.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Brijesh.

  ‘Well, I can’t remember the last time I saw a memorable Hindi movie,’ said Chandra ruefully. Then he changed his mind: ‘Actually, I can.’

  The little boy in the vest arrived just then with a tray bearing four cups of steaming tea, and the men focused on taking tiny sips of the rejuvenating brew.

  ‘So what was it?’ asked Vikrant.

  ‘Chak De India,’ Chandra said, with a straight face. ‘As strange as that may sound.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound strange at all. It was a good film,’ said Vikrant.

  ‘I guess I could relate to certain aspects of the film – the beleaguered coach who used to be a player. The only difference was that he actually got to represent his country,’ simmered Chandra.

  Eager to bring back the relaxed atmosphere that had accompanied them into the dhaba, Vikrant quickly changed the subject.

  ‘And since then, you haven’t seen a single decent Hindi movie?’ he asked.

  ‘Not that I can remember,’ said Chandra, looking off into the distance.

  ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when there was a point to watching movies. There was a story to be told. There were directors who decided how the story would be told and there were actors who brought the story to life. Watching a film like that was a treat. It was worth the hassle of procuring illegal prints and watching it secretly with a few friends.’

  He stopped and blew over the top of his fragrant tea, sending a cloud of steam rolling off it.

  ‘As you probably know, only a small number of Hindi films are released in Pakistan these days. Between 1965 and 2008, there was a total ban on Hindi films. But I digress. As I was saying, watching a film was an experience that left you happy or sad, pensive or buzzed, smouldering with anger or smiling with a song in your heart. Today, there’s none of that,’ said Chandra.

  He took a quick sip, which must have burnt the insides of his mouth. But such was the vitriol brewing inside him that it hardly seemed to matter. He put his glass down, and signalled that it was time to leave.

  Brijesh and Chandra reached forward at the same time with the money to settle their bill and shared a laugh. The situation seemed to have been defused, and Waris smiled in relief. There was enough turmoil afoot.

  ‘Shall we continue with your story now?’ asked Vikrant, as they settled back for the long drive ahead.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Chandra, and cleared his throat. ‘As I mentioned earlier, I was appointed the coach of the Lahore Police football team and my professional life began to improve with players who wanted to learn and grow. But when I wasn’t in my coach’s tracksuit, things were the same. I was still being harassed and discriminated against. The final straw came when an offer to train in England was shot down by the local authorities, who refused to process my visa application. It wasn’t the English who rejected my application. It was my own people.’

  ‘For no reason apart from your—’ began Vikrant.

  ‘For no reason apart from my religion,’ confirmed Chandra. He continued, ‘Hadn’t I proved my skill and loyalty? Did I not deserve that opportunity?’

  ‘Anyway, how does all of this concern you, gentlemen? Let me tell you. One of the benefits of being the coach for the Lahore Police team was that I was able to make a few very close friends – the sort of policemen who see the worth of a person as more than just which God he prays to. When explaining the heightened security these days, one of my friends in the Police told me about the Indians who were causing all this havoc across Pakistan and I was intrigued.’

  Vikrant shifted uneasily in his seat.

  ‘And then, when all of them ran out of a practice session to change their clothes and head to Muridke, I knew something unusual was afoot. When I had finished in the changing room and packed away all the equipment, I went to the control room, as I always do after practice. While there, I learned that not only had the Indians fled Muridke, but also that they were suspected of being holed up in Lahore. This was an opportunity I was not going to miss and so I made my way to Jinnah Hospital as soon as the control room received a call from Dr Baig,’ he said.

  ‘That son of a bitch,’ fumed Vikrant.

  ‘We can’t thank you enough for this, Chandu,’ said Waris.

  ‘The time will come, I assure you,’ Chandra smiled. ‘But there is more to come – this network of friends in the police also let me in on a few other things, which I can use for the benefit of my Indian friends.’

  ‘You really are a godsend!’ Waris said. They would have been trapped without this unlikely little man.

  ‘Well, then,’ smiled Chandra, as he looked back at Waris through the rearview mirror. ‘You can thank me by taking me back to India with you. I have no family left in Pakistan. I know I’ll have better opportunities there.’

  ‘Certainly, Chandu. But since you know so much already, I’m guessing you also know that we can’t go back to India yet,’ Waris said calmly.

  ‘But you will,’ said Chandra. ‘Soon!’

  It was roughly five in the evening after a gruelling twelve-and-a-half-hour drive, when the van pulled off the Karachi Northern Bypass and on to the Karachi–Hyderabad Motorway. Waris touched Vikrant’s arm to make sure he was awake, and saw that he was.

  It had been a surprisingly relaxed day considering just how harrowing the previous twenty-four-hours had been. The company had been pleasant, the conversation engaging and the time seemed to have just flown past. Most unexpectedly, they had made a useful ally. But there was one catch: he wanted a safe passage to India. Knowing Sky’s meticulous attention to detail, the presence of one extra person could screw up their escape plans.

  That bridge can be crossed when we get there, thought Waris, as he began to mentally prepare for the rally that was set to take place after Friday prayers the next day. He had less than twenty-seven
hours to coordinate with Ray, Laila and Kang. Karachi wasn’t too far now, but it was crowded and complicated. The city’s Bagh-e-Jinnah or Jinnah Ground would be hosting Mahmood Azhar’s rally, and his Waris and team would have to ensure that this opportunity was not lost.

  Chandra turned off the Karachi–Hyderabad Motorway, causing Waris to lean forward and place his hand on the back of the driver’s seat.

  ‘We are going to Karachi, right?’ he asked as he saw the road signs.

  ‘We are,’ replied Chandra, ‘but not today. I suggest we spend the night in Gadap Town, to the north of Karachi.’

  ‘It’ll definitely keep us off the radar,’ agreed Waris.

  Gadap Town in the northwestern part of Karachi was less densely packed as compared to other parts of Pakistan’s commercial capital and Waris was grateful for this. As the final rays of sunlight faded from the sky, Chandra pulled his van into the driveway of a small, vacant looking house.

  ‘This property was owned at some point by my family. I can never remember them living here, but they owned it,’ Chandu said.

  ‘Well, as long as it has a place where we can lie down and a toilet, it’s fine by me,’ said Waris.

  The door opened creakily and the men walked in. The spider-infested front room was not a comforting sight, but it would be far safer here than staying in a clean and luxurious hotel in the middle of Karachi. Chandra made his way into the inside room and opened the dusty cupboard to extract a few moth-eaten bedsheets.

  ‘These are all we have left, I’m afraid. Make yourselves comfortable,’ he said.

  The trio nodded at him.

  ‘I’m going to go out and get some bottles of water and some food for us. The tank on the roof should fill up in twenty minutes or so,’ said Chandra, as he headed for the door.

  ‘Thank you, Chandu,’ said Waris, making himself comfortable on the dusty and probably bug-infested sofa.

  As soon as Chandu left, Brijesh got on to the Thuraya to touch base with Kang and Ray. Kang would need more time to mobilize, he reasoned. Waris decided to risk a visit to the toilet meanwhile and returned to find Brijesh reclining on the sofa, looking relaxed.