IT LOOKS LIKE THE worst has transpired, even if it’s a tad clichéd. The Jazter seems set to follow a long list of ancestors who’ve willingly laid down their lives in stories and films. The homosexual who must swallow the big enchilada in the finale to pay for his sins.

But has the Jazter really sinned? He’s enjoyed himself, to be sure, even been a bit of a cad as far as Karun and Sarita go (though don’t they excuse this in love and war?). No matter, this gesture should more than suffice to compensate. The Jazter nobly offering himself up so they can live out the rest of their hetero fairy tale. Somehow, the picture leaves me less than fulfilled. The joys of martyrdom are definitely overrated.

The guards bring me down to the basement. Clearly, I lack Guddi’s talent at instilling fear, since they ignore my demands to notify Devi ma, and actually titter when I threaten to sic her on them. To add to this insult, they find my Open Sesame card and confiscate it. They leave me locked in a nuclear survival pod, where I contemplate my future, soon to be abbreviated. The past also engages: I count all the crossroads in my life at which I could have averted my coming fate.

I’m up to juncture nine or ten at least when I hear a rustle from the shadows behind. “I see they’ve sent me some company,” a voice says. I make out a figure seated on a cot in the anterior of the space. “I’m Sarahan. Bhim’s deputy. Until this afternoon, that is.”

I begin to introduce myself as Gaurav, then pause. It hardly matters now, does it? “I’m Jaz,” I tell him. “Ijaz Hassan, that’s the full name.”

“A Muslim!” Sarahan exclaims, and peers at me, undoubtedly to check out what member of my tribe would be stupid enough to blunder into this place. Love-struck, not stupid, I feel like correcting him. Although I guess the two are one and the same.

I examine him as well, especially the wound on his forehead, which by now is dry and caked. He appears recovered enough—in fact, my presence in the pod seems to energize him. He’s dying to know how I ended up in Bhim’s lair, so I say I came to save a friend, reveal some select highlights from the meeting upstairs. “Too bad you didn’t have a gun,” he tells me. “How fitting were Bhim to be killed by a Muslim!”

Sarahan relates how he used to be an engineer, how he rose through the ranks after the HRM recruited him at one of their rallies. Apparently, the train I hitched a ride on is to blame for his downfall today. “I was bringing in another cache from our depot near Churchgate—all the right palms greased as usual to ensure safe passage. Someone must have tipped off the Limbus about the cargo—I don’t know who, but they ambushed the train in Mahim, ran it right off the rails. Needless to say, we lost everything, which is what got Bhim so enraged.”

He starts complaining about Bhim ignoring advice, how if they’d cleaned up Mahim as Sarahan had lobbied for weeks, they’d have never lost the train. “Always the same reasons for holding off—that we need a nearby enemy region to fire up our own ranks, that it’s insurance against any nuclear attack. As if the Pakistanis would care—they’d happily martyr half the Muslims in India and deliver their bombs just the same.”

I try to focus Sarahan’s attention on our predicament, on suggesting a way out, but he’s on a roll with his gripes against his boss. “Do you know he sabotaged a prayer ceremony yesterday? Just because a rival temple dared organize it? Killed hundreds in the rampage, every one a Hindu we could have recruited. How can he have forgotten what got him this far? Which—and please don’t take this the wrong way—was to massacre a lot of Muslims.”

No offense taken, I assure him. “Now about this nuclear shelter we’re in, how do we—”

“Shelter, ha! To save the city’s brains, he claims. He should have just bought everyone a helmet instead, rather than this joke he’s built. Do you know, if the power goes, the ventilation goes with it?” Sarahan kicks the wall and gravel falls from the ceiling like rain.

I ask if we can dig our way out, but Sarahan says it’s too dangerous, the whole place might collapse and bury us. “As it is, such a miracle that the hotel still stands, that the Pakistanis haven’t destroyed it. There would be bombs falling on us in an instant if our patron friends ever walked away from the protection they’ve promised. And what does Bhim do? He simply ignores them—it’s been weeks since he’s bothered to communicate. All he can do is talk about Ashoka, and now even Akbar—this obsession with how history will judge him. Our men can’t help but notice his distraction—that’s why they’re executing things so shoddily, becoming just as erratic as him.”

I’m piqued by these patrons Sarahan mentions—does he mean the CIA? He informs me I’m behind the times, that in this day and age, the CIA is passé. “It hardly matters who—the important thing is for Bhim to go—my run-in with him today has left me even more convinced. The future of the entire organization is at stake.”

Which is all very well, with the Jazter delighted that the HRM has such deep thinkers looking out for it. But could we return to more immediate concerns? To repeat: Does Professor Sarahan have any ideas for escape?

“Oh, that. Well, someone’s bound to come, aren’t they? You can’t just lock me up and think nobody will notice.” He lies back on his cot, and studies the ceiling, as if the Big Picture is inscribed on it.

An hour elapses, and then another two, during which Sarahan plots out a scenario where I will actually be the one to assassinate Bhim. “It’s perfect—we won’t even alienate anyone that way—blame it all on the Muslims.” I point out that nobody’s come to our rescue yet, but Sarahan assures me the loyalty of his cadre is beyond question. “They’ll come as soon as they figure out a strategy. It’s not like Bhim will finish us off today.”

Except Bhim seems determined to do precisely that, perhaps having recognized the danger Sarahan poses. The door opens to reveal a trio of guards, not the rescue team I’ve been promised. They want to put on handcuffs, to which Sarahan objects at first, but then agrees sportingly, as if it’s all a big charade. He smiles as we’re led out of the cell, even giving me a conspiratorial wink.

As we walk through the subterranean tunnel, it strikes me that Sarahan might be overly optimistic, even deluded. I can’t rely on him—I need to plan my own escape. My best hope is that someone will spot me on the way and inform Devi ma of my handcuffed state. Unfortunately, we’re sequestered from view in the tunnel, from which we emerge into a shed that’s equally secluded. A tall animal figure with an outlandishly swollen belly looms in front of me—looking around, I notice a whole herd of them.

At first I think they are decorative sculptures, examples of folksy local craftsmanship. The statues stand perfectly still, their heads slightly cocked, as if interrupted by an unfamiliar sound in the midst of their graze. Then I notice the horn-shaped protuberances, the short stump-like limbs, the hooks on their backs attached to sturdy hooped braces. One of the animals is legless and rests on the ground like a giant egg, another is all skeleton—a woman works rolled-up newspaper into the crevices of its blackened metal frame. “The buffaloes,” Sarahan says, pointing at them with his chin. “I had an inkling that’s how they’d do it.”

I’m not sure what he means, not immediately, not beyond the fact that they’ve brought us to see the buffalo-demon effigies the Devi sacrifices. The woman comes over to introduce herself as Mansi, offering us a sheet of canvas-like material spread over her outstretched arms. Noticing our cuffed hands, she holds it up for us to examine, telling us this is what they use for the buffalo exterior. “After we’ve squeezed as much paper and pulp as we can into the frame, we stretch this tight over the surface like a skin. It lights on fire instantly because of the ghee we smear over it.” She leads us on a tour of the buffaloes, stroking their backs as if they’re alive, informing us about the individual names she’s given them. There’s even a Shyamu—no relation, presumably, to Guddi’s elephant.

I keep getting the impression, as Mansi points to the special features of each buffalo—the roominess of the belly cavity, the colors and designs painted on the sides, that she’s trying to sell us something. “So?” she asks, after touting a particularly festive model with green good-luck swastikas imprinted on its forehead. “Will Birbal be the lucky one tonight?” Sarahan defers to me, and with no particular animus against Birbal, I shrug yes. Mansi beams. “Let me show you the fireworks then.”

She leads us to a corner of the shed, where she removes the lids from a row of large bins. Inside, I see tangles of rockets, strings of red crackers, atom bombs neatly packed in boxes, fire whistles glistening like foil-covered chocolates. “Don’t be shy, fill them with as many as you like,” she says, handing us each an empty bucket. I load mine as instructed, getting a bit greedy with the spinners and fountains at the end. Mansi nods in approval. “Those burn spectacularly—Devi ma just loves them.”

After we’ve set the buckets down by Birbal, Mansi tops each off with several white bricks of camphor, whose astringent aroma reminds me of Vicks. “For that nice sizzling effect.” I must be dense, because I don’t get it even when she tells us they clean the frames thoroughly each morning. “All very hygienic—you won’t smell any trace from the previous burning.” It’s only when she starts reassuring me about how comfortable it is within that I wonder if she could possibly mean what I think. I look at Sarahan, and he nods, as if he’s been watching the awareness flower with such aching slowness on my face.