But, at home, when Vikas phoned Jaidev, a lawyer friend he knew from his evening walks, Jaidev told him what he had expected—there was little point in getting involved; the case would drag on; besides, they hadn’t been present. The best thing to do, Jaidev said, would be to focus on future events, on the effects of terrorism in society, in setting up a scholarship or a debating prize at the kids’ school. “There is nothing to be gained from being involved in the legal system, believe me,” Jaidev said, his voice dusky with gutka. “It’s barely worth it for us with the current taxation system.” Though Vikas knew he made crores.
“Don’t you think a mother’s testimony will be powerful?” Vikas asked. He felt alienated from himself as he posed this question.
“No, no. It won’t affect how quickly they prosecute,” Jaidev said. “That’s based simply on how much evidence they have. You know yourself, from having done your documentaries; here they arrest first and find evidence later. Now, that’s not to say that the people who they’ve captured aren’t guilty—these people are not any more competent than the police—but it depends on how they build the circumstantial case.”
Vikas was at a loss. He did not know how to proceed.
The next day Deepa and he visited the Lajpat Nagar police thana, a brutish bureaucratic place characterized by the powdery paint on the walls and heavy steel desks. Upon arriving, they were surrounded by several policemen who asked what they wanted, clearly sizing up their ability to proffer bribes. They were led into an inspector’s office, where, under the portrait of a dead policeman, they registered their statement.
“Anything else?” the inspector asked, squinting. He had a cold. One broken epaulet stood up on his shoulder like a praying mantis, or the wick of a candle.
“Will we get to speak in court?” Deepa asked.
“It depends on the lawyer, madam,” sniffled the policeman.
They returned now to the depths of their lives, awaiting the next hearing.
The days went by, soggy with anticipation, with the implication of important things happening elsewhere. Deepa baked cakes in the kitchen, punishing herself with heat. The kitchen was the largest, most luxurious part of the flat; a space that could have easily serviced three households, not just the tiny one attached to it—a leftover of the old joint way of life. Amazing, Vikas thought, watching her, that we’ve been in the same house for all these years. If I had money, we’d move.
But they were tied to the house. He’d inherited it from his father. He owned the flat jointly with his siblings, and it was difficult to imagine selling it: Who would want to live this deep in a complex full of Khuranas, even if the address were a posh one? Would his siblings allow it? (It occurred to him that, in the circumstances, yes, they would.) Mostly, it was difficult to fathom the complexity of selling, setting a price, transporting one’s stuff, homing in on a new place—tiring. When you came down to it, this flat was the only security they had, the only immutable thing, even if it were bloodied from the insides with memories of the boys, Tushar waddling about in his giraffe-patterned pajamas and ordering around the servant, Nakul lounging in his hep overlarge T-shirts, surprising Vikas with his catlike stare. It was because of the house that he’d stuck to Delhi and not moved to Bombay, where the film industry was concentrated. It was easier to make documentaries if you weren’t terribly strapped for cash and worrying about meeting the rent and if, by the luck of good inheritance, you had a decent address.
Foolish, he thought. I should have risked it and moved. Then this would have never happened and it would have been better for my career, which withered in Delhi, surrounded by family—people who judged my choices and my way of life without trying to understand.