Anima had sat here, like this, on that day too, but filled with a gnawing unease, her insides dark and dry like the trunk of the gulmohr. Versova was at peace, but the city was not. You could never be sure where trouble would flare up and why. Gangs of men roamed the streets, their chests puffed out. Hunters, impelled to blood by some primeval instinct. The quarry, alert, went about its work, moving on cat-burglar feet, hugging shadows, its eyes averted from other eyes. At such a time as this, they were out there—Arif and Siddharth. They were roaming the city, unconcerned about the hunt. The hunt wasn’t part of their life. They were on shore for this brief while. Land held no dangers for those whose fierce battles were with the sea.

The evening had stretched out long and dark while Anima's ears yearned for the sound of the key in the latch. The time was long past when she should have heard it. Anima's throat had gone dry and cracked. She had lifted herself out of her chair and had been in the kitchen with a glass of water when the bell had rung with a trill of Bhairavi, the raag of endings. Siddharth had had the bell custom made. Had he forgotten to carry his key after all? Anima had rushed to the door, the water in her glass slopping a trail behind her.

Arif, and behind him Anisa, her head bent. Arif's shirt was smeared red, his face white. Arif and Anisa had stood outside and Anima had known why. She had said, ‘Why don’t you come in?’ The crack in her voice was of the quake inside her. They had come in and with them had come a cool puff of breeze. They had sat down, silent. Anima's eyes had flitted around Arif's blank stare. Then he had spoken. Then he had stopped speaking. A cab was waiting downstairs. Arif had gone down to bring Siddharth's shredded body up with the driver's help. Anima had looked at his face, still the same, and she had died within.