The dead hero becomes a cult figure. Sensational stories begin to surface in the villages. In some remote hamlet the parents of a small child say that their son is a reincarnation of the dead hero. Crowds visit the humble dwelling where he lives, the diminutive figure wearing clothes similar in design to those of the great man, the walls of the hut plastered with huge pictures of the dead handsome hero’s smiling face. Where does it all end? The fake, the fraud? Is imposture a means of gaining fame, of lifting you from obscurity? Who’s searching for honesty these days anyway? To be in the limelight, even briefly, to be the focus of attention of the media, to have the whole country conjecturing on the idea of their hero being reborn, of being a cult figure—that’s enough for the moment. Everybody’s trying to cash in on someone else’s fame or image of popularity and power. Probably I have my followers too, though I’m not aware of them. Plenty of imitations. I’m the real thing—this they know, those who deploy me or use me. I use them too. I sometimes amuse myself by thinking, ‘What if I stand on the banks of a wewa taking aim at wild doves or batagoyas or teal?’ No, I don’t want to kill those innocent birds. Wouldn’t give me any pleasure. I don’t kill for pleasure anyway. I just want to excel in my job. Like many others. Only you don’t have to know my name. Everybody has aliases. So do I. My real name is tucked away in some niche in my brain. That’s only for me, to remind myself of who I am. My parents gave me that name. It belonged to a great guru, a swami. That name could have taken me along a different path, had I wanted it. At the end of all this, who knows, I may be the leader of a great new cult that carries a message. And the watchword? ‘Destroy before you are destroyed.’

I already have my acolytes. No one knows from where we emerge. We have our safe houses, in respectable residential areas. Alsatian dogs. Gates opening only through remote control. High walls. Bodyguards and security men. The gates are always kept locked. We wait for the next call. There are always the go-betweens through whom we first negotiate. We are then informed of who the architect of the master plan is. And of the price. The risks we take are our own. No betrayal. Cover-ups if we are discovered but we never are. We have too many high-ranking officials and politicians on our side.