October 13, 1999 Army House, Rawalpindi 11:00 AM
I sat in the leather swivel chair, staring at the secure red telephone. It was a direct line to the Indian Prime Minister's Office.
For the last hour, my brain—the brain of an IAS topper—had been running simulations. I was looking for an exit strategy. I wanted to go home.
Option A: Defection. I could call Vajpayee right now. Result: They would think "The Butcher of Kargil" had gone mad. Even if they believed me, I'd be interrogated forever.
Option B: Surrender. I could resign. Result: General Aziz or Mahmood would hang me for "treason."
I leaned back, rubbing my temples. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Aditya Kaul was dead. There was no going back. The only way forward was through.
The Escape 19:00 Hours (7:00 PM)
I needed to breathe. The air in the palace was too thin.
"Tariq," I called out to my Military Secretary. "I need music. My head is heavy."
"Shall I summon the orchestra, Sir?"
"No. I want to go to Imam Bari. Undercover. And find out if that young boy... Nusrat's nephew... Rahat Fateh Ali? Is he performing?"
The Shrine of Imam Bari Islamabad 21:30 Hours
The shrine was alive. The smell of rose attar and incense hung heavy in the air. We sat in a secluded corner of the courtyard, hidden by shadows and plainclothes agents.
On the marble floor, a young man sat with his harmonium. Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. He was barely in his twenties, but he had the eyes of his uncle.
He finished a soulful rendition of Allah Hoo, and the crowd roared in appreciation.
I leaned over to the undercover security officer next to me. "Send a request," I whispered. "Tell him... the 'guest' requests Saanson Ki Mala Pe."
The officer looked hesitant. "Sir? That is... it is a bit..."
"Just do it."
A minute later, a chit was placed in front of Rahat. He read it, looked confused for a second, then nodded towards the shadows.
The harmonium shifted. The rhythm changed. Rahat began to sing the lyrics written by Meera Bai, a Hindu devotee of Krishna, sung in the heart of an Islamic Republic.
"Saanson ki mala pe... simroon main pi ka naam..." (On the rosary of my breath... I chant the name of my Beloved...)
I watched the crowd closely. I expected tension. I expected some Mullah to stand up and shout "Kafir!" (Infidel) because the lyrics were Hindu in origin.
But nothing happened. Laborers, clerks, beggars—they closed their eyes. They swayed. They were enjoying this Hindu devotional song with the exact same reverence they showed for the Islamic verses earlier.
There was no shouting. No dancing wildly. Just a deep, rhythmic calm. It was a befitting respect to God.
Look at them, I thought, a shiver running down my spine. If I just replaced this shrine with a Mandir right now, the scene would be exactly the same.
The devotion was identical. The melody was identical. The soul was identical. They weren't hating the "Other." They were lost in the same divine love.
The hate is manufactured, I realized, watching a bearded man weep silently to Meera Bai's words. The politicians and the generals created the hate. These people? They just want connection.
Rahat hit the high note—"Prem ki mala... japoon subah shaam" (I chant the rosary of Love, morning and evening).
And in that moment, the fear vanished. If music could erase the border... maybe I could too.
I tapped Brigadier Tariq on the shoulder. "Sir?"
"The boy is good," I whispered. "Remind me to invite him to the Presidency."
"Yes, Sir."
"And Tariq... get the car ready. I have a plan."
"A plan for the Cabinet, Sir?"
I looked at the crowd one last time—Hindus in spirit, Muslims in name, united by music. "No," I smiled. "A plan for dinner."
Author's Note: Saanson Ki Mala Pe is a masterpiece that defies boundaries. Originally a Bhajan by Meera Bai, it became a Qawwali anthem in Pakistan. This moment is crucial for Aditya—he realizes that the "divide" is political, not spiritual.