Dec 01, 2023
Dec 01, 2023
(An Afghan Winter Continued)
Zeenat stepped out of the room, turned and left.
I looked out of the window. It had started to snow. Winter had come to Kabul. I thought back to Wendell’s question. I hadn’t been exactly truthful with the detective. In my view there were in fact three people who could be suspected. Who could have reasons to celebrate were Michael to die.
Suspect No. 1. Kurt Kainzner, Country Director of Development Business. The apple-cheeked German clearly disliked Michael. According to Mansour, Michael had been trying to shut down Kainzner’s office. There had also been personal allegations made against Kurt. What those allegations were, I did not know, but perhaps they were serious enough for Kurt to want Michael out of the way. I needed to find out what they were. I could have asked Richard Brent, who knew what the problem was, but he was away in Kandahar. I was due to make a trip to Mazar-e Sharif in any case. My boss in Dubai wanted a couple of features on the northern part of Afghanistan. Development-related stories. It would be an opportunity to try to discover the truth of the allegations Michael had made against Kainzner.
Suspect No. 2. Mansour Hashimi alias Shrek. Michael was talking to senior people in the military to put pressure on the Afghan government to try to shut down the Afghan Media Group. To take away their media licence. With Michael’s death, the heat would come off the closure of both these operations. Was this reason enough to kill? Mansour considered Michael to be an enemy. That evening when he was looking for me, I had seen him emerge from a room on the other side of the corridor. Michael’s room. He said he had gone in by mistake. Or did he go in deliberately to leave a timed explosive underneath the bed? And then have the presence of mind to invent a story when he’d seen me come out of my room. But was the explosion caused by a timed device? Wendell would have this information in a matter of days.
Suspect No. 3. The man called Greg who’d threatened that he would get even with Michael. It was too early to say whether he was a plausible suspect, but he had certainly issued a threat. Zeenat had been present during the course of that argument and would clearly be aware of the reason why Greg had been enraged. Greg, too, had been spotted by Zeenat coming out of Michael’s room. Having a pee, or so he claimed. Perhaps he was the one who planted the bomb. As a military man, he would have access to ammunition and explosives. I needed to talk to Zeenat to check if she was okay and for her to shed light on some of my suppositions. What did Michael have against Kainzner and Mansour? Perhaps Michael had confided in her.
* * *
‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’
I hesitated, then said: ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Yes, sure.’ There was a quiet curiosity in her voice.
‘Did Michael ever mention Kurt Kainzner to you?’
‘The red-faced German?’
‘He didn’t like him.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘But Michael didn’t like many people, so I never asked him why.’
‘Did he tell you that he wanted Development Business, the organisation that Kurt heads, to be shut down?
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never heard about it.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Further question. Did he ever mention someone by the name of Mansour Hashimi?’
‘Can’t say that I’ve heard that name.’ She paused. ‘Michael was very secretive about his work. Careless talk cost lives, he said. Who is this … this Hashimi?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You do know the reasons for that argument with Greg?’
‘He sounded angry enough,’ I said, probing.
‘Yes, and I know I called him a psycho. I’ll tell you about it when we meet.’
Further thoughts on Suspect No. 3 would have to await my meeting with Zeenat. Clearly she didn’t want to discuss the matter over the phone. I couldn’t have pushed her more than I did. She needed time to recover from Michael’s death to be able to talk at all. As regards Suspects Nos. 1 and 2, namely Mansour and Kainzner, soon I would be in close proximity with both of them. The following day I was scheduled to fly with Mansour to Mazar-e Sharif. A meeting with the governor of the province was set up for the morning, and after that was finished, I would go to see Kainzner.
Angry Governor, Anxious German
Chapter 12 of An Afghan Winter
Suspect No. 1. Kurt Kainzner, Country Director of Development Business.
Motive: Michael was making efforts to shut down the operations of Development Business. Possibly something to do with some hanky panky on the part of Kainzner? Not only would Development Business have to close down its operations, and Kurt be thrown out of his job, but there would be possible repercussions on his future career. A good enough motive to kill someone! Not really. But then I had seen a look of pure hatred in his eyes when the German had first spoken of Michael at Dubai airport. A lead worth chasing, at any rate.
Opportunity: Kainzner had been in the Aram guest house till the day before the blast. He’d left in time to have an alibi that he wasn’t there at the time. On the other hand, if it was a remote-controlled device, he could have easily planted it in Michael’s room, which wasn’t far from his own. The keys of the guests lay hanging at reception for anyone to pick up, enter a room, hide a device under the bed and quickly exit.
I would have an opportunity to meet Kainzner soon.
* * *
A small aircraft took Mansour and me to Mazar-e Sharif. Barely twenty seats, half a dozen or so seatbelts dysfunctional, but we flew nevertheless. Inshallah Airlines, set up only recently, had apparently purchased low-cost, second-hand aeroplanes from a neighbouring former Soviet-bloc country.
We’d been lucky to find seats on the packed plane. The alternative would have been a journey by road through magnificent terrain but extremely arduous during these winter months. The flight was a short one; by the time tea and chapalli kebab had been served, the pilot was preparing to descend.
A slight bump. We hit the ground. A smaller airport than the one in Kabul, and further outside the city.
A young, prematurely bald man, whom I judged to be in his early thirties, stood outside the terminal building.
‘Mansour jan.’ The man and Mansour hugged, and kissed briefly.
‘Daud Inayat.’ He put forward his hand, which I shook. ‘Welcome to Mazar. A historical city.’
‘Don’t start giving Anzan a lesson, now,’ Mansour said.
Clearly, Daud wasn’t your run-of-the-mill driver. The car and driver had been loaned to us for the duration of our stay by one of Mansour’s relatives, who had a construction business in the city. In Mazar there were more open spaces and evidence of better organisation than in the capital. Turbaned men dragged flat carts with wooden wheels piled high with goods and material. Young, healthy horses drew carriages that had six or seven people crammed into them. Men and horses plodded along the main streets, seemingly undisturbed by the traffic. Excessively fair Afghans, some with grey and blue eyes, passed us by on the roads. The odd character with blond hair. Asiatic–Chinese-looking Hazaras in large numbers.
‘Let’s go straight to Governor Khurram’s house,’ Mansour said. ‘We’ll be early, but there is nothing else to do so we may as well.’ The big man still hadn’t removed some ear muffs he wore to ward off the morning’s minus temperatures in Kabul; they made him look yet more Shrekish.
‘Makes sense.’ I nodded.
From a distance, the governor’s residence gave the impression of a petite palace. Spacious gardens surrounded it on all sides. We walked a fair distance before we reached the main building, and through an ornately carved door entered a huge hall. Around sixty people waited inside, some sitting on chairs and sofas, while others squatted on the floor. A Western-attired young man in his mid-twenties who seemed to be in a position of authority stood close to the door that led to the governor’s inner office. Mansour spoke to him to see if we could secure an appointment earlier than had been scheduled. Minutes later we were permitted to pass through another hall and were finally ushered into the innermost chamber where the governor met people.
Smiling broadly, Mansour whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve told him that you are somehow connected to the Al Jazeera network.’
We entered a wood-panelled sitting room with a large throne-like settee, on which Governor Khurram, a well-built man with greying hair, was seated. Twenty-odd armchairs circled the settee. Expensive, bright gold and yellow Afghan carpets spread on a marble floor made you watch your tread.
Clean-shaven Khurram wore expensive pointed leather shoes and was immaculately dressed in Western attire. A former commander – Mansour had informed me – but certainly not your typical warlord. A Mujahideen would look a bit of a rough character, I imagined, but the man who was seated before us was urbane with nothing remotely thuggish about him.
The governor waved his hand to indicate some sofas close by, where Mansour and I might be seated.
‘I understand you are a journalist,’ he said, addressing me, ‘from Al Jazeera?’
‘And you want to write about development in this province. I’ll do my best to help you, but I don’t have much time.’
‘We saw many people waiting outside, governor,’ I said. ‘We won’t take up too much of your time.’
‘Oh, there are few people today.’ Khurram smiled, revealing a set of bad teeth, several of which were gold-capped. ‘That hall has the capacity to seat five hundred people. Yesterday there were three hundred people. A strategic planning workshop.’ He reeled out developmental facts and figures like a pupil who’s memorised a multiplication table.
I took notes. In all that verbiage I managed to find only a few good sound bites to pepper all the dry statistics
‘What’s the main challenge that you see?’ I asked.
‘The main challenge,’ repeated the governor, momentarily at a loss for words. ‘Well, the main challenge is, of course, money. We are getting money, but it’s not enough. We need more money. And some of the charities here are up to no good.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Have you heard of Development Business?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Kurt Kainzner’s charity.
‘Let me tell you that this is one charity that is clearly caught up in moral corruption,’ Governor Khurram said.
Moral corruption. Was Kainzner taking bribes? Or giving bribes? How was his brand of corruption different? Did the use of the qualifying adjective ‘moral’ mean anything? Or was this simply the Afghan tendency for overstatement.
‘I will not tolerate this,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Believe me, I will not tolerate it. The Americans have one month to complete their investigations and then this place must be shut down.’ He pounded a side-table. A cup and saucer placed on it shivered, but miraculously didn’t fall.
Mansour and I looked at each other, nonplussed.
‘I will not tolerate this,’ General Khurram shouted again, like a King Lear in anguish, and the sound of his voice reverberated in the chamber.
‘Can I quote you on this – this Development Business scandal?’ I used the word ‘scandal’ deliberately, trying to pump further information from him.
‘Just wait an additional two weeks and then quote me all you like. I cannot tolerate immorality.’
The veneer of civilised behaviour had slipped, and I willed him to rage on for a bit, expanding on what he meant, but I was disappointed. Recovering his sobriety within a matter of seconds, his smile and good cheer were back as if he’d expelled something stuck in his throat. He picked up some kishmish from a plate of dried fruit kept on the table between us, and then pushed the plate towards us. ‘You see, I have been a general and I cannot accept something like this.’ He turned to Mansour. ‘You know, don’t you? I fought against the Russians for many years.’
Mansour’s broad smile leaked through an attempted poker face; a slight sneer, but part acceptance of the governor’s self-praise.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Well, then you also know that someone like me knows what this country needs,’ remarked Khurram, who was clearly not given to modesty. ‘And if I know what the country needs, I certainly know what this province needs.’ He turned to a bearded man who sat next to him and sniggered. ‘Not like some of those imported Afghans who were driving taxis in the countries they escaped to.’
‘They were selling chips in New York, or cinema tickets,’ laughed the bearded man scornfully, ‘and now they have returned to become ministers.’
‘Tashakor,’ said the governor. ‘Thank you. This is my point. On what basis do they claim to represent Afghanistan?’
We remained silent.
‘I know I shouldn’t have said that,’ Khurram continued, taking our silence as evidence of our disapproval, ‘but I can’t help speaking the truth.’ He pushed the plate of dried fruits further towards us. ‘Now is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?’
This was a signal that our meeting had come to an end. The governor left the settee and came to the door to see us off. Outside, the young man who had helped us to gain entry was now ready to escort a large group of farmers inside.
We walked up the long, cobbled pathway towards the main gate of the building. From the garden forlorn-looking cement peacocks and cranes stared at us.
‘Was this was enough for you?’ Mansour said.
‘Two articles,’ I said. Enough to shut my employer’s mouth for two weeks. ‘A piece on development, a profile of the governor.’
Our car pulled up outside a large, sprawling bungalow built in the ostentatious but tasteless Pakistani Peshawari style.
‘I’ll leave the car with you,’ Mansour said. ‘My relatives will take care of me. Say my hello to Kainzner.’
We stopped at the famous Blue Mosque, from which the city had got its name. Its blue stone shone like a topaz in the winter sun; white pigeons circled the dome. As I moved away from the street, the sounds of traffic faded and momentarily I was in a tranquil, soothing space. After interviews, it often benefited me to take a walk in a garden or quiet space. This helped me to develop perspective. Mind uncluttered, I began to think of my next visit.
There were two reasons why I wanted to meet Kainzner. First, because I’d been asked by my boss to write up a couple of pieces about how development was changing the face of Northern Afghanistan. But now, since my arrival in this country, there was a second, more important reason why I wished to meet Kainzner.
Michael had wanted to shut down the operations of Development Business. Why? Was this a sufficient reason for Kainzner to decide to get rid of Michael? Could the baby-faced German possibly be involved in my friend’s death? And could I possibly discover something during my visit? Governor Khurram’s remarks supported Michael’s position and added fuel to my curiosity. If he was in any way involved in Michael's death, I'd do my best to bring it to light.
I took some grain from a vendor and fed the pigeons. My mind in repose, I was ready to pay a visit to Kainzner.
‘What do you think of the mosque, sir?’ Daud said, as I got into the car beside him.
I waited for the lesson Mansour had asked him not to give me.
‘There are many legends associated this mosque, sir. It is said, for instance, that the tomb was covered with earth to escape the ravages of Genghis Khan in 1220.’
I was impressed by his brevity and ashamed by my presumptuousness.
I stared at the now fast-receding mosque. A mountain of mud would need to be created to cover the monument.
‘Thanks,’ I said, surprised by the preciseness of the information. ‘For how long did it remain like that?’
‘Late fifteenth century.’ Daud threw some saunf into his mouth – some Afghans had acquired the habit of chewing fennel seeds as a mouth-freshener during their stay in Pakistan and India. ‘I’m a postgraduate in history, sir. I know my dates. I have to drive this car to earn a living.’
Kainzner’s visiting card had one side printed in English and the other in Dari. It wasn’t difficult to find the garish two-storey building that looked like a wedding cake.
Two Hazara boys stood chatting inside the security box outside the building. They let me in after a cursory search. A young boy with slanted eyes wearing shalwar kameez sat at reception. He looked like he could be a cousin of the guards at the entrance. I was asked to wait for a few moments, while he spoke to someone on the intercom, and soon yet another smooth-skinned boy emerged, this fellow attired in suit and tie. He could have been the twin of the boy who sat at reception. I shook my head in wonder, and followed the suited boy, who had introduced himself as Rahim. We walked through a long corridor, past offices where I could see young Afghans hunched over computer keyboards, till we came to a shut door that had Kurt Kainzner’s nameplate outside. Here, the boy left me.
‘Hi, how are you?’ Kainzner’s welcome was below room temperature, given the earlier enthusiasm he displayed that I should visit. ‘Everything all right in Kabul?’
He knew perfectly well what had happened to Michael. News of the explosion and the death of an American was widely reported in the local media, but Kainzner never made a secret of his dislike for Michael, and so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t express any regret. I was angered by his indifference, despite the troubles he might have experienced with Michael.
‘No further explosions,’ I said sarcastically. ‘How are things here?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid,’ Kainzner said, and seeing my puzzled expression, added, ‘I don’t mean from the security point of view. That’s the least of my concerns.’
‘And what are your concerns?’
‘None of your concern, or business,’ Kainzner responded rudely, a hint of hysteria in his voice. Recovering himself, he added, ‘I don’t mean to be impolite. It’s just that … I have so many things on my mind right now.’ He buried his face in his hands.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really,’ said the German, lifting his face, his expression strained and guilty, as if he was a truant schoolboy, and I was a schoolmaster who had caught him out in an act of delinquency. He fell silent for a few moments, before saying, ‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’ He picked up the phone and asked someone to send tea.
I reckoned that I had probably arrived at the wrong time. My journalistic instincts awakened, I remained seated. The wrong time sometimes meant the right time. Kainzner was clearly reluctant to continue our conversation. He didn’t know how to bring it to an end without repeating rudeness. He threw some pamphlets in my direction and provided me with an overview of development work that his agency was carrying out in the province.
There was a knock on the door and a young boy entered carrying two cups of tea with a few small lamb samosas on a plate.
Kainzner sipped his tea, and said, ‘We’re also constructing public toilets for women.’
‘Toilets for women?’ I injected a note of jocularity in my voice. ‘Were these too banned by the Taliban?’ I was trying to perk Kainzner up.
‘In a way, yes,’ Kainzner said, with a restrained smile. ‘You’ll find that in all the towns there are only public toilets for men.’ He permitted himself a small smile that soon vanished. ‘It’s true that there are fewer women on the streets, but ...’
‘Everyone needs to take a piss,’ I finished for him.
‘Read through what I’ve given you,’ he said. ‘Call me if you have any questions.’ He looked at his watch, his expression anxious. Kainzner was desperate for me to go away, and here I hadn’t even begun to dig around the perimeter. I needed to make the most of this visit.
So I said, ‘I understand you’re under the close scrutiny of the government here.’
My direct approach threw him.
‘Where did you hear that?’ Kainzner looked shocked, but also alert. ‘What did you hear? And from whom?’
‘I met with the governor an hour ago,’ I explained, watching his expression carefully. ‘He mentioned your organisation. Didn’t sound very happy.’
‘What exactly did he say?’ Kainzner leaned across the table, all defences down, his voice hoarse and anxiety-ridden.
‘Moral, moral … I’m trying to remember,’ I mumbled, as if I had marbles in my mouth, and then flung out: ‘Is something immoral going on here?’
He fell back in his chair as if he had been physically assaulted, his face pale and guilty as hell. I didn’t know what he’d done, but it was clear that it was something he wouldn’t write to the Pope about.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Kainzner said, as he brought himself forward.
Then he clammed up, as if he had suddenly remembered that I was after all a journalist. His gaunt expression returned, almost begging me to leave. He wiped his sweat-soaked brow, evidence in the cool air-conditioned room of his hyper-tense mind. ‘I’m sorry, Anzan, but I have an important meeting in a few minutes.’
Kainzner was in crisis, barely managing to hold himself together. It wasn’t simply that he’d lost his booming manner of speech, or that he’d baggy pouches under his eyes that indicated a lack of sleep or too much drink – it was his manner and demeanour. The Kainzner who stood before me now was a shadow of his former self, someone you could scare by a sneeze. But I wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for him. I hadn't forgotten the German’s exhibition of glee over the suffering of Afghan children. And I remembered how super-polite Karim considered him to be ‘a bad man’. No doubt for good reason. There was something odd about Kainzner’s set-up, but for the moment the clues in this cryptic crossword were not forming any pattern. As I stepped out of the building and walked across to where the yellow taxi was waiting, a black Mercedes drew up next to the main gate. I reckoned it would be the impending visitor that had made Kainzner so anxious. I turned around, and saw a familiar, tall dark American, dressed in a trench coat, step out of the car.
This was getting more than interesting.
Reserved for Smooth Skin and Slanted Eyes
Chapter 13 of An Afghan Winter
The meeting with Kainzner finished far earlier than I’d expected. The history student lay slumped in a sleeping position inside the vehicle. I gently shook him awake.
‘Daud jan,’ I said, taking on the Afghan mode of address. ‘Is is possible to visit Balkh?’
‘The mother-of-all-cities,’ he said. ‘Mushkil neest. Not a problem.’
As the Toyota Land Cruiser sped along the freshly laid-out roads, the student-turned-driver pointed out bullet marks and other small tell-tale signs of the recent past: violence laden with further violence. We sped past the killing fields where the Taliban had massacred the Hazaras a few years previously. The ancient city lay covered in mud that ironically both hid and protected it. The mud enabled us to ride the car to the very top.
Daud said: ‘This office you went to, sir … “Business Development” …’
‘Development Business,’ I corrected.
‘They have been doing good work in the city.’
‘So I hear.’
I sensed he was fishing for information, and could only guess that he wanted a job with the organisation, and assumed that I had contacts and could help. Kainzner and I weren’t friends, and besides, the future of this charity itself lay in doubt, so I remained quiet. We stepped out of the car and stood there enjoying the commanding view. There was so much history buried here, so much culture, but the Taliban wanted to destroy everything. How could Islam have existed before Islam?
On the way back, halfway from Mazar, Daud stopped the car before a dirt track turning in from the main road.
‘You have interest in ancient monuments?’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘An old monument. Many Afghans from neighbouring villages make picnic there.’
We travelled a few kilometres on broken-down country roads. At a distance stood half a dozen thick pillars of what was most certainly an ancient monument or building of some kind. We walked past green fields smelling of cannabis to reach the site. The structure was ancient, but a modern metal contraption now provided a temporary roof and also gave support to two of the pillars. The pillars were brown, but a middle-aged, black-bearded caretaker told us that the stone that lay beneath the surface of the mud was blue, and he took us to a corner where the mud had been scraped off. Indeed, we could then see the blue stone, not unlike the colour of the stone used in Mazar’s Blue Mosque. The caretaker was now whispering to Daud, even though there was no one in the vicinity for miles in any direction.
‘It appears,’ Daud said, ‘that the structure was a pre-Islamic temple.’
As I went around the monument searching for clues, I finally came to a place where the mud was fairly thin on the ground. There I was able to spot the faint outlines of figures beneath the mud, which could certainly be figures representing stories from the life of Buddha. This was history and religion waiting to be revealed by clever and careful removal of the mud by an experienced hand. With Daud beside me to translate, the bearded caretaker whispered in a confiding tone that the decision to leave the monument covered with mud was deliberate. It was best not to display its truth, for it might provoke the Taliban who might then attempt to destroy it. His simple words sent my heart hammering. I paced around the monument trying to recover my composure, but it was not to be. Fury possessed me. At that moment I wished I could be part of a combat unit fighting them.
And then the pain started. Tears bubbled up and threatened to creep into the corners of my eyes. And then I could not stop them from falling. I sat on the marbled floor and wept with anger and sorrow, conscious of the quiet presence of Daud and the caretaker, but unable to hide the depth of my feelings. These animals …
Anger subsided and in its place a cocktail of complex emotions arose: relief that this temple was secure, fear that its existence was somehow endangered, and anger that there were people who would not hesitate to demolish it.
At the time the Taliban destroyed the Bamiyan Buddhas, I was a student in England. There was worldwide condemnation of the destruction, but it hadn’t been enough to assuage my feelings. I was upset for days, unable to sleep properly at nights. A cold rage numbed the upper part of my brain for weeks. Angered by the passivity of the international Buddhist response, I couldn’t bear anymore to listen to exhortations from the Dalai Lama for us to view those vandals with a forgiving quietness. Would Christendom have sat silently had the Basilica of St Peter been brought down? Would any other world religion have reacted with such forbearance and civility in the wake of such an assault on its heritage? No mosques were attacked in retaliation anywhere. Would Christians, Moslems, Jews or even Hindus have suffered in such silence?
* * *
‘What is the reason, sir,’ Daud said, ‘that you visited the offices of Development Business?’
‘I’m a journalist, Daud.’ I kept my answer brief, sensing he wanted me to disclose how well I knew the organisation. I couldn’t help him find a job and didn’t want to raise expectations.
He turned the Toyota back towards the new highway built with assistance from the Japanese.
‘Do you know the head?’ he asked.
‘Kurt Kainzner. Yes, I know him. It was him that I had gone to meet.’
‘Do you know him well?’ he persisted.
‘Any particular reason why you ask?’
‘Aside from my studies in history and my computer qualifications, I can speak reasonable English.’
This was certainly true.
‘These kinds of organisations always need people like that,’ he continued.
A blown-up, now rusted Russian tank stood in the field beside the highway like an avant-garde installation in an art gallery.
‘I can’t help you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know Kainzner well enough, but you should apply.’
‘You don’t understand, sir,’ he said. ‘‘I’m glad to hear he’s not a friend. I’ve already applied.’
‘And I wasn’t selected.’ Daud paused. ‘It’s not that I wasn’t deserving.’
‘That man Kainzner,’ he said, a mixture of anger and contempt clouding his face –
his earlier hesitation had disappeared now he knew that Kurt and I were not closely associated. He added with some measure of violence, ‘This person, he deserves to be in jail.’
He wouldn’t say more when I prodded him further, but merely smiled.
‘Rehney do, sir,’ he said. ‘Leave it, please.’
That night, tossing and turning on the sagging mattress, in a room that was the best that Mazar had to offer by way of hotel accommodation, I realised what had been bothering me about my visit to Kainzner’s office. I understood why Daud turned tongue-tied, why Karim had said that Kainzner was not a good man. The entire staff at the office of Development Business consisted of young, smooth-skinned boys with slanted eyes: the two security guards at the gate, the receptionist, the suited executive, the boys hunched up over computer consoles, and even the tea boy who had brought in the snacks. All Hazaras. Helping the youth? Helping a minority community? Affirmative action in progress? Or something else entirely?
More by : Rajesh Talwar