22: SHAHEEN BADOOR KHAN
The dam is a long, low curve of bulldozed earth, huge as a horizon, one end invisible from the other, anchored in the gentle contours of the Ganga valley. The Bharati Air Force tilt-jet comes in over Kunda Khadar from the east. It passes low over the waving jawans, turns above the lake. The aeai strike-copters flock closer than Shaheen Badoor Khan finds comfortable. They fly as birds fly, daring manoeuvres no human pilot could attempt, by instinct and embodiment. The tilt-jet banks, the aeaicraft dart and swoop to cover and Shaheen Badoor Khan finds himself looking down into a wide, shallow bowl of algae-stained water rimmed by dirty, sandy gravel as far as the eye can see, white and toxic as salt. A silty sump not even a cow would drink. Across the aisle Sajida Rana shakes her head and whispers, “Magnificent.”
If they had listened, if they had not rushed in the soldiers, heads full of Jai Bharat! Shaheen Badoor Khan thinks. The people want a war, Sajida Rana had said at the cabinet meeting. The people shall have one, now.
The Prime Ministerial jet lands on a hastily cleared field on the edge of a village ten kays on the Bharati side of the dam. The aeaicraft flock above it like kites over a Tower of Silence. The occupation force has made its divisional headquarters here. Mechanised units dig in to the east, robots sow a minefield. Shaheen Badoor Khan in his city suit blinks behind his label shades in the hard light and notes the villagers standing at the edges of their requisitioned and ruined fields. In her tailored combats Sajida Rana is already striding purposefully towards the receiving line of officers and guards and V. S. Chowdhury. She wants to be Number One pin-up on the barrack-room walls; Mama Bharat, up there with Nina Chandra. The officers namaste and escort Prime Minister and prime counsellor through the dust to the hummers. Sajida Rana strides out, Minister Chowdhury trotting alongside as he attempts to brief her. Little yipping dog, Shaheen Badoor Khan thinks. As he climbs into the sweatbox of the hummer’s passenger compartment he glances back at the tilt-jet, perched on its wheels and engines as if fearful of contamination. The pilot is a black-visored tick plugged into the plane’s head. Beneath the sensor-tipped nose the long barrel of an autocannon is like the proboscis of some insect that lives by sucking the juices from another. A dainty killer.
Shaheen Badoor Khan sees the banana club, the blind smile of the old woman, identifying her guests by pheromone; the dark alcoves where the voices mingled and laughed and the bodies relaxed into each other. The alien, beautiful creature, swimming out of the dark and the dhol beat like a nautch dancer.
The hummer smells of Magic Pine air freshener. Shaheen Badoor Khan unfolds blinking into the light that glares from the concrete road surface. They are on the dam-top road. The air is rank with dead soil and stagnant water. Magic Pine is almost preferable. A thin piss of yellow water trickles from the spill-way flume. That is Mother Ganga.
Jawans form up a hasty honour guard. Shaheen Badoor Khan notes the SAM robots and the nervous glances between the lower level officers. Ten hours ago this was the Republic of Awadh and the soldiers wore green, white, and orange triple yin-yangs on their otherwise identical chameleon camous. Easy mortar range from those ghost villages revealed in their architectural nakedness by the dwindling water level. A single sniper, even. Sajida Rana strides on, her hand-tooled boots clicking on the roadbed. The troops are ranked up beyond the dais. Someone is testing the PA with a series of feedback shrieks. The news channel camerapersons spot the Prime Minister in combats and charge her. Military Police draw lathis and brush them aside. Shaheen Badoor Khan waits at the foot of the steps as Prime Minister, Defence Secretary, and Divisional Commander mount the dais. He knows what Sajida Rana will say. He put the final lacquer on it himself this morning in the limo to the military airfield. The general susurrus of men gathered together under a hot sun ebbs as they see their commander-in-chief take the microphone. Shaheen Badoor Khan nods in silent pleasure as she holds the silence.
“Jai Bharat!”
An unscripted moment. Shaheen Badoor Khan’s heart freezes in his throat. The men know it, too. The silence hangs, then erupts. Two thousand voices thunder it back. Jai Bharat! Sajida Rana gives the call and response three times. Then she delivers the message of her speech. It is not for the soldiers standing easy on the dam top road, sloped at their weapons in the APCs. It is for the cameras and the mikes and the network news editors. Sought a peaceful resolution. Bharat not a nation craves war. Tigress roused. Sheathe her claws. Hoped for diplomatic solution. Still achieve a negotiated peace with honour. Noble offer to our enemies. Water should always have been shared. No one nation. Ganga our common life-vein.
The soldiers don’t shift. They don’t shuffle. They stand in their battle gear in the tremendous heat with their heavy weapons and take this stuff and cheer at the cheer points and hush down when Sajida Rana quiets them with her eyes and hands, and when she leaves them on a final killer: “And finally, I bring you another major triumph. Gentlemen, Bharat three hundred and eighty seven for seven!” they erupt and the chanting starts. Jai Bharat! Jai Bharat! Sajida Rana takes their applause and strides off while it is still fresh and ringing.
“Not bad, eh, Khan?”
“Mazumdar just went for one hundred and seventeen,” Shaheen Badoor Khan says, falling in behind his leader. The hummer convoy whisks them back to the forward command headquarters. This was always going to be an in and out operation. General Staff had counselled in every way against it but Sajida Rana insisted. The offer of conciliation must be made from a posture of might that would not demean the Rana government. The analysts had studied the satellite data and cywar intelligence and given an hour of reasonable confidence before the Awadhis could muster a retaliation. The hummers and APCs rip back along the corrugated country dirt roads. Their dust plumes must be visible from orbit. The aeaicraft flock in behind like a hunt of raptors. Sentries nervously eye the sky as they hurry Prime Minister Rana and her chief advisor to the powering-up tilt-jet. The hatch seals, Shaheen Badoor Khan belts up, and the ship bounds into the air, leaving his stomach down there on the flattened, scorched crops. The pilot climbs at full throttle a hair under stall angle. Shaheen Badoor Khan was not born to fly. He feels every lurch and drop like a little death. His fists grip white on the armrests. Then the tilt-jet flips over into horizontal flight.
“Well that was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” Sajida Rana says, unfastening her seat belt. “Bloody army never forgets who’s the woman here. Jai Bharat! Still, that went well. I did think the cricket score finished it off nicely.”
“If you say you, Ma’am.”
“I do say so.” Sajida Rana writhes in her clinging combats. “Bloody uncomfortable things. I don’t know how anyone ever does any serious fighting in them. So, your analysis?”
“It will be frank.”
“Is it ever anything else?”
“I think the occupation of the dam is foolhardy. The plan called…”
“The plan was good as far as it went, but it had no balls.”
“Prime Minister, with respect.”
“This is diplomacy, I know. But fuck it, I am not going to let N. K. Jivanjee play the Hindutva martyr. We’re Ranas, for God’s sake.” She lets the little touch of theatre ebb, then asks, “Our position is still salvageable?”
“Salvageable, but international pressure will be a factor when it hits the news channels. It might give the British their excuse to renew calls for an international conference.”