Flat No. 506, Ganesh Apartments, somewhere in Mumbai, Saturday 8 p.m.
Mrs. Sheela Sharma could see the light under the door in the paying guest's room. She checked the door. It was not bolted. She could see the shape of a man covered with a sheet lying on the bed. Her PG was snoring slightly. She went upto him on tiptoes. When she was close to him she prodded him. He woke up with a start. His surprise changed to fear when he saw the expression on her face. "And this is for seducing my daughter and telling her lies that you love her," she said as she removed the safety catch from the revolver and pulled the trigger. He died instantly. She gave a missed call from her telephone to a person she knew. Two men rang the bell of her flat and entered when she opened the door. They dumped the dead body into a well prepared box and took it away with them. Sheela heaved a sigh of relief. She had wanted to do this for ages. Ever since her daughter had to go for psychiatric treatment for depression. But it had taken her time and a lot of money to arrange today's shooting. He had reached home at eight. An hour late. This had rarely happened in the three years he had lived at their house.

She knew that she would miss him as a paying guest. He used to pay the rent on time. He was extremely clean in his habits. He dressed smartly. He never drank or ate meat or eggs. He recited Sanskrit shlokas very beautifully. She used to call him the 'perfect brahmin'. He would leave at eight every morning for his work with a software firm. He was back dot at seven every evening. She had been thinking of making him conduct the puja on Diwali. But alas, that was not to be. "The time had come," said Sheela to herself. She liked these words. She kept repeating them.

A Suburban Railway Station in Mumbai, Saturday 6:45 pm.
Aslam had got down from the local train at 6:40 pm. The job had been executed perfectly. He had left the suitcase inside the train. He was happy that nobody had seen him doing so. That was what good training was all about. He had waited three years for this. He remembered how he had been spotted at Trichur, Kerala by a sleeper agent. He had been indoctrinated, brain washed and sent across the border for special training. He had impressed his handlers with his meticulousness and ruthlessness. They expected a lot from him. He had promised them that he would do a good job. They believed him. He had been true to his words ever since he had joined.

He had been sent to Mumbai under a false identity. This had been created with meticulousness. Everything had been arranged for him. A job, accommodation, facilities, everything had been provided to him. There was no ostentatiousness about anything. This prevented him from being viewed with suspicion. He enjoyed going for his work. He liked being with his colleagues at the workplace. Deep down he used to pity them for living petty, money obsessed lives. He was sure that he would become immortal. He wanted to be remembered as a person who had died for a cause. He heard the news about the blast on the train through a loudspeaker announcement on the platform. Everything after that had been a daze. He had rushed to the site of the blast. He had met some people he knew. He had joined them in evacuating the wounded to hospital. His shirt was soaked in blood. A television channel took a sound byte from him. He was proud to be on television. He knew that everyone in office would see him. And his handlers would see him too. By the time he had reached home it was almost eight. He was tired. He wanted to take a shower first. " type="text/javascript"> Mission accomplished," he told his handler over the mobile phone just before he entered the bathroom. "The time had come," he was told. "Yes," he replied, "the time had come. We had been preparing for this for so long."

Two months later.
A conference of senior police officers at Police HQ. The young DSP who was in charge of the case was giving a presentation to his seniors. "It was done meticulously sir," he said while looking towards the DGP. The latter nodded. "We have found out how he made the time bomb," the DSP continued, "but we have been unable to get any more leads. We do not know where he procured some of the local material from. It could have been from any shop." The senior officers knew what he was talking about. This had been a one-off incident and not a series of blasts. "I am sure that it is the job of a sleeper cell," said the DGP. Everybody present hung onto his words. Deep down everyone knew that he would continue to overstate the obvious. When the top police officer in Maharashtra spoke everyone listened.

Everybody knew the kind of political pressure that the DGP was under. The State Government was after his blood. And the opposition parties were making life hell for the CM. What was needed were arrests and detentions. In the pre-internet, pre-satellite channel era one could always arrest a few suspicious characters. Making one of them confess wouldn't have been such a big task. But unfortunately the human rights organisations and the media were very alert nowadays. This made the task of the government machinery even more difficult. "There is one thing Sir," said the young DSP to the DGP. "And what is that young man?" asked the DGP. "The perpetrator seems to have vanished into thin air. I am fairly sure he has been killed. They don't need him anymore. I am afraid we will never find him."
----- END OF STORY-------
Word Count: 1000. Including subtitles. Excluding Main title.


Dear fellow bloggers:
This is my third short story in DNA Me.
I had written this on Sunday Oct 7 2007.
Sathya Saran Editor DNA Me had informed me that she found it worthy of publication but it would take time.
It did take time - a week short of eight months. It was a pleasant surprise to check the online edition of DNA Me and see the story. The time had come.

Links to the pdf files of the story

The Time Had Come, DNA Me, June 1 2008 Page 1 Page 2

My Earlier Short Stories published in DNA Me

(1) No Medals For Me - July 23 2006

(2) Disobeying Orders - July 15 2007