“I’ll be gone for a while. Keep an eye on him. Give him food.”
With that, the Incubus stalks away.
* * *
—
He’s left alone with the Oaf.
But he isn’t really there.
He’s slipping down the cliff face of consciousness once more, toward the roiling sea.
Vicky was the one to tell him about the date of his birth.
The auspicious date. February 16, 1980.
The day of a great solar eclipse.
He was there. He saw it with his own eyes.
Vicky was the one who told him of the demon women who rode naked from the sky, fangs bared, when the blood sacrifice was made, who conferred power on those who had conjured them, or else tore them limb from limb. The boy sat on the hard mountain of his thigh, lost in his words while the long black strands of hair spilled over like night water falling.
“One day,” Vicky whispered in his ear, “you’ll be stronger than them all.”
But he is shriveled.
Shriveled.
Everything is dry and tight and hard.
A barren rock face where water once flowed.
There’s a gap he cannot bridge.
A distance he has crossed and cannot return.
He has sacrificed everything.
Love, adoration, respect, loyalty, companionship.
He has nothing left save his ruthlessness.
A fleeting ruthlessness he cannot own.
He’s back there on that road. That forever road.
Ajay is helping him, carrying the limp body of Gautam Rathore.
Ajay has not yet handed over his gun.
Sunny has not yet punched Neda in the face. The forever face.
Why was she there?
Why do anything?
Time goes both ways.
He’s there on the road.
She’s crying in the road.
He’s angry with her.
He thinks she’s performing grief.
He’ll never leave.
* * *
—
The Oaf returns sometime later carrying a metal tray. A jug of lassi, a clay cup, three parathas.
The Oaf pours the lassi into the clay cup. “Drink.” His voice is grudging, halting, maybe even scared.
“What happened to the guy I was with?” Sunny says.
No response.
“Who are you?” he tries again.
No response. Just those sad, lonely, pinprick eyes.
“You’re not a monster,” Sunny says.
A flash in those eyes. “Shut up.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Sunny goes on, for want of anything real to say.
“Shut up!”
“You’ve proved you’re a big man. Now we can talk. We can use a man like you. A man like you can get rich.”
The Oaf lumbers to his feet, scrambles to the door.
“Hey!” Sunny calls.
The Oaf halts, freezes, half turns.
“Where’s your boss?”
The Oaf bristles. “He’s not my boss.”
“He’ll get you killed.”
“He’s not my boss.”
“Who is he?”
“Stop talking.”
“Do you really think you’ll get away? You know he’ll take the money and run. Even if he doesn’t, how long do you think you’ll last? You’ll be dead soon enough. Worse than dead. Or you could live and get rich. You could help me. You could help set me free.”
The Oaf puts his hands over his ears.
“Shut up!!” he cries.
And with that he’s gone.
* * *
—
The hours tick by.
Night falls, and the Oaf returns.
He sits on the floor near Sunny, sullenly stares.
He seems calmer now.
He and Sunny both.
“Why are you doing this?” Sunny says.
The Oaf finally looks Sunny square in the eye. His voice is flat.
“Because you ruined my life.”
“I ruined your life?”
“You ruined my life,” the Oaf repeats himself.
“How?” Sunny says.
“You took our land away.”
“You’re a farmer.”
“You ruined my life.”
“You got paid.”
“Money didn’t help anything!” the Oaf snaps. “Anyway,” he says after some time, “the money is all gone.”
“The money is gone,” Sunny repeats, testing the words.
“It’s gone.”
“How much did you get?”
“Eight crore.”
Sunny whistles long and slow. “Eight crore rupees. It should have changed your life.”
“It did. It made it worse.”
“Where did it all go?”
* * *
—
The Oaf closes his eyes as he speaks.