Doing things, and doing things elegantly are vastly different. Money can buy things but aesthetic sense was probably not for sale. The sprawling lawn of Qadar’s villa was proof of what only money could buy, and also for what it could not. The lawn had a good amount of grass, only it was cut unevenly. There were lots of pots containing colourful flowers, only they were misarranged. Many lamps hung from the posts and on the bushes and plants, but the lamps cast many shadows amidst the streams of light. Altogether, the atmosphere was gloomy, despite the pleasant fragrance of flowers, softness of grass and the sparkle of the lamps. It probably had something to do with the air saturated with alcohol.

In the midst of this gloomy atmosphere, the music that was played on an old cassette player was the only thing that was contradicting the ambience. In the bright portion of the lawn, one small mahogany table was turned in to a mini bar with a range of liquor arranged on it along with necessary paraphernalia. Near the bar, two sofas with deep cushions were arranged with a wooden table in between them. As the owner of the house was drinking in the dark portion humming something that could not be deciphered, the lone waiter on duty, who neither drinks nor sings, was bored and adjusted himself on one of the sofas, stretching his legs onto the table.

When Pasha entered, he mistook the waiter for Qadar and thought, ‘Bloody, he is still sleeping’. However, once the waiter stood in attention on hearing footsteps, Pasha smiled, hiding his anxiety. Without being asked, the attendant pointed to the dark patch of the lawn, where the lone figure in white was moving slowly.

Pasha walked towards the swaying professor and he immediately noticed one thing. In contrast to all other things in patches, music was streaming continuously in the entire lawn. In one dark corner, the professor was slowly beating on imaginary drums with his right hand, the left holding the whisky glass. His head was making small, round movements indicating he was immersed in music. Pasha observed for a while and confirmed that the professor was in a trance out of which he may not come on his own will. He moved closer and tapped him on the shoulder. Jolted out of his trance, Qadar moved away involuntarily, turning to see Pasha. Anxiety caused by the sudden movement turned him pale and with lips quivering, he was speaking something, perhaps, calling his waiter.

Understanding the negative effect of his tap, Pasha took hold of Qadar and slowly shook him. He called for the waiter, who dashed across the lawn with a bottle of water. The attendant guided Qadar to a chair placed nearby and made him drink some water. It took nearly three minutes for the colour to return to Qadar’s face. He slowly rose from the chair and walked towards the sofas.

Pasha, following at a distance, sighed at the turn of events, cursed himself and slowed down his stride, pretending to enjoy the beauty of the garden in the dark. Meanwhile, Qadar settled himself on the cushions and had some more water, before sipping its harder cousin. He was lighting a cigarette when Pasha reached the couches and sat on the other sofa. Seeing the scientist drinking and smoking, Pasha, a devout Muslim, felt nauseated.

“Good evening, Professor!” Pasha began his dialogue. After lighting his cigarette and blowing a blue cloud to contaminate the already polluted atmosphere, Qadar squinted through the smoke at Pasha.

“Who are you?” the question was straight, as Pasha expected.

“I am Pasha. Syed Ashraf Pasha. From Army. Currently third-in-command,” Qadar raised his hand indicating to stop. Then Qadar smiled without even trying to hide his sarcasm. Slowly, he puffed on his cigarette and said in a low voice, “My dear Pasha, I do not need a third-in-command as my security in charge.” Flushed in anger, Pasha tried to say something in retaliation, but stopped and turned to the other side to control himself.

Breathing deeply, he slowly turned to face Qadar, “Look, Professor! I am here with a mission. I know your current situation and would like to help you. Instructions are from the top. I request you to listen without any prejudice, before commenting further.”

Qadar laughed, “Boy! You really are a sample - still in kindergarten, bullying others.” While laughing, he extended his hand that held the half-burned cigarette to point at Pasha’s face, who pulled himself back with a twitch on his forehead. Qadar tried to recall whatever he thought he knew about Pasha, and could recognise the young Pasha participating in a few meetings he had participated in at the fag end of his once illustrious career.

Qadar continued, “So, you are on a mission?” he smiled and sipped from his glass. “Don’t you drink, colonel?” he questioned, pointing his hand at the bar. Pasha nodded his head in the negative and pushed himself deep into the cushions, as if he was hiding from the wily professor.

“I, for all practical purposes, am a recluse. Without any position or power. What does the most powerful person in the army wish from me?” Qadar regarded with his eyes closed. Opening his eyes, “You won. I give up. I can’t guess the purpose. You may inform the reason behind your visit.”

Pasha got up from the sofa, went to the bar, poured water in a glass and topped it with ice. He held the glass with both palms to feel the coolness. He took out his kerchief and soaked it with water. He pressed the wet cloth to his face to relieve himself from the heat. He came back and sat on the sofa, leaned forward and spoke, “Professor! The days of end game have begun. A decision was taken to strike the enemy. As you are the original creator of nukes in this country, The President was hoping you would lead the strike as well. Being a fan of yours from the old days, he considered this step may help you to come out of hiatus.”

He paused and regarded Qadar, trying to gauge his reaction. Qadar was listening with a blank face. Pasha wondered whether the old man was listening or not. “Are you listening, Professor?” he enquired in a polite tone.

“Yes, of course! Please continue.”

“So, will you take the lead position in the strike?”

“Who is the enemy?” the Professor asked, without moving a single muscle in his face, like a ventriloquist.

“Who else? Do we have many? India,” replied Pasha.

“I had heard about peace talks with India. How come there is a decision to strike India, and that too, a nuclear strike? Hmmm...?” he waited and stared at Pasha, “Somehow, I am not convinced, major.”

The soldier in Pasha was hurt. “I am not a major. I’m a colonel.”

“Don’t bother me with your rank, captain,” Qadar already decided to enjoy the conversation to the maximum possible extent and snubbed, “You have not answered my question.”

“India was, is, and always will be an enemy of Pakistan. At least till we get Kashmir. And now is the time to decimate the land of infidels. Our leadership has devised a plan...” he was again interrupted.

“Oh! Save the rhetoric for your troops, soldier. Tell me, why does your leadership think that now is the time to strike India with nukes?”