He stops beside Ajay. “How’s your mother?” he says in a mocking tone. “And your sisters? Are they all well?”
“Let’s go.” Tinu gives Vicky a foul look, leads Ajay off by the arm.
“We’ll catch up later!” Vicky calls.
7.
In the corporate competence of Bunty’s office Vicky’s eyes probe with pointed interest the photographs on the walls: Bunty outside a sugar mill, Bunty on a construction site, Bunty and Ram Singh. He pauses at a yellowed photo of two teenage boys, posing outside the cabin of a truck, one shielding the sun from his eyes, the other with a pistol in his hand.
“Ah, there we are.” Vicky smiles. “I thought I’d been erased completely.”
Bunty sits on the edge of his table. “You were never fond of photos.”
“Look at us,” Vicky says, almost wistful.
“We were just boys.”
Offhand, with a gleam in his eyes, Vicky turns. “And what did you want with this other boy?”
“Ajay.”
“Is that his name?”
“You know it is.” Bunty takes a seat behind his desk, lights a cigarette. “I wanted to thank him, that’s all. He’s been a loyal servant.”
“And a good soldier.”
A pointed glance. “To you maybe.”
Vicky wags his finger. “Nothing gets past you.”
Bunty regards Vicky with an unhurried eye. “Now tell me, brother, what else have you done?”
“Done?”
“Behind my back.”
“Impossible, brother. You see all.”
“Not out in the darkness where you choose to live.”
“Choose?” Vicky turns from the photo. “If I recall, I was exiled.”
Bunty’s voice is flat. “You exiled yourself. You were in no fit state.”
“And you were always the one to decide.” Vicky checks himself, grins, opens his arms. “But look at me now!”
Bunty takes a deep breath, pulls his chair close to the desk, examines the papers lying there, like a father who’s had enough of an impertinent child.
“Some of the things you’re doing,” Bunty goes on, “they have to stop.”
“Like what?”
“You think I don’t know,” Bunty says, “about the trafficking. About those girls?”
“I assumed you turned a blind eye.”
“How much do you even make from them?”
“Nothing in your league.” Vicky stands in the middle of the floor, pulls himself up tall, clasps his hands together at his front. As if from nowhere, the giant emerges. “But then, money isn’t everything.”
Bunty shakes his head. “The world has changed. We’re not goondas anymore.”
“I was never a goonda,” Vicky says.
“I forget.” Bunny smiles. “You were a God-man.”
“God is everywhere.”
Bunty opens his drawer, takes something metal in his hand, flicks it through the air.
“God is a paisa coin.”
Vicky catches the money and with sleight of hand makes it disappear.
Their argument is as old as the trick that always calms it.
Bunty softens, eases back into his chair. “You were always a hothead.”
Vicky approaches him. “And you were always the rational one. But still,” he leans forward across the desk, “it was your violence that started it all.”
Bunty looks at him impassively.
“You know what I want,” Vicky says. “Show me.”
Bunty shakes his head dismissively. “This again?”
“For the sake of the past,” Vicky persists. “Show me. Show me your hands.”
Bunty hesitates, holds Vicky’s eye.
Then he stubs out his cigarette.
Holds out his hands.
Turns them slowly, like secret cards.
Reveals two great scars.
Canyons slashed diagonal across his palms.
“I remember that day,” Vicky says, his eyes bright. He reaches out and takes Bunty’s hands in his own, runs his thumbs reverently along the gouged lines. “It gave me power. But it gave you so much more.”
Bunty says nothing, but his eyes don’t disagree.
“Do you still have it?” Vicky asks.
“The kite?” Bunty nods. “Of course.”
Vicky closes his eyes. “Remember how it would fly?”
In his mind’s eye, he sees the kite of their childhood, flying in a blue, cloudless sky.
The kite and its long string, laced with powdered glass.
Dancing, jerking, fighting other kites on rooftops in the sky.
Slicing through them, cutting them down.
In that mind’s eye of his, he sees a face.
The grotesque face of a boy.
“Who’s still alive, from that day?”
“Tinu. Me. You,” Bunty replies.
A boy, covered in blood.
“We were wild,” Vicky laughs, opening his eyes, letting go of the hands.
“We did what we had to do,” Bunty replies. “And we moved on.”
“Yes,” Vicky says, waving his hand around the room, “and now you live in this airless hole, hiding from the world.” He pulls the paisa coin from behind his ear, flicks it back across the room. “Power for power’s sake.” The coin bounces on Bunty’s desk. “That’s what you crave. For me, power was always something else. Pleasure. Pain.”
Bunty lights a fresh cigarette. “That’s why you didn’t grow.”
“Oh, I grew, brother. I grew away. That’s the tragedy.” Vicky draws a long deep breath, making a show of peering into the past. “I often think about those old days. Memory’s a funny thing, don’t you think? Who’s to say what really happened. Not the history books. Not the mouths of the dead. Of course, there must be records somewhere. Of the things we did.”
These words cause Bunty to withdraw. “Enough of the games,” he says. “I have work to do. Go enjoy the evening.”
Vicky heads to the door. “It’s an auspicious day. The heavenly bodies are aligned.”
“Just try not to cause any trouble.”
Vicky grins and shrugs. “I have nothing planned.”
* * *
—
At the quiet side of the mansion, away from the lights and workers and buzzing stalls, a Bolero sits parked. Ajay and Tinu appear from a side door. Ajay has been given new clothes. Black jeans, a plain black T-shirt. He’s been given a mobile phone. A hand-drawn map with a sketch of the target on the back. A small wad of rupee notes.
“I don’t like this,” Tinu says. “I don’t know why he sent you. But it’s done.” He looks into Ajay’s bloodshot eyes. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“You have everything you need.” He opens the rear door. “Take the first shot you get. The driver has your gun.”
Ajay climbs in.
“He’ll take you to Kashmiri Gate, then you’ll go on foot.”
He shuts the door on Ajay.
He turns away.
“The world’s gone mad.”
NIGHT
1.