Guns and Saffron

Alif.

Description

The love story of a terrorist. "Hard-hitting and emotionally wired!" - Goodreads"Addictive, fresh and enlightening!" NetGalleyYakub, a militant, plans a top-secret plot, Mission M, to make the world pay for the killing of Osama bin Laden. Hassan, Yakub's nephew and the orphan of a militant, is entrusted with the responsibility of fulfilling Mission M. Shehed, Hassan's lover, is a strong-willed woman who tries to stop him. And Rafi is a habitual crook who is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Can Mission M be stopped or will bin Laden speak from his graveA tense and fascinating novel of conflict, both political and personal, and the extraordinary lengths people will go to protect those they love. Alif's bioI write because silence is not an option. At the same time, my novels brim with hope in addition to having a riveting plot. My debut novel, which was published by a boutique publisher in Europe some years ago, was seen to be refreshing. My latest novel, The Songbirds, a literary love story, that has received exceptionally good reviews on Goodreads, goes to the heart of what's ailing today's world and tries to find answers to our most pressing questions. I hope you enjoy reading my novels.

Sujets

• India
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 janvier 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838598105
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Alif

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838598105

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To love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 1
Seven-year-old Anita hugged her teddy bear as she and her parents waited for their train at New Delhi’s Cantonment Railway Station. They weren’t waiting for any ordinary train. They were waiting for the special ‘Palace on Wheels’ train, to take them on holiday.
Yakub was also at the station. It had been a beautiful day so far and it would start getting better and better for him. He loved to see many people in one place, the way they went about their meaningless lives.
He was about to change it all.
He placed the black rucksack he was carrying on the floor and from it, he removed his new toy. It was beautiful, hard and sleek. It felt like an erect phallus in his hands; only this phallus was not made to start life, rather it was made to end it. It was a fully loaded AK-47 machine gun. He looked around him at people eager to begin their journey. He was about to send them on a different journey altogether.
Anita and her parents heard the announcement on the PA system that their train was ready for boarding, so they started to make their way towards the platform.
The next instant, they heard a shout of “Allahu Akbar”.
Anita turned, instinctively, to see a white-bearded man holding a machine gun in his hands. If it wasn’t for the gun, she would have thought that he was some kindly figure, like Colonel Sanders of KFC.
With a roar, the man started shooting.
Anita closed her eyes and clung to her father. In the firm embrace of her father, she felt safe. One bullet tore through her teddy bear. The next one pierced through her little heart.
Chapter 2
As he listened to the radio, Rafi shaved. The small mirror was old and the rust in the corners was spreading upwards, but it would do for now, he thought, as he craned his neck so he could see himself better in the good part of the mirror.
He was quite tall, so he didn’t need to stand on his tip-toes. After shaving, he bathed quickly. Some of his friends thought that his longish hair gave him a romantic look, “Like that of a gigolo”, one of them had remarked. Though, Rafi had other reasons to grow his hair long; it saved him money on haircuts.
The news on the radio was depressing. A landslide had killed 30 people. A terrorist attack at a train station in Delhi had killed over 50. He was about to switch off the radio when the newsreader said, “Kashmiri militants have claimed responsibility for the attack.”
Rafi had always felt a connection with Kashmir ever since, as a child, he had seen pictures of its mountains, pastures and valleys, labelled as India’s Switzerland, in an old calendar dating from before the insurgency in Kashmir. Was his fascination with Kashmir because he was a Muslim, so he cared about what happened there more than others? Or was it because of the sadness he felt at seeing paradise lost? Or was there something deeper?
That day, he didn’t have the time to delve into it, because it was only a few days ago that he had gotten out of police custody on conditional discharge. His crime was that he was very good at writing exams; only, he wrote exams on behalf of others, who were not confident enough of passing with distinction. He specialised in humanities and sociology. Outside the exam room, these subjects didn’t count for much. But in a theoretical world, they were crucial, especially to those aspiring to smash the Indian Civil Services Examination.
One could ask, if he was so good, why did he not aspire to a career in the civil services for himself? Because there was a catch. Doing well in the written exams was only one part. Candidates also had to go through interviews. It was there that the selection was made, depending on who paid a bribe or not. In time, Rafi hoped he might save enough to try and maybe become a collector or a magistrate, though at heart he really saw himself as an entrepreneur, rather than a bureaucrat.
As his first venture into entrepreneurship, he had done exam impersonation successfully for close to a year, but one day he had been caught out by an invigilator. An honest one. Rafi’s solicitor, Advocate Khanna, thought differently though.
“The invigilator who caught you, is not truly honest. It’s just that he married a rich man’s daughter for a handsome dowry, so now gets his kicks by playing Sherlock Holmes. This invigilator is like a python. He eats big meals. We are hyenas who live on scraps. In India, there is only one thing worse than a person who sells out and that is a person who does not sell out.”
The lean Advocate Khanna was well into his seventies, but too young for retirement he had said when Rafi had met the advocate for the first time, having been referred to him by the fellow members of Lucknow’s exam cheating association. Advocate Khanna’s fee was lower than the others, though he took money upfront. Non-refundable.
“I have to eat, whether you win the case or lose,” he had said, with a shrug.
A day after that discussion, they had arrived at the District Court for their hearing. In the courtyard, black-robed lawyers were either soliciting potential clients or drinking tea or walking about rather purposefully, in and out of the maze which the court building was. Somehow to Rafi, it had felt like they had all been actors, very convincing actors too, and that the court building itself had existed only for him; for him to be tried. Like he had been important enough for someone in the system to take note of what he had done.
That feeling had disappeared when he had stood outside the courtroom waiting to be called, as, one by one, a procession of pickpockets, mobile phone thieves, petty fraudsters and two transgender people booked for solicitation walked in as if to pawn their only remaining asset, their freedom, on lien until their dues were deemed settled. When the two transgender people had walked out, pulled rather by the constables, one of them had cursed the constable saying “ Satyanash ho tera ”, (May you be ruined) , only to receive a whack on the backside from the constable’s cane, who had shouted “Keep quiet, you hijda !”
Soon, it had been Rafi’s turn to go in. Advocate Khanna had whispered, “Don’t worry, you are an educated accused. They will treat you a little better.” On saying so, he had walked in with Rafi. In front of the judge, Advocate Khanna had pleaded Rafi’s case with conviction.
“My Lord, this young man, Rafi Ahmad, accused of Examination Misconduct, was driven into it due to exigent circumstances, as he needed money urgently for providing critical medical care to his only surviving relative, his maternal grandmother, who is practically on her death bed. Also, as it is his first offence, Ipso Facto , the one week he has already spent in custody is more than sufficient punishment. Look at the way the police have thrashed him, he can barely stand without support.”
The judge had looked at Rafi from behind gold-rimmed spectacles and then glanced at the courtroom clock. It had been about ten minutes to lunch. Five minutes, if this case could be wrapped up sooner.
“My client is a bright young man with a lot of potential. If the prosecution is in agreement, we propose a conditional discharge, of course, quid pro quo on the basis that my client does not repeat his mistake.”
“Do you object?” the judge had asked the Public Prosecutor.
“Yes, my Lord. We must set an example. I was thinking of a prison sentence.”
“That’ll be too harsh. Sit down,” the judge had replied. After reflecting for a few moments, the judge had continued, “Ok, conditional discharge granted, on the basis that there is no repeat and upon securing gainful employment, proof of which must be furnished within three months.”
With that, the judge had risen; the best portions in the canteen went to the early bird.
“Lie low for a while. This judge will retire, the police officer who booked you might get transferred and then you can resume your trade. Thankfully, the people in this country have a short memory, but not so short as to let you off if you don’t find a job as the judge has directed; An honest job, or at least more honest than what you’ve been doin