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.
“Just passing through?” The Weasel examines his card with great vigilance as he speaks, but Ajay doesn’t hear, he’s lost in the faces on the wall. “The honorable Singh brothers,” the Weasel says, glancing up. “Rajdeep-ji owns this hotel. VVIP status. A very good man.”
“And the other?” Ajay asks.
The Weasel turns to admire the two men. “Kuldeep-ji, he is our MLA. A hero in this town. He does great things. He has made us all prosper. Ask anyone.”
Ask anyone.
The Weasel hands back his license. “You’re coming from Delhi?”
“Yes.”
“What line are you in?”
Revenge.
“Service.”
“Service?”
“Yes. I want a room with a view of the road,” he says.
Why? What do you think you’re going to do?
“That will be difficult . . .”
Ajay draws his money clip, peels off several hundred-rupee notes, lays them down on the counter.
The receptionist smiles.
“But it can be arranged.”
* * *
—
Room 302 smells of disinfectant and the ghosts of human desire. The AC rattles in fits. The windows are blacked out, the room is dark until the harsh fluorescent lights come on. Ajay locks the door and slides the chain and moves to the window, looks out at the traffic-snarled road leading to the horizon.
A wave of sorrow rises through his skin. Scars the tissue.
He sits on the edge of the bed.
Ajay Wadia.
Tetherer of Goats.
He puts his hand over his mouth in horror.
Did he cause all this? Is the whole world as he knows it his own doing?
He tries to think back, tries to see his childhood in his mind’s eye, tries to remember, but his memory is only lined by absence. He has built his life around the story of exile. A convenient fiction that fueled him, gave him succor.
Now everything is a lie.
His life is a lie.
The pain of this is unbearable.
He can doubt her words, this woman who was once his mother, but he cannot doubt the reality in which he swims. He is despised. Reviled.
What can he do to fix this?
He begins to undress, removes his safari suit jacket and pants, lays them out on the bed. In his undershirt and briefs and socks and holstered gun, he turns off the light and approaches the window again, presses his hand against the glass, feeling the faint winter sun. On the main road, a legless beggar supports his torso with his hands. Three police Ambassador cars push their snouts through the traffic. Men sleep in the grass in the middle of the circle. Others play cards. A day like any other.
He turns his back to the window, removes his Glock, runs his fingers along the metal of the barrel, aims at the door. He catches himself in the mirror, the lean, muscled body of a man he never really knew.
* * *
—
His dream of unspeakable violence recedes as he wakes. He is lying on the bed, he has forgotten where he is. He thinks he’s slept through the night and it’s the bright morning in Delhi. Sunny must be waiting. He sits up. Then he sees the gun and remembers.
He is his own destroyer.
He has come to erase the wound.
Even now, he tries to imagine another way. He could call down to reception. Drink a cola, order dal fry. Go for an evening walk. Get drunk. Call for a girl to be sent to his room. In the morning, get the bus back to Delhi. Forget it all. Accept who he is.
But who is he? What use is a girl to him? With her, what would he do?
He is an island. Marooned.
No past, no future.
With the names of two men now carved in his heart.
Rajdeep and Kuldeep Singh.
5.
“Yes?” The Weasel looks up.
“Tell me one thing,” Ajay says. “How can I meet with the Singh brothers?”
“It depends on what you want with them.”
“I want to work for them.”
“Many people do.” The Weasel nods knowingly. “But you don’t have to meet them for that.”
“I want to pay tribute. I want to pay my respects.”
“I see.” He narrows his eyes, sizing Ajay up, trying to gauge from where the cash flows. “The brothers are usually here in town,” he says. “We’re often blessed with them right here in this very lobby. But”—he leans in—“right now things are very tense. There have been some complications. Between you and me, there is tension in the town. Enemies of the Singh brothers have been making certain moves. Now the brothers are with their men, discussing their reply.”
“When will they return?”
“Impossible to say.” A smile, outspread palms. “Like children, we are all waiting.”
* * *
—
Ajay is standing outside the elevator, waiting to return to his room when a sly-faced young man in a brilliantly patterned shirt slips beside him. The doors open. They both walk in.
“You want to meet the Singh brothers?” this man says as soon as the doors close. “I heard you talking,” he hurries on. “They all pretend it’s impossible, but it can be arranged, just don’t waste your time with that chutiya at the desk. He’s full of big talk but he’s small fry, he knows nothing.”
“Who are you?”