Here Be Dragons

1

AYAAN

At every waking point in our lives, there is always at least one quandary that perpetually weighs upon the mind. It could be a pressing problem that demands immediate attention and cripples contentment, a terrible rash leaving us in utter misery, or merely a niggle floating at the back of the head, like an itch, or a fly prowling about the edge of the table, not threatening enough to swat at, but enough to make its nagging presence felt. But whether next in our chronology of problems is a rabid rash or a small itch, the one thing we know for certain is that life will keep curve-balling these problems towards us and—

I winced. The pressure had built up to launch point. I let it rip, hearing a satisfying plop in the toilet bowl with a sigh of relief. I hit the flush and the swirling waters sucked the floaters into oblivion. Fucking airport food.

I ambled out of the ground-floor toilet of the Mumbai airport, and was at once greeted with the cacophony of busy footsteps, chatter and the borderline seductive sound of boarding calls. I walked about aimlessly, my glassy eyes unobservant, my mind elsewhere.

Look, my philosophical musings in the lavatory weren’t a consequence of the pressing burdens in my bowels. I wasn’t exactly sailing smoothly through the seas of life at the moment. Either the good times were behind me or they were yet to come. They certainly weren’t here now. And if they were, I would be seriously pissed with the big guy upstairs. To cut a short story shorter, I had just quit my job of two years, fought with my girlfriend of six, and held repeated and tiring conversations with my dear parents about the course of my future – roughly in that order. So what did I do? Did I flee the scene or stand my ground as Mordor’s army came charging through the black gates?

I fled. I brought out my big globe, gave it an almighty spin, closed my eyes and picked a place. As it happens, lady luck chose Rome for me.¹ Besides, I’d heard rumours that two old friends might be scouring Europe as well. In any case, I dipped into my savings, planned my indefinite vacation, packed up my bags, bid adieu to my puzzled friends, assured my parents that I had not lost control of mental faculties, and set sail for Rome.

My excitement was palpable, but so was my anxiety. I function best with travel companions who make all the decisions while I lounge around on the beach, sipping bourbon.

‘Welcome to United Airways, Mr Kehal, may I please have your passport and ticket?’ asked a good-looking woman at check-in, wearing a bright red suit and a brighter smile. I gave her the necessary documents and flashed her a winsome smile of my own.

‘Can I get an aisle seat if possible? The downside of being tall, I’m afraid. Long legs are literally a pain in the ass.’ Being six feet and a few inches tall has its advantages, but comfortable flights aren’t one of them.

‘Sure,’ she replied, this time rather bored and indifferent.

I deposited my luggage on to the greasy conveyer belt, heaved my haversack onto my shoulders and made my way towards security. A steady stream of brands sneered at me from either side as I crossed a series of shops, including, strangely, a luggage store. I suppose it was there in the event that one brought all one’s clothes and belongings but ever so annoyingly forgot to pack them in a suitcase.

Security checks have historically been a fiasco for me. The previous summer, while travelling somewhere, I had been wearing a pair of jeans with questionable fitting, and a belt was mandatory to hold them in place. The moment I took off the belt for frisking, my pants dropped like rocks, and there I was, hands in the air, pants gloriously on the ground, revealing my Popeye boxers. This time, though, I sailed through without any trouble.

I walked towards my departure gate, lost in daydreams about Italian liquor and women and possible questions to ask the Pope in case I met him (the foremost being whether the church elders had ever considered switching from wine to whisky and, if not, in sweet baby Jesus’s name why not!). I stretched my muscles and mulled over the mysteries of love, the origins of life, and the infiniteness of the universe, occasionally making disgusting faces at babies till they cried.

My thoughts soon turned to yesterday. My boisterous relatives had arrived at our place while I was packing. With an extended family comes an extended list of advice.

My uncle Ranjeet was foremost in that aspect. He had never set foot outside the country, but like every respectable adult, knew someone who had. ‘Ayaan, never trust the Italians! They are thieves!’ he declared with a rude wag of his finger. ‘I have a friend named Jitender in America, we call him Chuck. He told me: Never keep any cash in your wallet in Italy. Keep it in your socks and underwear, and even then you aren’t completely safe!’

My cousins giggled at the mention of underwear.

‘I don’t like them one bit,’ agreed Veer Uncle, joining the party with a customary wave of his hands. ‘They are loud, mannerless and talk with their hands rather than their mouth!’ he continued, spraying half-chewed crumbs all over my face while the rest of my assembled kin banged the table in agreement, berating their Italian contemporaries for their lack of civility.

Dinner was a rambunctious affair, involving a lot of laughter, back-slapping, leg-slapping and indeed some real slapping too, as a result of which my body was pretty sore when I retired to my room, muttering the choicest of expletives under my breath. There were some stellar moments that night, including my oldest aunt reminding me to peri-pauna the Pope whenever I meet him but the highlight was surely at the end of the gathering when my youngest uncle Jeetu beckoned to me secretly.

‘Ayaan, I have a gift for you,’ he said with a wicked smile. He checked to see if the coast was clear; then, from his pockets, he withdrew a packet of condoms and thrust it into my hands. ‘I know us young guys need some action from time to time. Go enjoy some Italian cuisine, if you know what I mean.’

‘You just gave me a packet of condoms, uncle. Pretty much anything you say would mean the same thing,’ I replied.

The call for boarding shook me out of my reminiscing and I joined the queue to board the flight. The plane rumbled on to the runway and, as it took off, I looked down at the airport, the vast expanse of slums surrounding it, the city lights now just dots from a thousand feet above. Then the clouds took over everything and I sat back, engulfed by an unanticipated feeling of loneliness. I popped two pills and sank gratefully into unconsciousness.

A handsome young Indian with striking features ambled into the Rome Fuimicino Airport, although you probably couldn’t tell right now since he had the look of a disgruntled dog that had been forcibly bathed and blow-dried. I looked at my reflection in the airport windows and attempted to tame my unkempt hair and smoothen the creases in my shirt.

My eyes were bleary and there was a hint of uneven stubble on my haggard face while a proud nose stood tall in the midst of all the wreckage. I could almost have passed for an Italian man, except I knew a sum total of three words in Italian, and didn’t really look like a fashion model ready to walk the ramp. In retrospect, I wasn’t quite as prepared as I would’ve liked to be.

I made my way towards baggage claim amidst clamorous Italian chatter. I summoned up my non-verbal skills, picked my bag off the conveyer belt and proceeded to move towards the exit when—

‘Mr Ian Kihal, please report urgently to the customs office! I repeat, Mr Ian Kihal, please report urgently to the customs office!’

What fresh hell was this? I stood rooted to the spot while my mind raced through the possibilities. Was something wrong back home? Had they found contraband in my luggage? (Preposterous! I’d smoked it all already!) I scrambled towards the customs office with the help of semi-comprehensible signboards, only to find it deserted. The door was locked. Flummoxed, I looked around in search of some explanation for this lunacy when—

CRASH!

Something hit me with the ferocity of a freight train full of barbells. I was tackled to the ground with such vicious brutality that, although the fall was cushioned by my bags, I was quite dazed when I sat up.

‘It’s been a long time, old friend,’ whispered a theatrical voice in my ear with an all-familiar American drawl. I stood up, stunned as I appraised my assailant, Aiden Vanderwolf – or the big bad wolf – smiling a roguish smile. Behind him stood a tall, muscular Korean and, despite his usual broodiness, Kwan-Hoon Lee sported a hint of a smile too.

‘Fuck me,’ I pronounced, grimacing, as I hugged Aiden. He looked just as I remembered. His face had that perpetual boyish charm and his blue eyes twinkled with gleeful mischief, as if he had just replaced someone’s shampoo with hair-removal cream. He wore a dapper suit and his blonde hair was slicked back. He looked as sophisticated as ever – apart from his barbaric tackle on me, that is.

I turned to Kwan. He appeared to be in shape, although leaner than the last time I saw him, and gaunt in the face.

‘You look like shit, dude,’ said Kwan with the slightest of smiles. ‘Didn’t you get the aid parcel I air-dropped on your house?’

‘You might have missed, dickhead. Never underestimate your incompetency,’ I jabbed back. We looked at one another and then broke into wide smiles, embracing each other with hearty thumps on the back. I pulled back, wincing, as I gently rubbed my ribs. I looked at my friends, the chief perpetrators of a distant summer’s debauchery, and two of my favourite people, with whom I had shared many a forgotten adventure at the University of Pennsylvania four years ago. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

‘What … how? Why are you … what the fuck is going on?’ I spluttered like an old Indian scooter.

‘Quite the gathering this is, isn’t it?’ Aiden said, a devilish smile still playing on his lips.

‘How did you find me?’ I squawked.

‘We’ve friends in low places,’ smirked Aiden, still bubbling with mirth and mischief.

‘And what the fuck are you doing here in the first place?’

At this, Aiden and Kwan-Hoon exchanged ominous glances. ‘It’s a long story, buddy,’ said Aiden. ‘But first, we must celebrate this reunion with a drink or five. And then, once you’re well-armed with some of Rome’s finest, we shall tell you an extraordinary tale.’

I laughed. Aiden always did have a penchant for the theatrical. My fatigue miraculously vanished. ‘Let’s do some drinking!’ I roared in agreement.

I knew all too well that something sinister was afoot, especially with Aiden involved. As a rough rule, the more exuberant Aiden is, the more reason there is for humankind to be afraid. But at that moment, I couldn’t care less. The three intercontinental musketeers were all laughs as we stepped out of the airport to greet the evening sky, into a Roman gospel of our own.

2

KWAN-HOON LEE

7 years ago

A motley group of fatigued Korean soldiers trudged through the mud as sheets of rain washed over them, propelled by the biting cold wind, in the province of Gangwon-do, eastern Korea. The weather had been unforgiving all week, with temperatures at sub-zero. Heavy snow coupled with rain had put a stop to almost all activities in the city, but there was one part of the province where activity never ceased: the Gangwon-do army base. Located in the outskirts of the city, it was the closest South Korean base to the border dividing the two sparring Korean states.

By the time Kwan-Hoon reached his barrack, it was late in the evening and his green-brown uniform was muddy and soaked. He shivered as he took it off and slumped onto his mattress, exhausted. The barracks were long halls with rows of bunk beds down the middle. Walled on all sides, with little ventilation except for a tiny skylight, they perpetually reeked of sweat and the stench of unwashed shoes.

Kwan-Hoon wrinkled his nose, sipped water and reached for the packet of food in his bag. He looked around at his inmates. Apart from a few experienced privates, the rest were the faces of frightened and confused children plucked from civilian life and plunged into war.

‘Military conscription – whoever came up with that concept has to be the biggest idiot Korea has ever seen,’ said Hyon-Su, who was part of Kwan-Hoon’s patrolling squad and had joined the military at the same time Kwan-Hoon had. ‘There’s nothing like an army of unwilling kids shitting themselves to impose safety on our borders. What say you, Private Kwan-Hoon Lee?’

‘It’ll be over soon,’ Kwan-Hoon growled.

‘I beg to differ. Two months seem like an eternity already. The next twenty are not going to be over any faster. When was the last time you heard from your family?’

Kwan-Hoon chewed on his tasteless noodles and replied through clenched teeth, ‘About a month ago.’

‘Do you think they’re not giving us our letters?’

‘Either that, or my once proud parents have forgotten they have a son.’

‘You think we should do something about it?’

‘We would if we could,’ said Kwan with a tired sigh. ‘Look around, Hyon, this is the mad sergeant’s rule. No grievances are filed here.’

The morose patter of raindrops on the barrack walls was punctuated with the indistinct murmuring of the other privates as darkness descended outside.

‘I’m sure it’ll all pass soon,’ conjectured Hyon, sounding miserable. Kwan-Hoon focused on his food, chewing away diligently while the rest of the privates started clearing debris off the floor and readying their beds to prepare for another restless night’s sleep.

Kwan-Hoon was nineteen when he joined the army as a part of the compulsory two-year military service programme that South Korea imposed on all its male citizens. At the age of eighteen, Kwan-Hoon had got admitted to the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. After a year there, he decided to complete his military obligation, taking a two-year break from the university, after which he would return to complete his studies.

Life here was a stark contrast to the American dream. The shovelling of snow, the patrolling, the endless marching, the nauseating food in small greasy packets and the constant fear of the mad sergeant were a far cry from attending lectures in economics in airy classrooms. Frat parties and random hookups became a thing of the past; the only female company here had to be paid for.

All links to normal life were severed. On entry to the military, Kwan’s personal belongings were packed up and sent home. From the uniform and t-shirts to underwear, everything was provided by the army – a clear indication that their asses were now owned by the army overlords. Military life was strenuous – physically and, more so, mentally. Most boys didn’t make it through this abrupt transition without scars, and Kwan-Hoon was no exception.

The first four weeks were spent in basic training, which was where Kwan and Hyon first met. Kwan took an instant liking to him. Both he and Kwan were Gangnam boys through and through, having lived luxurious lives in Seoul, the throbbing heart of Korea. Hyon was a slight boy of nineteen, struggling with the harshness of the intense training regime. But unlike the other kids, Hyon managed to retain a certain refreshing optimism.

Kwan was burlier, with an athletic body after a year on the university rugby team, which helped him cope with most of the rigours of basic training, which involved the use of bayonets, sitting through tear gas, digging trenches, encampment, and frequent sprints around the base. One cold windy morning, fifty young soldiers lined up in neat formation outside their barracks, standing as still as they possibly could, muscles tensed, fists clenched against their sides. Twenty rounds of running along the outer border of the base, through snow, rubble and gusty wind, had exhausted them to the point of blackout. Fifty statuesque human bodies stood in rapt attention, some swaying marginally on their axes, threatening to collapse, but the consequences of passing out were unimaginable. So they fought their fatigue and the weather for as long as possible, praying for this ordeal to end.

A short, stocky, bearded man walked in between the lines with the careless ease of someone who held maximum authority. He surveyed the faces of the soldiers, each one doing his best to avoid eye contact with those dead black eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the back of the head of the private in front. The sergeant walked to the front of the group and turned around to address them. Four of his lackeys, senior privates, stood behind him, sneering at the young recruits.

‘So, which of you ladies has been spouting stories about me fucking prostitutes in the Dungeons?’ the sergeant asked in a deceptively smooth voice. ‘They don’t seem so brave now, do they?’ he casually said to his lackeys behind him. The senior privates sniggered.

‘SPEAK, YOU FAGGOTS!’ he screamed this time. Some of the soldiers flinched violently, others trembled from head to toe, Hyon one of them. Kwan stood beside him, using all his might to battle fatigue, breathing deeply and trying to keep calm, fervently hoping Hyon wouldn’t faint. A gust of wind howled through the camp. The silence that ensued was deafening.

‘I am your god here,’ the sergeant continued in icy tones, moving his eyes over the debilitated troop in front of him. ‘You do what I say. If I command you to drink your own piss, you will do it! If I tell you to eat your own shit, YOU WILL DO IT! I have been lenient with you lot for far too long, and in return you have mocked me. An act of blasphemy against your god. Who but the weakest would stab the very hand that feeds him?’ A savage frown occupied his face, angry lines creasing his forehead.

‘So it is decided. The first person to fall shall be deemed the weakest amongst you wretched lot and he shall face retribution,’ the sergeant declared, frown lines morphing into an evil smile, assured of a victim in the next few minutes.

It didn’t take that long.

The first victim fell in the next few seconds, crumpling to the ground like crushed paper. Kwan hated himself for expelling a sigh of relief. The fallen recruit was a skinny kid of about eighteen. Kwan had never spoken to him, but had observed him a few times in basic training. He didn’t stand a chance in such hostile conditions.

‘And we have a winner!’ the commander crowed in morbid jubilation. ‘Well, a loser, in this case.’ His sycophants laughed openly. Kwan felt sick to his stomach. The sergeant dragged the unfortunate private to the front with a strong muscular hand and heaved him up to a standing position. The kid opened his eyes partially and muttered, ‘I didn’t … I didn’t…’ His voice was hoarse and his face drained of blood.

‘Little boy lost,’ tutted the sergeant.

‘Please … I’m sorry…’ the kid mumbled incoherently while the sergeant appraised him, malice shining in his eyes.

‘There is no place for you in a man’s world,’ the sergeant concluded and gave a vicious back-handed whack across the face of the already unsteady private, who spun a full revolution before hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He lay on the ground motionless, sprawled in an ungainly manner, blood oozing out of his mouth. Hyon shook violently, Kwan stuck out an arm and steadied him, making sure the sergeant didn’t catch it.

‘Someone get his pansy ass out of my sight,’ said the sergeant, spitting with disdain on the unconscious private as he gestured to his lackeys behind him, who promptly sprung to action and dragged away the limp body.

‘Gentlemen, this is all the entertainment we have for tonight, unfortunately,’ the sergeant said in mock apology as he wiped the private’s blood off his hands.

‘The mad sergeant has to