The Reluctant Terrorist

8/9/2019 The Reluctant Terrorist

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The Reluctant Terrorist

`Oye Rajeev, Mandi is looking for you. That caught me short, wondering what do now with the chess

moves that I had initiated and had me trapped square.

Let me explain. It had all started when I had came back to my shared hostel room the night before my

semester exam on Semi-Conductors in that February of 1985 and found my Millman and Taub missing. It

didnt help to postpone your studying to the night before the exam and have your expensive main study

book go missing on you. I had asked Thawani my rommie if he had seen it. He hadnt.

So I did what hostler fraternity does best I went to Raghuraman to borrow his copy, but he was not in

his room. I then went to Jairam but he could not find his copy as well. By that time Raghuraman was

back in his room. He like me had gone around looking for his missing M & T, checking everybody who

could have borrowed it. Three M & Ts missing now that was more than an accident and a vague

pattern of doubt had begun tugging my tailbone. As we had stood there in the middle of dingy hostel

corridor, stripped down to our shorts in the muggy heat of Delhi, we had attracted attention. Some

Mechies and Civvies had landed up also lamenting their BL Tharejas and other expensive reference text-

books were missing.

Now this was serious some of the most expensive books that we hostlers had were gone! Each cost a

packet, were in short supply, and could not be bought at this juncture from Nai Sarak with the pitiful

allowances we had left with us at the fag end of the semester. As others shook their heads and went

away to find their notes to fire-fight their exams the next day I had a mission. By the mid-night, as

students slogged in their rooms for the Great Fight next morning, I had discovered that at least seven

radio-transistor sets and eight Sony Walkmans were also missing from our 39 rooms. We had a thief

amongst us!

The exam came and went the next day and I was back following leads as to who it could be. By the

evening, the only common name from the list of people everyone mentioned having visited them over

last one week was a day-sci (day scholar) `Mandi (Mandeep Singh). Mandi was the nicest person we

had in our college a cheerful massive Sikh, a Rath-Marathon athlete and one who was too nice to have

enemies or be a thief. No not him! Rumor said that he came from a respectable army family, why

would he steal?

But then he had changed hadnt he over the last one term. He had not been that much affected when

Operation Bluestar had lead Indian Army into the holiest of the Sikh shrines the Golden Temple.

Though a Hindu, even I had felt a little fidgety about the heavy bombardment and carnage brought in to

bear by artillery, tanks and Special Army units into this placid hallowed pilgrimage shrine in the heart of

Amritsar. True, Sant Bhindrawale and his mercenary gang was holed up inside but it had looked like an

overkill to most non-sikhs as well. And it did not go down well in the already hurt psyche of the Sikh

community. Labeled terrorists by state, media and most Hindus, they had been affronted at this

humiliation to the seat of their spiritual power. Some Sikh army units had mutinied and killed their


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Hindu officers. But for most of us chasing our dreams of becoming engineers, that was politics and had

been far removed from our campus realities, and was never discussed.

But the other Sikh in our class, `Nari (Narinder singh) had definitely changed dramatically. The whisky

and beer swilling day-sci (day-scholar), always cracking jokes (mostly about his fellow Sikhs), had started

avoiding us of late and was always trying to accost Mandi alone. Lately they had both been sitting in the

last benches in the corner of the class, whispering to each other and then disappearing as soon classes

were over. Earlier, we always used to play basket ball together till late in the evening would have some

coke in the canteen before day-scis and hostlers split for their respective holding pens for the night.

`Should I send him to your room that brought me back to present with a jar. Ok lets deal with it. I had

found that my awesome reputation of maximum absences from classes in that semester had been

bettered by Mani for the first time. The solution was simple and known to us hostlers get the dates of

absences from the teachers roll-call sheets (left lying on their office tables while they were teaching

other classes) and go to the college-world-savior Dr. Himmat Kumar. The location of his one room

shack, hidden away in the dusty by-lanes of Mori Gate, was passed down from the seniors to the

freshers as the rights of passage and essential survival tricks. Everybody always needed him one

semester or the other out of the eight that took one to go through for the Engineering degree. His clinic

was unlike any doctors an old rusted stethoscope lay cosmetically on the dusty table and provided

respectful cover. The shelves displayed no medicines boxes or bottles simply piles of prescription pads

of different vintage. His medical skill lay in looking at number of days you were absent, the gaps

between them and then invent ailments that were befitting and write out medical examination and

prescription slips that you handed to the college administrator as the acceptable reason for having

missed more than a third of your classes. No one bothered to wonder why all hostlers, despite having six

doctors in the area, had same looking slips from the same doctor who closed his clinic at 5 pm and never

opened on weekends. But then not many people asked rational questions in that reputed scientific

institution that we had slaved to make it to further our pursuit of careers in science.

So I had let it known to all and sundry that I would be going to Dr. Himmat this weekend for my salvation

slips and any day-sci who wanted to be helped as well could join me. The fishing net had just yielded the

desired catch Mandi ! He was in the hostel and looking for me time to find out The Truth. I quickly

gave the signal to my commando back up team and asked for Mandi to be guided into my hostel room

on the first floor.

Gentle knock Mandi was in. But he was looking fidgety and unsure. I pulled him in, sat him in the chair,

went to close the door, quickly slipped out and bolted it from outside and shouted the code. A rough

tough gang of Northies in Chaddis (shorts), Southies in Lungis (knee long body drapes) and our very own

indomitable Naga were at the door brandishing an assortment of hockey sticks, iron rods, a Naga Spear

and other miscellaneous weapons that would have made our hostel warden Mr. Chakroborthy swoon

outright. We opened the door and everybody spilled in people caught hold of Mandi and a free for all

ensured. I was now beginning to get tormented by this ambush I had sprung. As soon as Mandi

collapsed, I asked everybody to back off. Suddenly the thief looked pitiable, soft and vulnerable a


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grown strapping man of six feet sobbing uncontrollably. Even before I could say anything Mandi looked

at me and said `yes, I have stolen the stuff. I am willing to talk to you Rajeev you dont need to hit me.

I saw the old soft gentle Mandi and asked everyone to go out against their wishes - they were all still

very angry and talking would be impossible in that mood. They bolted the door from outside and waited

for my signal again as I took on the role of the Interrogator.

I asked Mandi to relax and tell me why he had stolen our stuff despite our trust in him. He looked at me

with gaunt eyes, pleading - `can I have some food, I havent eaten for three days. I looked again and

now saw the wasting frame of that once powerful body, the filthy hands and that down-and-out look.

Another emotional cave-in and I rapped on the door and asked Ravindran to get a special lunch for my

`guest from our hostel mess on my account that was Ten Rupees a mighty sum. Ravindran looked at

me quizzically and when I confirmed, just shook his head and went away. He was back ten minutes later

with the watery daal(lentil) slopping all over the curry compartment of the steel plate and a pile of

bulletproofrotis (bread) that our cook Bhaiyu slapped out daily in generous coatings of dry wheat flour.

There was a pile of some burnt green vegetable to complete the picture and of course the fried egg in

the center which made it a special Thali(plate).

Mandi gulfed it down like a man taken off the Kon Tikki expedition lost at sea for six months. It was only

after he had eaten and drank the full jug of water from my table did he belch loudly and look at me.

`Lean out of the window and look at the road outside to see if there is a Blue coloured Fiat car parked

with Delhi number plates, on the turn. It has a bent radio antenna. I did and it was there like he had

said. He looked more scared when I had told him that.

`Thats the car with Nari and he has a machine gun under his seat. He is the one who brought me here

and he is waiting for me. Please save me. I was now shocked petty theft had just got escalated to

armed robbery.

The story poured out of Mandi like a stream dammed for too long. Nari had started sharing with him his

feeling of Sikhism being insulted by the Hindu society, and how the granthi(priest) at the Gurudwara

(holy shrine) had said the same. Soon he brought pamphlets and audio cassettes of hate speeches made

by Sikh revolutionaries who were questioning the strong arm tactics of the Indian Government and were

now labeled terrorists in return. The killings and shootings in Punjab had increased after the Operation

Bluestar. Violent police reprisals now often resulted in `encounter deaths, where supposed `terrorists

who had been arrested were shot by policemen as they `tried to escape from the heavily armed police

vehicles as they were being transferred to lock ups or courts. One day Nari, who had disappeared from

the classes for a month, had suddenly rejoined and whispered to him as they sat in the quantum physics

class, sharing with him details of his arms and explosives training that he had just taken in a farm close

to the border with Pakistan. He had now come back prepared to take revenge for his faith and his

people he now and wanted Mandi to live up to the call of his faith as well. Mandi had refused to `sip

the amrit (take the vow for revenge) but reluctantly agreed to accompany him to Gurdwara Sheesh

Ganj in Chandini Chowk on the coming Sunday. That was his undoing. After the gentle and soul stirring


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recital of Gurubani, they were ushered into a small room below where a very angry Sikh had addressed

the small selected congregation on how the marital race of Sikhs, which had stood upto and fought the

evil-doers like the Persians and the Mughals for centuries, were now being decimated in a democratic

India. Establishing an independent state of Khalistan for Sikhs was the answer and every Sikhs duty was

to wage the battle to that end. At the end, Nari had dragged him off to meet the gentleman and have a

photo of the three of them taken. Life had played another of its diabolic twists in Mandis fate.

Mandis father was a local unit commander of the Border Security Force (BSF, a para-military force

undertaking anti-terrorism missions). Nari had told Mandi that the photograph of his was taken with

none other than Lal Singh, with one of the most dreaded Sikh extremists and if Mandi did not follow his

instructions, Nari would send that Photo to the anti-terrorist cell that would be the end of his fathers

career, as he would fall under suspicion since his son was known to be fraternizing with terrorists. Under

force of blackmail to save his father, Mandi came repeatedly to our hostel rooms, stole expensive books,

radios and walkmen. Nari and he would go to Nai Sarak, the book market, to sell the books to book-

sellers as second hand ones. The money was used to finance their movement and purchase of explosive

materials for wiring them into the booby-trapped radios and walkmen by the trained Nari. Naris

engineering skills had found a worthy cause. Mandis job had been to place these bombs in the public

places. The far-away newspaper headlines of people dying every day from these booby-trapped radios

and walkmen had suddenly got linked to my room. Robbery had jumped another notch to armed

terrorism. I gulped could it get worse? What had I gotten myself into? A bomb planter locked inside

with me in this room and one waiting on the road outside with a machine gun!

So I leaned on the good old rationale and logic and counseled Mandi to go back and admit it all to his

father and get the BSF to catch Nari. `I wish life could be that simple said Mandi and started sobbing

and howling. Between sobs he told me that Naris father had been a famous High court Advocate who

had been arrested last week by police and a huge cache of explosives had been found in the basement

of their house in posh west Delhi. Some of the explosives had been found in a BSF issue satchel whose ID

number had been traced back to the one issued to the BSF Commandant himself. Shit Nari had

`borrowed Mandis old college book satchel (Mandi used to show off his army satchel to us) and `used

it at home and now Mandis father was in the cross-hairs. `So, how do I explain to my father what was

that the satchel, that I took from him for use as my college bag, doing with explosives in the house of

the bomber he had arrested and which has now led to this own suspension? He must think I am a part of

their ring.

That would be tricky indeed but I was myself in trouble. I had a bird at hand, one in the bush and the

evening was closing in fast. My imagination flashed the next days likely newspaper headlines

Shootout in Engineering college one known terrorist and a student killed by an unknown gunman.

Our shared danger brought Mandi and me together as the most unlikely partners in history of stupidity.

We sweated out the hours, quickly peeking out to see if the Fiat car was still there. Call the Police? No

way we hostlers knew them as the local pimps of Kashmiri Gate and ones who collected weekly hafta

(protection tax) from petty criminals. BSF that was a no-no too, for obvious reasons. So we did the

only thing we could waited for the inevitable. It was finally at around 11 pm that the Fiat car started


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up, turned around and cruised past the hostel. Looking through the parted curtain of the darkened

room, a chill ran down my spine as I confirmed that the silhouette of the driver to be none other than

that of Nari. There was a big sigh of relief from us both as the car slowed down at the hostel gate,

stopped, but then instead of turning inside towards my Hostel, just carried on out of the area.

The relief now bordered grandeur. I convinced myself and Mandi that salvation lay in him going to his

father and asking for his help to extricate himself out of this mess. He broke down again and caught hold

me and said that his father would never believe him unless somebody else corroborated the story and I

was the only one who could help him. He was willing to face the consequences of his action. The despair

in his eyes and his pitiable condition triggered something in me. I agreed. So I changed, put my wallet in

my pocket and after giving an altered version to the custodians at my door, walked out with him to the

Kashmiri Gate bus stop.

There we stood, two strangers, sharing a mission of hope and redemption. As the minutes ticked by in

our wait for the night special for Daula Kuan, a voice of sanity finally broke through my wall of resolve

and made itself heard. What if Nari was waiting at a pre-decided back-up point Mandi was taking me to?

What if Mandis father doesnt believe us and turns us both over to police as accomplices would they

even listen to me in this time of madness and witch-hunting? My advice to Mandi was sane but the

responsibility for actions was his. With mixed emotions and in a confused garble, I told Mandi that he

knew the options at this cross-road in his life. He could turn back to the road of terrorism or travel into

the un-chartered path to escape to freedom. The choice was his. I could bring him to the road but not

walk it with him.

And then I turned back and trudged back to the hostel expecting each step of the way to be hit by a

hail of bullets from behind and or be dragged into Blue Fiat car. Thankfully, it never came.

I know not of whereabouts of Mandi and which road he took. There was a small news item on page 6 of

Indian Express about two months later, that the Narinder Singh, alias `Nari, son of the famous `Delhi-

bomber-advocate, had been involved in a shoot out with the Punjab police near the border and had

been shot trying to escape. Another encounter death! Justified or not who is to say. I wonder till date

about where winds of fate have taken Mandi or would have taken me that fateful night.

Rajeev Ahal

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The Reluctant Terrorist