“We can go back and talk.”
“I’d prefer if you all played,” Ayub said. “I’ve brought a paper. I’ll sit and read.”
“No, no, that’s too awkward, you just watching us,” Zunaid protested.
“Abe, play,” one of the men on the charpai said.
So they played and were soon lost in their cards. Whipping the newspaper to crispness (like women whipping clothes to open them out before hanging them on a clothesline), Ayub watched the faces and personalities of the four men in the room and admired their concentration, their ability to find peace, even happiness, in this tragic hellhole of a town. My mistake was to leave in the first place, he thought.
Later, Zunaid and he stood side by side taking a leisurely piss over the garbage dump behind the house. Ayub examined the brands of the wrappers in the garbage, their good fonts, the fine print—he thought of the craftsmanship that had gone into these wrappers and had a strong feeling that, despite all its problems, the country was progressing. The fact that Azamgarh received all the trash of the country was proof that it would someday receive other things as well, that it was not cut off. Someday the trash itself would be of such high value, so beautifully made, that this awful place wouldn’t need an economy at all.
“Are you good at keeping secrets, Zunaid bhai?” Ayub asked, tucking his dick back into his pants.
Zunaid said yes, he could keep secrets.
“You asked me why I wanted the gun,” Ayub said as they walked back. “It was a test. To see if you were trustworthy.”
Zunaid smiled, clearly pleased.
“And you were,” Ayub said. “I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He told him that he had been sent by a political party to recruit people to kill Modi and that he was looking for a team to carry it out. The payment would come from a rich man in Bhopal.
Ayub was dismayed to discover that Zunaid had no idea who Modi was. “Arre, yaar, not the tire company,” he said. “He killed thousands of Muslims in Gujarat.” He proceeded to describe Modi’s atrocities.
“We must take revenge on such a person,” Zunaid said, tears in his eyes. “For our own self-respect.”
“The problem is that he’s well guarded,” said Ayub.
“Don’t worry,” Zunaid said. “We have means.”