—
The idea, coaxed into the light, becomes his friend. He tends to it kindly. Where? When? A bottle shard in his wrists. A sheet round his neck in the shower. Or a Mandrax overdose. But he must get it right. He mustn’t slip up, lose his nerve, be found out and saved. If it was done, it should be total. Death would be a relief to him. Justice, perhaps, for everything he’s done. For the men he killed, and for the ones he saw dead in the road, who, though he didn’t kill, he betrayed. Strange though . . . now these thoughts run freely in his mind, others run too. Options he never thought he had. Saying no to Sunny—this is the first thought he entertains. Sunny tells him to get in the car, to drink the whisky. And he, Ajay, says no. The very thought of it is thrilling. He says no. He says: no. It’s like the dreams of a blind person who has sight. It’s a deaf person dreaming they can hear. A mute dreaming they can speak. Everything is turned up loud, in color. No.
Why don’t you get in the car?
* * *
—
He plays his life in reverse.
Each time saying no.
No, he won’t chase Gautam.
No, he won’t fire the gun into the air.
No, he won’t decide to kill the Singh brothers.
No, he won’t try to find home.
No, he won’t go to Delhi to work for Sunny Wadia.
No, he won’t get in that Tempo.
No, he won’t let the goat free from its rope.
* * *
—
He’s back there, eight years old, back with Hema. He’s supposed to be tying up the goat. He’s supposed to be tying the rope. He doesn’t tie the rope. The goat goes free. He watches it go. This is what he realizes. He watches it go, and it eats the spinach in the neighbor’s field. Hema, where is she? She sees and comes running. She doesn’t chide him. She runs straight for the goat. Pulls it away, though it won’t come. He watches. He tries to see her in his mind’s eye. But now all he sees is the woman in the photo.
* * *
—
And he’s back here, yes, with the same intractable problem. How long can he wait? How long before the next photo comes? His sister lying in that same brothel bed, eyes forever open, blood pooling the sheets from her fatal wounds. It all comes back to this. His sister must live. She is the last part of him that is real, the last part that is true. Everything else has been taken from him. His father dead, his mother someone else, his little sister someone he never knew. But Hema, she’s part of him. She cannot die. He cannot die. He must kill Karan and save her.
2.
It seems to be his inevitable fate.
The price for Prem has been fixed.
Karan will pay fifty thousand rupees.
The handover is due to take place the next day.
This is his chance.
Only, Sikandar wants to do it himself.
* * *
—
Ajay approaches Sikandar, asks to speak to him.
Prem watches carefully.
Sikandar says “Speak.”
Ajay whispers something in his ear.
Long. Serious.
He talks for a while.
Then Sikandar bursts out laughing.
Slaps Ajay on the back.
“He’s taking you!” Sikandar says.
* * *
—
That night, when Sikandar snores, Prem is awake.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you taking me?”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Ajay says.
“I don’t need you. Karan will take care of me.”
The fans whir.
“He loves me.”
Time passes, heavy with unsaid words.
Prem’s voice, a tiny vessel of sorrow on a vast ocean of pain.
“Who is she? The girl.”
Ajay feels his heartbeat in his throat.
“The girl in the photo.”
“My sister,” Ajay says.
“Your sister?” Prem replies, surprised. “I thought . . .” Then he trails off.
There is nothing left to say.
* * *
—
The morning comes. There are no more words to say.
Sikandar waits by the cell door.
He nods at Prem, offers his hand.
As if they met once or twice and conducted some business together.
“Be good,” he says. Then slaps Ajay on the shoulder, laughs as he pushes him out the door. “Make sure you get the money first!”
* * *
—
Down the corridor they walk.
Ajay with a razor beneath his tongue.
And Prem, looking like hope, like love.
“Thank you,” Prem says.
* * *
—
The handover is taking place in one of the bathroom blocks, out of sight.
Karan has a man with him.
Ajay shakes his head.
“Just us.”
* * *
—
The goon checks Ajay for weapons.
Nothing.
So Prem and Ajay and Karan go inside one of the shower rooms.
The money is in a jute bag.
Ajay counts it first.
Pushes Prem toward Karan when it’s done.
He doesn’t look at him.
Watches Karan’s face as Karan takes him by the hand.
Puts his arms around his waist.
“Now leave us alone,” Karan says.
What’s that Ajay feels?
Jealousy.
A loneliness of his own.
A failure of nerve.
He should make his move.
In that moment he can’t.
* * *
—
Outside, Ajay and Karan’s man eyeball each other, nod. It’s done. But as soon as Ajay walks past him, he drops the jute bag, lunges back, wraps his arm round the man’s neck in a sleeper hold. He brings him down to the ground as he struggles, drags him into a bathroom stall. Puts him to sleep.
Ajay strips quickly to his underwear.
Takes his sandals off.
Creeps back into the shower room.
* * *
—
Karan has his back to the door, naked from the waist down. Prem is up on the counter, facing him, legs open, legs hooked round his waist. Karan is inside him. Ajay holds the razor in his hand.
Approaching barefoot, trying to calm his heart.
Prem has his eyes closed in joy, taking Karan inside.
Prem opens his eyes.
Sees Ajay.
Razor in hand.
Ajay puts his finger to his lips.
In what world would he think Prem would respond in anything but a scream.
Karan’s body locks up.
Then he understands the look in Prem’s eyes.
Before he can react, Ajay lunges forward.
Grabs Karan’s hair and pulls it back, cuts wildly with the razor. Blood begins to spray from his throat, but the arteries are too deep. Karan is fighting back, trying to protect himself while Prem struggles and screams and cries beneath. Ajay holds Karan’s head in the crook of his arm, squeezing it as he digs deeper and deeper with the blade, blood spilling and splashing now and Karan, gurgling, falls down and Ajay falls with him.
“What did you do?” Prem is screaming and Karan is twitching below Ajay, the life draining out of him, the razor lodged in his throat.
“What did you do to me?” Prem collapses to the floor, holds Karan, kisses his face, tries to block the bleeding with his palms.
But Karan is gone.
“Why?”
Ajay doesn’t say anything anymore.
Prem is shivering, his face contorted.
Ajay opens his mouth to speak.
But Prem doesn’t give him a chance.
He does the only thing he can think to do.