But those killers are different. Not like us, me. They come on their scooters and motorcycles, faces covered by their helmets, ride right upto the threshold and fire their revolvers. Nobody makes the slightest attempt to arrest them. They ride away swiftly, traffic is at a standstill, people gape, too shocked to move, the body of the fallen hero lies where it is being slowly inundated and saturated with his own blood. They may even be present when the body lies in its bier, passing by the resplendent corpse with the crowds of mourners, the hoi-poloi who stream into those elite drawing rooms where they would never have had entrance before. They tread with dusty feet on the plush red carpet brought from the undertakers, breathing in the heady fragrance of wreaths with their tightly packed clusters of orchids, gladioli, hydrangeas, lilies, carnations and chrysanthemums, smoke rising from the coconut oil-soaked wicks in the great brass ornamental lamps. Men, women, children, from all walks of life, people used to standing patiently for hours in bus queues, bow their heads in respect before death, weeping at the sight of the dead hero, fearful of apaya, hell, and of the supernatural world. Consumed too by an enormous sense of curiosity and even a feeling of secret pleasure that they, with the cracked soles of their feet and gnarled, knotty hands, are still alive with all their poverty and deprivation. The wreaths, opulent and ostentatious, pile up before their admiring eyes. A garden of death. The politicians enter the hall, give a swift inclination of the head and condole with the bereaved members of the family who are worn out with genuine grief and exhausted by the public show they have to engage in before the blaze of TV lights and the flashing cameras of the media reporters. The pallbearers lift the coffin, the sleek black hearse is ready to drive away in the motorcade. At the cemetery, crowds surge forward, breaking through mart-made barriers, women faint from exhaustion, heat, emotion. The coffin is placed on the pyre and with a swiftly burning brand the ornate paper structure is set alight. A heavy grey blanket of ash is all that remains of flesh, blood, bones, cloth.