As we rode off like that, I became aroused and angry all at once. I could smell her sweat and washed clothes and skin, could feel her hair in my face. I’d never been so close to a woman before. I felt like retching. I kept thinking, why hadn’t she run? If she had any honor at all, she would have resisted me until her dying breath. And I thought of my brother’s widow now, and realized what was in her heart, how she was happy now with my uncle and his sons. A whore! I pictured her sleeping with all of them. Oh, it drove me into such a rage. I became disgusted, betrayed, humiliated. So I went faster on the bike. I accelerated the bike as fast as I could on the road. For the next minutes there was nothing but speed, nothing but her hair in my face and her whimpering and crying in her body and the engine between my legs as I roared this way and that on the potholed roads so at any moment both of us could have flown and smashed our brains out on a rock. The madness passed. I brought the bike to a halt beside a field. Then I told her to get off before it was too late.
3.
Oh, Sunny Wadia, I felt like the most impotent man. At home I cowered in the dark and I dreamed of the girl on the bike, felt her hair, the stink of her sweat, the sourness of her breath on mine. I could clamp my teeth down and feel them tearing into her skin, could see in my mind’s eye her dupatta stuffed inside her mouth as I dragged her into the field and sprayed my seed. Why had I let her go, why hadn’t I taken what was mine? I was such a weakling, a coward, even though I had it all, a gun, a bike. No, no. I was in such turmoil, Sunny Wadia. I kept going out again and again, roaming the land, looking for something. Then I made a mistake. I was riding around on my bike when I spotted another girl. She was already running, dressed strangely in revealing clothing. She had no shame. I didn’t realize it at first, but she was one of those rich girls you see in the movies and in Delhi. Running for fun, like rich people do. It was stupid of her, running on the streets so far from home. Maybe she thought being rich would make her safe.
Well, I followed her. I kept a distance and followed her a long time, until she went through an isolated spot, and when she did I accelerated and pulled the bike up ahead of her, and then I smiled and said, “Hello, sister.” Something in that smile must have scared her, because she slapped me hard in the face and started running away through waste ground where my bike wouldn’t go. I jumped off and chased her on foot, to teach her a lesson for striking me, but she was too fast, she escaped to a busy road. And from there I could do nothing. She must have had a good memory, because the cops came to pick me up soon enough. They took me to the station house and beat me very badly. But when the girl and her father came to the station, they must have felt bad for me, seeing all the bruises and cuts on my face, because she came to my defense. She told them I had simply smiled at her, and she had hit me herself. The case against me fell apart and I was released.
But when I returned home later that day, I found more cops waiting for me. My uncle was smirking as they took me. I said nothing, only glared back. I went with them quietly, did as I was told. I climbed in the back of their Gypsy, remarked to them how fine and stain-free the upholstery was, though they didn’t get the joke. As we drove, the cops either side took hold of my hands and shoulders and the one in front placed a jute sack over my head. Everything went dark, and we drove around for a long time, here and there. I expected I would be taken out and beaten or shot; I thought this would be the end for me. Finally we arrived in a compound and I was led out and taken inside a room. Only there was the sack removed.
Rather than being tortured, I found myself sitting alone in some police camp office, a fine wooden desk before me. Staring at me from high on the wall ahead was the painted portrait of a lady officer in uniform. The portrait was crude, but even so, I could see she was very upright and moral and very beautiful. I knew from the insignia she was an SP, and on her desk I saw the name: Superintendent of Police Sukanya Sarkar. I’d never seen a lady SP before, much less sat before the portrait of one. After a long wait the door beside the desk opened and out walked the living version. Oh, Sunny Wadia, the blood flowed through me. She looked so powerful in her uniform, so stern and unforgiving, so unlike all those other girls. I can tell you the feeling in my heart. Violent and strong. I watched her closely as she sat down at her desk, her womanly nature encased in khaki. For a long time she didn’t look at me, she acted as if I were not there, and I waited, happy to play my part in this game. Then she picked up what I realized was my wallet and looked through my identity cards. She said, “You’re a bad man, Sunil Rastogi.” It pleased me to hear my name on her lips. I said, “Yes, sir, I am.” “Madam,” she corrected me, with a withering eye. “Yes, madam-sir,” I replied. She asked if I knew why I was there and not in the lockup, where a chain snatcher belongs. I shook my head. She said, “Because you work for me now.” “Yes, madam-sir, yes!” Such music to my ears!