The Vivekean Times

This is a question I have always asked myself when I began writing this book about five years ago. Will a novel on terrorism have mass appeal and would I be catering to a restricted niche audience? Well, it's early days for my novel "Indians in Pakistan" but I'm certain the answer is "Why Not?". As I worked on my novel, I realised that Jihadi fiction was becoming a genre by itself with works of Mukul Deva and "Red Jihad" capturing the imagination. But I still insist that the audience is not niche as terrorism affects us all overtly and covertly. Only a fool will deny that.Think of all those long hours you have spent in queues waiting to enter a plane or a stadium because of security checks. Think of the fear one feels when a loud sound is heard on the street or whenever you see a stray parcel lying in a public place. Denying you feel this fear or inconvenience does not mean that it is not felt. Any rational human being feels them. Doesn't ev...

Ejaz and I met in a secluded area on Friday night. We were discussing possible courses of action when the sound of light footsteps interrupted us. Ejaz looked at me in silence and motioned for us to remain quiet. Suddenly the silhouettes of two men became visible in the darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ I queried. ‘It’s me, Akbar Bugto,’ whispered a voice. ‘And I have Omar Sheikh with me.’ ‘We know exactly what you have been up to,’ said another voice. There was a long spell of silence as Ejaz and I pondered the meaning of these words. Akbar Bugto was one of the support staff who hailed from Baluchistan. He was a handy man who worked at this camp in multiple roles including that of an electrician and a gardener. He was the most visible person on this campus. Omar Sheikh, the Kashmiri software engineer and main communications expert, on the other hand, was usually confined to the control room or the communications centre near the officers’ quarters. ‘What are you talking about?...

I smiled at the irony that while we, the trainees, were equipped with rocket launchers, AK47s and other sophisticated weaponry, the head of the mission confronted us with a measly pistol. I was still smiling as my fingers pulled the trigger. The short, bald leader collapsed in a heap. Our jeep sped away. We left the camp that night, leaving a trail of destruction in our wake. Scores of dismembered bloody bodies lay strewn all over the place. Almost every solid structure had been reduced to rubble. Small fires flared at various places. There were a couple of big fires that lit up the night sky. But what I remember most vividly was the ghastly silence just before we left the site. The above segment is a short extract from my soon-to-be-published novel ‘Indians in Pakistan’, an action thriller that will leave you spellbound. It will also immerse you into a totally different world in which different forces are at play as jihadis plot a rebellion against their evil masters. ...