Kasab sits on the steamer as it moves down the muddy waters of Ganga towards Calcutta. He looks suspiciously at his fellow passengers all of whom are playing bridge and talking to themselves loudly. He however is silent. He is nervous. The sweat rolls down his brow. Somewhere up above a crow defecates on his shoulder.

He barely notices. He curses his luck. If only he had not detonated the bomb two minutes too early and almost killed the ISI colonel who was teaching them urban warfare in the LET camp, he would not have come last in class. And what a horrible punishment had that been. Just for one instant of performance anxiety. While the first three had secured bumper Jihadi contracts and a chance to die in Mumbai and a promise of the choicest of virgins in heaven, here he was alone heading towards Calcutta. The lone citizen from the “Land of the Poor”.

His crew consists of Bangladeshis. He has little faith in them. They had not been trained. And worse their Urdu was horrible, they spoke to each other in Bengali, several have pot bellies and he doubts how much he could depend on them when the shit hits the fan.

But he will have to make do. It is his operation. He has to make it work.

Its morning. They make ground. Kasab and his crew of five grab their equipment. Kasab tells his Bangladeshis: “You know the plan. We shoot random people on the streets. Then we go into the Grand Eastern Luxury Hotel, shoot people in the restaurants, kill the staff and hold the foreign guests hostage.”

One of the Bangladeshis, chewing a pan, says something like “E hala to dekhi sudhu bakphottai maira zaaye” to which the others laugh. Kasab chooses to ignore, simply because he has no clue as to what he just said.

[What they said was: “This saala just keeps talking the talk”]

The group reaches their first action point. But wait something is wrong. Kasab knits his brow. There are no people in the streets. Who the hell is he supposed to shoot at? There are two charred public buses on the road. He feels afraid. Has he goofed up again? Did some other group of terrorists already come and do their job? Had he come too late? But no. That cannot be. Presently he catches sight of a man walking on the street. He reaches inside his backpack to pull his Ak47 out but then realizes he needs to know what is going on. He walks upto the man and says “Eh you, why is there no one on the road?”

The man sneers “What kind of a man are you Dada? Don’t you read the papers. Khamata Banerjee has called a 48 hour Bangla Bandh, a general strike. (Khamata means “Power” in Bengali) No one dares comes out on road sir. See what her supporters did to these buses. This is wait let me see the 20th such bandh we have had this year. Dada, I am a daily laborer this lady will kill us all. I tell you. By the way you want to get your shoulder cleaned. A crow has shat on it.”

Kasab feels his stomach knotting up. No people on the streets ! Oh man. This operation hasn’t even begun and already the first part has failed. No problem.

He thinks of shooting the man. But no killing the first person you see is bad luck. He does not need more of it. He turns to his crew “On to the hotel.”

Kasab and his group barge into the hotel with Kasab holding his AK47 in front of him. He sees a large lobby. To his right and left are two places which look like they could be restaurants. He bursts into one ready to shoot. Empty. He rushes to the other. That’s empty too. The lobby is empty. He shoots one shot into the air. And shouts “Come out you dogs. Death is here.”

A spectacled man, in his sixties, thin and emaciated in a white dhoti comes out and stands behind the desk in the lobby. He says in a calm voice “No need to shout. I am coming. Oh at last. You guys are from pest control right? You are like one year late.”

Kasab waves the Ak47 at him and says ” We are not from pest control, you dog. We are here to take revenge for Gujarat, Kashmir, Palestine and for not making Zaheer the winner of Saregama. Now where are the people in the restaurants?” The man behind the lobby doesn’t lose his cool.

Adjusting his ancient glasses, one of which is held to his ear by a string, he says “Oh my. Terrorists. My friends, who sent you here?”

Kasab screams “Not your problem old man. I asked you a question.”

The man says “There is a Bangla Bandh. Plus even at the best of times, no one comes to these restaurants. If you have ever tried the food here, you would have known the reason. Ever since the government took over the operations, things have been like….”

Kasab once again feels a cold sweat running down his back. Trying to control himself he says “Okay. Stand still. We will kill the guests. Eyy everyone go upstairs and start shooting.”

The man says “Hold it hold it. First of all, the contractors who repaired this hotel three years ago put sand instead of cement and stole all the genuine stuff. So if you guys go on shooting arbitrarily, its you who will be dead before long as the ceiling and the walls will fall on you. Second of all, there are no guests in this hotel.”

Kasab says “W-ha-tttt? A five story hotel without guests? You mean to say there are no foreigners.” The man says “Yes sir. That is exactly what I am saying. Why would anyone want to come to Calcutta? There is nothing here any longer. Foreigners? Hah ! Dear sir, we have made sure that there are no investments in this state by capitalists. We have made this city into a foreigner and capitalist-free zone. No Westerner comes here. Neither do businessmen from any corner of the world. ” A sound comes from upstairs. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Kasab smiles. “Very brave old man. Protecting your guests with that lie? You will now die.”

The old man shakes his head. “Not very bright are you? Those “footsteps” you heard upstairs are of mice. Gigantic mice. They run all over the place. I thought you guys were here because of them…”

Kasab barks. “We will check that. So where are the cooks, waiters, the hotel employees? Bring them out now.”

The man shakes his head mournfully. “That was what I was trying to tell you sir. Ever since the government took over the operations, there has been a strike as none of the five employee unions have been able to come to an agreement. In Bengal, you can fire a person by shooting him with a gun but you cannot fire him by taking away his job. Even when he does nothing. The short of it is there have been no employees here for many years. Those red flags you see of various shades all around aren’t works of art. They are union flags.”

Kasab’s voice breaks. “Then why are you here?”

The man says “Long story. I stay here out of habit. I worked for fifty years. Grew up in this place. Now I no longer get paid. But I just stay here out of hope that maybe some day…. Plus I don’t have a house…

Kasab now feels very sick. “Shut up you dog. Noone wants to hear your life-story. Oh my what am I going to do now”.

Half an hour later. Kasab stands again in front of the old man. “Seems you were right. There are no people in this blasted place. Wait. This is State government property. I can hold the building hostage.” The old man says “Oh dear lord. Government property means its none’s property. None cares. People don’t care here if old manuscripts are stolen, if heritage buildings get destroyed by promoters.”

Kasab says “We will see about that. Plus the government cannot be sure there are no people here. Once the cops and commandos come, we will have real people to shoot at. Okay let’s see here is a phonebook….mmmm…Police Station…ok old man call this number. And tell them that terrorists have entered the hotel and taken people hostage.”

“I am sorry sir. The phone has been out of order. No one paid the phone repairman their Puja baksheesh. So…” Kasab snarls “What a hellhole this is.”

He brings out his satellite phone and starts dialing the number.

The phone at the other end keeps ringing. Presently someone picks it up. An immensely disinterested voice says “Hello”

Kasab says “Listen carefully. I am a Jihadi terrorist and along with my Jihadi brothers we have taken foreigners hostage at the Grand Eastern Luxury Hotel and will start killing them one every fifteen minutes. We have already killed…emmm….many.” The voice at other end: “Grand Eastern Luxury Hotel you say?”

Kasab says “Yes yes.”

The voice says: “Not our jurisdiction. Call Park Circus thana. “

Kasab says “Listen you. Did you just hear what I said. I am going to…”

The voice becomes irritated. “Yes I heard what you said. Did you hear what I said? I will watch you on television just like everyone else. Kahan kahan se chale aate hain…”

Phone disconnects.

Kasab is seething with rage. This he did not bargain for. Kasab looks at the old man.
“He hung upon me. Saying it’s not his jurisdiction. Whattttt……….. Okay let me get Park Circus..”
Phone rings again.

It is presently picked up.

Kasab says ” I am a Jihadi terrorist. And along with my Jihadi brothers we have taken foreigners hostage at the Grand Eastern Luxury Hotel and will start killing them one every fifteen minutes.”

The voice says “So what should I do?”

Kasab is stunned. “Come here of course.”

The voice replies “This is a strike day. Khamata Day. You expect us to go? You come here to the thana and file a diary.” Kasab replies.

“I am the Jihadi terrorist and you expect me to come and file a diary at the thana.?”

“Look Jihadi, Azadi, Barbadi whatever you are. If you want the police to come, you come here and file a diary. Understand? By the way, when we guys go to Grand Eastern to sell concert tickets for the Police charity, how come Grand Eastern never makes any contribution? Now these laatsahabs expect us to drive down on a strike day. Scoot.”

Phone disconnects.

Kasab sits on the stairs. Thinking. What is he going to do now? He is about to put a call to Pakistan when his eyes alight on his Bangladeshi crew. They are unpacking. “What the hell is that? I thought you guys were supposed to bring RDX”.

One of the Bangladeshi men say “Look here. We are not your slaves. You were supposed to bring it. We brought coal stoves and a large cache of hilsa fish. You told us to be prepared for a long siege and so we brought a lot of food. And spices. And coal. Kalu Miyan here can make a spicy fish curry.”

Kasab does not know whether to laugh or cry.

“Hilsa fish? Stove? You guys were supposed to bring dry fruits and get as much explosives as you can…..”

The Bangladeshi man loses his temper “Kasab Khan. You may be a Pathan we are not. We dont eat dry fruits. Look here since you are not using your satellite phone, can I use it to call my Khatun Bibi ?

Kasab hisses. “If I don’t get anyone to kill by the next hour, as God is my witness, I will start killing you guys off…..”

Presently, there is a commotion. Kasab’s face lights up. There are people at the gates. “Quick all of you lock and load.” The door of the hotel opens. Kasab takes his position. A corpulent woman in white sari is standing there with a frown on her face, hands crossed. Behind him are a gang of people, many with long kurtas and pyjamas.

The old man behind the counter whispers—”Oh my God. It’s Khamata Banerjee.”

Khamata Banerjee takes no notice of the Ak47 pointed at her.

She walks upto Kasab. “I just heard that someone checked into the Grand Eastern Luxury Hotel. Look here you punk. I don’t know what exploitative capitalist enterprise you want to set up here but I am sure it’s not good for farmers, street hawkers and auto-drivers. We don’t like your kind here. So just leave before I do to you what I have done to anyone who has ever dared to open shop or do any kind of progress in this state.”

Kasab says: “Relax. I am not here to start any business. I am here to do Jihad. Yes. Terrorize. Burn. Make people afraid. Stop all life.”

Khamata turns to the people and gestures in an exasperated way: “This keeps getting better and better. So you are here to terrorize people. Hmm. Make them afraid. Stop all life. Now listen carefully you piece of shit. THAT IS MY SOLE EXCLUSIVE AREA OF BUSINESS. I HAVE THE MONOPOLY. Do you understand? How dare you try to muscle in on my turf? I will make life so much hell for you boy you will regret the day you ever said “Let’s make Calcutta my destination”. I have brought to his knees one of India’s biggest industrialists. You are just a punk.”

A soft voice comes along and steps between Kasab and Khamata who are eyeballing each other viciously. “Please please let us not get agitated here.” Kasab waves his Ak47 threateningly.

“Who the hell are you?”

The bald and bearded man says ” I am just a humble intellectual. These are all my intellectual friends. We all came here thinking you were an industrialist and a capitalist and needed to be protested against but now we realize you are also an exploited. Come let us all hold hands.

Kasab yells “Stay away. Keep your distance”

The bald and bearded man says: “Myself Bamon Chakraborty aka Babur Bamon. I compose tuneless songs, sing them badly, weep on television and think highly of myself. Sometimes I do not even know what I am protesting against but as long as I can get some attention I do it nonetheless. This here..

Another man in a jhola interjects: “Aah got it at last. The only word that rhymes with Jihad is “Paad”. (Paad =Bengali for fart)

Bamon says “This here is a famous poet. Famous dissident. Against industrialization… That there is Ghyanghyan Dutta. He is a singer, a poet, a film-maker. He is known for dialing wrong numbers and composing virtually identical songs about jobless youth whose girlfriends have left them for rich men.

Kasab feels surrounded. He strengthens his grip on the trigger. There is something threatening about these slightly effete people with beards, something he cannot put a finger on.

“Oh my my my. A real Pathan. Oh by the whiskers of Abhishek Bachchan, he is sweating like Paposh Paul in a sauna. When was the last time he had a bath I wonder. Aaah I can smell the aroma of Rawalpindi…. Would you like to do a screen test for me?”

Bamon says “That dear Jihadi-bhai is the great movie director Ritubondho who stood shoulder to shoulder with us during Nandigram. We are all here to see if we can get together for something…”

It was then that Kasab has a revelation. Whether it was Ritubondho checking him out greedily or Khamata Banerjee glaring ferociously that trigerred it, Kasab knows not. But he at last understands.

The fundamental truth.

Khamata and these “Left” intellectuals are the true agents of terror. Not him. As long as they stay here, this city will always be a graveyard. A terrorist can only inflict few days of damage. These people can do the same thing but spread it over generations. Killing them would put a body count against Kasab’s name. True. Maybe he will even get half a virgin in heaven.But the larger Jihadi mission of spreading terror and stifling development in this part of the country would fail. As a great man once said “you need to lose in order to win”. And sometimes you need to give life in order to kill.

Kasab says. “Okay Khamata-didi. I surrender. Just let me walk out of here with my crew. One Bangladeshi says :” You leave if you want to. We are not leaving. Khamata-didi, please give us fake ration cards. We will become part of your cadre. None of us came here with bad intentions. We just want to settle down in India.”

Khamata smiles benignly. “That can be arranged. But you have to pass the three tests of the Bishaalbhool (translation: Big Mistake) Congress before I give you your ration cards. You have to successfully block a road for twelve hours, burn one item of public property and play a part in stalling at least one development project. As for you Pakistani, I give you three hours to leave the city. “

Kasab stands outside.

Smoke is bellowing from one of the windows of the Grand Eastern Hotel. But not in the way Kasab thought it would. Kalu Miyan and his friends are cooking up a storm using their coal stove. The smell of hilsa fish permeates the air.

Once again Kasab is alone. Peeling the crow shit off the shoulder of his shirt, he looks heavenwards.