by Ryan Lobo
‘Take them off the road, bastard,’ The Lover says. Aurangzeb touches the truck’s accelerator, but lightly this time. Noticing the deceleration, The Lover jams the revolver into Aurangzeb’s neck, grabbing his hair with his other hand.
‘Hit them, or I will kill you and I will drive.’
Aurangzeb believes him.
His face hardening, Khanolkar presses down on the accelerator, the choke on full, pushing the Tempo, which rattles like an auto-rickshaw as Aurangzeb hits the rear bumper again, forcing the Tempo to careen across and off the road into a field. Struggling with the wheel, Khanolkar just about manages to right the vehicle and speeds back onto the road in an explosion of dust.
Bencho reaches the window but is too corpulent to get through it. He cries for Iyer to return, but the sound is lost on the road.
The road has narrowed, and drops off on its right side via a steep incline into the deep river that flows along, thirty feet below the speeding vehicles.
‘We’ve got them,’ The Lover says as the truck gains on the Tempo, the road ahead of them clear.
On the roof of the Tempo, Iyer recovers his senses and sits up, this time keeping an eye out for branches. He manages to bend his knee a little, and yanks out a bag tied to the luggage carrier. He flings it at the truck speeding not more than fifteen feet behind them. The bag explodes on the bonnet, sending dhotis and underwear flying onto the windscreen.
‘Hit him again,’ The Lover says, seeing Iyer on the roof, and Aurangzeb accelerates, almost touching the Tempo. The Lover raises the revolver towards Iyer, but Aurangzeb slows down, so he points it at Aurangzeb instead.
The next bag is heavy and contains Krishna’s armour. Iyer pushes it off the Tempo and onto the truck’s windscreen. It shatters the glass, the armour cascading into the driver’s cubicle. Blinded by the rush of wind and a breastplate that jams the wheel, Aurangzeb brakes, the truck threatening to go off the road and hurtle down towards the river. Aurangzeb jams the brakes with all his strength, both feet pressing down, and manages to stop the truck a few inches from the edge of the drop. Dazed, he pushes the bullet tank off the bonnet, his hand going through the shattered windscreen.
‘I am Bhīma!’ comes the cry, half lost to the wind as the Tempo groans away into the distance. The Tempo’s passengers break into a cheer, and Krishna leans over and pats a grim-faced Khanolkar on a back wet with sweat. Khanolkar is rigid with tension and does not speak. The engine splutters and the exhaust belches out black smoke. The fuel-tank line has been damaged, and the pointer on the gauge drops. They are leaking diesel.
A kilometre ahead, a police barricade has been set up in front of a bridge that stretches into a mist descended over the Ganges. Inspector Sharma is visible, standing in front of the barricade that has. Waving, he flags them down. Seeing the inspector, Khanolkar brakes, stopping the Tempo in a massive cloud of dust right in front of a petrol tanker waiting to have its papers checked. Ignoring the curses of the tanker driver, Khanolkar jumps out of the Tempo and into a herd of cows. Straight-backed and grim, he strides towards the inspector, slapping cows out of the way, ready to make his complaint.
‘Inspector!’ Khanolkar says, as steadily as he can speak, ‘I have a complaint to make.’
Meanwhile, Bencho exits the Tempo and rushes to the external ladder, scuttling up it to help Iyer off the roof.
‘Sir, you did it, you chased them off.’
‘Bencho, my leg hurts,’ Iyer says, exhausted.
34
Spitting bits of broken glass out of a bleeding mouth, The Lover orders Aurangzeb to get the vehicle back on the road. He does so, albeit at a slower pace, and they proceed, wind whipping through the windscreen. The Lover puts on Aurangzeb’s sunglasses and wipes his face clean with his sleeve. In a few minutes they see the barricade in the distance, the parked Tempo, the cows and Khanolkar slapping his way through them.
‘Sir?’ Aurangzeb says, seeing the police. ‘Shall we go back?’
‘They will let us through,’ The Lover says, dialling his cell phone with one hand. ‘That’s Inspector Sharma.’
‘Let us through, Sharma. It is I. Yes, me. Arrest those two.’
There is a long pause on the other end of the line. The inspector takes a deep breath, his eyes on the Ganges.
‘I will not do what the darkness says,’ says the inspector.
‘What rubbish are you speaking? Fool? Do you know who I …’ The Lover realises that the inspector has hung up on him.
Open-mouthed, The Lover turns to Aurangzeb, not believing what has just happened. Then he emits a hysterical howl, mouth wide open, his scar pulsating. Aurangzeb freezes, stricken with fear, as The Lover screams some more.
The scream reaches Bencho and Iyer, who have just alighted from the roof, Iyer’s staff in his hand.
‘Sir,’ Bencho says, his face going white as he notices the truck moving towards them in the distance, like a malevolent little beetle.
‘Get back into your vehicle. Let them through,’ the inspector barks at the constables.
‘Bencho, get her back in,’ Khanolkar shouts, and Bencho rushes to the front of the Tempo to capture Mala, who has escaped, her hair undone, waving an empty Bisleri bottle at a butterfly. She runs into the undergrowth and Bencho follows her, begging her to stop. Aurangzeb blows the horn as the truck picks up speed, sending cattle rushing off the road.
Iyer limps into the centre of the road, his coat flapping in the wind, his beard blowing over his shoulder, his staff in his hand.
Come.
Aurangzeb slows down upon seeing Iyer stride out, but The Lover jams the revolver into his side, and he touches the accelerator harder.
‘Run over that dog. If you do not, I will kill you. I swear it,’ The Lover tells Aurangzeb calmly.
Come. I am ready.
Licking his lips, his hands shaking, Aurangzeb accelerates, heading straight towards Iyer.
‘Faster, bastard,’ says The Lover, staring at Iyer, who stands like a statue, his staff held over his shoulder like a javelin, one leg stiff and dragging behind him.
‘Om Namashivaya Namaha,’ Iyer says. He is ready to die.
‘Please,’ screams Aurangzeb, now in tears, but The Lover is possessed. He wraps his arm around Aurangzeb’s shoulders in an embrace, his eyes on Iyer, the little smile returning.
‘Faster. Faster,’ he whispers, his mouth foaming at the corners and his pupils dilated, the barrel jammed hard into Aurangzeb’s ribs.
‘Sir!’ screams Bencho, who has just emerged from the forest, holding Mala. He rushes to desposit her in the Tempo.
Iyer hefts the staff and takes a deep breath.
I am Bhīma, tamer of elephants, master of the mace.
It is the right weight. It was always the right weight. He holds it in the middle, the staff balancing on the space between his thumb and forefinger.
We shall compose a poem, with songs, to explain these truths:
Even kings, if they break the law, have their necks wrung by dharma;
Great men everywhere commend Pattini of renowned fame;
And karma ever manifests itself, and is fulfilled.
Iyer feels that he knows the lance intimately, its length an extension of Iyer’s own arm.
To wield a lance again.
Bencho pushes his way out of the Tempo and begins running towards Iyer with the despair of knowing he’ll never reach him in time.
The truck’s speedometer touches ninety as it hurtles towards Iyer.
Iyer sucks in his diaphragm and slows down his breathing, watching himself from elsewhere, willing the staff to become alive. He bends his knee and feels the meniscus move somewhat into place, as if it has a mind of its own.
Even though I knew it was a dream, I was powerless.
As the truck hurtles towards him, Iyer takes his arm back in one fluid movement, runs forward two steps with his eyes on The Lover, and launches the staff into the air. It sails through space, vibrating like a spear, and strikes the ste
ering wheel, missing The Lover completely.
His legs apart, Iyer stands erect and places his hands on his hips, facing the truck speeding towards him. Aurangzeb tries to turn, but The Lover seizes the wheel and tries to align the truck with Iyer, who stands as still as a sculpture, staring him in the eye.
It is time.
A droplet of rain anoints his face.
The Lover turns the wheel but it does not turn. The staff has gone through it and hit the floor, preventing its rotation. The truck speeds towards the balustrade and the petrol tanker that has just driven onto the road.
Aurangzeb grabs at the wheel and attempts to swerve, but the truck is constrained to its path and misses the immobile Iyer by inches, his beard blowing sideways as it rushes past. It hits the balustrade and careens wildly, rising up on two wheels as The Lover yanks the staff out, too late. The truck crashes into the petrol tanker, which topples onto its side and is pushed sideways towards the bridge, both vehicles smashing through the barricade.
Policemen, drivers, cattle and barricades fly in all directions as the rain pours down. The rear doors of the truck swing open, the lock mutilated. The errand boy, accompanied by idols of various sizes and dimensions, falls out through the open doors and tumbles down the embankment towards the river. Unlike the idols, the skeletal errand boy, used to being thrown out of moving vehicles, lands on his feet in the shallows like a cat surrounded by broken gods, and hurries away, dodging the Nataraja that almost crushes him but lands in deeper water a few feet away. Miraculously, the vehicles do not catch fire, and skid to a rest, the driver’s cabin of the truck mangled, an immense cloud of dust obscuring the truck. The petrol tanker’s rear tap has broken off, sending petrol washing over the road and prompting its driver to jump out of the cabin and run away.
Pinned to his seat by the steering wheel, Aurangzeb is suspended upside down, his foot jammed in the mutilated chassis. The Lover, shards of glass marking his face like tinsel, falls out of his seat, concussed. Choking on petrol fumes, he kicks his way out of the door window and crawls onto the road.
‘Help me. I am stuck,’ Aurangzeb begs, his leg trapped, the leather webbing of his sandal held by a steering rod. Ignoring him, The Lover crawls further away, regaining his senses and limping to the side of the road, where he stands for a few moments viewing the carnage before retreating into the shrubbery.
Aurangzeb can hear the inspector in the distance, shouting for everyone to abandon the truck, obscured from view by the cloud of dust its collision has caused.
‘It will explode. Constables, make sure no one approaches the accident.’ The inspector barks, using his lathi on a cowherd who is hovering nearby with a cell phone, videoing the accident.
‘Help me,’ Aurangzeb screams, struggling to free his foot. Petrol drips out of the broken tanker tap and into the cubicle, its pungent odour burning his nostrils.
Aurangzeb begins to beg in earnest, his eyes watering from the fumes, his clothes wet with petrol. He cries out for help, but the checkpoint has been abandoned except for a lone white cow a short distance away, chewing the cud disinterestedly.
‘Help me. Please,’ Aurangzeb shouts, just to hear his own voice. No one is there, he thinks; this is it. There is no sound apart from the river flowing under the bridge.
Aurangzeb thinks he hears coughing. Iyer chokes on the dust as he sloshes through puddles of rain towards the overturned truck.
‘I have to stop him,’ Bencho says, but the inspector orders him to be restrained.
‘It will explode,’ he says. ‘You’ll achieve nothing but killing yourself and saving no one.’ He pushes Bencho towards the crowd that has receded some hundred yards down the road, Mala wailing with her head in her hands, and Damayanti trying with great effort to prevent her from running towards the accident.
‘Hold them back. No one approaches the truck. Use your lathis if anyone tries,’ the inspector shouts. The constables fan out across the road, lathis at the ready. He radios the checkpoint at the other end of the bridge, and they, too, block its access.
The dust is thick, but Iyer covers his nose and mouth with his lapels and follows Aurangzeb’s cries. The throbbing in his head has increased, and Iyer leans against the truck, nausea rising in his gut. His knee is less stiff but still hurts terribly. Fighting the urge to vomit, he limps his way towards the crushed cubicle, blinded by the dust and rain. Falling onto his belly, Iyer finds the air is cleaner nearer the ground, and breathes easier. Pushing away the debris near the truck window, Iyer peers into the cubicle, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Iyer can just about make out a bloody, suspended Aurangzeb through a tangle of wire and shredded upholstery.
‘You,’ sobs Aurangzeb in despair, seeing Iyer look up at him.
‘Mongoose! You! Did you pay the boy his money and make amends?’ Iyer asks. Aurangzeb stares at Iyer in amazement, beginning to cry, but also surprised to find himself laughing at the same time, not believing what he has just heard.
‘What?’
‘Tell me the truth, toad. Did you say sorry?’ Iyer lectures, wedging himself into a better position.
‘Sir. Please, sir,’ Aurangzeb says. ‘Help me, please.’
‘Did you give it to him or not?’ Iyer asks, crawling into the cubicle, bending a windscreen wiper out of the way and just about managing to fit, so that he is face to face with the upside-down Aurangzeb.
‘No. I did not,’ Aurangzeb says, tears streaming up his forehead.
Iyer moves upward like a worm, trying to figure out how Aurangzeb is trapped. There is complete silence except for the sound of Bencho fighting with the constables, insisting that they let him help.
Iyer attempts to rise up to the crushed foot, which is pinned between the seat and the steering block, one of whose rods has gone through the leather of the sandal. He pulls on the leg but Aurangzeb’s ankle is broken, and he bellows in pain each time it’s touched. Grabbing onto the leg, Iyer tries to free the foot from the leather but, try as he might, it does not come free.
‘Stop crying like a baby and help me here,’ Iyer says impatiently, crouching back down, his face a few inches from Aurangzeb’s.
‘You are mad,’Aurangzeb says between heaving sobs, gasping for breath. He adds ‘sir’ as an afterthought.
‘Listen to me,’ Iyer says calmly, ‘Can you get your foot out of your sandal?’
‘I think … I don’t know, sir,’ he says, crying.
Crawling back into the tangle, Iyer comes back to the sandal. He tries with all his strength to tear it off with his hands, but the leather is too tough.
‘What leather is this?’ Iyer asks, genuinely curious but not waiting for an answer. He jams his head into the wires and grabs hold of the strap with his teeth, and begins to chew.
‘It’s … what most … I don’t know, sir.’
‘Well, it tastes like dung,’ Iyer says, chewing.
Aurangzeb sniffs at the air. He can smell something burning. He tenses.
‘Don’t worry, my friend, you will be reborn a cockroach for sure,’ Iyer says, still chewing at the leather, the odour from Aurangzeb’s feet making him nauseous.
‘The true taste of cow,’ Iyer says, spitting bits of leather out of his mouth as the strap gives way.
Aurangzeb is still jammed. Moving backwards, Iyer gets his feet out of the cubicle and takes Aurangzeb’s hand, trying to pull him free, his one good leg scrabbling for a foothold on the petrol-slicked road.
‘Free yourself,’ Iyer gasps as he struggles to heave Aurangzeb out of the cubicle. But his arms, burning with pain, are not strong enough. He grabs him around the chest, his arms beneath Aurangzeb’s shoulders, and the upside-down Aurangzeb grabs him beneath his shoulders. Wrapped thus around each other, the sound of each other’s hearts in their ears, Iyer pulls with all his strength.
‘Ya Allah,’ says Aurangzeb, closing his eyes, embracing Iyer tighter as he pulls Aurangzeb with a cry of ‘Om Namashivaya Namaha’, his arms screaming for relief.
&n
bsp; Groaning, Aurangzeb slithers from the tangle and out of the driver’s seat. As Iyer continues to pull, a hand lands on Iyer’s foot, pulling at him. He slides out of the truck, holding onto Aurangzeb, and they burst from the crushed cubicle onto the road. The hand is Bencho’s; when Iyer looks at him he can see his clothes are torn and his face swollen from fighting with the constables.
They hobble away from the truck, Bencho helping Iyer, and Aurangzeb half hopping along. Flames crackle over the vehicle and into the cabin as it bursts into flames. They hobble on further as the truck really catches fire, the petrol combusting into flames rising twenty feet into the air, singeing the hair on their arms. They try to move faster, falling towards the bridge, the blaze hot on their backs, the air whipped into a fierce wind by the flames sucking oxygen into itself.
Aurangzeb falls and Iyer stumbles back towards him, half dragging him away from the inferno that now roars like a living thing. Bencho chokes and moves away, blinded by the white heat. A safer distance off, Iyer tries to lift up the dazed Aurangzeb, his arms beneath his knees and neck, but he is too heavy, and Iyer flops down onto the road, Aurangzeb cradled in his arms. Together, they catch their breaths, lit with the flames and buffeted by the wind and smoke.
‘Sir,’ whispers Aurangzeb.
‘Yes,’ croaks Iyer.
‘Sorry. And thank you.’
‘Shut up, baboon,’ Iyer says, raising his head to the rain.
Iyer lowers him to the ground and gets shakily to his feet, the Tempo and everything else now obscured by the smoke.
It is done.
Iyer walks towards the railing and looks down at the water flowing beneath him, the bank strewn with idols and pieces of idols thrown from the truck when it toppled. The Durga on the tiger has landed upright in the shallows, the arm holding the sword emerging from the water. The errand boy and the Nataraja are nowhere to be seen. The white cow grazes by the roadside as if nothing has happened. A wind rises up from the river and blows the smoke away, and for a second, Iyer can make out the Inspector and Khanolkar holding back the instant crowd that has appeared from nowhere.