I was an innocent man. My hands had never tied the fuse wires in a land mine, nor did I boast like the others of the killings that were so easily performed. I was not one of them, the death searchers, who moved in and out of jungles, hopping like jungle ticks from one pelt to another, following blood trails. Now, even here in this camp, I felt I had to create my own prawn pond, change my shape and form until it was safe to assume my human lineaments again. I had learnt much from those bicycle rides on those lonely roads. I was careful not to create enemies. I moved like a tiny land crab scuttling about the mangroves, cautiously, so that no bird would swoop down on me from the air. The soldiers were not sure of me at all. Even at this point they would keep me back for interrogation. They were very skilled in this art. I could perhaps not match their subtlety. I was still in a very delicate position. No one knew who I really was. And the other prisoners might have thought me an informer, a traitor, one of the drohis.

‘How many died at the prawn farm?’ the young soldiers asked.

‘Only about five or six,’ I answered. They must not know how much I knew.

‘We feel sorry for the poor people who died,’ one soldier said. ‘But how are we to know who is a terrorist and who isn’t?’ said another. ‘They mingle with the people, with the civilians, and we cannot question each one of them individually. It is either them or ourselves. But in war who has time for pity? We see our men blown up in landmines. The flesh has to be scraped off the Claymores. They are shot by snipers. Reprisals and massacres take place—are these happenings not inevitable in a time of war? Killings will go on. The civilians will always suffer. They have to bear the brunt of the killings. Sometimes they, too, are caught in a situation from which they cannot escape. They cannot betray their own boys. They are caught in the crossfire. If there is a landmine explosion the security forces have to search for the guerrillas, but who can get hold of a guerrilla? He knows the terrain so much better than we do and he can disappear. So it’s the civilian who is left—any male above a certain age is suspect, so they must pay. Death comes out of the jungle, it happens on the open road. Are we not all expecting death at any moment?’