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colonel. Just say yes.
    ‘No, sir.’ The answer was delivered in the crisp, professional manner he had always heard the colonel agree in. It took a couple of seconds for the two words – for the first word, really – to sink in.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Explain yourself, Colonel!’
    The brigadier could not see him, but the colonel had a sombre expression on his face as well. ‘As of zero-seven-hundred hours this morning, every jawan on base – and officers to the rank of major – have returned their arms and ammunition to the quartermaster and left the base. They refuse to return to duty unless their demands are met.’
    ‘You told me that already,’ said the exasperated brigadier. ‘You are their commanding officer – why the hell can’t you get them back on the base, Colonel?’
    ‘Because we are joining them as soon as I end briefing you on the situation, sir.’
    16th September 2012. Mumbai.
    Gyandeep Sharma hit a button on his phone, cutting off the irritating monologue that apologized for not being able to connect his call. His despondency at having failed to stop Kalyug had lasted for all of a few minutes, during which time his niece had nervously fiddled with her mobile, before he roused himself out of his reverie. Pulling out a directory from under his contact list, he had dialled one number after another. Every attempt yielded the same result, a pre-recorded woman’s voice regretting that the line was busy and asking him to try again.
    His latest attempt – the one that precipitated his violence towards his phone – had also been his last choice. Even that last choice, he thought bitterly, had failed him now.
    Joseph Karpov Thevaraparambil, only son of Karpov Varghese Thevaraparambil, the chief minister of Kerala, had always been a thorn in Sharma’s side. His stint in an Australian university had turned a harmless imbecile into a loud-mouthed showman who had to be the centre of attention – unlike his father, who had quietly purchased his way to power. Gyandeep despised the visibility that Karpov lusted after; in fact, he had strongly suggested to the right people that Karpov be discouraged from joining his father’s legacy. After the elder Thevaraparambil had baulked at the suggestion and threatened to divert his funds to untraceable locations, a compromise had been worked out. Gyandeep had sworn to have as few dealings with the second generation as possible.
    But what concerned him right now was not the latter’s flamboyance. It was the fact that he had no one he could reach at Ghaziabad. And Ghaziabad was where most of his political contacts would be for the weekend. With good reason.
    The conference, ostensibly titled, ‘National Conference on Good Governance’, was for all intents and purposes a horse-trading fair. Despite having the numbers on their side, at least for the moment, the ruling alliance was always conscious of the risk of depending on their mercurial members’ whims; the Opposition was always on the lookout for a breakaway faction or even a whole party; the fringe players – especially the ones who still dreamt of their small party’s parochial chief installed on the prime minister’s chair – haggling for each and every concession from the two vendors.
    As he sat at his desk pondering his next step, Gyandeep remembered something else as well. An observation Leela had made, dismissed at the time as inconsequential, might well have been the clue that should have alerted him.
    They had no idea who had arranged the whole thing.
    He shook his head at the ingenuity of it. Orchestrating an event like this took immense cunning and planning – both of which he had long ago resigned himself to be up against. Almost instinctively, he could understand how someone might have executed it. Unsigned invitations that received knowing sniggers from the invitees, each side assuming that some other had sent it; rumours started in the right places – defections, betrayals and volte