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.
He thinks of the Nepali boys.
Purple Haze.
The first time in his life he was free.
The first time he threw his freedom away.
* * *
—
Something is hardening. Hardening in him.
He buries all his past.
Buries his kindness.
Finds a new way to live each day.
2.
The air warms, the days begin to shimmer and bake. Some prisoners leave. New prisoners arrive. Fresh meat. They are sorted, graded, threatened, coerced. Those who are strong will pick a gang. Those who have money will buy their protection. Those with lots of money can buy anything. Those who have nothing are preyed upon. They can be servants, they can be slaves. Scrub the toilets, wash clothes. A nineteen-year-old boy comes in, skinny, milk skin, high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, a pink bud of a mouth. Beautiful. Terrified. Jailed for stealing a mobile phone. Everyone takes notice. A flower, a prize. Sikandar licks his lips. He looks like a little calf, he says. Three Sissodia men surround the boy in the yard, make lewd comments, push him around. The kid withers as they caress him, grope him, whisper in his ear, take him by the wrist and pull away. At the last moment, Sikandar steps in. Shoves the Sissodia men aside, beats one of them to the ground, puts his arm around the kid, and leads him away.
* * *
—
Tender Sikandar. He tells the boy not to cry, guides him back to their side. He has a friend now, he’ll be taken care of. What’s your name? Prem, the boy says. Prem. Sikandar toys with the name. He offers him a cigarette, some good food, some soap to wash, something to ease the pain. Arranges to have Prem transferred to their cell. Welcomes him with open arms. It’s hard out there with no friends, no money, and so young. There are so many wolves out there, but not everyone is bad, not everyone is in it for themselves. You won’t be preyed on now. I’m a big man here, you saw what I did. They’re scared of me. Eat something. Take a blanket. Watch TV. Prem takes a seat on the mattress and hugs himself close. Have a peg of whisky. This is Bablu, he’s your friend. This is Ajay. He’s a killer, but don’t worry about him. Just stay close to me.
* * *