During the long weeks of hiding and waiting without heat or hot food, we'd entertained and supported one another with the stories we'd told. On that last night, after several others had spoken, it was my turn once more. For my first story, weeks before, I'd told them about my escape from prison. Although they'd been scandalised by my admissions about being a gunaa, or sinner, and being imprisoned as a criminal, they'd been thrilled by the account, and asked many questions afterwards. My second story had been about the Night of the Assassins: how Abdullah, Vikram, and I had tracked the Nigerian killers down; how we'd fought with them, defeated them, and then expelled them from the country; how I'd hunted Maurizio, the man who'd caused it all, and beat him with my fists; and how I'd wanted to kill him, but had spared his life, only to regret that pity when he'd attacked Lisa Carter and forced Ulla to kill him.
That story, too, had been very well received, and as Mahmoud Melbaaf took his place beside me to translate my third story, I wondered what might capture their enthusiasm anew. My mind scanned its list of heroes. There were many, so many men and women, beginning with my own mother, whose courage and sacrifice inspired the memory of them. But when I began to speak, I found myself telling Prabaker's story. The words, like some kind of desperate prayer, came unbidden from my heart.
I told them how Prabaker had left his village-Eden for the city when he was still a child; how he'd returned as a teenager, with the wild street boy Raju and other friends to confront the menace of the dacoits; how Rukhmabai, Prabaker's mother, had put courage into the men of the village; how young Raju had fired his revolver as he walked toward the boastful leader of the dacoits until the man fell dead; how Prabaker had loved feasting and dancing and music; how he'd saved the woman he loved from the cholera epidemic, and married her; and how he'd died, in a hospital bed, surrounded by our sorrowing love.
After Mahmoud finished translating the last of my words there was a lengthy silence while they considered the tale. I was just convincing myself that they were as moved by the life of my little friend as I was myself when the first questions began.
"So, how many goats did they have in that village?" Suleiman asked gravely.
"He wants to know how many goats-" Mahmoud began translating.
"I got it, I got it," I smiled. "Well, near as I can tell, about eighty, maybe as many as a hundred. Each household had about two or three goats, but some had as many as six or eight."
That information inspired a little gesticulating buzz of discussion that was more animated and partisan than any of the political or religious debates that had occasionally stirred among the men.
"What... colour... were these goats?" Jalalaad asked.
"The colours," Mahmoud explained solemnly. "He wants to know the colors of those goats."
"Well, gee, they were brown, I guess, and white, and a few black ones."
"Were they big goats, like the ones in Iran?" Mahmoud translated for Suleiman. "Or were they skinny, like the ones in Pakistan?"
"Well, about _so big..." I suggested, gesturing with my hands.
"How much milk," Nazeer asked, caught up in the discussion in spite of himself, "did they get from those goats, every day?"
"I'm... not really an expert on goats..."
"Try," Nazeer insisted. "Try to remember."
"Oh, shit. I... it's just a wild stab in the dark, mind you, but I'd say, maybe, a couple of litres a day..." I offered, raising the palms of my hands helplessly.
"This friend of yours, how much did he earn as a taxi driver?"
Suleiman asked.
"Did this friend go out with a woman, alone, before his marriage?" Jalalaad wanted to know, causing all the men to laugh and some of them to throw small stones at him.
In that way the session moved through all the themes that concerned them, until at last I excused myself and found a relatively sheltered spot where I could stare at the misty nothing of the frozen, shrouded sky. I was trying to fight down the fear that prowled in my empty belly, and leapt up with sharp claws at my heart in its cage of ribs.
Tomorrow. We were going to fight our way out. No-one had said it, but I knew that all the others were thinking we would die. They were too cheerful, too relaxed. All the tension and dread of the last weeks had drained from them once we'd made the decision to fight. It wasn't the joyful relief of men who know they're saved.
