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Pakistan attacked the city, killing with impunity anyone unlucky enough to cross their paths. There was an immediate sense of panic as several politicians tried to run for the exits and were turned away by the gun-toting commandos; the panic eventually started to subside as people realized no one was shooting anybody else. Yet. If it was not an attack, a collective realization rose, then it was probably a hostage-taking – in which case, they were safe. No one had any doubt that the government would give in. They considered themselves invaluable to the government and to the country, in that order.
    Despite the seeming absence of a leader, the team of commandos moved as a well-oiled unit. There seemed to be little communication between them, save an occasional burst into the microphones mounted on their shoulders. All wore riot gear and carried automatic rifles and knives. The commandos in blue had their rifles loaded with rubber bullets; the commandos in black would shoot to kill. The blues outnumbered the blacks ten to one – and together, despite being outnumbered by their targets, they stood as an impenetrable barrier against the doors.
    As the fear subsided, the voices of protest grew louder and louder. Every self-important character started to argue with the commandos closest to him or her, demanding explanations, apologies and the right to leave. The commandos stared back stoically, never responding, never reacting, never expressing the rising contempt as the abuses hurled at them became more insulting. Yet, no one moved forward towards the doors. No one dared to.
    One of the younger members in attendance, the son of a chief minister, eventually climbed on top of his table and shouted for silence. He was almost hoarse by the time the others, more out of curiosity than genuine respect, stopped speaking and started listening.
    ‘Who’s that?’ whispered a regional party leader from Uttar Pradesh to his counterpart from Tamil Nadu.
    ‘That’s Joseph Karpov,’ whispered the Tamilian. ‘He’s the next CM of Kerala, once his old man leaves. Foreign-educated. Communist.’ The last was almost a snort of derision due to the speaker’s ardent dislike for the Left. ‘The same guy who opposes foreign universities in India sends his son abroad for –’
    ‘Shhhh,’ interrupted the other. ‘Let’s see what happens.’
    16th September. Pune.
    Only a few people knew that the meeting between the two parliamentary leaders – Mrs Mahalakshmi Pandit, the leader of the ruling alliance, and Mr Karamchand Patil, the leader of the Opposition – was taking place in a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city. It was far from prying eyes, had its own helipad and vacant grounds that were constantly patrolled by the Z-Category security force that guarded both of them.
    Mr Patil was the first to arrive, beating the other by just a couple of minutes. Even as his own chopper lifted off, another took its place and Mrs Pandit stepped out. With just a nod of greeting to each other, they walked through the doors and into the house. Satisfied that their charges were safely inside, the security team expanded their coverage around the house. No one was closer than ten feet to any of the walls of the farmhouse. The three housekeeping staff inside were completely deaf and had been thoroughly vetted and cleared days in advance.
    As always, Karamchand Patil’s eyes darted to the small idol of Lord Ganesha that was placed by the door and bowed his head for an instant. There was risk in their meeting like this, but there was necessity too. This was not the first time their negotiations with each other had to be invisible even to their own innermost circles, nor, he was sure, would it be the last. There are some things you just can’t leave to your minions. He cast a surreptitious glance at his counterpart and tried to gauge her mood.
    Mrs Pandit was obviously not happy. Her face was set in the unforgiving, stony expression that was so unlike the