Mehrunisa is haunted by recurring nightmares of her father's beheading in Kashmir six years prior. She awakens from one of these nightmares and struggles to calm herself. Her mother recently revealed that her father had secretly worked as an undercover agent and was previously captured and tortured by the Pakistanis. Mehrunisa feels guilt for not preventing her father's disappearance. Meanwhile, in Kashmir near the India-Pakistan border, the Indian Prime Minister and Pakistani General plan to meet at an Indian army outpost to discuss peace negotiations. However, as the General arrives by helicopter, his escorting soldier is revealed to be carrying a live grenade intended for the General. Harry, an aide to

1. The Hunt for Kohinoor
IT SNAKED UP THE CHARCOAL MOUNTAIN, A SEEMINGLY
endless zigzag etched on rock, straight out of her
sketchbook. Papa had told her about the hulking range
that dwarfed everything and she had drawn from his
telling and her imagination. Now that she was on the
road it was rather real and grey and gravelly. When she
stretched out an arm she could touch the sharp granite
and feel its teeth, or hover her hand over a void that
made strange sucking sounds.
It was one of the highest motorable roads in the world,
tunnelling its way through hard rock one moment – to
sight the summit she had to bend her neck so far back
it hurt – and gliding on thin air the next as it hugged
a cliff face – which was when she closed her eyes tight.
Was it a colossus, she asked Papa. Multiple times over,
he laughed. Rent from the earth it had hurtled skywards
when the subcontinent of India sailed into Eurasia and
forgot to brake. Fifty million years after the collision the
mountain still seemed angry as it whistled and shrieked
around them. But Papa loved the mountain.
The Himalayas is not just pretty hills and bubbling
brooks, he instructed, as they departed the picturesque
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2. hamlet of Sonamarg and headed up north to appreciate
the true nature of the world’s foremost elevation, sacred
to three religions.
Himalaya, the abode of snow, was the chosen spot
of Hindu, Sikh and Buddhist divinities – Mehrunisa was
beginning to understand why. The narrow road hugged
the mountain tightly on one side. On the other was the
deepest drop, dotted with painted shells. To Mehrunisa’s
query, Papa informed that those were vehicles that had
tumbled over at some point during the ascent. No wonder
every person on this road needed his god perched at the
mountaintop to watch over him. She squeezed her eyes
and quickly recalled the gods of both her parents.
Papa was at the wheel, his back tensed in concentration.
Mehrunisa wished they were back where they had begun,
a picnic in a flower-strewn meadow, sharing tea and
parathas, green hills all around them. This barrenness
was such a contrast to the green meadow of bluebells
and daisies they had left behind. There the sky was
cerulean with fluffy white clouds, exactly as she sketched
it – what Papa called ‘picture-postcard Kashmir’. She
had beamed her delight, happy to be transported to the
land of Papa’s stories.
Maadar had gone to visit her family in Iran and
Mehrunisa was happy to vacation with her father, a
rare treat. His work at the Indian Consulate in Dubai
involved travel, tons of it. In the two days since the start
of the holiday, Papa had given Mehrunisa her first golf
lesson, on the highest golf course in the world, Gulmarg.
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3. Then they had driven to Sonamarg, where the sun
reflecting off the snowy peaks created golden tiaras.
Papa was restless, though: the pristine Himalayas was
best savoured where the rugged terrain deterred tourists.
Thus they had departed for Zoji La – it sounded like a
Manga character but was a high mountain pass – which
would soon shut down due to heavy snowfall. The road
from Sonamarg had been long and winding, bordered by
dense forest. Now they were inside a giant rock crucible.
They rounded a bend. A grey cliff towered over
them. What if it sprung loose and slammed down upon
them? Would they become one of those painted shells in
the ravine? Or would they squish like ants? She shot a
glance at Papa. His genial face had hardened. The quiet
was eerie, only car tyres scrunching.
Then gravel came hurtling down the cliffside. A
group of men in shalwar kameezes rolled down upon
them. Their faces obscured by turban ends wrapped
around, they cradled big guns in their hands. Gunshots
rang. Whooosh! The jeep slumped. Tyres whimpered.
Then stopped. Yanking her down, Papa whipped out a
pistol from the glove compartment.
More gunshots filled the air. And echoes resounded
in the rock crucible. The passenger door was wrenched
open, cold metal thrust against her temple. Papa was
being dragged out, his pistol fell to the floor. One man
slapped the butt of a gun against his head. A splintery
sound. Blood trickled down the side of his face. A shrill
cry in the cold air – hers. He slumped, unconscious.
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4. Two men grabbed him under his arms and hauled him
out of sight around the bend while a couple remained to
man the jeep’s doors.
She wanted to chase her father’s captors, instead
her hands were clawing the leather of the car seat. She
wanted to move her head but it was glued to the bend
around which Papa had disappeared. She wanted to do
something, but her body was inert, leaking out instead
in wails.
Then Papa reappeared, supported by one man. Why
was he wearing a full-length robe, only his head visible,
as he lurched forward? His sneering escort had buried
one hand into her father’s caftan, the right held a gun
aloft. Her eyes swivelled with her father’s jerky progress
to the passenger side of the jeep, her hand extended to
touch him. His eyes were open but glazed, the blood had
dried and his neck –
The rising wail curdled in her chest. In one swift
move, the turbanned escort had snatched the gown
away. It revealed an upright bamboo shaft, atop which
sat the severed head of her father.
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5. New Delhi, India
S un d a y 2 : 2 2 a . m .
MEHRUNISA KHOSA SAT UP IN BED, PERSPIRING PROFUSELY
despite the cold winter night. In the quiet her breath
was raspy. She dropped her jaw and sucked the night
air greedily, filling her lungs. In a corner a night lamp
glowed reassuringly – she was in her room. The house
was quiet, she hadn’t screamed aloud, the tightness was
still in her throat.
A few moments of deep breathing as she collected
herself. She rolled her shoulders backwards. It was the
same nightmare. The Beheading. That was her epithet
for the trauma from the unexpected loss of her father.
Kashmir was where Papa took her when she was eight.
Six years later, when posted in Rome, he disappeared off
the face of earth. Poof! Vanished.
However, since her mother revealed the truth to her
two years back – that her father, the suave ex-diplomat
businessman, had actually been an undercover agent –
this nightmare had haunted her. Papa was captured by
the Pakistanis once, she said, and tortured – the threat
was to behead him and display his head on the Line of
Control. Now with the approaching anniversary of her
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6. father’s disappearance, presumed death, The Beheadings
had gathered frequency.
It was her subconscious acting out her guilt –
Mehrunisa had enough acquaintance with Freud to
know that she blamed herself for not preventing her
father from disappearing. If she had loved him enough,
he never would have left.
Maadar’s disclosure was prompted by her desire to
see Mehrunisa shake off the past, find a man, marry and
settle down.
A tall male swam into mind, eyeing her intently.
Maadar would have enjoyed meeting Pratap. He had
that quality she liked in men, rocklike. That was what
she said of her husband: he is my rock.
The Beheadings, however, had rendered her an
emotional wasteland; intimacy with another man stood
no chance... Pratap would just have to wait.
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7. Kashmir, India
Su n d ay 4 : 0 6 a . m .
IN THE SNOWY REACHES OF NORTHERN INDIA IS A TOWN
that, after Siberia, is the coldest inhabited place on earth:
Dras. Situated on the Line of Control between India
and Pakistan, the sleepy town last saw action during
the Kargil war. The Dras valley is strategic to India’s
security. Starting from the base of the Zoji La, it is the
Himalayan gateway to Ladakh, the northernmost part of
Indian Kashmir.
In 1999 Pakistan infiltrated India, setting off the
fourth war between the two countries. Pakistani soldiers
occupied the strategic Tiger Hill that overlooks Dras
town and the lone national highway linking the region
to the rest of the country. Intending to sever that link,
the enemy shelled repeatedly from above. A final assault
by 18 Grenadiers Regiment of India led to the recapture
of the hill, which was to prove a turning point in the war.
After the war ended, a wiser Indian army increased
the number of soldiers at Gurkha Post, the high-altitude
base in Dras, and invested in its support infrastructure.
A small cement plaque at the Post commemorates the
construction of the first rock bunker on Gurkha Post.
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8. On this freezing December day in the early hours of
morning, the ghost of Kargil still hung over the military
outpost. Mercury had plunged to minus five degrees
centigrade, yet soldiers patrolled through the flurry of
snow. Dressed in thick jackets, snow shoes and goggles,
they were keeping vigil despite – or because of – the
inclement weather.
Deep inside the bunker, the soldier assigned to the
kitchen was enjoying the warmth from a fire that had
been blazing for two hours – the time it took to boil a
bucket of water. Elaborate breakfast was not the norm,
but this was not a normal morning.
The Indian army Cheetah helicopter had landed ten
minutes back with the Prime Minister. He was escorted
right away to the shelter. Meanwhile, from his position
at the mouth of the bunker, Harry once again surveyed
Gurkha Post and its surrounding. Dressed in an Italian
wool suit, his six-foot four frame towered over the two
soldiers flanking him at the entrance. The soldiers were
shaven and dressed in crisp olive uniforms, for even at
that height and temperature there was no relaxing of
standards.
Beyond them, the helipad was clear and lit up,
and with low wind and light snow, ready for landing.
Any minute now, Harry reckoned, as he examined the
sky with his night-vision binoculars. He nodded to the
captain on duty outside the bunker. A faint whirr could
be heard as a Pakistan Air Force helicopter appeared in
the sky and began its descent. From within the bunker,
8

9. the Prime Minister, informed by the captain, watched
the approach of the aircraft that carried his Pakistani
counterpart.
The chopper made a vertical descent and a smooth
touchdown. A Pakistani soldier stepped out first, bending
low. Next, the General emerged from the copter, bowing
as he ran forward. The chopper’s rotor blades were
spinning. It was imperative to keep the engine running
to prevent it dying from snow. The General’s aide-decamp, Aziz Mirza, followed him crouching. The General
had the briefcase in his hand, Harry noted.
In the couple of years that he had got to know the
man, he had never seen him release that case into
another’s care. Today, of course, the General was
carrying precious cargo in that case, evidence of his
good intentions. The architect of the Kargil war was
making peace overtures, but India had learnt that trust
in the General had to be built on concrete proof. Today,
the ex-hawk would deliver that evidence and seal the
deal that Harry and Aziz Mirza, aides-de-camp to the
premiers of the two nations, had pursued for two years.
The Prime Minister made to move forward in greeting.
Harry watched the General and the escorting soldier
straighten up as they moved out of the circumference of
the rotating chopper blades. Some distance behind, Aziz
Mirza was still hunching forward. The soldier stayed
close to the General, shuffling along as if he were in a
three-legged race with an asynchronous partner. Harry
watched his progress with narrowed eyes. The next
9

10. instant Harry thrust the Prime Minister back into the
bunker with his right hand. He took off like a sprinter,
legs pumping pistons, gesticulating with his left arm to
Aziz to back off. A gun was in his right hand as he
bounded down the hundred-odd metres separating the
General from the bunker.
His shout was lost in the chopper’s noise. A perplexed
Aziz cocked his head towards the General who had come
to a nonplussed halt. The soldier now held a grenade in
his hand. As he made to pull the pin, Harry had him in
his crosshairs. He pulled the trigger as the soldier was
depositing the live grenade in the pocket of the General’s
military jacket.
A ball of flames erupted in the snowy landscape,
lighting up the darkness. The impact flung Harry
backwards. As his body arced through the air, his head
hit the ground first on landfall. He blacked out.
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