difficult task properly and thoroughly. Everything was in order. Now all that remained was for the Lashkar to carry out the strike.
Death was straining to unleash.
1025 hours, 29 October 2005, M4K Multiplex, Delhi.
The housekeeping and maintenance staff in the multiplex were almost done with their early-morning cleaning. Shopkeepers had arrived early, bracing themselves for the weekend rush. With Diwali and Eid just around the corner there was a note of festivity in the air. In the wake of a good harvest and a booming economy, shopkeepers and business owners were expecting a huge upswing in business.
‘ Jane kya hoga Rama re, jane kya hoga Maula re…’ The ironically apt lyrics of a Bollywood film song floated through the air, powered by the sound system of the multiplex. The multiplex had been commissioned into service fairly recently. Its newness was evident in the fresh paint and sparkling walls. It was also evident in the manner that the staff responded to situations. Their operating procedures had yet to achieve the stability of time and experience. In fact, it was one of the reasons why this multiplex had been chosen as a target for the strike.
At ten-thirty the stolen Tata Indica turned off the main road and drove into the mall. The parking lot outside the mall was almost empty, as was the one in the basement. The man behind the wheel collected his parking token right at the entrance and started to drive in. The security guard standing just beyond the barrier gestured to him as the car approached. He tapped the window when he saw that the man driving the car was looking the other way. ‘Sir, you can park right here.’ He pointed at the empty parking lot.
‘That’s okay,’ the man replied. ‘I would rather park inside.’
Suit yourself, weirdo. I was just trying to help. As the guard shrugged and walked away the man at the wheel of the Indica heaved a sigh of relief. Engaging gears, he drove into the basement and headed straight for the parking slot nearest to the huge electricity transformer installed there. ‘Allah be praised!’ The slot was empty.
He had picked out two other suitable alternatives during the dry run earlier, but neither of them was half as effective as this one. He carefully reversed into the slot and locking up the car made his way towards the ticketing window. ‘What are the show timings?’ he asked the youngster manning the counter.
The eager lad handed over a beautifully printed brochure. ‘These are the movies and their timings. You can check out availability on that screen there,’ he pointed at the monitor installed above the counter. Almost all the morning shows had a small green light glowing in front of them, but the afternoon and evening ones mostly had red dots, indicating a full house. Good! The more the merrier .
‘Thanks.’ The man spent the next few minutes casually wandering about the multiplex. The crowd had started to build up and the parking lot had a fair number of vehicles in it.
Leaving the multiplex he made his way out to the main road and flagged down a taxi. As the cab pulled away he tossed the movie brochure out of the window. It was irrelevant now. Show-timings were about to be rudely interrupted.
1400 hours, 29 October 2005, behind Savita Nagar Mosque, New Delhi.
‘Surely Allah has bought of the believers their persons and their property for this, that they shall have the garden; they fight in Allah’s way, so they slay and are slain…’
The Maulavi had deliberately chosen verse 9: 111 of the Koran to remind them of the heroic battle against the white Satan. As the prayer drew to a close, the Maulavi looked up and studied the seven men gathered in the small room. They were no different from all the other young men he had personally recruited for the jihad and sent to Salim. I wonder how many of them are still alive? The Maulavi smiled at the men. How many of these boys will be alive today when the sun sets? He was experienced enough to
Death was straining to unleash.
1025 hours, 29 October 2005, M4K Multiplex, Delhi.
The housekeeping and maintenance staff in the multiplex were almost done with their early-morning cleaning. Shopkeepers had arrived early, bracing themselves for the weekend rush. With Diwali and Eid just around the corner there was a note of festivity in the air. In the wake of a good harvest and a booming economy, shopkeepers and business owners were expecting a huge upswing in business.
‘ Jane kya hoga Rama re, jane kya hoga Maula re…’ The ironically apt lyrics of a Bollywood film song floated through the air, powered by the sound system of the multiplex. The multiplex had been commissioned into service fairly recently. Its newness was evident in the fresh paint and sparkling walls. It was also evident in the manner that the staff responded to situations. Their operating procedures had yet to achieve the stability of time and experience. In fact, it was one of the reasons why this multiplex had been chosen as a target for the strike.
At ten-thirty the stolen Tata Indica turned off the main road and drove into the mall. The parking lot outside the mall was almost empty, as was the one in the basement. The man behind the wheel collected his parking token right at the entrance and started to drive in. The security guard standing just beyond the barrier gestured to him as the car approached. He tapped the window when he saw that the man driving the car was looking the other way. ‘Sir, you can park right here.’ He pointed at the empty parking lot.
‘That’s okay,’ the man replied. ‘I would rather park inside.’
Suit yourself, weirdo. I was just trying to help. As the guard shrugged and walked away the man at the wheel of the Indica heaved a sigh of relief. Engaging gears, he drove into the basement and headed straight for the parking slot nearest to the huge electricity transformer installed there. ‘Allah be praised!’ The slot was empty.
He had picked out two other suitable alternatives during the dry run earlier, but neither of them was half as effective as this one. He carefully reversed into the slot and locking up the car made his way towards the ticketing window. ‘What are the show timings?’ he asked the youngster manning the counter.
The eager lad handed over a beautifully printed brochure. ‘These are the movies and their timings. You can check out availability on that screen there,’ he pointed at the monitor installed above the counter. Almost all the morning shows had a small green light glowing in front of them, but the afternoon and evening ones mostly had red dots, indicating a full house. Good! The more the merrier .
‘Thanks.’ The man spent the next few minutes casually wandering about the multiplex. The crowd had started to build up and the parking lot had a fair number of vehicles in it.
Leaving the multiplex he made his way out to the main road and flagged down a taxi. As the cab pulled away he tossed the movie brochure out of the window. It was irrelevant now. Show-timings were about to be rudely interrupted.
1400 hours, 29 October 2005, behind Savita Nagar Mosque, New Delhi.
‘Surely Allah has bought of the believers their persons and their property for this, that they shall have the garden; they fight in Allah’s way, so they slay and are slain…’
The Maulavi had deliberately chosen verse 9: 111 of the Koran to remind them of the heroic battle against the white Satan. As the prayer drew to a close, the Maulavi looked up and studied the seven men gathered in the small room. They were no different from all the other young men he had personally recruited for the jihad and sent to Salim. I wonder how many of them are still alive? The Maulavi smiled at the men. How many of these boys will be alive today when the sun sets? He was experienced enough to
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