Read Online Between the Assassinations by Aravind Adiga - Free Book Online
Authors: Aravind Adiga
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college.
“Smoking bepore the age of twenty will arrest your development as a normal human being,” Mr. Lasrado had shouted. “ Ip your pather were here, and not in the Gulp, he would do exactly what I am doing now…”
For the rest of that day, Shankara was made to kneel outside the chemistry class. He knelt with his eyes to the ground, and thought, over and over again, He is doing this to me because I am a Hoyka. If I were a Christian or a Bunt he would never have humiliated me like this.
That night, as he lay in bed, the thought had come to him, Since he has hurt me, I will hurt him back. And it came to him so clearly and succinctly, like a ray of sunlight, like a credo for his entire life. The initial euphoria turned into a restlessness, and he turned from side to side in the bed, saying, “Mustafa, Mustafa.” He had to meet Mustafa now.
The bomb-maker.
He had heard the name several weeks ago, at Shabbir Ali’s place.
They had just—all five of the “bad boys” gang—watched another porno at Shabbir Ali’s place that night. The woman had been entered from behind; the big black man had stuck his cock into her again and again. Shankara had no idea it could be done that way too; nor did Pinto, who kept squealing with pleasure. Shabbir Ali watched his friends’ amusement with detachment; he had seen this video many times, and it no longer excited his lust. He lived with such familiarity with evil that nothing excited him anymore—neither scenes of fornication nor rape nor even bestiality; a constant exposure to vice had nearly returned him to a state of innocence.
After the video, the boys lay on Shabbir Ali’s bed, threatening to jerk off right there, while their host warned them not even to think about it.
Shabbir Ali produced a condom to keep them happy, and they took turns sticking fingers into it.
“Who’s this for, Shabbir?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Shut up, you homo.”
“You’re the homo!”
The others talked about sex, and Shankara, staring at the ceiling, pretending to be absorbed in himself, listened. He felt he was always being kept out of such discussions, because the others knew he was a virgin. There was a girl in the college who “talked” to men. Shabbir Ali had “talked” to her; he implied that he had done much more. Shankara had tried to pretend that he too had “talked” to women; maybe even screwed a whore on Old Court Road. He knew that the others saw through him.
Ali began passing things around; the condom was followed by a dumbbell that he kept under his bed; copies of Hustler, Playboy, and the official NBA magazine.
“Guess what this is,” he said. It was something small and black, with a timer attached to it.
“It’s a detonator,” he said, when no one could guess.
“What does it do?” Shankara asked, standing up on the bed and holding the thing to the light.
“It detonates, you idiot.” There was laughter. “You use it in a bomb.
“It’s the easiest thing on earth, to make a bomb,” Shabbir said. “Take a bag of fertilizer, and then put this detonator in it, and that’s it.”
“Where would you get it?” someone, not Shankara, asked.
“Mustafa gave it to me,” Shabbir Ali said, almost in an aside.
Mustafa, Mustafa. Shankara clung tightly to the name.
“Where does he live?” asked one of the twins.
“Down by the Bunder. In the pepper market. Why?” Shabbir Ali poked his questioner. “You planning on making a bomb?”
“Why not?”
More giggling. And Shankara had said nothing more that evening, saying, Mustafa, Mustafa, to himself, terrified he would forget the name unless he said nothing else all evening.
As he was stirring his third chikoo shake, two men came and sat down next to him: two policemen. One ordered an orange juice, and the other wanted to know how many types of tea were served at the shop. Shankara got up; then sat down. He knew they would start talking about him. His heart beat faster.
“Only the
“Smoking bepore the age of twenty will arrest your development as a normal human being,” Mr. Lasrado had shouted. “ Ip your pather were here, and not in the Gulp, he would do exactly what I am doing now…”
For the rest of that day, Shankara was made to kneel outside the chemistry class. He knelt with his eyes to the ground, and thought, over and over again, He is doing this to me because I am a Hoyka. If I were a Christian or a Bunt he would never have humiliated me like this.
That night, as he lay in bed, the thought had come to him, Since he has hurt me, I will hurt him back. And it came to him so clearly and succinctly, like a ray of sunlight, like a credo for his entire life. The initial euphoria turned into a restlessness, and he turned from side to side in the bed, saying, “Mustafa, Mustafa.” He had to meet Mustafa now.
The bomb-maker.
He had heard the name several weeks ago, at Shabbir Ali’s place.
They had just—all five of the “bad boys” gang—watched another porno at Shabbir Ali’s place that night. The woman had been entered from behind; the big black man had stuck his cock into her again and again. Shankara had no idea it could be done that way too; nor did Pinto, who kept squealing with pleasure. Shabbir Ali watched his friends’ amusement with detachment; he had seen this video many times, and it no longer excited his lust. He lived with such familiarity with evil that nothing excited him anymore—neither scenes of fornication nor rape nor even bestiality; a constant exposure to vice had nearly returned him to a state of innocence.
After the video, the boys lay on Shabbir Ali’s bed, threatening to jerk off right there, while their host warned them not even to think about it.
Shabbir Ali produced a condom to keep them happy, and they took turns sticking fingers into it.
“Who’s this for, Shabbir?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Shut up, you homo.”
“You’re the homo!”
The others talked about sex, and Shankara, staring at the ceiling, pretending to be absorbed in himself, listened. He felt he was always being kept out of such discussions, because the others knew he was a virgin. There was a girl in the college who “talked” to men. Shabbir Ali had “talked” to her; he implied that he had done much more. Shankara had tried to pretend that he too had “talked” to women; maybe even screwed a whore on Old Court Road. He knew that the others saw through him.
Ali began passing things around; the condom was followed by a dumbbell that he kept under his bed; copies of Hustler, Playboy, and the official NBA magazine.
“Guess what this is,” he said. It was something small and black, with a timer attached to it.
“It’s a detonator,” he said, when no one could guess.
“What does it do?” Shankara asked, standing up on the bed and holding the thing to the light.
“It detonates, you idiot.” There was laughter. “You use it in a bomb.
“It’s the easiest thing on earth, to make a bomb,” Shabbir said. “Take a bag of fertilizer, and then put this detonator in it, and that’s it.”
“Where would you get it?” someone, not Shankara, asked.
“Mustafa gave it to me,” Shabbir Ali said, almost in an aside.
Mustafa, Mustafa. Shankara clung tightly to the name.
“Where does he live?” asked one of the twins.
“Down by the Bunder. In the pepper market. Why?” Shabbir Ali poked his questioner. “You planning on making a bomb?”
“Why not?”
More giggling. And Shankara had said nothing more that evening, saying, Mustafa, Mustafa, to himself, terrified he would forget the name unless he said nothing else all evening.
As he was stirring his third chikoo shake, two men came and sat down next to him: two policemen. One ordered an orange juice, and the other wanted to know how many types of tea were served at the shop. Shankara got up; then sat down. He knew they would start talking about him. His heart beat faster.
“Only the
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