“A bomb.”
“I see,” Deepa said, surprised at how stern she herself sounded. She’d always believed that misfortune was brought on by those who worried it into existence.
“I heard it on the radio. I was in the kitchen and it was playing on the servants’ radio.” Afsheen was now crying.
“Afsheen,” said Deepa, softer.
Soon after, Deepa got off the phone and went to the landing of the flat and looked down the stairs. No sign of her husband. “Go find sahib,” she instructed Hari, the servant, who took off quickly, his Hawaii slippers thwacking. Deepa washed her cake-smeared hands, absently running a palm through her hair and leaving a white streak there, like Indira Gandhi. Then she went down in her faded kurta to the gate. When she saw the car was missing, she swore loudly. Where had her husband gone and when would he return? He couldn’t be trusted. He was absentminded.
She strode to the main road and hailed an auto herself. It never occurred to her to ask any of Vikas’s relatives in the complex for help.
In any case, Vikas—deep in the disinfected, bloated governmental belly of the hospital—beat them all to it. He found Tushar and Nakul laid out flat on a dhurrie amid other bodies. Nakul’s pretty eyes were blasted open in fright. Tushar slept peacefully, as he always had. Getting down on his haunches, rocking on his heels, Vikas pressed their cold, burned cheeks and wept, adding his fluids to theirs.
When he looked up (hours later, it seemed), Sharif and Afsheen Ahmed were standing over him—Sharif, fat and hassled-looking, with his black disordered beard, his checked shirt and black pants swelling around his belly; Afsheen, dark, her oval face ruined with tears, her slim body wrapped in an elegant chikan salwar, the whiteness of her clothes out of place on this tarmac of death. Vikas’s own clothes had long ago turned the color of soot, of radically vaporized skin and bone. “I’m so sorry,” Vikas said—his first words in the morgue. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Mansoor was still walking.
When the explosion had happened, he had panicked and run away from the burning square and into the shacks. Then, as he searched for a PCO to call home or a stranger to lead him to a phone (he prayed for his phone number, which had vanished from his mind), the dark, sunless alleys distending with people swarming away from and toward the explosion, he panicked again. He’d never been alone anywhere in Delhi, let alone a market after an explosion.
“Did someone’s LPG cylinder burst?” a woman asked.
Mansoor was unsure if he was being talked to.
“Must have been Arora’s compressor,” another man, this one with a terrible tumor growing out of his neck, said.
“They shouldn’t have installed it. The wires here can’t take the load, but they don’t listen even if they’re being told at the association meeting.”
Another boom came from the market—perhaps an actual LPG cylinder going up in a blue column—and the men and women packed together in the alley screamed and there was a muscular pushing and everyone surged out to the main road, where Mansoor, coming across the fresh, untouched life of the city, its towering buses and belts of filth and mud, felt suddenly acute with life, with smoke.
“Bhaiya, you’re OK?” an auto driver asked, walking away from his vehicle with his hands on his hips, but Mansoor instinctively moved away from him, trying to stanch the bleeding in his right wrist with his left hand. He wondered if he had gotten his tetanus booster on time. He had always wondered about the efficacy and necessity of these injections, but now he was grateful.
The auto driver’s top few shirt buttons were undone; a locket flared in the light amid the drowsy sparse chest hairs. “I’m fine, uncle,” Mansoor said for reasons he could not understand.
From the jammed roads—the crowds gathering there and pooling around a stopped bus, pointing—he could tell something exceptional had happened. Then a woman who could have been his grandmother said, “A bomb just burst here.”