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With Santosh at gunpoint, he and Rupesh entered through an iron door on the east side—the only way in or out—and found themselves on the inside of a vast basin, a huge sunken ossuary pit in the middle.
A full moon illuminated bodies laid out on the stone, men in an outer ring, female corpses in the middle, and children in the innermost ring. Once the flesh had been pecked by vultures, and the bones bleached by the sun, the remnants would collect in the pit, where they would gradually disintegrate into fine powder.
“Go to the pit,” said Rupesh.
Though he had one hand over his mouth, Santosh was still retching at the overpowering stench of rotted flesh and bird-shit. He turned and limped toward the edge. The moon cast the stone in a silvery glow. Tendrils of light reached into the pit where a mix of festering blood and tissue and human bones lay coagulating and decomposing.
Glancing to Rupesh, he saw the other man doing the same. Supposedly, the tower could only be entered by a special class of pallbearers, who would be asleep in their quarters. How had Rupesh gained entry? Perhaps, when you counted Munna and Nimboo Baba among your friends, anything was possible.
“Alas, the story must end here, my friend,” said Rupesh. He reached into his back pocket with his left hand while his right continued to hold the Glock, pulling out something that he held up for Santosh to see. A pair of handcuffs. And in a voice from the heart of a nightmare said, “You killed them, you drunk bastard.”
For a second, Santosh forgot the stink, the vultures, the corpses at their feet, and the gun pointing at him. He simply stared at Rupesh. It was almost as though every second had been stretched into an hour. He felt woozy. Rupesh’s words echoed inside his mind as it went into flashback. “You killed them, you drunk bastard!”
And he had, hadn’t he? He had killed them.
Chapter 91
THEY’D LEFT IMMEDIATELY after breakfast, Isha, and Pravir, happy and content. Thankfully there had been no discussion of Santosh’s extended absence from home and they’d enjoyed a wonderful break at a resort recommended by …
Rupesh’s sister.
Yes, Rupesh’s sister. Santo
sh and Rupesh were the best of friends: Rupesh had been godfather to his son, even filling in for Santosh at school events.
They drove. The lush green hills were partially covered by monsoon clouds and the gentle spray of rain made the view even more magical. His son, entirely absorbed in his hand-held game, was seated in the rear seat of the car as Santosh drove, wondering why he had allowed himself to ignore the most important people in his life. He vowed that he would give more time to his wife and son, become more disciplined about his own habits and split his time more evenly between work and family. He needed to take care of himself too. Exercise, eat healthily, and cut down on the alcohol.
He cast looks at Isha, seated next to him. She seemed worried, almost as though she were trying to tell him something. When she noticed him staring at her, she smiled self-consciously. Her hands were in her lap, the fingers of her left hand fiddling with the wedding ring on her right.
“Papa, look at my score!” cried his son from the rear of the car. He crouched in the footwell and held the game through the space between their seats, urging his father to take a look.
And because the boy was excited. And because, even though it was just a silly game, Santosh wanted to be a good father and tell him well done, he took his eyes off the road to look at the game.
Just for a second. That’s all it was. Enough to miss the bend.
“Watch out, Santosh!” screamed his wife, and he stamped on the brakes and wrenched at the wheel and a million thoughts crowded his head but none were enough to save them and the car spun into the thick trunks of the banyan at the crest of the turn, its horn stuck and blaring like a piercing scream.
Santosh did not know how he reached the hospital or who took him there. He had a vague recollection of dark corridors and of being wheeled on a gurney into the operating theater. He lost count of the days and nights that he was in the hospital. He also lost track of waking and dreaming, the two states mingling effortlessly to make his dreams seem eerily real and his reality a jumbled dream. The only recurrent theme was of a policeman—sometimes at his bedside, sometimes running alongside his gurney, sometimes towering over him—holding a pair of handcuffs and saying, “You killed them, you drunk bastard!”
Both dead. Him the only survivor. What he would have given for it to be the other way around.
Slowly, Santosh returned to the present. He had been staring without seeing, his gaze on the barrel of the gun, but now his eyes rose slowly to Rupesh.
“You were the cop who accused me of being drunk?” he said dreamily.
Rupesh shook his head as though dealing with a fool. “You never had time for them!” he sneered. “I was the one who was always there for them. Attending your son’s school play, lending money to Isha when you disappeared for days, comforting her when your uncaring and selfish attitude was too much for her to bear. They became my life, and you killed them.”
“You were having an affair with her?” asked Santosh quietly. He was in a state of shock. Later the news would hit home, and he’d wail with the pain of knowing Isha had been unfaithful. But right now there was nothing. Just numbness and shock.
“She was going to leave you,” said Rupesh. “But before she could do it, you cut her life short.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Rupesh,” said Santosh.
Or maybe it was.
“Papa, look at my score!”
Rupesh scoffed. “You were never there. And when you were, you were drunk. You killed them before they died.”
