They waited for an explanation, but nothing came; the inspector only shrugged. ‘Only the inspector knows if he knows at all, eh.’ He chuckled. ‘It is our job to arrest anyone causing a disturbance. I can tell you this much, you will not be leaving tonight, but I’ll see that you and your family and driver are escorted safely home. I apologise for my constable. He suspected you were a Sikh terrorist trying to flee the country, eh.’ The inspector came from behind his desk and approached Sunil Seth with his baton. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d go home quietly.’ Then he gently rubbed his baton against the headmaster’s face as though he were erasing a mark in a notebook.

Govinda hated to see his father in such distress. His father’s tears were hidden and all the more pitiful for that. He was crying from the heart. After the inspector left the room he banged his fist over and over again on the table and said, ‘This is the conduct that makes it impossible for me to remain here. They can’t get away with this. I want to burn this damn place.’

Marigold

Marigold

From the lane Sunil Seth called out the gatekeeper’s name. But Tenzing refused them entry into the moonlit school. He didn’t believe they could be back. He flung the gate open only when he was certain it was the Seth family. He threw himself around the headmaster and ushered them into the compound. Tears rushed down his cheeks. Then he took a deep breath and told them that someone had informed that there were Sikh families hiding in the school and angry men had been to seek revenge. Standing in the dark, Govinda saw eyes blinking back at him. He saw shapes huddled near the gate, their silhouettes danced on the walls by the dull, glimmering light of two kerosene lamps.

‘Did they find them?’ Gitanjali’s expression turned suddenly from bewilderment to despair.

The gatekeeper looked down. Then a deep voice in the dark said something. It was the hijra. The hijra smiled, relishing the moment, and clicked his tongue and clapped his hands. He wore a purple saree and a tilaka in the centre of his forehead. His earrings were long.

‘One was killed,’ the hijra said, clicking his tongue again and paused. ‘It was Mumbles Singh.’ He sounded triumphant and clapped his hands. He stood tall and blinked his eyes, emphasising his eyelashes.

‘Who killed him?’ Giranjali asked breathlessly. She looked like she was about to fall down. Govinda looked at the hijra who appeared to be laughing. A part of him felt relieved but then he felt guilty for this feeling. He was overwhelmed with confusion.