by Mainak Dhar
I wanted to tell her more. Certainly she deserved to know about my past after all that we had shared, but I didn’t know if I was ready to share anything about my past with anyone, even her.
‘Zoya, I’ll call you later.’
I hung up, hearing the disappointment in her voice, feeling the distance between us. My past, I feared, could damage my present in more ways than one. I did not have much of an opportunity to dwell on it because Ravi was at my door. Ravi’s son had been in Bangkok for a couple of years, working with a big hotel chain. He used to spend a lot of time there, or running his marathons, which he still did religiously, despite being well over fifty years of age. As a result, we had not spent a lot of time together since I moved to the neighbourhood. As I looked at the open, honest smile on his face, I realised that perhaps that had less to do with his schedule than with my desire to forget my own past. This was the first time he had come over to my apartment.
He grinned as he held up the bottle of Old Monk rum. ‘My boy, things seem to be going balls-up. We may as well enjoy a drink.’
Two glasses down, I could feel myself relaxing as Ravi regaled me with tales from the old days. Of Subbu, who had picked up the unfortunate moniker of Shit Ninja when he had crawled through manure for ten minutes during a mission. We’d joked the enemy had died of the stench even before Subbu fired a single shot. Of Gurung, the mad Gurkha, who insisted on carrying his khukri with him and had once run after two six-foot Pathans all on his own. Seeing him tearing down at them, the men had dropped their guns and run, and Gurung had sprinted a good three hundred meters across the border before he had realised that he was in enemy territory, alone and armed with only his khukri. He had sprinted back even faster as we provided covering fire, interspersed with our laughter. Of Tomar, who had one evening told us, ‘If the jihadis get me, avenge me and let them know who you were avenging.’ We had done as he had asked.
Subbu, Gurung, Tomar – all old mates, all dead.
Ravi and I sat there drinking and talking of them, reliving those memories, recreating old conversations, as soldiers do. People think old soldiers sit and talk of battles, of medals and glory won, of daring raids. No, old soldiers sit and talk of brothers they have lost.
‘Aadi, remember what you once told me about being back home? This reminds me of that.’
I smiled at the memory.
‘Yes, I had told you that for people like us, home is not a fixed place. It is wherever we can find a minute of peace in the company of a comrade.’ Ravi raised his glass in a toast and downed it in one gulp. ‘My boy, I can give you that comrade to share a drink with. What I fear is whether you do indeed get a minute of peace any longer.’
The TV was still on, and Ravi hushed me as he turned up the volume. The anchor was talking about a detail from the last two shootings that had still not been reported in the media so far. Both had been recorded and their videos uploaded on jihadi websites. Ravi got up to go to the bathroom. ‘Those pigs have started their tricks in our cities now.’
There was a civilian expert who was talking about how terrorists thought, how they used social media to attract new recruits and wage psychological warfare on their enemies. He was referring to notes in front of him as he spoke.
‘One of the distinguishing features of the so-called Islamic State is how it has taken its jihad online. It uploads close to forty posts a day – videos of attacks, speeches, slickly produced propaganda videos and so on. We’ve seen this in Iraq, Syria, and now we’re seeing this in India for the first time.’
The anchor sorted through some papers that had been handed to him and I could see the concern on his face as he looked up. ‘And in breaking news here… On a site known to be visited by jihadi sympathisers, someone has posted a kill list. The list is titled ‘Tyrants in India to be exterminated’. The list contains over three hundred names, including serving and retired armed forces and police personnel and also some politicians known for their hawkish views. The list has their addresses, social media information and phone numbers. Our sources tell us that the three former officers killed so far were all on the list.’
The anchor passed on the papers to the expert and his eyebrows arched up as he digested what he saw in front of him.
‘What is also interesting about this post is that it not just threatens those on the list with death at the hands of the so-called fidayeen, but it also calls upon the faithful to attack those on the list with whatever weapons they have at hand. In other words, calling upon what security experts call lone wolves – misguided individuals who may have no formal link to a parent terror organisation but are inspired by its message to attack those in their own neighbourhoods or cities.’
Ravi was back and poured us another drink each. ‘What’s up?’
I took a sip and kept watching the television. ‘Things just got a whole lot more interesting.’
Ravi ended up sleeping over at my place, after placing a sheepish call to his wife explaining that he was going to be held up with an old friend. When I woke up, Ravi had already left, and my phone was ringing. It was Zoya.
‘Turn on the TV now! Go to ICTV.’
I was instantly on guard at the tone of her voice, and when I turned the TV on, I saw my face flash on the screen. The anchor, Varsha Singh, one of the best-known media personalities in India, was interviewing someone who represented a human rights group. The elderly lady was shaking her head sadly as she continued her sentence.
‘Varsha, that’s what is wrong with our country. We put our soldiers up on a pedestal and then ignore the fact that unless they are subject to checks and balances, they can abuse the power we grant them. This case is no exception. Aaditya Ghosh was being lauded as a hero, but now that we know his background, we are starting to get a glimpse of his dark past.’
The camera panned back to Varsha and she looked at the camera. It felt like she was looking straight into my eyes. The words on the screen behind her now read, ‘Hero’s Dark Past’ and the photo changed to one I had not seen in well over three years – me wearing an all-black uniform, black grease smeared across my bearded face, surrounded by my team. All young, fit men. All of whom were dressed just like me. All of us standing there, cradling rifles in our hands.
‘Dear viewers, the deadly terror attacks over the last few days have shaken the nation, but what they have also thrown into focus is how terrorists are sometimes created. Created by the excesses committed by those in uniform whom we empower to protect us. Two days ago, we were all lauding Aaditya Ghosh for being a hero, and he certainly acted like one, but now we are learning some disturbing things about him. Major Aaditya Ghosh was a member of the crack paracommandos of the Indian Army, and together with many of his colleagues was under investigation for the deaths of several children in an unauthorised cross-border raid that the Pakistani authorities had complained to our government about. Some of his commanding officers resigned. He himself left the Army under intense scrutiny. If you recall, ICTV broke the news close to four years ago of how these excesses of our forces in Kashmir were creating more terrorists. We had also reported on this rumoured raid at that time. The photo you see before you is the one that we had been given by our sources, and now we can indeed confirm that Aaditya Ghosh is in this photo, recognisable despite the beard he had at that time.’
I turned off the TV and sat back, my throat dry. I had been nursing a mild hangover when I had woken up, but now I was stone-cold sober.
My phone was ringing again – it was Zoya. I let it ring. What could I tell her? How could she possibly understand? Ravi was calling now, and I didn’t pick up his call either. There was nothing to say. The life I had tried to get away from had returned to haunt me and had cast its pall upon me again. I dressed for work, dreading what I would see there.
When I reached the office, I could see people staring at me. Just two days ago there had been looks of adulation and admiration; today I could see something different. A look of concern, of disapproval, perhaps?
&
nbsp; I struggled to contain the familiar rage that I had felt over three years ago. A rage that told me to lash out, that told me that these people didn’t deserve to be protected by the good men of the sort that I had known, men who had died so that newsanchors and human rights activists could talk in the air-conditioned comfort of their living rooms and studios. A rage at the betrayal that came from our own leaders hanging us out to dry when it was politically inconvenient for them to own up to our actions. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and saw Mugdha waiting for me at my desk.
‘Tony wants to see you.’
The normally ebullient Italian looked sheepish. I found it hard to be angry at him. He asked me to take a seat and offered me coffee.
‘I am so sorry for what happened. I had no idea your background could cause such issues. I had seen your personnel files and was very impressed. I thought people should know what an exceptional person you are...’ He raised both hands in an expansive gesture as if signaling just how helpless he felt.
‘Tony, it’s not your fault. You never got a chance to hear about my background from Srini or the request I had put in about not sharing its details.’
Tony hesitated as he started on the next sentence. His usual open and ready smile was gone and I could see that he felt terrible about what he had to do. I had an inkling of what he would say before the words left his mouth, but it hardly made it easier to bear.
‘Aaditya, ever since the news broke, I’ve received several mails from HQ. Till this blows over, it may be best if you, you know, take a short leave of absence.’
I smiled sadly, knowing that my hopes of starting afresh had been destroyed. I had landed this job because of Srini, and now, jobless and with my face all over the news, there was no chance that I would get another job in the corporate sector. Even if Tony wanted me to stick around, could I come to work every day and face colleagues who wondered if I was a murderer of children? Could I face Zoya again? And, if I did leave, what did someone like me do in the civilian world anyway? Become a bodyguard to some tycoon or celebrity and babysit them while they partied? Join a security agency and pretend at playing cop?
Tony misread the emotions crossing my face. ‘No, Aaditya. I’m not asking you to quit. You can go on unpaid leave. Just a month off. It’ll blow over and things will be back to normal. These things have a way of going away, you know. The media will move onto other things. Your record here has been excellent. We wouldn't want to lose you. In the meanwhile, I’ll do my best to convince HQ.’
I walked back slowly to my desk, gathered my stuff and walked out the door to return home, each step a conscious effort of will.
Tony was very wrong. Things would never get back to normal.
Zoya had called me no fewer than six times, but I had not picked up a single call. What would I tell her?
As I sat at home, watching ICTV, I realised things were getting from bad to worse. The latest supers on the screen read, ‘Hero or child-killer?’
India is famous for its cottage industries, but one cottage industry that seems to be thriving is that of bleeding-heart activists who crawl out of the woodworks at every opportunity, talking of how evil our forces are, and in the same breath not hesitating to glorify terrorists as innocent victims. When I had been in uniform, I had wondered if some of them were on Pakistani payroll, but as ‘expert’ after ‘expert’ came and talked of how our army committed excesses which led to reprisals by misguided youth, I wondered if it was no more than an opportunity to get their word out to millions through the ever-hungry machine of 24x7 news channels, always looking for the latest scoop, always hungry for the latest scandal.
In a country where the Army stays in the shadows, has no political ambitions, is strictly secular, and does not want the limelight, the irony is that our toughest warriors are sometimes the softest target for this media spectacle. There was a retired major on the panel, trying to speak up in my defence.
‘Varsha, nothing was proven. This man saved many lives just a few days ago in Mumbai through his actions. You are crucifying him on national television because of old allegations? Mark my word, allegations. Have we become a nation where a person’s guilt is decided based on whoever can shout out loudest from the rooftops, or on a news show, as the case be?’’
Varsha looked at the camera, a look of pure disdain on her face. ‘Major Arav, all Major Aaditya Ghosh has to endure is being exposed on national television. How about those half-dozen children, who were supposedly killed in that raid? What about their rights? Or, do rights only belong to those who carry the guns and wear uniforms?’
An activist on the panel took up the cue. ‘The killings we are seeing, this so-called kill list, all focus on those who have served in uniform and those in politics, who have been very vocal about taking a hardline on Kashmir. Perhaps, those carrying out these attacks are youth who were traumatised by such actions and strikes. Schoolchildren misguided by radical elements need our help, not our bullets.’
I threw the remote hard against the wall, shattering it. Misguided schoolchildren from Kashmir did not carry out sniper attacks, and they certainly did not speak Pashto.
The doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I saw Zoya standing there.
‘Aadi, you haven’t picked up a single call. And you left office without even saying hello. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Other than the fact that I am a killer of children?’
She recoiled as if I had slapped her. I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. Zoya could hardly be blamed for what was happening. I had no right to take out my frustration on her.
‘I’m sorry, Zoya. I didn’t… I mean…’
She came closer, putting a finger on my lips. ‘Aadi, if I believed that, I wouldn’t be here.’
Suitably chastened, I stepped aside to let her enter, not sure where I should begin. Facing my past was bad enough, to realise that I had hidden so much from the one person I perhaps cared about most made it even harder.
‘Zoya, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you about my past. I was afraid you would leave me if you knew.’
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. On top of all that had happened, I didn’t know how I would deal with losing her.
‘Aadi, after all that we’ve shared, with all that you’ve meant to me, I want to believe that what the media is saying is not true, but you’re not helping if you hide things from me.’
She walked past me into the living room and sat on the sofa, motioning for me to sit next to her. I had known her to be a caring woman, quick to laugh, always looking at the good in people, but now I saw a strength that I had perhaps not seen before.
‘Aadi, if you really want to have any sort of relationship with me, you need to come clean. What happened when you were in the Army?’
‘I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know…’
She cut me off as she gripped my hand. I could see the tears start to form in her eyes.
‘Don’t you get how difficult this is for me, Aadi? I had begun to think of us as sharing something special. I had begun to think of you as someone really special. Someone whose life doesn’t revolve around going up the corporate ladder. Someone who seems so tough, yet someone who’s really sensitive. Do you know when I first felt that? When you came over with soup when you heard that I had a bad cold. I remember telling folks in office that you were indeed an officer and a gentleman. Then, as we got closer…’
She stopped, her voice catching.
‘Aadi, I need to know that it wasn’t a lie. If you can’t trust me enough to share whatever is in your past, I have no place in your life. At least do the decent thing and tell me what happened, and let me decide how I take it.’
I hadn’t said much. I could sense just how tense she was. I knew that with one wrong word or move, I would lose her forever. At that moment, it was as if I heard a voice in my ear, telling me I would be an idiot if I lost her. She was the best thing to have ever happened to me.
Th
at, whether I had told her or not, I loved her.
I felt a calm descend over me, dispelling the rage that had been there minutes earlier. During my training, one of our officers would push us to conquer fear and pain. Even as we trudged through forty-kilometer forced marches, even as we endured living off the land with sometimes nothing but snakes and insects for food, even as we learned to stay silent as we bore horrific injuries, he would keep asking us to find in ourselves the opposite of fear. The opposite of fear was what he said would make us the soldiers he wanted us to be. At that time, I had thought that the opposite of fear was strength. Now, seeing this beautiful woman in front of me, willing to give me the benefit of doubt, willing to listen to my side of the story, I realised something I had not known during my time in uniform. The opposite of fear was not strength, it was love.
I took her hand in mine, and began talking.
‘Back in 2013, a fidayeen group had attacked the family quarters at an army base close to where we were stationed in Kashmir. They took hostages and barricaded themselves in. By the time our forces broke through, they had caused a lot of damage. Eight women and children had been killed. The mood was ugly, with everyone baying for blood. The government at that time was trying to restore normalcy in relations with Pakistan and refused to sanction any retaliatory action. While our civilians lapped up Pakistani actors and cricket players on their screens, we in uniform and our families paid in blood for the actions of the jihadis supported by Islamabad. We got intelligence that the attackers were at a particular Pakistani Ranger base. One evening, my commanding officer walked into our quarters with the instructions we’d been waiting for.
‘“Let’s go get them.” We learned later that the government had not explicitly sanctioned the raid, but had not refused either. Politicians and bureaucrats wanted to get the army off their backs, and perhaps take credit if the raid produced results that they could use to further their political agenda. At the same time, they wanted to wash their hands off, if anything went wrong. Typical.
