Chapter 20: Signal Aag

## Chapter 20: Signal Aag

VIVEK

Paul leaves at dawn.

He carries a backpack, found in one of the villas, a trekking pack, the kind that college students take to Ladakh; loaded with matches, a bottle of kerosene, dried coconut fronds for kindling, two bottles of water, and a packet of glucose biscuits. His shovel is strapped to the side of the pack, its sharpened edge catching the first light of morning.

We say goodbye at the edge of the settlement; me, Chaya, Esha, Karen, and Kabir. The others are still sleeping. The farewell is calm and brief, the way farewells are when the people involved understand that sentiment is a luxury and time is not.

"Hilltop choose kar," I tell him. "Jahan se Mapusa road dikhe. Agar kuch dikhe, gaadiyaan, scouts, kuch bhi, signal fire."

"Samjha."

"Aur Paul: careful rehna. Agar woh tujhe dekh lein —"

"Toh main bhaagunga. Main tez hoon, Vivek. Mujhe mat sikhao."

He grins. That grin, walking toward danger by choice. Then he turns and walks up the road, north, toward Mapusa, his silhouette shrinking against the lightening sky until it's absorbed by the road and the palm trees and the specific geometry of distance.

I watch him go. Bholu sits beside me, watching too, his ears pricked toward the departing figure whose scent he knows and whose absence he will register for days.

"Woh wapas aayega," says Karen. A statement, not a question.

"Haan."

---

Two days pass. The signal fire doesn't come. The settlement continues, fishing, cooking, school, lookout — but the rhythm has changed, quickened by the knowledge that Paul is out there, on a hilltop near Mapusa, watching for the thing that will end this peace.

The boats are prepared. Suresh and Pradeep spend a day inspecting them, five wooden fishing boats, the traditional Goan ramponkar style, flat-bottomed, broad-beamed, built for the shallow waters of the coast. Two are in good condition, their hulls sound, their oars present, their keels straight. Two need minor repairs, leaking seams that Pradeep patches with a mixture of coconut fibre and tar found in a fisherman's shed. The fifth is damaged beyond quick repair, a crack in the hull that runs from bow to stern; and we abandon it.

Four boats. Twenty-one people. Five per boat, with supplies. It will be crowded. It will be uncomfortable. It will be the difference between captured and free.

The boats are positioned at the water's edge: below the high-tide line, pointed seaward, oars shipped, ready to launch. The supplies are packed in waterproof bags (plastic garbage bags, doubled, tied with rope) and stowed in the boats. Water. Food. Medicines. Baby formula. Blankets for the children. "Kisi ne bhi kabhi boat chalayi hai?" I ask, standing on the beach, looking at the four boats that represent our escape plan.

Suresh raises his hand. "Main. Fishing boats. Ratnagiri mein. Chhota tha tab."

Pradeep: "Main bhi. Thoda bahut."

Two out of twenty-one. Two people who have some experience with boats, in a group that is planning to cross the Arabian Sea, or at least navigate along its coast — in wooden fishing boats designed for day trips within sight of land.

"Aur baaki?"

Karen: "Maine ek baar Goa mein parasailing ki thi. Does that count?"

"Nahi."

"Worth a try."

I look at the sea. The Arabian Sea: vast, blue, indifferent. Its waves break on the sand with the regular, unhurried rhythm of a thing that has been doing this for millions of years and that is, in no way, concerned about the survival plans of twenty-one humans and a dog.

"Sab seekhenge," I say. "Jab waqt aayega."

---

The third day. Early afternoon. The sun is at its peak, the heat at its worst. The warmth seeped through her clothes, heavy against her shoulders. April in Goa, when the warm air is so thick with humidity that breathing feels like drinking warm water. I'm on lookout with Esha, both of us sluggish in the heat, the binoculars heavy, the horizon shimmering with the distinct mirage that tropical heat produces, the world melting at its edges.

Esha sees it first.

"Vivek."

Her voice has the quality that I've learned to dread — the flatness, the controlled calm, a person who is seeing something and is processing it before reacting.

I follow her gaze. North. The hill where the scout was seen three days ago.

Smoke.

A column of smoke, rising from a point maybe fifteen kilometres away, north of Candolim, near the road to Mapusa; the grey-black pillar climbing into the still air with the vertical certainty of a thing unimpeded by wind.

Paul's signal fire.

My heart stops. Then starts again, faster, the adrenaline response that I've learned to recognise and to use; the body's switch from rest to survival, from peace to war.

"Signal hai," I say. "Paul ka."

"Haan."

"Matlab: Lakshman aa raha hai."

"Haan."

We look at each other. One second. Two. The time it takes for the knowledge to settle, the knowledge that the three weeks of peace are over, that the vase has finally fallen, that the storm is here.

"ALARM!" I shout from the terrace. My voice carries: down to the beach, across the settlement, through the open windows of the five villas. "ALARM! SAB BEACH PE AAO! ABHI!"

The response is faster than I expected, the weeks of preparation, the drills, the conversations have created a muscle memory in the group that activates now with the efficiency of a machine. People emerge from houses, running — not panicking, running with purpose, each person knowing their role, their boat, their position.

Chaya appears from the main house, Dhruv strapped to her chest, the baby bag over her shoulder. Her face is pale but set. The jaw, the eyes, the exact expression of expecting this moment, ready for it.

Karen leads Kabir by the hand, Bholu trotting beside them. The boy is holding his Goosebumps book. The one he's read a hundred times, the one he refused to leave behind, the one possession that connects him to the world before.

Hemant carries Anvi, the three-year-old on his hip, her face buried in his neck. Pushpa and Savita, their kitchen aprons still on, their rough hands dusted with flour from the chapatis they were making.

Twenty people gather on the beach. Twenty, because Paul is on the hilltop.

"Signal fire dikh rahi hai," I announce. "Paul ne jalayi hai. Matlab gaadiyaan aa rahi hain. Humein abhi nikalna hai."

"Kitna time hai?" asks Suresh.

"Signal se yahan tak, agar gaadiyaan tez chalein, ek ghanta. Shaayad kam."

One hour. Maybe less. To launch four boats, load twenty people, a baby, a toddler, and a dog, and put enough water between us and the shore that Lakshman's rifles can't reach us.

"Boats mein jaao!" I shout. "Suresh, boat ek. Pradeep, boat do. Arun: boat teen. Main, boat chaar."

The loading is chaotic but fast. People wade into the surf, the water warm, ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then waist-deep — and climb into the boats. The boats rock under the weight, their flat bottoms slapping the water, the oars clattering against the gunwales.

Boat One: Suresh, Pushpa, Savita, Jyoti, and Hemant with Anvi.

Boat Two: Pradeep, Karen, Kabir, and two of the farmers.

Boat Three: Arun and four others.

Boat Four: Me, Chaya with Dhruv, Esha, and one more.

Bholu stands on the beach. The water reaches his paws. He looks at me, then at the boat, then back at me, his expression an expression that has been asked to do something that his species has collectively agreed is a bad idea.

"Aa, Bholu! Boat mein!"

He doesn't move. His tail is down. His ears are back. His body language saying, clearly and unambiguously: No.

"BHOLU!" Chaya's voice, from the boat. "Idhar aa! Abhi!"

He whines. Looks at the water. Looks at the boat. Calculates.

Then Kabir's voice, from Boat Two, high and clear: "BHOLU! MERE PAAS AA! PLEASE!"

Bholu's ears prick. His tail lifts. He looks at Kabir; the boy, leaning over the side of the boat, his arms outstretched, his face the face of a seven-year-old who needs his dog.

Bholu wades in. The water hits his chest, then his neck. He paddles, frantic splashing, not built for swimming but doing it anyway, because the boy is calling and the boy needs him and Bholu will cross any water for the boy.

Kabir grabs him. Hauls him up. Bholu collapses into the boat, shaking water everywhere, his tail wagging despite himself, the indignity of the swim already forgiven in the presence of his person.

"CHALO!" I shout. "ROW!"

The oars hit the water. Suresh leads. his strokes long and practised, the muscle memory of a Ratnagiri childhood returning. The other boats follow, their oars less coordinated but functional, the boats moving seaward with the lurching, uneven progress of vessels manned by farmers and cooks and a retired nurse.

I row. The oars are heavy, wooden, the traditional kind, their blades wide and flat. The resistance of the water against them is enormous — each stroke a full-body effort, arms and back and legs working together, the muscles that were trained by farming now repurposed for rowing. Drops hit her forearms with the tiny, sharp percussion of cold on warm skin. We clear the surf. The boats enter the deeper water; the colour changing from turquoise to blue, the bottom disappearing beneath us, the sea accepting us with the casual indifference of a thing that is too large to notice or care.

I look back.

Candolim beach, the white sand, the palm trees, the five villas with their blue shutters and terracotta roofs, recedes. The houses shrink. The beach narrows. The settlement that we built; the community that we grew from escape and dal and the stubborn refusal to die, becomes a line of colour against the green of the coast.

And on the road behind the beach, visible now, small but unmistakable; vehicles. Two of them. Dark. Moving south along the beach road with the determined speed of pursuit.

"ROW!" I shout. "TEZZ!"

The oars dig deeper. The boats accelerate: not fast, not enough, but faster, the distance between us and the shore widening with each stroke. One hundred metres. Two hundred. Three hundred.

The vehicles reach the beach. Figures emerge. Dark shapes against the white sand. I count four. Five. Six.

A rifle cracks. The sound travels across the water, diminished by distance, softened by the sea's hush, but unmistakable. The bullet hits the cold water thirty metres to our left — a small geyser, there and gone, the impact absorbed by the ocean the way the ocean absorbs everything.

"NEECHE!" I shout. "Sabke sir neeche!"

People duck. The boats continue, the rowers hunched, their strokes shortened but uninterrupted, the survival instinct overriding the terror of being shot at.

Another crack. Another geyser. Twenty metres to our right. Closer.

But the distance is growing. Four hundred metres. Five hundred. The effective range of an assault rifle against a moving target on water, at this distance, with the natural instability of a beach firing position; the math is in our favour. Barely. But in our favour.

The shots stop. Six hundred metres. Seven hundred.

I risk a look. The figures on the beach are still there: standing, rifles lowered, watching. Watching us leave.

And among them, I can't be certain, the distance is too great, the binoculars are in the supply bag; but among them, I think I see a figure in white. Linen. Standing apart from the guards.

Lakshman.

Watching his prisoners escape across the sea.

I turn away. Pick up the oars. Row.

The boats move south along the coast. The four of them in a loose formation, following the shoreline, staying far enough from land that the rifles can't reach but close enough that we can see the palm trees and the beaches and the empty, beautiful, abandoned coast of Goa sliding past.

We row for an hour. Then two. The sun is low now, late afternoon, the light turning gold, the sea catching it and throwing it back in a million fragments. My arms are numb. My hands are raw — the oars have reopened every callus that the farm built, the blisters returning with that cruelty of injuries that remember where they were.

Chaya sits in the bow with Dhruv. The baby is awake, he's been awake since the launch, his eyes wide, his expression wide-eyed, open-mouthed, never having seen the sea from this angle and who is processing the experience with every neuron he has.

Esha sits beside me. She hasn't spoken since the launch. Her eyes are on the coast: watching the beaches, watching the roads, watching for the vehicles that might follow along the shore.

"Esha."

"Haan."

"Hum nikal gaye."

She looks at me. The chai-brown eyes, wet. Not with sadness: with something else. Something that I recognise because I feel it too, in an alchemy of exhaustion and relief and the knowledge that we have, once again, survived something that should have killed us.

"Haan," she says. "Nikal gaye."

The boats row south. the warm sun sets. The sea turns the colour of turmeric, then saffron, then the deep purple of a Goan evening. The first stars appear. The coast darkens.

And in Boat Two, Kabir's voice — high, clear, carrying across the water:

"Karen Aunty? Kya hum kal beach pe jayenge?"

Karen laughs. The sound carries too; warm, full, someone who has survived and who is, despite everything, still capable of joy.

"Haan, beta. Kal beach pe jayenge."

We row into the dark.

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