14.
By the next morning, word was out. The dreaded Chaddi Baniyan gang had surfaced once again, killing the notorious Shiv Kumar. The guards, wife, and children confirmed one another’s account. There had been five at least, they said. Horrors in dark grease, their eyes glowing in the night. It was all anyone talked about. The fear in the town was extraordinary. The whole place buzzed with demonic energy. The killers were described in extreme terms. They were not human. Their eyes glowed red and their fingers were claws. Word then leaked out that Kumar’s wife had bitten one of the monsters. Everyone said she would become infected by his blood, that she would turn into one of them now. I had to laugh at their stupidity.
I returned to Ajit Singh’s headquarters after dark. I slunk in, in the shadows, to hear the fear and terror in the gang members. “Did you hear? Did you hear?” they cried. “The Chaddi Baniyan gang is here! They got to Shiv Kumar first! But who knows who they’ll target next?!”
As I slipped farther inside, I heard Ajit Singh’s unhappy voice, raging against the fool who had done this thing! Shiv Kumar was supposed to die in public, his death a political message, a statement of Ajit Singh’s power and intent, not a ghost story to frighten the common man.
“What if,” I said, stepping into the light, “the common man thinks the dreaded Chaddi Baniyan gang works for you?” At that I held up my hand and unwound the bandage to show the deep bite marks. “She put up more of a fight than the men.” I laughed.
“Who are you?” Ajit Singh finally said, his voice much altered by fear.
“My true name is Sunil Rastogi,” I replied. “My gang lurks in the shadows and lives for death.” As soon as I said this, the room fell silent, these hardened expressions changed, they backed away from me. It felt good, Sunny Wadia, to be given the respect I deserved.
Barely saving face in front of his own men, Ajit Singh thanked me profusely for what I had done. Nonetheless, he urged me to leave; the cops would be coming down hard on everyone. He said activities would cease for a while, I would have to lie low, there would be nothing to entertain a man like me. “I make my own entertainment,” I replied, reveling in his groveling plea. Then one of his aides whispered something in his ear. They conferred for some time, casting sharp glances my way. When they were done, Ajit Singh said he had a new proposal that he would reveal alone, in one hour. “Reveal it now,” I replied. He said he must speak with someone more important than he, and I would have to wait. I was careful not to overplay my hand, so I agreed. I passed that next hour smoking blissfully as I waited, while the eyes of Ajit Singh’s men fell on me from afar, like the delicate rays of sun on a winter’s afternoon.
When the hour had passed, I was taken to Ajit Singh’s private room, and he told me this: in the north of the state, within the Terai forests that border Nepal, there was the shadowy dera of a great and powerful man who had heard my story, and who now wished to meet me.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“His name,” Ajit Singh replied, his voice falling to a whisper, even though there was no one else in the room, “is Himmatgiri. He is a warlord, and his knowledge of the dark arts, kala jadoo, is stronger than any man alive.”
Kala jadoo? Black magic? I had to stifle a laugh at this. There was no black magic in the world, only the actions of men. So here was a trickster hiding in the woods, preying on the idiocy of stupid men. To be clear, I was laughing at the foolishness of men like Ajit Singh. But this Himmatgiri I liked the sound of very much. To Ajit Singh’s relief, I said I would be glad to journey to this man and take the measure of him. By midnight, I was gone.
15.
So there I was, Sunny Wadia, at the pinnacle of my career, passed from gang to gang like an idol, fed and venerated and feared. My reputation always preceding me. Often no one would talk, only stare from afar, or sneak little glances, as if they couldn’t quite believe who I was and what I’d done. And who was I anyway? A killer? A demon? At heart I was a young man, wronged many times, who had merely survived. I thought of my past deeds, my many scrapes, and of Madam-Sir on this journey of mine. I wondered what had become of her. But as I got closer to my destination, all such thoughts began to fade. I began to wonder about this Himmatgiri fellow instead. Who was he, exactly? What had he done? My transporters gave conflicting reports, were often vague. Sometimes they cringed at the name, turned to look here and there as if there were ears in the room. Others murmured that he was a great rishi, a sage, or the reincarnation of past warrior saints. Only once or twice did a goon, surly, cynical, or brave, laugh and declare this Himmatgiri was a fraud, or that he didn’t even exist at all, and this kind of talk triggered intense debate. How do you know? Isn’t it obvious? How can you say such a thing? Be careful when you go to sleep at night. Himmatgiri will come for you. I asked the question: “What does he look like?” “He’s a giant,” they said. With dark hair falling in strings from his high forehead, animal eyes, and rings glistening from his fingers. He carries an ax the size of a man. No, he carries a sword. No, he carries nothing, for no mortal weapon can touch him. I laughed myself at that one! They fell silent around me. It was in this climate of uncertainty that I entered the Terai forests north of Maharajganj, and this is where my story gets strange.