* * *
—
“Is it true?” one of the men asks. “Is it true you work for him?”
The question is not for Sikandar. The “him” in question is not Acharya.
The huddle of men fall quiet and wait for Ajay to speak.
Ajay, a ghost in a safari suit.
“Shut up, fucker,” Sikandar says. “Do you want me to break your skull?”
“How did you hurt those chutiyas so bad?” another asks. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Shut up!” Sikandar yells. “Any fucker can do that. I’ll break all your skulls right now.”
“But look at him,” one of the men cries, “he’s half your size. He really taught those fuckers a lesson. Maybe he could even kill you!”
“No one kills me!” Sikandar says, rising from his cane throne, “except God himself.”
“Gautam Rathore,” Ajay says in a hollow voice. “I work for Gautam Rathore.”
There’s silence. Confused looks.
Sikandar laughs. “You hear that? He works for Gautam Rathore.”
“Who’s that?”
Sikandar lies back down. “Just some fucker out in the world.”
* * *
—
Water becomes water, milk becomes milk. Everyone knows Ajay is Bunty Wadia’s man. The prison telegraph is lightning fast. Ajay taught the Guptas a lesson, and he is Bunty Wadia’s man. This is what they say. The name is whispered in the dark. He can hear you saying it. That’s what people say. He sees it all. He hears everything. He rises above it all. Sikandar received word from Satya on his phone. Satya said, “We’re getting a VIP. Take good care of him.” “Who’s this chutiya?” Sikandar replied. “One of Bunty Wadia’s men.”
* * *
—
He whistles through his teeth. One of Bunty Wadia’s men. A child of God. But the child has been abandoned by God, by life, by fate. By the son most of all. Sunny’s last words to him: “I’ll take care of you.” Before the gunmetal went into his face.
* * *
—
Now he is told to sit tight, don’t take tension. You’re exempt from chores. So sleep. Watch TV. Jerk off. Lift weights. Join the cricket team. Meditate. Smoke Mandrax if you like. Go fuck. That can be arranged. There’s always fresh meat to go around. If one of the chikna boys takes your eye, go make yourself his friend. Enjoy yourself, you earned it. The only thing you can’t do is leave.
* * *
—
Every day is submerged. He barely eats. Barely sleeps. Barely talks. Some say his mind is gone. They are afraid of him. They speculate on what he really did. He is a killer, they know that for sure. But there’s madness there. No. The madness is an act. He’s in here to kill again.
* * *
—
He doesn’t hear it. Everything comes to him from far away. Words travel a great distance to reach him. A lifetime is returning through the moon and the mist. His childhood floods the landscape of his mind. Through the mist his childhood rises, through the mist his father burns, through his mind his sister cries, and through the night he goes away. The sun rises and burns. He wakes and doesn’t remember who he is, why he’s here. He wakes and he’s in a Tempo and the mountains are above him. He wakes and the bodies are strewn across the road. He is waking to his pain, and he cannot hide. Old thoughts swoop like hungry demons. Dead men in alleyways. The crack of Vipin Tyagi’s skull. Slick blood hair bunched in his hand, a crack of nasal bone, a squelch, slick hair with brain in hand. In his sleep he rolls the man over, wakes from the nightmare before he sees the face. In the darkness of the cell he sees Neda and Sunny, forever together in the back of a car. Time is elastic. His mother is gone. The woman, Mary, has taken her place. And his sister. Is she alive anymore? He’s watching from the Tempo. Did he wave good-bye?
“What happened to her?”
“What happens to all girls when the men go away.”
All those years in the mountains pretending everything would be OK. He lies on Mummy’s bed and cries. He wakes to find himself punching the walls. Sikandar has to hold him down, hold him in a great stinking bear hug in his arms. Crazy fucker. Go outside. Run round the yard. Fight someone. See if anyone tries to kill you there. Kill them back. Go fuck someone. Get out of here.
* * *
—
Five hundred push-ups a day. Five hundred sit-ups. His watchful eyes. The husk of a body, meaning chipped away. To whom does he belong? Whom does he obey? What happened to the boy? What happens to all boys whose family goes away. At night, eyes open while Sikandar snores, he travels back in time.