Chapter 4 The Garland of Blood
The fire consumed the wood with a terrifying roar.
Arjun stood barefoot on the burning stones of the cremation ground. He held the long bamboo stick, his knuckles white. The priest chanted mantras in Sanskrit, words that meant nothing to Arjun. All he could hear was the crackle of the flames turning his father and mother into ash.
He didn't cry. He had cried enough in the empty house. Now, there was just a cold, hollow space in his chest where his heart used to be.
A few locals stood behind him, whispering. They weren't there for support; they were there for the spectacle. The rich Americans who died in a ditch.
Arjun circled the pyre three times, as instructed. He looked at the faces of his parents one last time before the fire took them completely.
I will fix this, he promised them silently. I don't know how, but I will fix this.
The next ten days were a lesson in reality.
Arjun didn't go back to the US. He couldn't. The bank accounts were frozen "pending probate." The lawyers in New York were hard to reach. He was a minor with no access to funds.
He took the folder of evidence his father had gathered—the bank transfer receipts, the Trust details—and went to the Superintendent of Police (SP) office.
He sat on a wooden bench for six hours. When he was finally allowed in, the SP, a man with a potbelly and red eyes, didn't even look at the papers.
It was an accident, kid, the SP said, sipping tea. The driver confessed to sleeping at the wheel. The case is closed.
It wasn't an accident, Arjun said, his voice steady despite his shaking hands. MLA Virendar Rao stole five million dollars. My father threatened to expose him. Three hours later, they were dead. The driver was paid off.
The SP laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound.
That's a big accusation against a respected leader, boy. Do you have proof? No. You have receipts for a donation. That proves charity, not murder. Go back to your house. Be grateful you are alive.
Arjun walked out. He didn't stop there.
He went to the village square. He found the elders, the men his father had danced with during the festival. He showed them the papers. He told them the truth.
He killed them! Arjun shouted, standing in the middle of the street. Virendar Rao killed Vikram and Anjali! He stole the hospital money! Help me!
The shopkeepers looked down. The elders turned their backs.
One old man approached him, his voice a whisper.
Son, we know. Everyone knows Rao is a snake. But he is the MLA. He controls the police, the gangs, the water, the electricity. If we speak against him, our shops burn down tomorrow. Our sons disappear. We are sorry. We cannot help you.
Arjun looked at them. He saw fear. He saw cowardice.
He realized then that the world didn't care about truth. It cared about power. His father had money, but he didn't have power. That's why he died.
Arjun went back to the empty ancestral house. He sat in the dark for two days. He didn't eat. He just stared at the wall.
He realized he had two choices.
Run away, beg the US embassy for a flight home, and live as a coward.
Or balance the scales.
He stood up. He went to the kitchen. He opened the drawer.
There were no guns. No swords. But there was a long, serrated knife used for cutting jackfruit. He took it. He found a roll of duct tape in the storeroom. He taped the handle to give it a better grip.
He wasn't a warrior. He was a fourteen-year-old boy. But he had one advantage.
No one was afraid of a child.
Two weeks after the funeral.
The town was deafeningly loud. It was Virendar Rao's victory rally. The elections were a week away, and he was holding a massive public meeting in the town square.
A giant stage had been erected. Loudspeakers blasted film songs. Thousands of people—some paid, some forced—filled the ground.
Arjun wore a white shirt and trousers. He looked thin, pale, and harmless. He bought a large garland of marigolds from a vendor.
He wrapped the knife in a newspaper and tucked it into the waistband of his pants, covering it with his untucked shirt. He held the heavy garland with both hands, using it to hide the bulge at his waist.
He walked toward the stage.
The security guards stopped him at the stairs. These were the same men who had beaten him in his nightmares.
Hey! Where do you think you're going? a guard barked.
Arjun looked up. He made his eyes wide and watery. He slumped his shoulders.
I... I want to apologize, Arjun stammered.
Apologize?
To Rao Uncle, Arjun whispered, looking down. My father made a mistake. I want to seek his blessing before I leave for America. Please. I just want to give him this garland.
The guard looked at the skinny kid. He looked pathetic. A broken orphan coming to kiss the ring of the man who destroyed him. It was a power trip the guard knew Rao would enjoy.
Let him in, the guard scoffed, stepping aside.
Arjun walked up the stairs.
The stage was bright. Halogen lights blinded him. Virendar Rao sat on a throne-like chair in the center, waving to the crowd. He looked like a king.
When he saw Arjun approaching, Rao paused. He whispered something to his aide, then smiled. A cruel, victorious smile. He stood up and opened his arms, playing the benevolent leader for the crowd.
Look! Rao shouted into the microphone. The son of our late brother Vikram has come! We must support him in his grief!
The crowd cheered. They didn't know the truth. They just saw a nice moment.
Arjun walked closer. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he thought it would burst. His hands were sweating on the garland.
Ten feet.
Five feet.
Rao leaned down slightly, expecting Arjun to touch his feet or put the garland around his neck.
You learned your lesson, boy? Rao whispered, his voice low enough that the microphone didn't pick it up. Smart choice. Go back to America and forget this place.
Arjun looked up. His eyes weren't watery anymore. They were dead.
I'm not going back, Arjun whispered.
He lifted the garland as if to place it around Rao's neck.
As the heavy flowers blocked Rao's vision, Arjun dropped the garland. His right hand snatched the knife from his waist.
He didn't scream. He didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
Thud.
The serrated blade buried itself deep into Rao's stomach, just below the navel.
Rao's eyes bulged. He gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a sudden whoosh. He looked down, unable to comprehend the wooden handle sticking out of his white shirt. A dark red stain began to spread instantly.
Arjun didn't let go. He twisted the knife.
AAARGH!
Rao's scream tore through the loudspeakers, silencing the music.
The crowd went silent.
For one second, time froze. The boy and the politician stood locked together on stage.
Then chaos erupted.
Rao collapsed backward, dragging Arjun with him.
Murder! someone screamed.
The security guards rushed the stage.
Arjun tried to pull the knife out to stab again, but a heavy boot kicked him in the face.
His head snapped back. Blood filled his mouth.
He didn't care. He looked at Rao writhing on the floor, clutching his gut, blood pouring between his fingers. Rao was looking at Arjun with pure terror.
Arjun laughed. With a mouth full of blood, he laughed.
Another kick slammed into his ribs. Then another. The guards were on him like a pack of dogs. They stomped on his hands, his back, his head.
Darkness began to close in on the edges of his vision.
Through the forest of legs kicking him, Arjun saw Rao being lifted by his aides, his white clothes soaked in red.
I did it, Arjun thought as a heavy boot slammed into his temple.
The lights went out.