—
Out in the yard, Sikandar keeps Prem by his side. There are jeers, cries of pleasure, taunting and mocking. Sikandar winks, grins, nods, plays the clown. To Prem he says, Don’t listen to them. They’re jealous. They want to take things from you. Prem is trying hard not to cry. What’s wrong? Sikandar asks. Are you afraid? No, no. You don’t have to be afraid. See across there, see the men who were going to hurt you? They’re looking at us now. See them. They can’t hurt you. They don’t dare. See, I’ll prove it. Go over there. Go stand right in front of them. Prem shakes his head. Come on, Sikandar says, and grabs Prem by the arm. Don’t be scared. Let’s go over now. We’ll go together, you and I. He drags Prem across the yard. The Sissodia men stand unmoved as they get closer, Prem a child, Sikandar a harridan come to scold the neighborhood boys. Look at them, Sikandar giggles. Look at them, they’re cowards. The men scowl and bristle at Sikandar’s words. But they do nothing. Look at them. Sikandar grabs Prem’s head and jerks up his neck. Look. A nasty edge to his voice. See. They won’t do anything to you. He lets go and takes a step back. He grins and makes silent laughter at the crowd.
See. They’re afraid. Stand there, look those fuckers in the eye.
Stay where you are. Stay where you are and look them in the eye.
Keep looking.
Sikandar steps back silently, across the yard.
Keep looking, don’t turn around, look those fuckers in the eye. They’re not going to hurt you. See.
Sikandar can barely contain his glee. He slaps his thighs and bites his fist.
See, he calls from the far side. There’s nothing to fear.
Prem is left standing alone, face-to-face with the Sissodia men.
Now hit them! Sikandar cries. Hit them as hard as you can!
Prem is shaking.
ARGGHHH!
One of them makes a lunge at him.
Prem bolts as fast as he can across the yard, all the way back to Sikandar’s side; Sikandar hooks him in his arm. And like that, it’s known by all, he is Sikandar’s boy.
* * *
—
Sikandar gets drunk and feeds Prem liquor too. Makes Prem sip liquor as he sobs, and as he sobs makes Prem massage his feet. Don’t cry, Sikandar says. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. You just have to realize one thing. Things work a certain way here. Everyone has their place. If you want to survive you have to know your place. Sikandar, ever more drunk, tells Prem the story of his second wife. How he loved her more than anything. But how she betrayed him. Her name was Khushboo, he says. When drunken Prem gets up to pee, Sikandar orders him to squat. “Do it like a girl,” he says. And when he returns, Sikandar unbuttons the boy’s shirt to display his smooth chest, ties the tails of the shirt together in a feminine way. “What’s your name?” Sikandar asks. “Prem,” he says, fighting tears. “No,” he whispers, “that’s not right.” He pulls Prem down to his crotch, holds him by the shoulder with his dreadful grip. “Khushboo,” he croons. “Khushboo is your name. Would you like to stay here, Khushboo? Or would you like me to throw you back out to the wolves?”
Prem turns his head to Ajay.
“Don’t look at him!” Sikandar hisses. “What’s your name?”
“Khushboo,” Prem whispers.
The name from Prem’s lips gives Sikandar goose bumps, ripples of pleasure.
“I’ll make it easy for you, Khushboo, this life,” Sikandar croons, stroking Prem’s hair.
He pulls himself out of his sweat pants and forces Prem’s mouth down.
When he’s finished, he prepares a Mandrax pipe for the sobbing Prem. “Here, take your reward.”
In the early hours there’s no more noise. Prem lost in a Mandrax haze, Sikandar and Bablu snoring drunk. Only Ajay is awake, with death in his mind.
* * *
—
Now Sikandar has women’s clothes brought. A blue-and-pink salwar kameez, chunni bangles, anklets. He presents them to Prem with great ceremony, tells him to put them on. Mute Prem offers no resistance. He does as he’s told. Sikandar produces lipstick and kajal and applies them almost reverently to Prem’s face, bewitched by the transformation. “Now, Khushboo,” he says, “these are the rules.” Prem is told he will perform the womanly duties of the cell: sweeping, washing, cooking, cleaning, and he will tend to Sikandar’s needs. He will not speak unless spoken to, he will not pee unless he has Sikandar’s say. He will talk like a girl. Walk like one. He will be Sikandar’s wife in jail. If he does this right, if he repays Sikandar’s love, he’ll be a queen, lavished with beautiful things. If not, he’ll be thrown to the wolves, or worse.
“Now tell me. What’s your name?”
Prem stares at the cell floor. Holds back the tears. “Prem.”
Enraged Sikandar grips him by the throat.
“Khushboo!” Prem cries.
Sikandar loosens his grip, smiles. “Again.”
“Khushboo.”
Sikandar inhales the fragrance of the name.
He holds Prem close, closes his eyes and strokes the fabric of the clothes, whispers, “Khushboo . . . Khushboo. Never lie to me again.”
* * *
—
The heat creeps in, the burning sun of the day, the mosquitoes of the night. The stale sweat. Prem is Sikandar’s prison wife, his slave, he works and serves and is raped. Day and night. Days and nights. Into May. Raped by Sikandar and then by Bablu too, by Sikandar’s proud consent. “A good wife must do service for her husband’s friends.” Sikandar even tells Ajay to have a taste. But Ajay doesn’t rise to the bait. “You’ll change your mind!” Sikandar laughs, “soon enough, won’t he, Khushboo!”
Prem, every day, in such spiritual and physical pain, every night, until the Mandrax dose. Mandrax, in such doses that the melancholic euphoria of the drug takes hold.
* * *
—
Into May. The heat unbearable. Sikandar suspects a member of their gang is passing secrets to the police and to other gangs—several of Satya’s low-level men have been shot outside. Sikandar had Bablu investigate. He thinks they’ve got it all figured out. They decide to torture the suspect, Shakti Lal. Sikandar arranges for an ice block to be brought into their cell, a ridiculous slab, six feet long. It’s dripping as soon as it arrives. He tells the gang there’s going to be a party in his cell, they’ll enjoy food and whisky and cold drinks and lots and lots of ice. There’s cricket on TV turned up loud. Everyone marvels at the ice slab. Prem serves everyone’s drinks. It’s a raucous night. But at a prearranged signal, Sikandar and Bablu set on Shakti Lal, beat him as the others watch, stuff a rag into his mouth, gag him, strip him, place him on the ice slab, tie him down until his skin is burned with the cold. But he does not confess. So Sikandar has Bablu drag him to the shower room. He hangs him there, and the party goes on. They make their drinks with the ice they tortured him on, until it melts, soaks the mattresses, and they have a cool night’s sleep.
* * *
—