When Aman reached Prakash’s doorstep, Prakash happened to open the door.

‘What the hell, man! What are you doing here?’ Prakash said.

‘It’s nice to see you too, Prakash,’ Aman said, rolling his eyes. ‘What’s keeping you from school these days? Are you up to the usual—’

‘How’d you find my place?’ Prakash nervously looked past Aman and then put his arms on Aman’s shoulders to steer him towards the lane beside his house.

‘Quit it.’ Aman shrugged off Prakash’s hold. ‘Why are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘Am not!’ Prakash looked cross. He paused and then, after a moment, smiled anxiously. ‘Okay, fine! It’s just that . . . How do I put this . . .? Umm . . . My parents are old-fashioned.’

‘So . . .?’ Aman asked. Of course! How could I have been so stupid? Even scum-of-the-earth Prakash is embarrassed to be associated with a traitor’s son.

Aman felt like turning his back on Prakash and running home. Or maybe yelling at Prakash, maybe even smacking him. But he couldn’t. He’d been conditioned to weigh his words, watch his actions and be as passive as possible. There was no way he could make an enemy of the one person who provided him company. He swallowed his pride and said, ‘Nothing really, Prakash. Rohan and gang were extra desperate for attention, and today I became their muse.’

Prakash nodded. ‘Yeah man, listen . . . that all stinks . . . Like I said . . . I’m going to have to go back inside. But I wanna leave you with a gift . . . And I know you said last week that you weren’t interested, but THIS-IS-IT, Aman. I repeat, this is the solution to all your problems . . . Wait right here. No closer though. I’ll get it. Be right back,’ he said. Before Aman could respond, Prakash was already walking away.

He returned shortly and handed Aman a book. ‘Just give it five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.’

Aman looked at the rare hardback edition of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and put it in his backpack. ‘Yeah . . . Five minutes sounds reasonable . . .’

Engulfed in the ghosts of stale bidi smoke outside the apartment on the first floor, where he and his mother lived, Aman could still hear the voices of his classmates—He just can’t speak . . .! But he can surely cry! Those words had torn open old wounds and snatched away the last shred of his dignity. The moat he’d built brick by brick had been breached. His meticulous planning before every move, his scrutinization of each situation for possible pitfalls, his overthinking every decision—it had all been for nothing. His armour had been undone.

But since he was the male child of an army family, his mother would not look kindly on his tears, so he wiped his face before knocking on the door. Aman told himself it would never get better for him. Society would never let him escape the ghosts of his father’s sins.