24.
He interrogated me all night, perched on his stool. What could I say? I was lucky. That was my only word. I was a lucky man. He wanted to know more. He said a man like me should have died many times. He had been following my progress since Ballia, since the killing of Shiv Kumar. How had I done it? I didn’t know. What knowledge did I have of the Chaddi Baniyan gang? I didn’t, I said. It was all concocted. That gang, he said, knew certain things. They practiced certain austerities, sacrifices. I am not them, I said. But Sunil Rastogi, he smiled, you’re a killer of men. He made me go back. He made me tell the story of my life. From birth to there. This is why I tell my story to you so well, Sunny Wadia. It has already been rehearsed. Yes, he would not let me rest. All night the interrogation went on, the night rolled and spun. I recall nothing but his voice. As day rose I was brought a special drink, thick and pungent in a clay cup. He drank it with me too. He went back over certain points. What had I thought at the moment of crisis? How had I made a decision? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. He seemed to be searching for a key. When the daylight filled my cell, he left. I lay awake, frozen in the light, with visions of my life. I did not see him until the next night, when he returned with lanterns and food. He sat on the same stool. “I have decided,” he said, “that you tell the truth. You are a vessel.”
25.
His phone is ringing. One moment, Rastogi says.
He steps away from the stool, answers the phone.
“Hello?”
He smiles.
“Yes.”
He looks back to Sunny.
Manoj will be here soon, this will all be over for you. Let me finish my story.
26.
Where was I? Ah, yes, Himmatgiri. He sat before me and smiled. “I’ve decided,” he said, “that you tell the truth. You do not know from where this magic comes. You do not know why you cannot die. But you have come to me for a reason, Sunil Rastogi.” He left his stool and came close to me, crouched down and retrieved a chain that hung inside his clothing. On the end of that chain was a golden ring and inlaid in that ring was a stone of such bright green it was all I could see. He said, “You’ve traveled all your life to be here, and now you are a servant to me.” I found myself trembling. I could not disagree. “But soon,” he said, “you will leave.” “Where will I go?” I replied, blinking back tears, for I was moved by his faith in me. “West,” he said, “to the place you were born. You will follow fate, fate has carried you everywhere.” “Yes,” I whispered. “And once there,” he went on, “you will forget everything until you see a face; that face will guide your hand. You will seek out that face and deliver a message.” I asked him, “What message will I give?”
27.
In the godown, with those words, Rastogi gets up from his stool, pulls from his pocket an ivory handle, and with deft fingers reveals the killing blade within.
“He said first you will deliver the message of pain.”
Sunny begins to squirm and cry out.
“Then you will deliver the story of your life.”
Sunny fights against his ropes, strains every muscle to find one bit of freedom.
Tries to stand with the chair attached to him, tries to bring it down again to break its legs.
Something.
Anything.
But he’s in agony and weak and nothing works.
“Your life is also pain. The pain that is native to our land.”
Rastogi crouches so close and searches Sunny’s eyes.
“And then? I asked him. Do I kill him then? Oh no, he replied. You let him live. And I asked him, Why?”
Rastogi reaches out and cups Sunny’s cheek in his palm.
All Sunny hears is the hammering of his heart.
Not the sound of the motorbike in the distance.
“Do you hear?” Rastogi says, suddenly standing up. “Yes. Manoj is here.”
He steps back from Sunny toward the door.
Backing away.
Backing away.
The sound becomes solid, a bike racing at speed.
Rastogi presses his back flat against the wall beside the door. “As Himmatgiri lifted me to my feet and held me in his arms I asked him that question. Why? Why all this to let him live?”
The bike is almost on them.
Sunny can see the jagged sweep of the headlight under the door.
“Do you know what he said, Sunny Wadia?”
The bike’s engine cuts off.
The sound of feet across the dusty ground. “Sunil bhaiya, Sunil bhaiya!” Manoj rushes in full of joy, cradling a duffel bag in his arms, bursting past the concealed Rastogi. “Sunil bhaiya, I have it!”