Fallen Phoenix (Swasan): Chapter 4; P-09 - Page 4

Hindon Air Force Station, Ghaziabad, UP

Flight lieutenant Arvind Rao was hit by a wave of satisfaction as he watched the row of the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III aircrafts resting inside the two lane hangar of Hindon AFS. It wasn't the first time he had been inside the cockpit of this giant strategic airlifter*, but every time the thrill was the same, if not better.

Having the feel of taming this beauty could provide enough ego boost to an aspiring Narcissus like him, every single time. Even if he wouldn't be handling the throttles, but he would, someday, eventually.

Thinking of beauty and she was here. Albeit she couldn't be compared to C-17. She was too sleek, too stealthy.

F-35 Lightning II. Yes, that would be her. Most flexible, sophisticated in whatever she did.

To be frank, uptight woman was never his cup of tea. Perhaps he would never pursue that kind. But being a straight human with Y chromosome, he couldn't deny the raw temptation Swara Raichand posed with her mere presence.

Only if she could smile.

"Hey Poet, don't tell me you found your muse there!" Someone from his squadron chuckled.

Argh! Arvind loathed his call sign. Well almost everyone of them shared the similar feelings for their own ones, for even most innocent or cool sounding names had some tales of shame behind them.

For example, his call sign was POET, short form for Puked On Eggs Twice, aka POET.

And his said muse had one of the coolest names one could get assigned by a bunch of a**holes in the academy.

Firefly. Elusive and fiery, glowing amongst the darkest forest.

Alas! This firefly showed no intention in getting caught.

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Poet!

She snorted inwardly.

"I know what you're thinking, girlfriend!" Karan removed his dark aviator sunglasses, "In his defence, his first bunkmate was a savage egg gobbler, the ultimate nightmare of a pure vegetarian."

"And what was your defence, tumbler?" Swara's lips curved upwards for a brief moment.

"Uh, my aircraft jerked a tiny bit. Don't make that face! Okay, I admit. It actually tumbled, a lot. Come on, that was my first attempt!" His face flushed in embarrassment. "Don't act as if you're any angel. You bribed them for that name, bitch!"

She shrugged as if she challenged him to prove that . Huh! Idiot.

She wasn't ready to accept Hummingbird anyway. Or any other name like Diva, Angel, Queen.

She was far better than that.

She actually did smile at her betrayer ex.

Well, the skeleton of a grin.

Yet her age seemed to drop several years with that one tug.

As a senior Sanskar despised certain kind of people in his regiment.

The people who created troubles. The people who were causes of distractions. Miss Raichand seemed to fall into both prototypes.

He was not some male chauvinist. He was all for hoisting "Go women!" banner. But ladies draw attention. It's a matter of fact.

However serious she was, however hard working she was, a pretty face was bound to strike chords in some hearts at one point.

Till now Sanskar was free from handling this kind of trouble as the squadron he led had no room for ladies. They were a bunch of brethren, bonded for life, be it in peace or mayhem.

However, for this particular entrant, not many would love to take an oath to brotherhood, Sanskar could bet for that.

Heck, even he wouldn't want to.

He had a reasonably better excuse though. One blood sister and five cousin sisters; half a dozen of them were enough to dig a crater in his pocket on the eve of any festival. Whereas brothers are relatively free of maintenance cost.

People and their excuses!

Main point was, couldn't it be someone else? For the first time the authority opened the door, and they decided to shove such a recipe of disaster!

Like seriously, how old was she? Eighteen? Twenty? No, practically that was not possible. Yet, she was a kid for God's sake!

What were they thinking? How could they let her enlist as a Garud who had to endure the highest level of stress?

They had to send a girl who was creating buzz in his squadron. He could tell this decent looking, unperturbable girl would receive red carpet treatment, already the guys behaved as if celestial halos were emanating from her.

"Damn you, Sanskar."

Why was he wasting his time thinking about this Raichand girl anyway?

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Indian contingent camp, Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo

A C-17 from No. 81 squadron aka Skylord had just landed on the asphalt runway of Goma camp. An orange, white and green roundel imprinted on the front of the aircraft and rectangular fin flash of similar colour had proudly announced the long awaited arrival of a bunch of hopes.

The camp had received another group of Indian allies, once again, comprising officers from both regular and special forces.

It was their home away from home, a place that was built for the Air Warriors. The infrastructure was worthy to be praised, aesthetically pleasing to the eyes. Scenic view around Nyiragongo volcano had served its purpose as a fascinating entourage, a heaven for every nature lover.

The needs of the officers were taken care of in form of an ideal military camp, replacing the former tent type transitory accommodation into newly assembled structures supplied by UN.

The entire set of offices or multi purpose gymnasium.

Level- I hospital or resourceful library.

India house or officers' gazebo.

Feeding the stomach or feeding the mind, mending the body or mending the soul. In a land of disaster, poverty and unrest providing these was a daunting task. But the effort was genuine. No one could deny that.

It was only 8 PM according to the local time. Yet fatigue seemed to grasp the toughest avian warriors in various degrees, thanks to the jet lag that followed after eight hours long flight from Delhi to Goma.

"Bonsoir, Commandant. Je suis tres heureux de vous rencontrer. (Good evening, Commander. Nice to meet you.) " Major Gesley Kabongo greeted Sanskar and his squadron on behalf of Congolese air force. He seemed as tough as leather, at least two to three inches taller than the latter. Protruded rounded jaw, nubian shaped nose, widest ever forehead - all of these facial features had enough potential to hinder his hooded eyes to come forefront.

Crossing the landmark of forty years, he was way far from front line combats. Handling joysticks or wearing those pressurised flight suits was not his headache anymore.

Instead his head had turned into headquarters for numerous brainstorming sessions. Instead those bouts of headache now had multiple focal points.

A good package of aspirin was his best friend forever in sickness. He intended to utilize this batch with green beret wrapping to alleviate the ache, not only for himself, but for the people of his country.

Unfortunately the source of the ache came from the body itself. When the third line of body defence, the native forces failed to protect from those troublemaker cells, outsiders aka doctors had to butt in with their bitter medicines and instruments.

In a country victimised by decades of civil war and deep rooted corruption, these latest executions and nationwide protests didn't do any good to the people who were already deprived of basic needs, let alone human rights like freedom of speech and justice.**

"Damn those rebels! Go to hell, Mr President!"

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Human craves for company. However he or she would deny, a heart would beseech another soul. Self proclaimed loners can shy away or elude from another Homo sapiens, but hypocrite them will conveniently find the substitutes in other forms.

Some would adopt cuddly animals as pets.

Some would lose themselves in the serene calmness of nature and wilderness.

While others would accept open invitations in a much larger social circle. The world of books, the crowd of words.

Laughter, frown, cries, life lessons, love, hate, anger, romance, betrayals- these so called loners made themselves vulnerable to the most potent emotional firearms.

Swara proudly belonged to the final category.

The camp library was bound to be her second favourite destination, first one being the hanger obviously.

She was in her comfortable cotton pants and white tee. Damp tendrils of hers were allowed to breathe and fall freely after prolonged hours of imprisonment.

Her eyes craved some light reading at this moment. Travel magazines or ancient mythology would do just fine.

She was disappointed to find another figure crossing the entrance at this wee hour of night. There, the hope of solitude went for a toss.

"Hello, Raichand. You should have been into bed by this time." A known voice caught her attention. It was their weird senior, Sanskar Shergill. The rays from the porch light landed directly on his face. Unknowingly her eyes did the biggest mistake she could do, according to her.

Her God gifted pair of cameras had caught a series of panoramic shots of his dark brown eyes. The language of an author was not very appropriate, for those were not pools of cinnamon or molten chocolate or caramel.
Nothing was sweet about them. Finely grind Indian monsoon Malabar beans, that kind of coffee defined those eyes.

Be it the colour or the lack of warmth.

Monsoon Malabar seeds are subjected to rain and winds for a couple of months and lose the original acrid pH to a bland neutral one. His eyes reminded her of Malabar coffee beans.

Calm and cool, although devoid of any genuine emotions.

Heavy bodied, pungent, and dry with notes of spice... those were the words to describe his scrutinising vision.

As if not eyes, she was facing mirrors, where she could find her image. Why her feet were rooted to the spot?

Like Medusa, had she met her death at last?

But this Medusa knew to live and defend her head from any Perseus blocking her way with an open sword. Soon she found herself giving a befitting reply. " I could ask the same question to you, sir. As far as I know you're not supposed to worry about my sleeping habits."

Wow, this child woman had the audacity to strike back.

She was opposing Raptor, a call sign he had earned after the name of Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor,a multi-role air-superiority jet fighter ,the ultimate state of art weapon. Sanskar Shergill was born to rule, ready to crush his opponents, by force or by intelligence.

But kids were exception , with whom Sanskar never fought with. He had at least that much chivalry resting inside him.

This SWARA was a mere kid. A defiant child caged inside a lovely young maiden.

"I'm not your mom, young lady. Worry is the last thing I would do for you. I see academy did a lousy job on you. Perhaps a detention would mend you a bit, right Raichand?" He decided to give hints. He hoped that would be enough for this attitude queen.

Her mom. The source of every trouble in her life. Swara didn't know why she had to live where Mrs Samara Harold Raichand or formerly known as Miss Samara Harold left after a week of her birth?

Why did she have to pass her every facial features barring the Caucasian skin and auburn red hair to her daughter?

Swara despised that lady.

"Worry my foot!" she muttered in an almost inaudible tone.

Sanskar's ears caught them as "Sorry!"

Fair enough. "Apologies accepted." He felt generous all on a sudden.

Perhaps an ENT specialist would work wonders with him.

"Othello. Tch tch tch. Pathetic book, I tell you." Her discerning soliloquy was heard by him. Apparently someone had left that book on the oak table after reading and that appeared to catch her attention.

Sanskar lifted his brow. Shakespeare would've committed suicide if he were to come across this extraordinary praise. Little did he know, tragedies were not exactly favourite literary choices of hers.

She had reasons, genuine reasons.

For her life started with tragedy. Tragedy set blocks by blocks, cemented and constructed the person she was now.

"Why princess? Those fairy tale endings, happily ever after- do you expect all that? So you can't deal if happens otherwise?" Sanskar couldn't help but snorted. Every girl has the same notion after all. "In real world, there's no happily ever after."

"I know!" she whispered, "Eventually one leaves and the other leads a life of living corpse. Endless misery remains all around him. "

"You are right. The treacherous back stabbers are everywhere. You know what? Othello couldn't be blamed. He did right by killing Desdemona. I wish everyone could get an Iago to forewarn them."

"You are wrong. Not people, but destiny is a cruel bitch."

She could blame her mom to her heart's content. Where the fact couldn't be denied that the fate was the one to lure her mom out of that fairy tale world Swara had just entered. She lost her father for ever that very day . Indravardhan still had heartbeats, he continued to breathe, but the soul was not inside him anymore. Tragedy was not so romanticising after all.

"I can't believe this! You can blame destiny, but not that stupid ex of yours! Are you real?" He banged his fist on the table. He hated people with defective spine. Unfortunately this girl seemed to possess one, despite of being a commando.

"Excuse me?"

Swara's previous doubt had been confirmed today. Mr Wing commander had tendency to lose his mind now and then.

And those snide remarks. Kid, young lady, detention.

Princess?

Her ears could hear. But alas!

Military code of conduct had refrained her from retaliating until this far. Otherwise her sharp tongue would have chopped this bitter gourd into Julian cuts in no time.

Perhaps she should start compiling a book for the peace of her mind. Following title would be apt: "Shergill Sir and his crazy quotes".

Her stupid ex. Like seriously?

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Facts:

*Strategic airlifter: Used to transport materials, weaponry and personnel over long distances .

**Indian air force had been deeply involved with Congo unrest, starting from early sixties. Series of wars, political conflicts, protests had turned a resourceful country like Democratic Republic of Congo in a land of poverty, diseases and malnourishment.
Interested ones can surf web for further information.

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