08.1 Dhekunu Mala

Habib rolled through the arch over the stone pathway and parked by the front door. He heard a noise like a wet towel slapped on stone during wash. Habib reached the window and summarily patched his back on the wall just like a soldier wearing a beret. It was 27^th October and a Full Moon night.

Habib peeped into the room. In the dim light of a kerosene lamp, Shakir was making all this noise. A girl lay on her elbows on the mattress inside the mosquito net and he stood behind. Loud noise escaped through the doors and windows of a vacant house in the middle of nowhere in the dead of the night.

An almost expressionless Habib turned to crack a grin on his face. A jaw dropped in a grimace. A grin that could not be noticed by anyone in a haunted place. Habib returned to his bicycle and patched up his face to wear his normal expressionlessness.

He rang the bicycle bell, “Shakir! Habib here!”

Noises stopped. In a while Savari Shakir poked his head out of the window and the girl appeared behind. “I wasn’t expecting you so early!”

“They sent me back,” Footloose Habib said, “I came today. We need to talk.”

“You can cut that polite speech, Habib. Take a seat on the patio. I will join you.”

Seated on the patio behind the house, they got engaged in serious talk and Samara served tea. “Things have changed. The capital is boiling,” he explicated, “they are not happy with the way things are going with the English. No side could agree on anything. They sent me to get things started now,” and when Samara walked out of earshot, Habib carried on to say, “Radio is installed in the capital. I will come in the morning to unpack and install the setup. Other things as well. We use one empty room for a studio.

“I want you to meet our mentor whom you will have to carry on your bike from time to time to secret locations. Where’s the bike?”

“Shall I get it?” asked Shakir.

“Yes, I prefer a ride.”

“I haven’t tried but I can ride.”

Shakir pulled the Moto Guzzi out of the annex. He kicked the lever and it wouldn’t fire up the engine. Habib reached and pulled a few valves, then gave it a try. The motor fired into life turning its rear wheel instantly. This old bike was louder than the tractor he arrived – the wrong idea to go to secret places. Habib dropped a hand to turn the gears to neutral.

“We are coming back soon,” Shakir told Samara.

Habib drove out of the arch with Shakir seated on the rear fairing backseat. Headlight hit the vegetation in the forefront. The roads were full of puddles due to falling rains. In no time they arrived in Medwal and stopped by a house called Fanas.

“Don Raha,” Habib introduced, “Shakir is here to meet you. He’s the representative.”

“You are the son of Savari Osman! How are you?” greeted Don Raha in polite speech, “How’s your father? I met him two years ago.”

“He’s doing very well,” returned Shakir.

“He must be proud of you,” uttered the little man, “Do please convey my regards.”

Don Raha was five feet or so tall, a thin frail man, wearing a sarong and a coif, dressed in a traditional style with a folded scarf tied around his collar to point the tip to the flipside. He was forty-eight and belonged to Vado in the Suvadives. He married an Adduan and resided in Hittadu with his family.

They entered into the woods and drove through a lane, turned into a narrow trail and arrived at Medarre Klee – a vast body of water in the middle of thick jungle; wetland and an open airy space. The moon shone bright and light reflected on the lake. A vista of trees in the distance and antennas over a mile.

Habib enquired, “Have you noticed the road called Areyfé?”

“Yes. I didn’t go in,” replied Shakir.

“There is Fehelé Klee to the north and Arre Klee to the south inside this jungle. When we approach RAF, we will be in Arre Klee wetland much like this. I’ll show you in daylight how to get there. And there is a path to climb Areyfé through the undergrowth. We have to take this route. Take extra precaution to cross the road because nobody goes beyond it and two hundred metres to the clearing. Another six hundred metres to the main units.”

“I have seen pictures from Saeed of the clearing from the rear side,” said Shakir.

“That’s where we are going.”

 

A day later he came with three pieces of twenty feet long bamboo poles with tenons driven into the ends to join them together.

Floors of the house was wood finished on top of a concrete layer. It appeared black however cool. Habib and Shakir unwrapped the items inside the wooden box. Some gear he carried in the luggage as well. They took the processing kits and accessories to the room standing opposite.

Footloose Habib assembled an antenna and screwed up the rods. Shakir carried a roll of cable on his head and a tool kit in his hand. They crossed the creek in hip-deep water to the other side.

Again, in this space where the underbrush was cleared, there stood a cabin some thirty yards from the bank. A cabin built of timber. A nice wooden door in the middle and grey painted windows on the sides. The roof covered of moss and an overhang built around a tree in a blocking position to the door. Tall trees gave shade and ground covered of grass.

Habib looked for a tree ten yards away from the cabin. “Dig a trough six inches deep to lay the cable. I climb this tree. Shove me the pole!”

Habib climbed up the tree and fixed the antenna on the pole and the cable. Raised it high as it could go above the foliage. He tied the pole firmly to the tree and climbed down nailing clips to fasten the cable securely to the tree trunk. They bedded the cable in earth and pulled the line into the cabin through a closet in one of the two rooms. Key to the closet kept on a nail driven under a table. They returned to Etherevari to dry up and have lunch.

“We have to fix this radio setup,” Habib said, “An expensive piece and a recent model. Collins KMW-1 transceiver, speakers, console and power supply. This is precisely what they use in American spy planes.”

They fixed the modules and connected the cables before sunset. Power supplied and the setup hidden in the closet. Habib pulled a chair beside the open closet and sat down to listen to its beeps. He began to call, “Dhekunu Mala calling Malikurva!”

And there was a response, “Malikurva receiving you loud and clear!”

“Don’t you take a break?”

“I was about to leave. How are things?”

“Good. Do you suggest fine tuning?”

“How high did you raise the antenna?”

“Not 100 but guessingly 90 feet.”

“Leave it at that. How do you receive?”

“Reception is brilliant,” replied Habib.

“In that case you are good to go.”

“Alright. I will call on schedule. If there is no update, I suggest shutdown.”

“Okay. Bye, Thirty-One!”

Habib turned to Shakir, “Here is how you turn it off. Bring down the volume and switch off the set. Never leave it on. And with practice, alter the channel.”

He continued, “I’m talking to Saeed. He is on twenty-four-hour watch. We can’t use our names. You will be Thirty-Three. I am Thirty-One. He is Malikurva and we are Dhekunu. You cannot use words like ‘English’ or ‘British’ or ‘RAF’ or ‘Addu’ or ‘Gan’. I will give you a list of things you cannot say instead we use codes. We also have a glossary of RAF terms. I don’t know a thing about that but there is someone who knows.”

“Who is it?” asked Shakir.

“Thirty-Two. I will tell you later,” Habib said, “Now we set up our studio tomorrow.”

By the end of October, they managed to set the studio. A lot of work done in the room by the northeast corner on the floor level. A corner blocked by cardboard to create a tiny darkroom. Interior of this bedroom was dark enough when the windows close. They fixed the apparatus; several tanks, chemicals, stock of photography products and accessories. Installed two batteries to supply power to the developing equipment and finally a padlock on the door.

“What are these?” Shakir pointed.

“Listening devices,” said Habib, “now we bug the magistrate’s office.”

“Adaran!”

“Yes.”