Crossfire(Kanishka Roy) Every day, exactly at 7a.m., the old man with his old side bag would report for work. He changed two trains and walked 2km. to reach the academy. His job in the morning was to open the gates on time, roll the carpets on the floor, make sure the first-aid box was in place, fill the water filters, and get the office ready for the fauji. He took care of the children like his own and did his job efficiently despite his age. The academy was his home, and the children were his family. Most of the time he kept to himself and other times he was tending to the children’s needs.

Funny man, this Raju dada, as they called him. He was curious to learn new things. Once he was found swinging his legs in the air while shouting kiai in front of the washroom mirror. Pulled his back that day but didn’t miss work the next day.

Old but disciplined. Probably why the fauji allowed him to work.

The fauji was a funny man himself. Retired with three stars on his shoulders, along with a bullet. He was a proud man. Particularly proud of his perfect moustache and zero cut hair.

He left the army and the war, to share his knowledge of combat. The academy was his brainchild. And soon it became his life. He spent most of his time there. Didn’t smile much, didn’t talk much. He didn’t know how to.

The soldier left the war, but the war didn’t leave him.

“The bastard caught me off-guard!” he told the old man, as he listened to the soldier’s story, captivated, like a child observing a starry sky. “That was it! I was on the front lines. Not like those over-dressed goons, only talking the talk. Not like them. Not me. I walked the walk, no matter how much it hurt!” he said, as a fire raged in his eyeballs.

“There was a group of misguided fundamentalists who believed the society failed them. I won’t bore you with the details. But these people were dangerous. For an amateur militant group they were skilled. Too skilled! My men were caught off-guard. Never under estimate your enemy chacha. The Americans were levelled by the Vietnamese! A king-size ego can destroy an entire kingdom!” he continued.

The old man was his first employee. He was fond of his sincerity. But above all, he was his most patient listener. Quite naturally, that’s why he was heart-broken when one of the parents complained about him.

“He’s a good man, to you probably, Mr. Bakshi, but this just isn’t acceptable…….” Mrs. Reddy said. “….. he touched my boy in the changing room!”

“Calm down ma’am. I’m sure it was a misunderstanding” the fauji said.

“Misunderstanding! I know the old perverted types very well…....I’ll have the haggard arrested if you don’t do anything. It won’t be very good for your reputation, especially after the missing girl case, now would it?”

“I’ll have him terminated” he said in a broken voice, “Your boy is safe here.”

The missing girl case.

The red on his ledger.

Nobody knew how it happened. The security didn’t notice. None of the staff or students remembered her leaving the academy that day. The academy was on the verge of closing when the parents filed a case of negligence against them. The girl wasn’t found but they were cleared of all charges.

It didn’t occur to him before but the old man was awfully quiet on the day of the abduction, more than usual.

“I swear on Santoshimaa, I’ve seen clothes of little girls in his bag. And yes a dirty doll in it as well!” one of the cleaning ladies had said.

That day, like any other day, the old man brought Mr. Bakshi his evening tea. As the withered bones of his arms stirred the sugar cubes restlessly, Mr. Bakshi noticed a spark in his tired eyes. His perforated bag was fuller than usual, with freshly-baked biscuits and alphonso jam. If he didn’t fire him Mrs. Reddy would sentence the poor man to prison. What could he do?

“You seem in a hurry Raju Dada.”

“I am sahab. It’s my beti’s birthday. She’s turning 8!”

The fauji was startled. The old man’s eyes told the truth, he knew. Was he lying? Obviously he was lying. Or maybe he meant his grand-daughter. Yes! That is it! He isn’t what they say he is. No-one can lie with such pathological sincerity. Yes!

'I can bet on the look in my enemies eyes in his death hour, that Raju dada is innocent.' he thought.

Yet an hour later, having lost the war with his inner demons of suspicion, he found himself standing amidst the deafening crowd of the station, with candles in his hand that slipped through the old man’s bag.

The distorted pre-announcement jingle was particularly irritating to him. He stood on the over-bridge to keep an eye on Raju dada. It was a common day. School boys with odd hair stalking school girls, oily haired vegetable sellers standing in a circle eating oiler vada pavs. Over-dressed housewives gossiping about the single mom in their building, while their children chased each other. Pot-bellied ticket checkers analyzing the commoners like a tiger, waiting to pounce on its prey. The stale smell of cream rolls and orange white cakes and the stench of dried fish were following the people like a headless ghost.

Bakshi stared down on them.

Pathetic!

The old man almost jolted on his feet as he saw the train arriving. With a screech, the local halted on its rusted wheels as the passengers and the vendors with their pulleys ran towards it.

Like ants in a sugar farm, it seemed to the fauji. The vulnerable old man, with his ragged old bag, amongst all the chaos, smiled and boarded the train.

It was almost at the end of this train journey when he again heard the wretched jingle. The sound of an AKM seemed music to his ears now. Over seven different sub stations the train got even more packed.

Raju Dada bought second hand wafers, chocolate probably, and put them in his bag. He drank the soda bottles which made a bursting sound every time a bottle was opened. Throughout the journey he bought pale green guavas and freckled apples. This time he allowed himself to have one guava. He rubbed it on his gums and chuckled like an infant as he sucked on its juice.

He was weak. He was broken. He was vulnerable.

But he was happy. His eyes sparkled every time Bakshi would tell him his war stories. “Like I was saying, I was leading my men into a dry and dusty base. It was a routine extraction. Some local villagers, mostly women and children, were held hostage in exchange for a man who supposedly betrayed their religion.” he kept saying as Raju dada kept on listening.

“We went in, but got more than we came for. They cornered us using human shields. We could not lose any child in the cross-fire.” he said, tension struck in both their hearts. “We waited. Tried to negotiate. But they wouldn’t listen. That is when I stepped in. Now keep in mind, we were in the middle of a mild sandstorm. We could barely see anything. I could only see, by His grace, a small passage behind one of their tents. I slowly, and oh-so steadily crept behind them and shot one of them on the legs. His parched screams distracted them and my men took advantage.”

The train came to a sudden halt. Sweaty armpits collided with his shoulder.

The fauji was afraid of his future. His shoulder often troubled him. Could age make him as weak as Raju dada? As broken. As vulnerable.

Definitely not as happy- he thought.

The low-life magician and his cheap tricks, the strangely dressed men selling rat-kills, the grape and soda sellers, and the beggars, the beggars! – He could never be content with this mediocrity. He poised his moustache once more.

The second train journey was bearable. As the crown thinned down, he had to be more cautious. At one point Bakshi felt like Raju dada had seen him. But later on realized that it was his peculiar gaze, the one that his curious eyes often displayed when immersed in Bakshi’s stories.

“Then what happened sahab? Were the children safe? And the women?”

“Then I got shot on my left shoulder from behind. But I quickly grabbed my gun, like almost grabbing my last chance at life, and shot him back. It only took one shot! And he was dead”

“Marvellous sahab! Fantastic! Khuda khairiyat, no child was caught in the crossfire”

“A child did die in the ‘crossfire’ that day”

“Hai Khuda! How?”

“I killed him. And it took me only one shot”

The train eased into an unfamiliar station. Through the rushing crowd Bakshi could see that Raju dada’s seat was empty.

The old man had ran out of the door with an unknown excitement. Bakshi followed him.

Kundwa, was the name of the station. He remembered the old man telling him his house was near the station. When he asked about him in the rickshaw stand they recognized him at once. A few sleek alleys and ten minutes later Bakshi found himself in an old garage.

The shutters were partially drawn down. Could his fears be true?

It was a dark long way, at the end of which he could see a small figure fidgeting on the ground.

There he was. Raju dada, sitting in front of a small photograph. There were an array of goodies kept in front of it. Guavas and apples. And wafers. Cream rolls and orange white cakes.

“Come on!”

“She would have loved your moustache. Probably play with it “

“It’s her birthday, won’t you wish her? I am happy you came.”

Mr. Bakshi looked at the photos. And then his eyes. They were sparkling.

He took the candles out and slowly walked up to the photograph.

“What was her name?”

The old man said nothing.

He lit the candle and put it in front of her photograph. The ends of his moustache bowed down.

“Thank you for protecting my home, sahab! For saving lives everyday”

“I couldn’t prevent the crossfire”

Raju dada picked up his daughters photograph. His breath grew heavy, with intoxicated incantations.

“There are always crossfires beta”

He kept the photo on the porch and stood up. He wiped his eyes and cleaned his shirt. He looked at Bakshi intently.

“Don’t worry. I’ll come on time sahab.“

Weak. Vulnerable. Pathetic?

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