So I seethed in silence for a day or two. While at office, sitting with large spots of sweat ruining my shirt (because of lack of a clean banian), I hatched up a plan. I planned to catch the landlord red handed, literally. I bought a couple of new banians. All I wanted was him to wear these ones. No I didn’t put any itchy powder on them. Instead both these banians had a special mark on them. I went and hung them on the clothesline.

I waited.

After three days, as I was making my way to the office I passed the landlord’s flat. I peeked surreptitiously into the open door. There was a huge noise coming from within his house. His wife was shouting and banging utensils all over the house. The landlord was trying to save his TV from getting smashed. He was a stock-broker and his lifeline were the business channels. I quickly ran down the stairs. He must have handled the stock markets expertly till now. Let him handle the rising temper of his wife for a day, I thought.

That day at office, my productivity was at an all-time high. I drank only two cups of coffee, and I coded millions of lines of code. That day I didn’t even claim overtime. That day I grinned uncontrollably.

In the night, when I returned to my flat, the landlord called out to me as soon as I passed his flat. I knew what he was going to ask; I knew what he expected me to say. He came out to meet me on the stairs. His wife followed. In his hand was a clean unused banian, whiter than white, spotless. Of course I knew otherwise. In one of the corners, there was a red mark, in the shape of a pair of lips. I had hoped that he wouldn’t notice it while wearing it. Luckily he hadn’t, but apparently his wife had. I looked innocently at him, then at the banian, and then back at him.

“Isn’t this banian yours?” he asked. A moment of silence passed.

A whole ten years of watching the stock ticker at the bottom of the TV screen had done irreparable damage to his eyes. He couldn’t keep them still. All I could see was the banian in his hand and his eyes looking at me. Moving from left to right. Left to right. Left to right. Mrs. Landlord stood with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Umm no, that’s not mine,” I said. In that moment of silence, the sound of the impending slap was too loud to bear. Moreover I had to control my laughter. I turned away and climbed the stairs to my room.

While opening the door to my flat, I reminded myself. I must return the lipstick to my colleague tomorrow. It served its purpose well.

banian – A loose fitting jacket; undergarment worn under the shirt; also known as ganji, not to be confused with ganja which is totally something else.

The landlord had done it again. He had stolen my banian again. Not so much as literally stolen, but he had taken my banian and used it as his own. Here’s the thing. The washing area where I have rented a room is common with the washing area of my landlord’s house. Therefore there is a single clothesline and sometimes the clothes get mixed up. Accidental mix ups are forgivable, intentional ones are not. And I had noticed many times now that whenever I went through my clean laundry, there always seemed to be one banian missing. And it almost always was replaced by an older, tattered one. Now my first impression was that the maid servant had assumed that the nice ones were the landlord’s and the tattered ones mine. But then, shouldn’t the landlord have returned it to me? But instead he wears it with pride. When I confronted the landlord about it, he denied mixing up the undergarments.

So I seethed in silence for a day or two. While at office, sitting with large spots of sweat ruining my shirt (because of lack of a clean banian), I hatched up a plan. I planned to catch the landlord red handed, literally. I bought a couple of new banians. All I wanted was him to wear these ones. No I didn’t put any itchy powder on them. Instead both these banians had a special mark on them. I went and hung them on the clothesline.

I waited.

After three days, as I was making my way to the office I passed the landlord’s flat. I peeked surreptitiously into the open door. There was a huge noise coming from within his house. His wife was shouting and banging utensils all over the house. The landlord was trying to save his TV from getting smashed. He was a stock-broker and his lifeline were the business channels. I quickly ran down the stairs. He must have handled the stock markets expertly till now. Let him handle the rising temper of his wife for a day, I thought.

That day at office, my productivity was at an all-time high. I drank only two cups of coffee, and I coded millions of lines of code. That day I didn’t even claim overtime. That day I grinned uncontrollably.

In the night, when I returned to my flat, the landlord called out to me as soon as I passed his flat. I knew what he was going to ask; I knew what he expected me to say. He came out to meet me on the stairs. His wife followed. In his hand was a clean unused banian, whiter than white, spotless. Of course I knew otherwise. In one of the corners, there was a red mark, in the shape of a pair of lips. I had hoped that he wouldn’t notice it while wearing it. Luckily he hadn’t, but apparently his wife had. I looked innocently at him, then at the banian, and then back at him.

“Isn’t this banian yours?” he asked. A moment of silence passed.

A whole ten years of watching the stock ticker at the bottom of the TV screen had done irreparable damage to his eyes. He couldn’t keep them still. All I could see was the banian in his hand and his eyes looking at me. Moving from left to right. Left to right. Left to right. Mrs. Landlord stood with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Umm no, that’s not mine,” I said. In that moment of silence, the sound of the impending slap was too loud to bear. Moreover I had to control my laughter. I turned away and climbed the stairs to my room.

While opening the door to my flat, I reminded myself. I must return the lipstick to my colleague tomorrow. It served its purpose well.

banian – A loose fitting jacket; undergarment worn under the shirt; also known as ganji, not to be confused with ganja which is totally something else.

He heard a few thuds on the roof as the marines rappelled down from the helicopters hovering above. Any moment they would burst in through the doors and ins to that room. He had lived in that complex for five years with full knowledge of the Pakistani government, or at least certain sections of it. And they had now decided to sell him off to the Americans now. But he wouldn’t go down so easily.

As he heard the marines slam on the door trying to break it down, he looked around. He had lived like a hermit, only the basic necessities were around. He spotted his trusted old weapon – an AK 47 lying by the wall with loads of extra ammunition. But he wouldn’t need it. In the dark, he spotted the C4 explosive the ISI had provided in case of an “emergency”. He had all the necessary things ready. He braced himself for the incoming impact.

The marines slammed open the door, and burst in, shouting orders in English. None of his family would be able to understand. But thankfully they were in another room. The marines rushed in and positioned themselves across the room in front of him. They were steady. He was steady. He waited. They waited. One wrong move from either side would wreak the whole operation and both sides knew it.

Outside the open door there was thick white smoke. The marines had thrown smoke grenades across the compound. There was also the smell of something burning. He saw someone enter the door through the smoke. He was probably the marines’ lead. The lead marine spoke in to his headpiece, “We’ve IDed Geronimo.”

He knew it was time. His lips turned slightly upward in a crooked smile.

The marine walked closer towards him and held out his hand. He shook the marine’s hands and smiled. The marine barked, “I hope you know the plan. It will hurt a little.”

He simply nodded in agreement. The lead marine motioned to one of the marines who walked towards him and held out a small injection. He knew it would be temporary. He had done his part. On the other side, there would be heaven.

As his eyes closed, he heard someone speak out, “Geronimo E KIA.”

* * *

When he opened his eyes, there was a bright white light coming in from front of him. Still groggy, he tried to lift himself up in his seat. He was in a small plane, a chartered flight. All the marines were gone, there was a man in civilian clothes speaking to him.

“We have everything ready for you. Your name is Sam O. Nadle. You live in Miami, Florida. There is a guy waiting for you in the arrival terminal. He will take you to your residence. You are never to leave American soil again. Every month your payment would be deposited in this account.”

The man handed him a small piece of paper. He was finally alert now. Sam O Nadle. Miami. Yes, that was all part of the plan. He ran his hand across his face and noticed something strange. His beard was gone. They handed him a pair of sunglasses for the bright light. As the plane landed and taxied on to the arrival terminal, he sat back and reflected on his years gone by. He had successfully eluded capture for so many years, he had fought with governments trying to double cross him. He had seen friendly governments turn hostile and then turn friendly again. Now he had found a powerful ally.

The Pakistani government had tried to sell him. But he had negotiated a bargain with the most powerful government in the world – his life in return for a reason to invade a “terrorist state”. He had also traded the names and locations of all the operatives in his organization for his freedom. There was a power struggle in the ranks. He knew about the distrust among his subordinates. Any time there might have been a revolt. But he had preempted it.

As he walked to the arrival terminal, he spotted the guy holding out a placard with his name – Sam O Nadle. Ingenious, he thought. He walked out in the Miami sun, put on the Ray Bans which the man had handed him on the plane and smiled broadly, his crooked teeth gleaming. This indeed was heaven.

Last night he had gone out to watch a movie and had not paid much attention to the message. But now Rajit dialled the number from which the SMS had come. Strangely, there was no such number. Now curious, Rajit switched on his computer. He entered the number into a search engine online and tried to find out if any one else had received such a message. Zero results.

I got to check this out, Rajit thought. The Jalputra river was just on the outskirts of the town he lived in. There was a single bridge over the river. An old dilapidated bridge, it was built many years ago and was now unused. The reason why the message seemed all the more mysterious to him was the fact that someone knew that Rajit lived near the river and had specifically targeted him. All this caused a keen sense of intrigue in his mind. He was a great fan of mystery novels. And he loved to write about mysteries too. And here was a mystery waiting for him in his own town. What’s the harm in checking it out anyway? he thought. If it is a prank played by someone, well and good. If there was some actual mystery waiting for him, it would make for a great post on his blog, he figured.

He called out to his mother, saying that he was going out for some work and would be back by 8pm. Rajit planned to visit the bridge and see what the SMS was all about. Then he’d probably spend some time with his friends before heading back home for dinner. He put on the hands-free connection and pumped up the volume on his mobile. Rajit started his bike and made his way towards the highway. The Jalputra river was to the south of town and it would probably take him about 20-30 minutes depending on the traffic.

The traffic was unusually light for this time of the day. He had now reached the highway. Another five minutes and he would be near the bridge. Far ahead he could already see the river. The Jalputra river was the major source of water for his town and other neighbouring villages and this time of the year it was overflowing with water. The sun was setting at one end of the horizon and it looked as if the river had flowed out of the sun.

As he parked his bike near the bridge, he stopped. Did he just hear what he think he heard? Did someone just whisper “Welcome” in his ears? Or was it just the song? Carefully Rajit removed his helmet, and took off the headphones. It was just the song, he figured. He placed the helmet on his bike and locked the bike. Rajit made his way towards the bridge. It was deserted. Not many people come here anyway. This bridge was built some 20-30 years ago by the municipality and had been damaged during a flood. Now with broken railings and arches, it was barely walkable. He stepped his way across the gaps in the bridge and made his way to the center.

Rajit was half-expecting that his friends would probably be hiding somewhere behind the bushes. They would scream and jump out and have a merry laugh at Rajit’s expense. Then they would all go back to the local mithaiwalla and have some hot samosas. At least Rajit had taken up the dare bravely, he thought.

But there was no such scream. There was just the whistling of the wind between the branches of the trees bordering the river bank. The water flowed furiously below the bridge and the rickety bridge vibrated lightly with the water’s force. Rajit had reached the centre of the bridge and had found nothing strange. Except for the sounds of nature around him, there was nothing. Slowly his ears become impervious to even those sounds. The birds which were chirping had stopped. There was now a pin drop silence. He just stood there looking blankly out at the river. Rajit wanted to turn around and walk back to his bike quickly. He wanted to meet his friends and go back home. But something stopped him from doing so.

The sun had now gone below the horizon and there was a reddish hue in the sky. Rajit moved near the broken railing of the bridge. Then he saw it. On the railing, between the layers of peeled-off paint, someone had scratched with a sharp object. Rajit slowly read what was written on the railing, and he stared at the words,”look below rajit.”

He stepped back instinctively and almost tripped. His leg was trapped among one of the gaps in the bridge. He carefully lifted his leg out from the hole and steadied himself. He walked back to the railing. He leaned over and stared at the water flowing beneath the bridge. The water was clear and he could see the bottom. There were rocks, and stones and other debris on the riverbed. All kinds of shapes seemed to be trembling in the water. He strained his eyes to get a steady look. And then he saw it. His eyes just froze. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take his hands off the railing. He darted his eyes away from the water back to the words on the railing. First he thought he had just imagined what he saw in the water. But he was too afraid to look back to check. He would not check. With great effort, he put his hand in his pocket and took out his mobile. He slowly composed a message on the screen, “If you’re brave enough, go visit the bridge over the Jalganga river between 6-7pm tomorrow” and sent it out to his friend. He put the mobile back into his pocket. As soon as he heard the familiar double beep of the delivered SMS, he climbed on to the railing. And then he took a step forward into the dark water and in the trees, the birds started chirping.