Mohit grunted and pulled away. He felt Sohel watching him as he stepped back out into the rain.
It’s my life, he felt like saying. It’s not the money, it’s my life.
When Mohit first arrived at Chittagong, he would sometimes spend a few takas gambling — a casual wager on a kabaddi match, or maybe a numbers bet, bought from the same fellow who sold Bangla Mad moonshine. He stopped after seeing another Ghorarchari, a few years older, lose his entire savings on a national cricket test. The man disappeared two days later, either just ahead of his Thuggee creditors or a few unfortunate steps behind. Conveniently, the fasting month of Ramadan had just begun, and Mohit foreswore all games as well as the usual food and drink. He was not often tempted after that.
But he knew where to go. In the jammed lanes of Bhatiary no one had privacy or secrets. Organized vice was run out of a shack alongside the “cinema,” where members of the same gang screened Bollywood DVDs on a television screen before roughmade wooden benches. Along with others too poor to pay the admission, Mohit occasionally loitered in the lane alongside, underneath a bedraggled string of colored lights illuminated when the generator was running. Sometimes a gap might appear in the blackout plastic tied to the walls. When the police were absent, pornographic videos slipped into the schedule, their indistinct soundtracks both fascinating and embarrassing to the eavesdroppers.
Tonight Mohit ignored the moviehouse and went straight to the entrance next-door, which was overseen by a well-fed thug who nodded him to the door.
“I would see Chauhan saheb,” Mohit said.
The man’s gaze, which had wandered away, flicked back. “Would he know you, then?”
“No.”
“Well.” The man shrugged.
Yesterday Mohit would have retreated; yesterday he would never have come this far. Now, in the dark, his future demolished as thoroughly as one of the broken ships themselves, he found himself not just emboldened but reckless.
“It is about the men who died,” he said.
The gunda frowned. “Dead men,” he said. “So many of them, no?”
“The cutter, Hasan.”
“Ah.” After a long pause, the man stepped back and pushed open the door with one hand.
“At the carrom table,” he said. “Don’t interrupt the game.”
Inside benzene lamps cast dull light on a scattering of tables and perhaps twenty men. Several sat along one wall, drinking tari from unlabeled, recycled bottles. Rain pattered on the metal roof, eased, came down hard again. A roistering group in the corner laughed loudly, arms around each other’s shoulders. Mohit smelled sweat and oil and faint, bitter smoke.
A battery-powered lantern hung above the carrom table, spotlighting the meter-square surface and its black and white stones. As Mohit approached, one player flicked his striker, and a piece flew across the board to land cleanly in the pocket. His opponent grunted. Two more stones went in, and the men gathered around the table made noises of appreciation or dismay.
Chauhan would have been unmistakable even if Mohit were straight off the bus from Ghorarchar. Short and broad, he stood at brooding ease, arms crossed, watchful. But it was the obvious respect of the others around him — distance, deference, careful glances — that made his status clear.
The match ended when one player ran five consecutive tiles, then pushed back from the table with a broad smile. The loser looked away and scratched under one arm.
Mohit stepped forward. “Chauhan saheb, ektu somoy hobe?”
“Apni ke?”
“I am Mohit Kadir, a gang laborer for Syed Abdul Farid. I have... an inquiry.”
“Ki?”
Chauhan did not sound impatient or aloof, as Mohit had expected from someone whose name was always mentioned in low and wary tones. The carrom players were setting up another round, while spectators drifted away. Two men in polo shirts appeared at Mohit’s side. He tried to ignore them.
“You have heard of the explosion today, and the death of three workers. I was there, and I later visited Hasan-mia’s house.” Chauhan said nothing, and Mohit explained his arrangement with Hasan. “But a thief had already arrived, taking by violence all of Hasan’s worth.”
“We know.” Chauhan nodded once.
“They said he was — that he had a bad arm, and missing fingers.” Mohit swallowed. “I wonder... do you know who he might be?”
Chauhan’s gaze narrowed, though his voice remained quiet. “Why would you ask me?”
“He might have come here, to spend his new riches.” Mohit paused. “He might have done similar things before, and boasted of them. Perhaps rumors started. Perhaps you have heard something.”
Hilarity rose from the party in the corner, and one man lurched off the bench to land on the dirt floor. His mates thought this even funnier, hauling him back up and reseating him. His shirt was now crusted with a swath of mud, which he didn’t notice.
Chauhan looked at them for a moment, then back to Mohit.
“Do you know who that is?”
“I’m not sure... perhaps I have seen him on the beach.”
“He will be taking Hasan’s place tomorrow, as senior cutter on the ship. The sorrow of Hasan’s family means great opportunity for him.”
“But his hand—” Mohit stopped. “He is not crippled.”
“No, of course not.” Chauhan frowned.
“I’m sorry, saheb. I do not follow your meaning.”
“Life is complicated, that’s all. Actions and results may not be what one would expect.” Chauhan sighed and took a glass from a shelf beside him. “We don’t know the dacoit. He has probably fled, gone back to the country.” He drank, replaced the glass, and regarded Mohit, who had not responded. “Your ghush is surely gone also. You will not recover your money.”
“Five years,” said Mohit softly. “Five years breaking my back for it.”
Chauhan shrugged. “You are still young.”
Another downpour rattled the roof. Two men came in, soaking wet, and a draft fluttered the lamps; the carrom players settled themselves and began again; Chauhan’s attention moved on to other matters.
“Thank you, saheb.” Mohit backed away.
“Go with God, mashai.”
Although it was not late, the alleys were dark and empty, only a few people still out. Mohit stumbled through muck, feeling it splash up his legs. He pulled his lungi higher. Somewhere a generator chugged, probably for the grinding machines of a piecework reclamation shop, but the buildings and hovels all around were unlit. Candles were too dear; anyway, most of the inhabitants would be up before dawn for another day of toil.
In the dark, and distracted by his concerns, Mohit lost his way. He stopped, leaning against a wall of boards stripped from container pallets. He remembered his first nights in Bhatiary, arms too exhausted to lift, shoulders in raw agony, but thrilled simply to be among so many people. So many marvels to see. He never considered going back, though others did — perhaps because he had no family. He would make his way, or die.
The rattling sounds of trucks sharpened as the rainfall relented, and Mohit oriented himself to the main road. Once there, the passing headlamps illuminated his course, flickering across the shuttered stalls and tiny salvage yards along the verge.
Closer to his hostel, Mohit passed the concrete block housing elite employees from his breaking yard. He slowed. Farid’s window was still lit, thin yellow light through the screen, and on sudden impulse Mohit went over and tapped at his door.
“Mohit, ashen! Come in!” Farid wore only a lungi, his torso bare in the sticky humidity. The cinder-block walls of his room were damp, and cooler night air entered sluggishly, if at all, through the small window’s shutters. “You are out late.”