He never considered killing people a sin. Because his job demanded it. Because if you don’t do, then you die.
He was proud of his precision. With a custom made German Heckler & Koch PSG1A1 fitted with a Schmidt & Bender scope, he was lethal. Though his teacher had taught him in his early life that beauty was something that lay at the hands of the beholder, he considered his “job” as a work of art. As a work of craft.
Assassin.
A person of Spanish origin, he was popular throughout Western Europe as an “emerging player” in this “competitive world”. With a count of 23 under his belt, 9 of which were political assassinations, he was making an indelible mark.
He was in Espana. The southern port city of Mallorca. His latest assignment brought him to his homeland. To this city of wonders, hardly an hour from his native village. To the city which fascinated him from childhood-with its glitz, pace and diversity, all of which were absent in the sleepy village of his. It had been the city of dreams for him as a child. As a youth. He insisted on doing graduation from a college in Mallorca not because of his zeal for knowledge. But because of Mallorca.
He didn’t want to go to his native village. Because he didn’t have anything worth remembering there. Or at least, he liked to believe so. He despised villages. And continued to do so.
He seldom read newspapers. He preferred this modus operandi because he believed that knowing more about a person makes it more difficult to pull the trigger with a gun pointed at him. In fact, he insisted that he never be told the names of the persons to be eliminated in an assignment. And his clientele were in general too happy to oblige.
And hence, the Mayor of Mallorca was unknown to him. His new target. A revolutionary Left Conservative, the latter was making waves across Spain. His efforts to bring Mallorca on par with Barcelona and Madrid made him very popular among the people of Spain in general and Mallorca in particular. And in a country that was [ill]reputed for assassinations, it was only a matter of time before his political enemies got together in a cabal.
The meeting between the conspirators’ representative and Acilino’ happened in Sao Paulo, almost 6 weeks back. There were no negotiations. A black and white photo changed hands. 2 million dollars cabled to his account in Switzerland. And the deal was fixed.
October the 12th. Spanish national day. As per convention, there would be a grand parade at the Republican Square, presided over by the Mayor. The grand Republican Square was the trademark of Mallorca. With tall Gothic structures surrounding, the square was the symbol of Mallorca. And this is where the parade has been held all these years. This year being no exception. And that, hence, was THE occasion.
He had managed to get into one of the unused apartments overlooking the square. With the amount of political backing he had, that part of the work was more easily done than said. He waited there for two days, preparing himself for the attempt.
The D-day dawned. Acilino’ was fully prepared. He knew the entire schedule of the function by-heart. The ripe time, he decided, would be when the Mayor would be distributing the Gallantry Awards to the personnel of the police forces. He went about checking his automatic and its accessories and one last time, he checked the view through his gun viewfinder. At last, pulling a chair to himself, he sat behind the window, opening out to the square.
9 O Clock. Half an hour to go before the Mayor arrived. He loaded his Heckler & Koch with 5 bullets. His lucky number. Like almost every other professional sniper, Acilino’ had his own mannerisms. One among them stemmed from his childhood affinity for Diet Coke. He preferred to wait for his victim almost always with a can of Diet Coke in his hands. He took out the penultimate canister of Diet Coke he had in his bag. Sipping his drink, he eased onto the chair beside the window. This was when Acilino’s attention was caught by a distant banner. One that highlighted the achievements of Mayor Marcos.
Marcos. A name impinged in his heart. He immediately remembered a young, naive and bearded Jose Manuel Marcos. A senior at college. Someone who was inspired by Che Guvera and someone who managed to inspire a lot of others by his ideological theses. At a time when revolution was the buzzword around the world, Marcos propounded revolutionary thoughts in the college. And had inspired a lot of students as well. Acilino’ sighed. How he was inspired by speeches of Jose Marcos. To change Spain. To revolutionise the world. As in a flashback, his mind went back to his college days. To those deeds he did to usher in revolution. It all seemed like a look through the kaleidoscope.
And one distinctive feature. Of Jose' Manuel Marcos. That famous Winston Churchill type double chin.
An announcement stirred him back to reality. The PA system announced the arrival of the Mayor, which was accompanied by a roar from the crowd so enormous that Acilino’ was almost shaken. Grimacing, he got up. He was irritated to find that his Diet Coke was only half finished. He had dreamt a little too much, he reflected.
The cavalcade, he could see, was approaching from a distance. It came till the crossroads next to the Civic Corporation statuette before it stopped. The Mayor and his wife alighted from the car and moved towards the podium. The stage was set. For the celebration of independence. For maybe something else.
As per the itinerary, the program began with the Spanish national anthem followed by the parade of the police forces. The award distribution would follow the parade. Acilino’ adjusted the telescopic lens one final time and took a sip from the half full can of Diet Coke. With his left index finger inserted into the trigger cabinet, he let out a tough breath of air.
He was ready.
Through the view finder, he narrowed in on the Mayor, who after inspecting the Guard of Honour, was on the podium overseeing the parade. He could see only half the face, but knew very well that half was lethal enough.
Deadly enough.
Suddenly he caught the Mayor turning to his side. He noticed, through the narrow confines of the telescopic lens that something in that person intrigued him. He didn’t want to search for the answer.
Until he noticed the double chin.
He was taken aback. No!! It couldn’t be Jose’. He zoomed further. Looking for that mole on his nose. There it was. No doubt. It was Jose’. Jose’ Manuel Marcos.
He took his left hand away from the trigger. He knew he had to shoot. But he knew equally well he couldn’t shoot.
After a gap of years, he found himself muttering the name of God.
He sat back onto the chair. He didn’t like it but his mind was on a flashback. He made attempts to drag it back, but all futile. He tried to weigh his options. Kill his childhood idol? Or abort the assignment at the last moment? He knew the latter option was impossible. Because that was treachery and his clientele would make him pay for it with his life. Then??
Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck ten. Ten melancholic beats drowned in the hubbub of the jostling crowd. He felt light. He had made up his mind.
He went back to his position. The award distribution ceremony had just begun. Now he could see only the back of the Mayor. He wished he had seen him only like this. The third name was called for the award when he took aim.
Muttering the sermon of God under his breath, he fired.
He was sure his count had incremented to 24.
Then with a placid expression, he knelt on the ground, with the automatic by his side. He was thankful that there was a picture of Holy Mary in the room he was in. He stood, as if in a trance, for over five minutes.
Possibly the five longest minutes of his life.
He got up. Went to the wash basin and washed his hands. He wondered if he was doing it on his own or was it more like some external irresistable power was making him do so. This was no Pilate act, he knew.
Picking up the automatic, he went to the chair. The chair which had possibly been the sole witness of the assassination.
The image of the falling idol of him was the last thing that flashed across his eyes as he pulled the trigger of the automatic with the barrel pointing against his temple.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Compassion
Indian Railways. One of the largest employers in the world. And he was a part of that.
He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.
He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.
Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.
The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.
It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.
He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.
And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.
Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.
Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.
This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.
The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.
Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”
That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.
The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.
He had evening duty that day.
As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.
2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.
He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.
The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.
He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.
At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.
“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.
He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.
When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.
He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read
“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division
Respected Sir,
SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.
My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.
I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.
Thank You
“
The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.
He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.
He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.
Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.
The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.
It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.
He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.
And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.
Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.
Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.
This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.
The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.
Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”
That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.
The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.
He had evening duty that day.
As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.
2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.
He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.
The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.
He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.
At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.
“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.
He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.
When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.
He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read
“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division
Respected Sir,
SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.
My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.
I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.
Thank You
“
The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)