Free The Solitude of Emperors by David Davidar Page A

the incident grows fuzzy. In the nightmares I was prone to afterwards, I would see the head flying off and the gush of blood, but on the day I saw none of this, only something more obscene than anything else I would witness that night—the neck abruptly collapsing on itself like a flaccid rubber tube.
    Next to me I heard Rao muttering obscenities beneath his breath as he took in the scene, and then before I could do or say anything he yelled, ‘Come on, let’s go,’ and began to run back the way we had come.
    To this day, I can’t tell you why I didn’t follow him. Maybe it was some survival instinct telling me that if I ran I would seem guilty, and would therefore be killed, whereas if I stood my ground I might be able to reason with them. Or perhaps the thought had surfaced, no matter how foolhardy it may seem in retrospect, that here was my story, the one that I had come on to the streets to look for.
    A couple of men at the fringes of the mob looked up when Rao yelled, caught sight of me, and alerted the rest of the group to my presence. Instantly, all the men turned their eyes on me, including the one holding the sword.
    It was too late to move. A man detached himself from the group and ran towards me. He stood no higher than my shoulder for I am reasonably big, just under six feet tall. As he came up he took a clumsy swipe at me with the lathi he was carrying. The blow wasn’t well aimed and didn’t hurt. I caught hold of the weapon and said firmly, ‘I’m Hindu. Don’t touch me.’ I was speaking in English, and the man, struggling to release his weapon, swore to his colleagues in Marathi, ‘Behenchod says he is Hindu.’
    The same survival instinct that had rooted me to the spot now told me that I couldn’t let go of the lathi and that things would go badly for me if my assailant managed to free himself. It sounds as if I was fully in control of the situation, weighing my options and acting in a measured manner, but it wasn’t so at all—everything I did was automatic, controlled by some little-used part of my mind.
    A man, evidently the leader of the mob that now surrounded me, came up and slapped me so hard that I almost fell. I relaxed my grip on the length of bamboo that my first assailant was wielding and it was wrenched free. As I staggered back, determined to stay upright no matter how often I was hit, because to go down would be to die, the man who had slapped me said, ‘Gaandu, you aren’t Muslim, are you?’
    I shook my head and murmured, ‘Hindu.’
    ‘Behenchod, everyone in Bombay says the same thing. How do I know you’re not lying?’ My horror deepened when I noticed the man with the sword standing just behind my interrogator, listening to every word.
    ‘Ask him to drop his pants, then we’ll see if the maderchod is telling the truth…’ someone shouted.
    The one clear part of my brain that was fighting for my survival impelled me to say, in the pidgin Hindi I’d acquired since I’d moved to Bombay, ‘Why should I drop my trousers, will you drop yours?’
    I was rewarded with another bone-rattling slap, another hand reached for me and I could hear my shirt tearing.
    A voice piped up from within the mob, ‘Madrasi lagta hai…’
    And then another, ‘Behenchod, he’s wearing a thread…’
    The tearing of my shirt spared me from further damage. As soon as my attackers saw the sacred thread I wore and realized I was Hindu, they began turning away. Later I would feel ashamed that I had taken refuge in my Hindu identity when my life was at stake—it didn’t seem the right way to stand up to terrorism committed in the name of God—but in the moment I felt only unadulterated relief.
    ‘Mind you, don’t tell anyone about what you saw here. Remember we can find you no matter where you hide. Chalo, let’s forget this pitiful chuthiya…’
    And then they moved away, leaving me in the street with two dead men. Suddenly, one of the mob turned back. It was the little man who had