‘Why do you need those, Kuttacha?’ asked one of the men. ‘We’re going to kill the buffaloes, aren’t we?’

Kuttachan ignored the question.

Like rats behind the pied piper, a brand new set of volunteers followed Kuttachan when he made his appearance dressed in hunting gear—knee-high boots, a pair of trousers with several pockets stuffed with scopes, a rough shirt, and a searchlight attached to his forehead.

‘All idiots who have been playing hide-and-seek since morning can go home and sleep,’ he said, looking Anthony straight in the face. ‘All I need is two bullets. I’ll take care of the animals.’

A scuffle ensued, and they began shouting and pushing at each other. As is always the case, most of the people went with the man with the gun. Only four or five people stuck with Anthony, and he smelled danger.

Kaalan Varky had no sons, only a daughter, Sophie. Anthony nursed the secret hope that Sophie, and through her, a considerable fortune, would one day come into his life. This was the only reason Anthony stayed on with Varky, suffering daily abuse. Often, he followed her to the parallel college where she studied. He was beaten up many times for getting into the bus through the front door, which was reserved for women, and travelling without a ticket by pretending to be a policeman. He knew that Varky kept him on only because no one else would forgo their sleep to do all the early-morning chores. He was conscious that Varky never trusted him with any of the important jobs, tasking him only with the chopping of the meat. Anthony felt this night was going to be significant, one that would make or break his life. But if Kuttachan were to kill the buffaloes . . . Anthony knew that he would then have to go back to a life of day-time sleeping, night-time wandering, and the occasional fishing, while Kuttachan insinuated himself back into the butcher shop and Varky’s heart.

As the darkness deepened, the anxiety that had been building up inside Kuriachan turned into full-fledged dread. He realized he could no longer count on Varky to keep his word to deliver the buffalo meat for his daughter’s engagement feast first thing in the morning. Even if the animals were to be captured and killed, those who took part in the killing would make away with the meat. Without the roast buffalo meat, Kuriachan would be humiliated in front of his guests from Kottayam. The mere thought of serving them a diminished feast with pulisseri and fish curry made him quake with anger and sorrow. Frustrated, he shouted at his wife for no reason, and gave the cat that was meowing for food a kick for good measure.

When it was almost midnight, Kuriachan stepped out of the house without telling even his wife. He had tied a towel over his head, knotting it under his chin. Four or five compounds away from his house lived Ammini, a woman who had been widowed at a young age, and had, over the years, acquired a bit of a bad reputation. She kept hens, egg layers. It had suddenly occurred to him that he could buy five or six chickens from her, and that, although it would not stand up to the majestic taste of slow-roasted buffalo meat, a chicken piralan would go quite well with the rice.