No offense taken, I assure him. “Now about this nuclear shelter we’re in, how do we—”
“Shelter, ha! To save the city’s brains, he claims. He should have just bought everyone a helmet instead, rather than this joke he’s built. Do you know, if the power goes, the ventilation goes with it?” Sarahan kicks the wall and gravel falls from the ceiling like rain.
I ask if we can dig our way out, but Sarahan says it’s too dangerous, the whole place might collapse and bury us. “As it is, such a miracle that the hotel still stands, that the Pakistanis haven’t destroyed it. There would be bombs falling on us in an instant if our patron friends ever walked away from the protection they’ve promised. And what does Bhim do? He simply ignores them—it’s been weeks since he’s bothered to communicate. All he can do is talk about Ashoka, and now even Akbar—this obsession with how history will judge him. Our men can’t help but notice his distraction—that’s why they’re executing things so shoddily, becoming just as erratic as him.”
I’m piqued by these patrons Sarahan mentions—does he mean the CIA? He informs me I’m behind the times, that in this day and age, the CIA is passé. “It hardly matters who—the important thing is for Bhim to go—my run-in with him today has left me even more convinced. The future of the entire organization is at stake.”
Which is all very well, with the Jazter delighted that the HRM has such deep thinkers looking out for it. But could we return to more immediate concerns? To repeat: Does Professor Sarahan have any ideas for escape?
“Oh, that. Well, someone’s bound to come, aren’t they? You can’t just lock me up and think nobody will notice.” He lies back on his cot, and studies the ceiling, as if the Big Picture is inscribed on it.
An hour elapses, and then another two, during which Sarahan plots out a scenario where I will actually be the one to assassinate Bhim. “It’s perfect—we won’t even alienate anyone that way—blame it all on the Muslims.” I point out that nobody’s come to our rescue yet, but Sarahan assures me the loyalty of his cadre is beyond question. “They’ll come as soon as they figure out a strategy. It’s not like Bhim will finish us off today.”
Except Bhim seems determined to do precisely that, perhaps having recognized the danger Sarahan poses. The door opens to reveal a trio of guards, not the rescue team I’ve been promised. They want to put on handcuffs, to which Sarahan objects at first, but then agrees sportingly, as if it’s all a big charade. He smiles as we’re led out of the cell, even giving me a conspiratorial wink.
As we walk through the subterranean tunnel, it strikes me that Sarahan might be overly optimistic, even deluded. I can’t rely on him—I need to plan my own escape. My best hope is that someone will spot me on the way and inform Devi ma of my handcuffed state. Unfortunately, we’re sequestered from view in the tunnel, from which we emerge into a shed that’s equally secluded. A tall animal figure with an outlandishly swollen belly looms in front of me—looking around, I notice a whole herd of them.
At first I think they are decorative sculptures, examples of folksy local craftsmanship. The statues stand perfectly still, their heads slightly cocked, as if interrupted by an unfamiliar sound in the midst of their graze. Then I notice the horn-shaped protuberances, the short stump-like limbs, the hooks on their backs attached to sturdy hooped braces. One of the animals is legless and rests on the ground like a giant egg, another is all skeleton—a woman works rolled-up newspaper into the crevices of its blackened metal frame. “The buffaloes,” Sarahan says, pointing at them with his chin. “I had an inkling that’s how they’d do it.”
I’m not sure what he means, not immediately, not beyond the fact that they’ve brought us to see the buffalo-demon effigies the Devi sacrifices. The woman comes over to introduce herself as Mansi, offering us a sheet of canvas-like material spread over her outstretched arms. Noticing our cuffed hands, she holds it up for us to examine, telling us this is what they use for the buffalo exterior. “After we’ve squeezed as much paper and pulp as we can into the frame, we stretch this tight over the surface like a skin. It lights on fire instantly because of the ghee we smear over it.” She leads us on a tour of the buffaloes, stroking their backs as if they’re alive, informing us about the individual names she’s given them. There’s even a Shyamu—no relation, presumably, to Guddi’s elephant.
I keep getting the impression, as Mansi points to the special features of each buffalo—the roominess of the belly cavity, the colors and designs painted on the sides, that she’s trying to sell us something. “So?” she asks, after touting a particularly festive model with green good-luck swastikas imprinted on its forehead. “Will Birbal be the lucky one tonight?” Sarahan defers to me, and with no particular animus against Birbal, I shrug yes. Mansi beams. “Let me show you the fireworks then.”
She leads us to a corner of the shed, where she removes the lids from a row of large bins. Inside, I see tangles of rockets, strings of red crackers, atom bombs neatly packed in boxes, fire whistles glistening like foil-covered chocolates. “Don’t be shy, fill them with as many as you like,” she says, handing us each an empty bucket. I load mine as instructed, getting a bit greedy with the spinners and fountains at the end. Mansi nods in approval. “Those burn spectacularly—Devi ma just loves them.”
After we’ve set the buckets down by Birbal, Mansi tops each off with several white bricks of camphor, whose astringent aroma reminds me of Vicks. “For that nice sizzling effect.” I must be dense, because I don’t get it even when she tells us they clean the frames thoroughly each morning. “All very hygienic—you won’t smell any trace from the previous burning.” It’s only when she starts reassuring me about how comfortable it is within that I wonder if she could possibly mean what I think. I look at Sarahan, and he nods, as if he’s been watching the awareness flower with such aching slowness on my face.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “Remember what I said in the basement about my men.” Turning to Mansi, he compliments her on how splendid she’s made the buffalo look. “I’m sure they’re just as nice inside—I didn’t realize I’d actually get to try one myself.”
Mansi blushes in delight. “I still have a pair of fire wheels left. We’re not really supposed to use them in the buffaloes, but Devi ma likes them even more than the rockets. I’ll let you have them as well.”
Our actual insertion into the effigy is a decidedly unceremonious affair. The guards lift Birbal onto a dolly, then lean a ladder against his side, then nudge us up at gunpoint with our hands still cuffed behind our backs. One of them flips open a trapdoor on the top and pushes Sarahan in—I hear a groan as his body hits the base of wooden planks. He cries out even louder when I land on top of him. As I try to wriggle myself off his belly, a cascade of firecrackers pelts us—first one bucket, then the other. More material comes raining down—wood shavings and pulp this time, and I realize the guards are emptying the wastebaskets of burnable scrap.
The patch of sky visible through the trapdoor opening is already purple by the time we are wheeled out of the shed. I manage to flip myself over so that I lie squeezed next to Sarahan, feet to head (giving me my first true appreciation of the term “packed like sardines”). After rolling along for several minutes, during which I distinctly hear us serenaded by devotional music, our bovine chariot comes to a halt. A tackle hangs in the hole above, suspended by wires that disappear towards the looming Indica turret beyond.
At least they’ve left the trapdoor open for us to get some air, I think, just seconds before someone slams it closed. Bolts are drawn, fasteners snap shut, the buffalo rocks and shudders as footsteps sound on the flat of its back above. Will this be it? I wonder, as the blackness begins to stifle. I strain against my cuffs, struggle to shake the crevices of my body free of nestling fireworks (the rocket with its cone pointed at my groin proves particularly stubborn). My empty stomach churns with acid—shouldn’t someone at least offer us a last mutton fry or masala chop?