“Where’s Hema?” he repeats again, searching his memory for her face.
“And now . . . ,” his mother rages, “now you come back. You dare to come back with no shame. A big man, with fine clothes. Working for the same demons who did this to us?!”
“What are you . . . ?”
“The Singh brothers! The ones who killed your father. The ones who ruined your sister. Their men came to tell me you were coming here. You work for them now.” She launches herself at him, scratching, roaring. “How dare you show your face here!”
Men run to pull her away.
And Ajay?
He does nothing. He stands there.
Dumb.
* * *
—
He sits on the ground outside the church.
Disconsolate.
Catatonic.
His mother has been taken away.
The men still watch him, unsure what to do, unsure what he will do. They debate his case, but he doesn’t hear.
Finally his young sister appears. She kneels by his side.
“She’s in too much pain,” the girl says.
It takes an age for the words to reach him. He turns his head to her.
“Who are you?”
“Sarah,” she says.
His chest tight, his head dizzy. The churn of his mind makes it difficult to speak.
“Where is she? Where’s my sister?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“She left for Benares when I was seven.”
“Why?”
“And she never returned.”
“What happened?” he asks. “Why did she go?”
“You should leave now,” Sarah says.
She gets up, but he holds her arm firm. She winces in pain. “What happened?”
“Please, it hurts.”
The men and women around wait for what will happen next. “What happened after I was gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?!”
Another voice, his mother’s, reaches him. “What happened?” it says.
She’s standing nearby, watching.
“What happened to Hema?” he urges, letting Sarah go.
She runs to her mother.
“What happens to all girls,” his mother replies, “when the men go away.”
“I didn’t do this,” he says. “I came back for you.”
“As one of them.”
“I’m not one of them,” he pleads. “I work for the Wadias. Not the Singh brothers.”
His mother shakes her head, turns to walk away. “And who do you think they work for?”
* * *
—
He watches her go.
Watches Sarah go.
Nothing of his childhood left.
Everything shattered.
He turns to the crowd, still watching.
“Where are Rajdeep and Kuldeep Singh?”
“You should know.”
“Ask your people.”
“They rule our lives.”
“They terrorize us.”
He pulls the Glock from his bag. Considers it.
“Where are they?”
A young man his age steps forward. “There’s a hotel in town,” he says. “It’s theirs. Palace Grande. You’ll find them there.”
4.
The Palace Grande is a four-story monstrosity beyond the noose of the traffic circle that marks the end of the road into town. All mirrored glass and cheap plastic panels, bad materials poorly fitted together with the illusion of glamour. An echoey lobby of marble, gaudy chandeliers, a sad palm tree growing inside. A corridor leads to a banquet hall, elevators up to the rooms. Men of dubious prosperity flashing their jewelry inside, on the sofas opposite reception, attached to their mobile phones.
And Ajay, entering through the revolving doors.
Eyes passing over him, considering him, factoring him into the equation.
He approaches reception, blinded by fury, by vengeance. And looks up.
On the wall beyond, a huge, gold-framed, soft-focus photograph with a saturated glow venerates two men in a street scene. A procession is taking place. The men are garlanded with flowers, jostled excitedly by an adoring crowd.
Rajdeep and Kuldeep Singh.
He’s been smashed in the nose bridge.
White lights exploding in his brain.
The receptionist leers at him with an unctuous, weaselly grin.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
He has to control himself, guard his voice, keep his eyes from betraying his heart.
“I want a room,” he says.
“How many nights?” the Weasel asks.
“One.”
“ID.”
Ajay hands over his driving license, the one Tinu has made for him.