—
It’s four a.m. and the horns and cries and engines have begun to fade. There is a lull outside, a pale light in the sky. Maybe at this point he can run? Check out of the hotel, be cool about it, and go. No. No. It would be suspicious. And run where? Back to Sunny? No, they’d find him eventually. And how can he work for this family anymore? Impossible. So, he’ll disappear. Find refuge. In the mountains? In Goa? Or somewhere he’s never been before. He can do it. Just run.
And then it comes to him.
Benares.
He will run to Benares.
He will search for his sister there.
The only thing he has left to hold on to.
He holds on to this thought.
He closes his eyes. The darkness swallows him.
* * *
—
He wakes and daylight is seeping through the glass.
He’s still holding his gun, sitting against the wall.
What time is it?
He checks his watch.
Almost nine a.m.
His body is aching, but daylight brings fresh urgency. He combs his hair, shaves, tries to look like the bland, unobtrusive man of service he has become. There is a scratch on his cheek, a hollow look in his eye. Still, no time to think about that. He must go downstairs and pay. Hope against hope he’s not challenged, questioned. Should he carry his gun? No. Wait until he’s free to go. He removes the metal cover from the rattling AC and hides the gun in there.
* * *
—
When the elevator disgorges him into the lobby he’s greeted by a sea of noise.
A TV is blaring. And the Weasel is there, waving at him with glee. “Full drama, my friend,” he shouts, “high tension, come, see.”
No indication of suspicion at all.
“I heard noises in the night,” Ajay says, averting his eyes.
“How can you sleep at a time like this?” the Weasel cries, oblivious to Ajay’s mood.
“I want to check out,” Ajay says.
“How can you check out at a time like this!? Three of Kuldeep’s workers have been killed, right outside the Hanuman mandir. Can you imagine? I’m sure it’s the Qadari gang.”
He points to the TV hanging in the corner wall. A crowd of men have gathered round. A reporter is standing at the crime scene in the daylight—the bodies of the men are covered with bloodstained sheets. The channel cuts to a group of around fifty men armed with swords, wearing saffron headbands, protesting loudly, marching through the town.
“God is angry,” one of the men in the lobby declares.
Another says, “God only need worry about Kuldeep Singh.”
“Nonsense. The Singh brothers are running scared. That’s why they’re hiding. They’ve been hiding for days . . .”
“Watch your mouth,” the first man shouts, “or I’ll shoot you right here.”
Just as it seems a scuffle will break out, the news report cuts to Kuldeep Singh.
He is speaking outside his compound, in his white kurta and saffron scarf, his dark shades removed to reveal the rancor in his eyes, talking about this wave of violence that is staining the purity of their town, about the need for swift vengeance. He is addressing those who call him a coward. Yes, he has heard the lies. He will set the record straight.
“We will not back down,” Kuldeep Singh exclaims. “We will show our strength a million times. And if those people from a certain community oppose us, we will cut them down.”
“Full drama,” the Weasel says again, all but rubbing his hands together. “The Singh brothers are taking out a march on town, this afternoon. And guess what? It’s true. The rally will end right here.” He turns back to Ajay with a searching smile. “But you, you want to check out I think, don’t you?”
“No,” Ajay says. “I’ll stay.”
8.
He hears the march long before he sees it. The revving of engines, the screeching of horns, cars, and motorcycles, loudspeakers blaring slogans in praise of God and Kuldeep Singh. He watches from his room as they emerge on MG Road, several hundred men in saffron, wielding machetes and swords and flags and banners, a few holding aloft old rifles or handguns, and around them many hundreds more, gawping citizens, cheering onlookers, an awesome sight, a vast human snake slithering toward him. As the march draws close, he can make out the Singh brothers at its heart, riding separate jeeps, Kuldeep standing with his arm raised, taking in the adulation of the crowd, Rajdeep waving a sword. Closer and closer to the hotel. The noise deafening, voices chanting: Jai Shri Ram. Jai Kuldeep Singh.
He sees among the crowd many banners bearing the smiling, God-fearing image of Vipin Tyagi, honorable citizen. The Singh brothers dismount their jeeps. Grasping the outstretched hands of their followers.
There are five rows of plastic chairs facing the stage, a large, long sofa on a raised platform behind them. Then a barrier of policemen, separating this VIP area from the crowd. A worker is taking the stage, tapping the microphone, announcing the bravery and honesty of Kuldeep Singh.
Kuldeep Singh is ascending the stage.
Rajdeep Singh taking his seat on the VIP sofa, leonine.
Here they are, right in front of him.
And in their faces, he sees his father’s face.
And all fantasies of flight go up in smoke.
He’ll never have another chance like this. He knows what it means. He can finally find some purpose to his life.
He removes his Glock from inside the AC unit, tucks it into his waistband.
Wraps the stolen shawl around his chest.
Inside the shawl, one hand rests on the trigger.
He leaves the room, leaves his bag behind.
Walks down the corridor to the elevator.
Presses the button for the ground floor.
* * *
—
Emerging into the crowded lobby, he finds himself meditating on Kuldeep Singh, visualizing his death all the same. Once the pistol is out, he’ll have, what? Two seconds to fire? Less? Will he run to him? Walk slowly? Say his name? Fire a shot into his head? His pulse races, his palms become clammy. Five seconds? Three seconds? It’ll take a millisecond to explode. And then? Rajdeep Singh. There will be enough time for Rajdeep to watch his brother fall. And if he’s calm, he can shoot Rajdeep from the stage. Unload the rest of the clip.
Or will he save one bullet for himself?
Will he even need it?
Surely their men will do the job themselves.
So, he’s doing this.
This is his life.
He pushes his way through the crowded lobby to the front. A door at the side leads to a garden in which the stage has been erected. Workers mill around at the side.
Ajay spies the Weasel standing by the door.
He comes to stand at his side.
“Ah, you’re here my friend!” the Weasel says.
“I was looking for you,” Ajay replies.
“This is your lucky day!”
Does he know? Does he suspect?
“I want to get closer,” Ajay goes on, slipping a wad of rupee notes into the Weasel’s palm. “I want to see Kuldeep from the side of the stage.”
“Come with me,” the Weasel says.
* * *