* * *
—
Out into the courtyard, break time. Hundreds of inmates piling out of their cells to congregate. Men size him up. He’s something of a celebrity. They’ve all heard about the Mercedes Killer. They want a closer look, judge for themselves his innocence or guilt, see how tough he is, how scared, decide where he could belong. It only takes a minute to recognize he’s one of the innocent, a scapegoat for a wealthy boss. Men try to prize this truth from him. What was he promised to take the fall? Something sweet? Money, when he gets out? Or will his sons and daughters be sent through school? Or did it come from the other side? Was his family threatened? Was his life in danger? Or was he just loyal?
Representatives from the gangs that run the jail approach him in the yard, in the dining hall, in the corridors, canvass his support, present their pitch. The Chawanni gang, the Sissodia gang, the Beedi gang, the Haddi gang, the Atte gang. The dreaded Bawania gang. The Acharya gang, the Guptas. As an innocent man, as a man unaccustomed to the criminal life, he will need protection. He will soon become a target for extortion if he does not pick a gang; without a gang’s support, a man will rape him soon enough, a warden will have him transferred to a cell, alone with another cellmate, he will be his sport, no one will come when he screams. And they’ll take whatever money he has. They offer this as sage and neutral advice, as if they were not the threat. He is pulled this way and that. What money do you have? Join our gang. Join our gang and you’ll have security. You’ll have a mobile phone, pornography, chicken. You’ll be exempt from the “freshers party” coming your way. Join our gang and you can fuck, you can rape. Our gang is the strongest. You should join us before it’s too late. He ignores each pitch. By the time he returns to his cell, his blanket has been taken away.
* * *
—
He prefers to be alone and in pain anyway. The horror of the dead follows him inside, he mourns them as he breathes. He refuses all the gangs, snubs the emissaries and their overtures. So on the second day, outside the pharmacy, alone, just after he’s been called to visit the doctor, three men from another cell converge on him. They stick out their tongues and remove the razor blades they keep in their mouths; they set upon him, slashing at his face and chest and the forearms he raises to protect himself. He takes the cuts in penance, making no expression of pain. Then his patience finally snaps, breaks like a trapdoor. He shatters his first attacker’s nose with the heel of his palm, takes the second man’s arm at the elbow and snaps it at the joint. The third he sweeps down to the floor. He snatches one of their razors and takes it to this man’s tongue, slicing it down the middle, squeezing the squealing prisoner’s jaw open with his grip.
* * *
—
He’s found standing over them, splattered in blood, the prisoners howling in pain as he’s locked in solitary in a daze. They beat him, tell him he’ll be there for a very long time. Once the door shuts, he goes wild, snarling and slapping and kicking the walls. Screaming without language. Incomprehensible words. He cannot control his world.
* * *
—
He imagines the end. Everything he is and all he’s done. But no. The next morning, the door is opened, new guards enter. They tell him to come with them. He’ll shower first. He’s shivering naked and raw. When they approach, he curls his fists, back to the wall, to fight. They laugh and throw him fresh clothes.
* * *
—
He’s taken to the warden’s office. A pleasing spread: freshly cut fruit, paratha, lassi. A vision of paradise. The warden asks him to sit. “Have a cigarette. Help yourself. There’s been a mistake. I wasn’t told,” he says. “If I’d been told, this would never have happened. Really, no one knew, not even your friends. But things will be different. You’ll be taken to your friends here now. You’ll be free, within reason. And this unfortunate business with those other men, this will be forgotten. They could be punished. Only, you punished them yourself, didn’t you!? Quite a show. Oh, and this money, it’s yours. You should have said something. You should have made it clear. You should have let us know. Why didn’t you let us know?”
Ajay stares at the food, at the cigarette pack.
“Know what?”
The warden smiles.
“That you’re a Wadia man.”
MAHARAJGANJ, EASTERN UTTAR PRADESH, 1991
AJAY
(Thirteen Years Earlier)
1.
What you have to remember is that Ajay was just a boy. Eight years old and malnourished. Barely literate. Watchful inside the sockets of his eyes.