I had counted on that. All I needed now was a trigger; a trigger I had already seen on the street. You see, I had to eliminate my gang, Sunny Wadia, for her, and for me. When I went to meet my men later I found that they were not wild with lust and rage, they were nervous and scared, timid human creatures, and that wouldn’t do. I gave them liquor, I gave a rallying speech, I spoke of the whores and chutiyas who were laughing at them, who lived a high life while they suffered. I made them drink more and more, I managed to get the wind in their sails. I led them on, collected their identity cards, promised them pleasures and riches and blood, then took them out in the night to the fields, to the hiding places. Made them undress and cover themselves in that grease, which they did with anxious ceremony. And I snuck off to my spot, where I waited as lookout, waited and waited and waited as several cars passed in the dark, praying the men wouldn’t jump the gun. All was quiet and still, then I saw the car in the fog, its lights on inside, saw Madam-Sir sitting in the back, dressed as a wedding guest, in a bright red sari, as pure as any goddess. I wanted to run away with her. I flashed my torch to the gang as the car passed. Three flashes. I swear I saw Madam-Sir turn her head and look at me. For good measure I cried out, “This one!” Then I darted through the field toward my men. They threw the piece of metal into the road as was planned, and the car came skidding to a halt before their spot. It all happened so slowly and so quickly then, Sunny Wadia. The fake wedding guests, guns at the ready, spilled out of the doors, while my men stepped out with their rods and knives, pathetic in the headlights in their grease and their undershirts and their underwear. They dropped their weapons. Put up their hands. Then I did it. I hatched my plan. Firecrackers, like the boys tormented the dogs with in the streets. I lit and tossed a strip through the air, exploding with a flash at the foot of my men. This caused panic. The whole night turned into flame. Not only from the cops in the fake wedding car, who let rip with their guns, but also from the other side of the road, dozens of small bursts of muzzle fire. A batch of sharpshooting cops had been hiding there all along. Now they were slaughtering my men, cutting them down without mercy. I turned and ran through the fields into the night with my heart beating hard.
11.
I ambushed a man on a motorbike around dawn, bashed in his head, took his clothes and money, and rode several hours, then dumped that bike and hitched a ride on a truck, reaching Benares by dark. I made my way to the Holy Ganga, bathed myself, threw my gang’s identity cards into the river with the other relics of life gone, and said a prayer. By this time, the encounter with the cops was all over the news. I saw it on TV channels everywhere. The dreaded Chaddi Baniyan gang had been slain. Slaughtered in a gunfight as they attempted to commit another heinous crime. In every report, on every TV, there she was, the young SP, Sukanya Sarkar, Madam-Sir, tough in her wedding sari, slinging her pistol, the hero of the hour. Later, she was back in uniform, cleaned up and stern-faced, and I liked her best like this, standing over the corpses that were lined up on the roadside covered in white sheets. I could recognize each one of my gang by his toes. I spent days in the brothels then, exhausting all my money, but soon I got bored. Sunny Wadia, I decided to give the SP a call. I went to a booth and dialed the number she had given me. As soon as I heard her say “Speak,” I said, “Congratulations, madam-sir, you cracked the case.” She was silent. She seemed afraid. Then she said, “Sunil Rastogi, is that you?” “Yes, madam-sir, the one and only.” “Where are you?” she asked. I said, “Madam-sir, it would be foolish of me to tell you.” “Why would it?” she asked. “Because you will come to kill me.” I should have left it at that and hung up the phone. But I wanted to keep hearing her voice, I felt it important that she knew how much I had sacrificed for her. So I confessed it all. I said, “Madam-sir, please listen to me one time, I have something important to say,” and I told her everything, I said the whole gang was a lie, I created it myself from my friends. “Why?” she said, in little more than a whisper. “I was scared,” I said, “the pressure was too great, and besides all that, I wanted to please you. I wanted to make you happy. I wanted you to crack the case.” She went silent at the end of that. Silent for a long time. “Madam-sir?” I said. Then she said, in a very thin and lonely voice, “Are you telling me the truth, Sunil Rastogi?” I said, “I’m telling you the truth, I swear, I will do anything for you.” She was silent, then she uttered one word down the phone. “Behenchod,” she said. “Madam-sir,” I replied with a joyful heart. Then she said, “Never call this number, and never speak of this to anyone ever again.”
12.