On a moonless night a few days later, with many bottles of daru inside them, with charas in their blood, I laid out the plan I had already made, the stretch of road, the precise method. I would play lookout; when the right vehicle was coming along I would signal and they would throw a piece of metal into the road, beneath the wheels, forcing the car to stop. Then we would hold them up, take all their things, and vanish into the night. They cried, “Let’s do it! Let’s do it!” Someone went to fetch some engine grease, then we raced away on our bikes to the country road, hid the bikes in the fields a little away, stripped ourselves down to baniyan and chaddi, and covered our bodies in that grease. I collected their wallets and identity cards and kept them in a sack for safekeeping, and when the transformation was complete, I plied them with even more liquor and charas, and they howled and cried and danced around in the road, taking on the manner of demons. I positioned myself a little farther along the road, sober, my wits sharp, marveling at the weakness of men. Several cars went by until I finally saw the right one, packed full of plump women and weak-looking men. I flashed a light three times at my partners and the metal was thrown into the road under the coming car. As it screeched to a halt, my men pounced. They surrounded the car as the occupants screamed. Metal rods and bats smashed at the car and its windows, clawing hands ripped out the men and women jammed inside. The fear they showed intoxicated my men further. One of the gang picked up a heavy rock and smashed it into a woman’s skull. When one of the men cried out and tried to save her, another of my men began to beat this fellow to a pulp, and incited by the violence and screaming, the rest followed suit. Sunny Wadia, they wouldn’t stop. It was a frenzy of metal and eyes and teeth. They slit the throats of the men, stabbed them in the eyes and the stomach, ripped off their clothes. The women they dragged into the fields and raped before strangling them and crushing their heads. When it was done, there was no one left alive. And now all my men looked at one another in a daze. They stumbled around in silence awhile, wiping at the grease and the blood, looting the bodies and the car, before retrieving their bikes and riding away.
7.
The frenzy didn’t take me by surprise. I knew what rested in the hearts of all men. So in the morning I woke and stepped outside and took in the cool spring sun, went to eat an omelet at the nearby cart, watched the local boys throwing firecrackers at stray dogs. Then I called the ASP. But before I could give him the good news, Madam-Sir snatched the phone from him and began abusing me in the harshest words. It was already all over the news. She went on and on. I had failed, the gang had been more brutal than ever, they had killed everyone, left no survivors, you did not do your job. But, madam-sir, I said. I was there. She was silent awhile. “You were there?” she said. “I was lookout, madam-sir.” “Then this is your fault, Sunil Rastogi. Why didn’t you call me?” I told her I only got to know in the last moment and I had to give my phone away. “This is bad,” she said, “this is very bad. Now let me think. Call me back in one hour.” She hung up and I waited, and I did as she asked. Now she wanted me to tell her everything, who they were, how I managed to infiltrate them. I had anticipated the questions. I hewed close to the truth. I told her it was a gang of criminals, gamblers, and drug addicts who passed themselves off as a secret tribe to strike fear into the souls of men. She listened silently while I talked; she seemed skeptical. She said, “They have become more brutal. The next time the gang decides to strike, call me, however you can, and we will ambush them.” She gave me her private number. “What about me?” I asked. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I will keep you safe.” I wanted to believe her. I wanted to be her loyal dog, I daydreamed scenes of her taking vengeance against this vile gang, gun in hand, and setting me free.
8.
But I knew I wasn’t safe. And now I was in a quandary. If my gang committed a crime again, and I didn’t give them over to her, she would come after me. And if I gave them up, I would be implicated too. What if I was to do nothing? What if they never struck again, and I simply ran away? This was the sensible thing, Sunny Wadia. But what then for Madam-Sir? She would not solve the case. I only wanted her to be happy. So I made my choice. I went to meet my gang that day. I discovered them overwhelmed by what they had done. The news kept pouring in. The Hindi channels showed gruesome cartoon reenactments on TV. My men had taken to drinking hard to live with their memories. I sat with them at a back table of a gambling den, our secret between us, and I watched them drink more and more. Slowly through the drink they began to speak, slur, curse, recount their excitement, the feelings of power they had had. The police, the TV said, had no leads, none at all, and I smiled at that, because it meant Madam-Sir was looking out for me, and my men smiled at that, because it meant they were free. They all agreed, in whispered words, to lie low for some time, a week or so . . .