‘They say the whole city wept when Duryodanan died. And like him, you too have indulged in the finer things in life, eaten the best food in the world, travelled to the best places, stayed in palaces, had relationships with beautiful women . . .’

‘So what? Look at me now. Joppan leaves by eight in the night. I take my medicine, and just when I begin to doze off by midnight, this house comes alive. So much noise like the doors are being kicked open and the attic is falling down!’

‘Old houses are like that, no, sir? A scurrying rat, changing weather, everything sounds loud.’

‘It’s not that. Sometimes the doorbell rings, but when I open the door, there is no one there. The gate rattles like someone is shaking it, and stones are thrown at windows. All night dogs run around in the yard barking at the top of their voices as though they know an old man is in here alone, scared and crying.’

‘Maybe we should inform the police . . .’

‘What will they do? They can’t come and stand guard every night. It’s the people who hold a grudge against me. Cowards, the lot! Scared to confront me and have to stab at my shadow instead!’

Disbelievingly, I looked into the darkness outside. The frogs and crickets were silent; not even the flutter of a leaf.

Lighting the way with the torch Peter sir lent me, I walked back home. The sky was clear with no sign of rain. Leaving the shorter route home, I walked across the field, wading knee-deep in the rainwater, and sat with a troubled heart under a coconut tree, smoking one beedi after another until I fell asleep on the grass. At exactly 12 p.m., I jumped out of my sleep and walked back across the field. This time I did not need the torch as the surroundings were enveloped in bright moonlight.

Peter sir’s house sat like a hunched animal with eyes that glitter in the dark. I threw stones at the round neon bulbs on the gateposts and broke them, ran at the gate and kicked it forcefully. I grabbed the bars and shook them until the aged screws began to come loose. A light appeared in Peter sir’s room.

‘Shhh . . .’ I soothed the dogs that came barking up to me, and they slinked away to the back of the house with their tails between their legs and with a peculiar meowling cry. Leaving the torch behind, I jumped over the wall into the yard.

Through the air vent above the window, I saw Peter sir trying to load his gun with trembling hands. He was the only person in our village to own a licensed gun. I banged on the wooden pane of the window. Swearing at the top of his voice, Peter sir slammed it open and fired his gun into the darkness. Dejected, he held on to the top of the door and struggled to breathe. He was having an asthma attack.