Line of Control by Tom Clancy

No. This is not a Bollywood starrer with the Sunny Deol's efforts towards social service i.e population reduction of Paks.
No gun touting underfed junior artists masquerading in Indian army uniforms, mouthing sentimental dialogues, and dying in comic positions. (any resemblence to JP Dutta's movie is purely coincidental ;-) )

This is a simple novel by Tom Clancy.

Briefly,
An explosion in Kashmir, where a Police Station, a Hindu temple, and a bus brimming with pilgrims are blown up makes for a sensational beginning. The Opcentre, one of the numerous government security agencies of the US of A, sends out a team of commandos to help the Indian defence forces to handle the terrorist activities in Kashmir. But, the developments in the duration between the take off and reaching of Indian subcontinent by the team, suggest that there is a deeper conspiracy. India is planning for a full fledged nuclear war against Pakistan.

War or no war, depends on one single Indian female, working as a spy, presently held captive by a team of terrorists in the heart of the Himalayas.

Exciting?

Yup. The excitement mounts, when the team of American commandos jump out of their aircraft in the Himalayas, to rescue the Indian spy, and realise that they are being peppered by the firing from the Indian army at the Line of Control, neutralising most of the team.

Hmm,
As an Indian, you would not be able to digest that a democratic country of the likes of India can carry out such an act of aggression. But , this novel is by an American, and the point of view is mostly American. Except for this discomfort, there is a lot of research that has been done to make this novel. The scenes are very picturesque, the characters are interesting, though not very deeply established due to the length of the novel.

The novel raises a lot of expectations, both by its bombastic beginning, and the build up of the story. But ends very quickly. Almost abruptly.

I would have loved if the length of the novel were doubled.

A pleasant surprise is the absence of the Clancy's technical jargon, which had turned me off in just the first few pages in my first Clancy's novel 'The Hunt of the Red October'.

To summarise,
A good book for a bibliophile while on a three day vacation.

...Over a drink...

...A short story that I penned sometime back...




An tempestuous evening at a bar, of a failure, with an enticing woman and a jealous colleague....expect the unexpected...

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Life is unfair. Very, very unfair.

From the beginning, it was unfair for me. Why should I be born as the ugly kid in a handsome family? And the last, neglected one.

It is always an oft repeated complaint among the early-borns. It was the other way in our family. Should I blame my misfortune???

Should I blame my luck for giving me a raw deal while giving away intelligence? Or giving me a bald head before twenty five? A protruding paunch…

The list goes on.

The thoughts went round in a vicious cycle, as the tip of my index finger rolled on the smooth rim of the wine glass. The quaint, circular wooden table of the pub was meant for four. But, who would like to give me company, an uninteresting clerk at a local law firm?! They would only be bored more by my soporific tales, and lackluster jokes. Who would be interested in making their life more miserable in talking to an epitome of vapidity like me?!

Had not I tried to make my life more interesting?!

The vivid pictures have been stamped on my brain, burningly. I had approached the gorgeous stenographer, with a customary red dress, with a deep neck, presenting her bosoms in an offering demeanor. She never gave me a chance. Turned me down, outright.

Well, Mary could have been out of my league.

But, the gaunt courier girl, in a black uniform was very well within my reach. She was not even as beautiful as my wife. She had agreed to have a dinner with me. But, suddenly, Mr Mehta happened. The ever-charming Mr Mehta had seduced her before the most anticipated dinner, and she had stood me up. Mehta, the Casanova of the firm. He had all the women desperate for a single glimpse of him.

What did women find in him?

He was just good looking. And maybe, a little charming. But his jokes were pathetic.

Maybe, it was his money. Though he, himself had a meager income, his wife was a rich lady. She was much more than ugly. Thin bloodless lips, amidst the pockmarked cheeks, hovering above a long, corded neck, emerging out of weak shoulders.

Yes, it was her money.

I did not envy him. I did not just envy him.

I hated him, to the extent that I could kill him.

He had had the dare enough to ditch Mary after sleeping with her.

Now, there he was, trying to run his hands on the young lady’s haunches he had met just minutes back, on the dancing floor.

The dull music added to the pleasurably depressing mood of the ambience, illuminated faintly by somber lights. I picked up the wine glass, and placed it on my lips, the viscous fluid slowly entering through my wet lips. Mehta, had come along with me, to give me company. But, on suddenly, watching the beautiful young girl over the dancing floor, he had made a dash for it.

As the fluid entered my throat, I felt a trifle relaxed. Now, I could see that Mehta’s palm had firmly rested on the young lass’ buttocks.

I could not bear to look at it anymore.

I turned away towards the entrance. Not many people coming in.

My gaze wandered to the patterned roof, the lozenge paned windows, and suddenly something caught my sight.

A fairly beautiful woman looking at me.

I turned away.

She might be just gazing through.

I looked back.

She was staring at me!

She was alone at the table, at a corner. Clad in a dead black, deep necked dress, she looked ravishing.

Might be in her early thirties, I guessed.

The pub always had interesting denizens. Could she have come alone?

I turned away, unable to gaze at her eyes anymore. I turned to the dancing floor. Mehta was doing his job there.

Suddenly, it struck me. I have to make my move now. Else, Mehta would not lose this opportunity. I turned back to her.

My lips broke into a smile.

She was surprised. Her hand picking up her wine glass stopped. She glared more into my eyes. She was not expecting a response.

Had I committed a mistake? I was sure this lady was very good looking. Why was she interested in me?

Her sight lingered on mine for sometime. I was unabashedly staring into her eyes. Now, I was getting aroused. Though she was seated at a distance, I became oblivious of all the people between us. I began to appreciate her well shaped eyebrows, the meticulously laid mascara, the fastidiously done make up…

Suddenly, breaking me out of my abstraction, she smiled.

A chill traveled down my spine.

I felt nervous, and had uneasiness in my stomach.

Would I end up tonight with this lady? Not that I would mind, but she was unnervingly enticing. Would I be able to satiate her?

I smiled at my thoughts.

I flashed a teasing smile. I knew she was expecting me to make the first move. But, I was too nervous, and lacked enough confidence to walk up to her.

Slowly, I could see her stand up.

Suddenly, I had a lump in my throat. The light from a nearby bulb reflected hazily off her lustrous long, black skirt, wrapped tightly around her shapely legs, with an elongated split at the side.

Languidly, she moved towards me, across the numerous tables. With her every step, my exultation escalated.

I stood up, slowly, when she had come near to my table. She halted, and stared at me.

She was taller to me!!!

Anyway, I liked taller women.

She wanted me to make the first move.

First move?? She had already made a lot of moves.

I felt ashamed of myself. She had done my work, and I still expected her to make the move to talk.

“Good evening…..er,” I flashed a glorious smile.

“Amelia D’Souza…Good evening,” she said. It was almost a whisper. I moved around the table, and pulled her a chair.

She sat down gracefully.

Suddenly, confidence was rushing back to me. I remembered that my wife, who was also a beautiful lady once upon a time, had commented that she had liked my friendly face, and gestures. Women felt comfortable with me.

They never felt nervous, like they would have with an Adonis of likes of Mehta.

“What would you fancy, Miss D’Souza?” I asked when I had seated myself in front of her.

I noticed that there could have been some marks on her facial skin, but she had made them up carefully. She still looked impressive.

“Something to while away time,” she bit her upper lip. The voice was just more than a whisper. I realized that she was apprehensive too.

I smiled.

I was gaining grounds.

“Something strong, perhaps?” I asked.

“Light,” she uttered, and bit her upper lip back, her eyes never ceasing to stare at mine. My eyes searched for the waiter, but he was very far away. I gesticulated to him, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

I turned back to her.

“Have we met before?” I asked her, my eyes rolling all over her neck, and suddenly back to her eyes.

“I don’t know. I had a kind of feeling that,” a slight pause, and instantaneously I returned my gaze from the cleavage of her breasts back to her eyes, “I have seen you somewhere,” she continued.

“I am Rahul Saxena,” I said with a smile, “I work in a law firm,” I begged that she would not go into the details of my worthless job.

“Hmm,” she let out a light exclamation, “Interesting job. So you are a lawyer.”

“No, not exactly, I work as a clerk in a law-firm,” I said, feeling strongly to kick myself the next moment. Why was I ruining my chances?

But her expression did not change. I thanked god, relieved.

“You have come here alone?” she asked.

I nodded, morosely.

She let out a heavy breath.

Suddenly, I realized that she was alone too. I guessed that she was one of those damsels who kept on rejecting all the men, always in search of better, but never found the perfect one, finally settling for anyone.

But, I was not anyone. Was I?

Why was I denigrating myself? I lacked self confidence, and trust in myself.

I must come out of it. This was my final opportunity.

“It is difficult being alone, isn’t it?” I asked, treading a safe path.

She nodded, wearily.

So, she was definitely alone.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked, not sure whether that was a good question.

“I have property left by my late husband,” she said, “I am able to pull along.”

So, she was a widow. Though disappointed a trifle that she was not a spinster, I felt courageous that I was not dealing with an amateur.

I glanced around for the waiter. He was still attending the other customer, looked at me, and nodded apologetically.

Suddenly, I felt cold. I felt something at my feet. Was she playing in footsie?

Slowly, I stretched back casually, and glanced at my shoe.

It was just touching the centre leg of the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been real fast.

The next moment my eyes fell on her black pointed shoe near the leg of the table, the shapely fair leg emerging out of it, and felt disappointed that she had not started footsie.

With a reflex, I returned back my gaze to her eyes, and she was looking at my wine glass wistfully. “He passed away an year back,” she said in nostalgic tone.

Now was the time to be supportive. I thought of placing my hand on her hand, on the table. I bit my lower lip. I gulped. My right hand refused to come up.

A bead of sweat began to form on my forehead.

Desperately, I wanted to place my hand over her’s. But I felt my right hand go into coma.

“I am sorry,” I barely whispered, dejected. I felt like a coward.

‘Would you like to dance with me?’ I wanted to ask. But my voice refused to co-operate. I took a heavy breath. It was now, or never. I had to ask her. She had given me all the liberty; it would be absurd not to take the opportunity.

“Hello, Saxena, won’t you introduce me to your charming friend of yours?” I heard a voice, and turned with a reflex to see Mehta standing behind me, with a captivating smile.

God! I had dreaded this moment for all the time.

Why? Why is my misfortune always accompanying me?

“Well…er,…this is Miss D’Souza,” I showed him the bewitching lady, “and this is Mr Mehta,” I showed Mehta in despair.

“How do you Mr Mehta?!” the lady’s voice was enchanting, extending her hand.

“Charmed, I am sure,” Mehta took her hand, and placed an elegant light kiss on her fingers. As he ensconced himself over a chair, he flashed a brilliant smile at her.

“Would you fancy a drink?” I heard him ask.

She nodded in positive.

Mehta turned back at the waiter, who was free by now. The waiter rushed at us, and took Mehta’s orders.

I watched the occurrence in wonder.

All the time I had been calling the waiter, he was busy.

My luck had given me away, again.

“That is my favorite drink,” I heard her exclaim, “How do you know that?”

“I had observed you when you ordered your first drink at your table,” Mehta said, in an endearing voice. “I am a very sensitive person.”

She nodded slowly.

“That has become my problem,” he said, joyless.

“How?” she seemed surprised.

“Well, I lost the love of my wife for being sensitive. I became a very possessive husband. She felt I was invading her freedom. She wanted to have a very free marriage, and I did not agree to that. She punished me,” he uttered in melancholy.

I was feeling weak.

I knew I had lost the battle. I was nowhere in the picture. The two did not require me. The sheer speed with which Mehta made way to her heart shocked me.

She was already feeling sympathetic towards him.

It would not take him long to transform that to love.

“But, let me not bore you with my stories,” he said as though realizing his mistake. It was all planned. He would have done these innumerable times.

Slowly, he took her hand on the table, “Would you give me the honour of dancing with you, now?” he held her hand with tender roughness, affectionate but firm.

Her lips broke into a glorious smile.

“Sure,” she said, as she got up along with him.

“Be back in a minute,” Mehta said, turning to me.

I knew that the minute would never come.

It was beyond my threshold of tolerance. I stood up slowly, called for the bill, threw some bills on the table, and strode out of the pub, crestfallen.



It had taken a lot of effort from me to maintain my equanimity during the drive back home. I got out of the car, strode to the house, barged in, paced straight to the bedroom. I wanted to end the day as soon as possible. I changed into pajamas, and came out to see my wife laying the dinner. Perfunctorily, I served myself, and started gobbling down the meal.

“I wanted to speak to you,” my wife spoke.

I was in no mood to discuss anything. I wanted to end this wretched day, and start afresh the next day.

“Not now, let it wait till morning,” I said, hurriedly.

“Mary was here three days back,” she uttered.

I felt a jolt!

Suddenly, I recovered, and it took me a lot of effort to prevent myself from getting excited.

“And?” I asked, nonchalantly, not looking at her.

I prepared myself to encounter the worst possible allegation that would follow the next moment.

“She had complained about your behavior towards her, in the office,” she said.

I let out a silent breath of relief. She had put it in the mildest of terms.

“What?” I still did not show much excitement.

“It seems that you were sexually harassing her,” she said.

“She’s mad,” I said, carelessly, “Does nothing in the office, but flaunting off skin. I am not moved by her charms, and hence she is trying out all these tricks,” I uttered with studied composure.

“I know,” she said.

What did she know?

“It seems that she had gone to Mrs Mehta’s house also,” she added.

“And?” it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to control myself.

“She accused Mr Mehta of taking advantage of her,” she said.

I knew that Mary had accompanied Mehta, on her own self. Now, that he had dumped her, she was complaining.

I was waiting for more, though I did not display my inquisitiveness.

“I am sorry,” she said, as her tears swelled up in her eyes, “I distrusted you for a moment, and went to a detective agency along with Mrs Mehta.”

I was caught off guard. I glared at her. I was not sure whether I was angry, or scared.

“They said they would employ a lady to allure you, and Mehta,” she said, as the whole tempestuous evening ran before my eyes, and my head started reeling. “They told me that you had behaved very elegantly with the lady,” she said, and suddenly stood up and rushed at me, and hugged me. “I am sorry,” she began sobbing, her head resting against my chest.

I was still in a trance.

The whole evening had been a trap.

Suddenly, it dawned upon me about the peril I had been so very close to.

Slowly, as I regained my composure, I ran my hands over her hair, comforting her.

“What happened with Mehta?”

“Mrs Mehta had called. She was crying,” I could hear her say, “Mehta not only flirted with the girl he was allotted, but also took away your girl, it seems.”

My lips broke into a smile.

“She is filing for a divorce tomorrow,” I heard my wife’s muffled voice speak.

My luck was changing. Wasn’t it?

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- Authored by Thejas K R