Chapter one

The lazy evening sun sank behind the shaggy hills, away from an aura of deafening silence. No insect chirped in the distance, no bird cast forth its melody. Only the faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air.

Deep below the canopy, Vikram squinted at the tiny letterings of a book. He could sense the darkness closing in around him. But he knew better than to light a match. One wrong move in these sensitive pockets could be your last one.

Finally, he gave up trying to sight the print. Putting the book aside, he walked up to the door of the hut. Or rather, what remained of it. It seemed like forever that they had holed up here.

“they wont be back as of now”, said a voice, from behind him. Vikram continued to stare into the foliage outside the door. “I know”, he replied quietly. All was silent for a minute. The second man in the hut broke through the gloom, munching noisily on figs. “Vik, u wanth thome?” he asked, between mouthfuls.

“No, Nikhil”, Vikram said, without bothering to turn around. “you know I hate them”.

“These are delithious . Thry them.”

“No, Nikhil. Keep those damned fuits away from me. And make sure your mouth is empty before you speak. Those fruits smell really bad too.”

Nikhil contuined to chomp upon the ‘inferior’ fruits, as Vikram called them. Vikram now stared at the broken ceiling, his mind still racing.

The ‘hideout’ could not be inhabited for much longer. In fact, it was not even worth the name Nikhil had given it. He felt ‘hideout’ was a really a cool name for the place. But, ‘dismal hutment’ would have more aptly described it. The one room cottage had once, perhaps, been a shelter for a lonesome hermit. It seemed to have been unoccupied for years now. The wooden walls barely managed to hold the structure together. The door creaked upon a single hinge. The sense to make windows had not prevailed in the builder. Nikhil was reclining against the wall, seated upon the sodden earth inside the hut, his bagful of figs lay by his side. He looked up at Vikram.

“Anything wrong?” he asked. He could sense it when Vikram had ideas gushing through his mind. After all, they had been best pals since they had joined the army.

Vikram finally turned around to face him. The last rays of the sun shone through the doorway. The well built figure of Vikram was outlined against it. Any onlooker could have guessed his age, in his late thirties. He portrayed an unkempt personality. Four days of beard covered his chin, while his torn army clothes could tell their tale of a recent accident.

“Nothing”, he said curtly. He was a man of few words. He spoke only when necessary. And when he spoke, he got noticed. Perhaps, it was the air of leadership around him that did the trick. “Nothing”, he said again.

“You cant fool me”, said Nikhil, frowning slightly, noticing that his bag of figs was now empty. Vikram preferred not to answer. He took a step out of the cottage and smoked against the threads of light that broke through the canopy above.