YESTERDAY PART 3: When Rudra has first joined the BSD, unlike most other officers, he was not a raw recruit freshly drafted into the Indian Army. He had already been a top level Lieutenant in the elite, highly secretive Ghatak Commandos Special Operations platoon for four years before his BSD posting. Back then, as a Lieutenant, he had been a part of a very small group of highly trained men-- men who's very existence was kept quiet within the military ranks. Men who lived up to the actual meaning of the hindi word Ghatak--lethal. The specialized training for these men included advanced fatal weapons training, close quarter battle and demolitions, not to mention counter-insurgency and jungle warfare. The real mission of the small, specialized Ghatak Commandos unit was to act as spearheads. They were the shock and awe of the Indian Army--the first assault on the enemy before the real battle.
Being the leader of such a group meant that Rudra had seen more than his fair share of battles that had never made it into the papers. He had conducted secret assaults and deadly missions where the fatal casualties were all on the other side-- since it was a point of honor for Rudra that he never lost a man, or a fight. Lieutenant Ranawat had been an exceptionally effective killing machine, and a frighteningly good commando. But, when the opportunity to transfer into the BSD came, Rudra had not hesitated.
For four years, he had been Death-- the Harbinger of other people's ends, the terror in the enemies' eyes, the shadow that was the last thing terrorists saw before meeting his blade or his gun. There is only so much death one man can take in one lifetime. Rudra had enough of the assaults, the sudden invasions, the dropping behind enemy lines in the dead of night to leave corpses for the morning.
The Ghatak Commandos posting had been soul deadening, and the BSD in comparison had been a home, a resting place for the weary Lieutenant. Here, in the BSD Rudra had of course risen rapidly in the ranks, becoming a Major within a few months. And here, in the BSD, Rudra had also gladly put those days in the Commando unit behind him. Always a loner, Rudra had lost touch with the men whom he had trained, and who had been his lifeline during those dark days. But when you were the one who took your men into danger-- and also the one who brought them back from certain death, greeting cards during festivals and phone calls on birthdays were not exactly needed.
Now, as he sat in his office, staring at the files Officer Aman Mathur had left on his desk, Rudra reached back into his memories, back into the past. And, staring at the list of names of the men guarding Jasheem Khan, Rudra smiled a smile that the ghosts of the evil men he had killed as a Ghatak Commando would have recognized. From the very short list of men who were allowed to come near Jasheem Khan -- the list sent by the Indian Army HQ in Delhi--Rudra picked out one name. Captain Dipu Kumar Das. A name from the past. Guarding the present. Perfect.
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Jasheem Khan had been drugged. That Bengali guard, Captain Das-- the one with the stealth-movements of a highly trained sniper-- had come in earlier, and he had done something to the morphine drip in Jasheem Khan's beefy arm. The guard's flat eyes had looked into the Traitor's own and then, a whisper of sound, the clinking of metal was all the psychopath remembered before passing out from the overdose. As Jasheem now woke, he realized this right away. He had been drugged. There was no other reason why he had not immediately noticed that Major Rudra Pratap Ranawat was sitting by his bed, completely at ease. Jaheem's body hurt, since the Major's boots were propped up on his injured leg. But none of that mattered as much as the sight of Major Rudra Pratap Ranawat holding a wicked looking blade, and smiling gently down into Jasheem Khan's face.
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Proper responses.
Jasheem Khan was a big believer in making the correct, proper response to every situation. He was quite meticulous in giving the right emotional feedback to every situation. Since childhood Jasheem Khan had been aware that he did not, well, feel anything at all. For anyone. He did not have any idea about the emotions and feelings and responses that the other kids around him were always showing. Their minds were attuned to a world of sensation that would forever remain alien to Jasheem. But-- being empty of any sensation meant Jahseem Khan could use his brains instead, and analyze sensations in others. He had always felt intense curiosity about impulses, about love, honor, about these concepts that made people feel. Love was something he had never understood. But not because he did not have a loving home. He did, naa?
The problem was, of course, his parents soon realized exactly what Jasheem Khan was, deep inside. And though they loved him --he supposed-- his parents, even when he was a child, had been terrified of the monster they had living in their house. He enjoyed their fear, but he since had never felt fear, he wished to experience it in others. He liked the sensation of terror and despair that was often on their faces when his parents looked at him. It was so interesting, these feelings. Alien, but fascinating. He liked collecting data. Jasheem focused on this, so he could go on hurting, getting more of that terror, more of that delicious fear. After his parents died and the need to...hurt...kept growing, Jasheem kept up with his data collecting. Jasheem Khan was nothing if not hardworking.
So, to blend in, Jasheem Khan had learnt to mimic other people's facial patterns. Learning when to smile, which facial muscles to use, when to frown, what to do when someone joked or made a sad comment. It had been difficult to learn which mask to put on at what time. Jasheem Khan was justifiably proud of how good he had become at mimicking proper responses to proper situations. This was partly why Jasheem liked his victims to express themselves freely. He encouraged it, even. Asking them to scream, to tell him their feelings, to give him their emotions, as it were. Be afraid, feel every single blade cut, every whip mark, to tell him about their pain. To show it to him through tears and screams, to give him their howls of agony and stuttering groans of despair as he killed them (slowly). He always tried to give his victims more time, to make the proper responses to their situation. It was a point of honor for him, really.
Proper responses were so important! And so, as Jasheem lay manacled to the iron hospital bed, looking at Rudra Pratap Ranwat smiling down at him as if he was smiling at a friend, he quite resented Rudra's completely wrong response to their current situation. Jasheem realized that he was staring at Death in the face right now, and that Death had managed to get through to him, even here, in this secure room. He knew that if he screamed for his guards, Captain Das who had come in with the morphine would make sure no help reached Jasheem Khan before this smiling man's serrated, gleaming blade did. But even though he was facing Death, Jasheem Khan was honestly upset because he was a big believer in proper responses.
So why the hell was Major Rudra Pratap Ranawat smiling?
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The Medical Bay in Chaindigarth HQ had one of the best set-ups at the BSD. Located on the second floor of the long building, tucked away from bustling staff quarters and office rooms, the Medical Bay was purposely designed to encourage ill BSD officers and their family members to focus on their recovery. The cabins were large, airy with picture windows overlooking the carefully maintained gardens of the HQ. The rooms were painted a soothing cream, there were plenty of nurses and doctors assigned for round the clock care. The cabin assigned to Prisoner Parvati Vader was in the private wing, and located away from other cabins. Aside from the usual the cabin amenities, Parvati's room had sweeping views of the rolling sand dunes beyond the base.
None of these carefully planned details mattered to Paro. All she was grateful for were the sheesham and khejari trees that shaded her cabin, drooping a bower of fiery orange and red flowers just outside the glass window. The nurses attending to their quiet young patient knew by now to leave the window open for the girl who stared outside her cage for hours, reveling in these flowers. This evening, the sharp, almost bitter fragrance swept into the cabin once again. The gust of wind brought to her bed a few torn flowers, scattering them around her bed like fresh offerings in a temple.
Paro picked them up, one by one, staring into the glowing red centers, breathing in the fragrance of sap and honey dew. These flowers pulsed with life right now. But though they looked fresh and alive, they had been ripped from their branches, from their native home. Flung away, thrown into her cabin by an uncaring wind, left in a strange and alien place. These pretty fresh blooms would last like this for a few more hours, before wilting into brownish, shriveled masses of dull color.
Like Paro had lasted, only for a few days, before despair, fear and torture had caused her to shrivel, caused her to wither. But if she could put these flowers into water, they would revive, fight back, she thought--- just like what the nurses and doctors had done to her. They had given her a new will, fed her, poured nutrients into her. These people had bathed her unresponsive body, cleaned her from the weeks of filth and blood and pain that had encrusted her very soul. She had been given a chance to recover, and she had seized it, quietly taking her medicines, accepting the care. She knew how to survive, a knowledge she would never have had two weeks ago, an instinct to preserve herself had been born within her now.
For the first time since she had been brought into the BSD, Paro felt strong. With almost no memory of what had happened inside the Interrogation room, Paro had been surprised by everyones' reaction. These past two days Aman Bhaiya and Ram Mohan-ji had kept vigil by her bed. There had been frequent visits from BSD guards or officers. General B. K Singh himself had come to see her. The nurses often stopped by to give her the small gifts and containers of food left for her by BSD personnel who Paro did not even know. Instead of comforting her, all this had, strangely, convinced Paro of something quite different.
Aman Bhaiya, Ram Mohan ji, and perhaps most of the BSD now believed that she was innocent. Aman Bhaiya had mentioned that another prisoner, Kesari Ram, had said something that made her innocence plain to them. Why this man, Kesari Ram would know about her innocence, or what he said to make the BSD believe in it--Paro did not know. She was not even very sure who he was, exactly--the Thakur did have a close man with this name, but then again, it was a very common name in this area--and Aman Bhaiya would not discuss his case with her.
To be frank, she had not asked him too many questions. All that mattered was that they knew she was innocent. Beyond assuring her that everyone knew she was not a traitor, and she would be safe now, the BSD had not tried to continue her interrogation. Aman Bhaiya had been kind, carefully feeding her, watching over her, supervising her medical treatment. But the truth was that all these kind actions--none of this actually mattered to Paro. Because these past two days had also convinced Paro of something else. Even though all these people believed in her now, even though these people agreed that she was innocent-- HE still did not.
HE had not come to her once.
Not once had the Jallad's dark presence stood by her bed, not once had HIS eyes examined her with that peculiar, intent focus that mesmerized her into total stillness. Not once had that low, cold, gravel voice spoken to her, or asked about her, to her doctors. For Paro, this could only mean one thing. The Jallad still hated her. It meant that HE did not trust in her innocence, and so HE would not give her any freedom. The Jallad still believed monstrous things about the Thakur, about her Birpur community. That Thakur-sa was a traitor, that the men and women she had grown up with were mindless puppets at best, and grinning, evil minions at worst. This idea was still in HIS brain, as firmly there as the belief that she was guilty.
Why else did the Jallad not come? Paro was convinced HE was waiting for her to return to her cell, where HE would have her under control once again. If she knew anything, she knew the Jallad would not let her go back home. What did it matter if the whole of the BSD trusted her now, if HE did not? HE was the only one who mattered. The only person who's opinion and beliefs would make any difference to her life.
And HE had not come.
The Jallad who had watched over her interrogation with obsessive focus, who's eyes had burnt into her skin for days had not come once, to see her here, as she lay recovering from HIS torture. HIS orders had almost ended her life. Now when the Jallad coming to her cabin, sitting on her visitors chair, asking about her health--when all this would mean HE believed her-- when looking at her out of those hooded eyes would mean HE trusted her...HE had not come. Aman Bhaiya had not mentioned The Jallad to her, nor had the doctors or Ram Mohan-ji spoken about that man. Oh, but HE was on their minds.
Paro had heard Aman Bhaiya mutter the Major's name to Ram Mohan. The doctors outside her cabin door would speak about HIM, in irritatingly soft whispers so that Paro, straining to overhear, could only hear tiny bits of information. Words that made no sense, about emotional trauma and nightmares. Listening carefully to snippets of conversations, alert to any mention of HIS name, she had felt a queer pang of excitement when she overheard Aman Bhaiya ask her nurse if the Major had called the Hospital. And then a crushing sense of disappointment when Aman Bhaiya had been told that the Major had not.
Paro could not wait any longer. She had to plan an escape, she thought wearily. She had to get away from this place, from the Jallad, the man who had put her in the hospital because HE did not believe her words. Next time she would not survive. This chance was astonishing enough--that somehow, the BSD walos had found out that she might not be involved in the massacre at Naagpur. But if it was upto HIM, she would be back in Ram Mohan-ji's cell. Because HE still thought she had some connection to whatever was happening in Birpur. And when it came to her, Paro had realized... it was all upto HIM. Somehow, from the moment she had met the Jallad, Bholenath--with breathtaking cruelty towards Paro-- had placed all the strings of Paro's life into the Jallad's cruel, blood soaked hands. She would live or die by the Jallad's decisions.
And HE had not come.
Paro had, over the past two weeks, given up on survival. Drop by drop, her fighting spirit, her need to live had been leached out of her mind like the food that had been denied to her starving body. Day after day of questioning, of inhuman torture had left Paro totally disoriented. Sometimes, sprawled on the floor of her cell, she had found herself actually wondering if she was involved, if she was what he had called her--a traitor, an evil woman aligned with the worst scum.
Could HE be so wrong? HE was so powerful. Everywhere she turned, there HE stood, a black shadow that blotted out every vestige of light in her life. HE controlled everything. Everyone. Ram Mohan, Aman Bhaiya. The BSD. All were under HIS control. Was HE wrong, and she, Paro, a village girl, so unimportant, so small and at his mercy--was she right?
It seemed unbelievable. Starved, in debilitating pain, her mind wavering between conscious thought and unconscious shadows, Paro had ended up questioning even her own sanity. And finally, she had ended up chained to a chair, alone with a madman, actually welcoming death. Praying for it, asking Jasheem Khan to give it to her--and when Death had almost reached her, only to be snatched away at the last moment, she had actually regretted the loss. Jasheem Khan that madman who was going to kill her, she had wanted him to finish his work. In that moment, in that room, shivering from exposure, pain, a kind of sick despair that demanded she stop living so she could stop suffering, she had actually wanted that madman to finish her. Somehow, HE had stopped even that.
As Paro strained to remember what had happened next, she dimly recalled a roaring sound, cracking glass, rippling screams. She heard... HIS voice in her head begging her to...? What? The roaring voices mingled together in a jumble when she tried to think back to that night. But above the noise, above the rushing darkness, Paro could close her eyes, and dimly hear the Jallad's words. It echoed in her mind, HIS words. Wanting her to survive, to hold on. Perfectly crazy words that said--he was coming for her.
"Do not dare Paro!!" The echo roared. A scream of rage: "Don't you dare stop living. Breathe. Breathe. Live. For me, do you hear me?" A harsh threat: "Don't you dare die, you know that I'll follow you wherever you go, you know you'll never escape me!!" - A broken plea---"Please don't die Paro, I'm begging you..." Her name--Paro, not Parvati--screamed again and again. Pain and rage in the scream, a cry to the heavens, asking that she be saved. But these were all hallucinations, surely?
They had to be--because all HE had ever asked her to do was to answer his questions about death and terror and evil. HE liked questions, didn't he?
Well, she wanted to ask him a few of her own, now. Why did HE not believe her, still, when Aman Bhaiya did? Why did HE hate her? Why did HE want her dead, and then turn around and force her to live? What did he WANT? These were questions she had prepared in her mind, things she needed to ask him.
But HE did not come.
Where was HE? She shook the wilting flowers off her bed. Her legs trembled with the effort, but she managed, after several tries, to stand up. A few tottering steps brought her to the window. There, just outside this cabin, lay freedom. If she only had the energy, if she only had the will, she would be able to climb onto that armchair, twist her way outside the window, grab that branch...just that big one, right there...and climb down to the ground floor. She had grown up climbing trees with Bindi. She was on the second floor, it would be laughably easy for the old Paro to get out of this cabin by climbing down these sturdy branches.
But the Paro she was now was feeling.. strange. Righteous, angry. Betrayed, even. She wanted to run away. Every instinct warned her that she had very little time. If she ever was to return to the Paro she used to be, to the life she once had, she had to make her escape. Now. But she could not do it. Not yet.
She wanted to gain her freedom-- but more than that, she wanted the Jallad to...come. Give her the chance to reject HIM, tell the nurses she did not want HIM in her cabin. She wanted the Jallad to ask her how she was feeling, so she could coldly turn her head away, and show the red weals on her back in answer--the stripes that had been given to her because of HIS hatred, HIS refusal to believe. She wanted the Jallad to grovel, fall at her feet so she could step away, could absorb pleasure from his pain. HE should give her the right to turn HIM away, deny HIM her forgiveness, make HIM long for her mercy so that she could then not give it to HIM. The Jallad owed her many things by now, Paro thought, restless--her skin a tight, itching suit over her spasming muscles.
But most of all, HE owed it to her, to take this rejection, owed her the chance to inflict this one, small pain. She had borne so much pain, gifted to her, to her mind body and soul from HIM. Could the Jallad not bear just this one pain, this one rejection from her?
Where was HE?
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The door creaked open behind her. As the scent of wintergreen and ice invaded the room, overlying the sharp scent of sheesham flowers, Paro's own senses heightened to the point of painful awareness. She kept still, even though she wanted to turn, to run to the bed, cower behind her bed-sheets. She was not ready to see him, to hear his words, to smell his scent. How had she possibly thought she was prepared for it? She stared outside, not seeing the splendor of the setting sun before her, her eyes wet with tears. She had been feeling so strong, she had managed to come all the way here, to the window. She had even thought she could climb out, escape. So foolish!
And now, as the slow footfalls of boots came right behind her, she trembled with a lassitude as her muscles demanded that she rest, she just fall back. Some part of Paro wanted her to let go, fall into the darkness waiting for her right behind her trembling body. The shadow approached behind her, a dark reflection wavering in the window before her. HIS eyes, gimlet hued, blazing with an eerie glow looked into her own in that weak reflection. Paro felt light headed. What was it she felt? Relief? Rage? It did not matter. She did not turn her head, as she heard the soft thud of his heavy body falling down, onto his knees, right behind her.
HE had come.
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PART FOUR: https://www.indiaforums.com/forum/post/105576925
Edited by napstermonster - 11 years ago
CID
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
