Back in my room, Karun noticed the stack of games I had as a kid. “A model train set! Does it still work?”
“Yes, but it takes forever to set up.” I tried to steer him to something snappier, like Boggle or Mikado, but his mind was set. So I took down the toy village accessories from the top of my cupboard, and the box of extra rails from under my bed. Karun dove right in, spreading out the components, coupling the bogeys, installing the village, down to the tiny plastic men and women. As he stretched out over the tracks to peer at how they aligned through a tunnel, I had visions of the train choo-chooing (chew-chewing?) through the valley of his ass.
Between my lecherous fantasies, I helped Karun with the setup. “This was always my favorite,” I said, demonstrating how two sections of track could cross with the help of an elevated bridge. “A great spot for nifty accidents—one train derailing atop another, even a bomb attack once that set the bridge aflame.”
The talk of havoc got Karun all excited—he couldn’t wait to set up a collision once we finished laying the rails. We rammed engines into each other, made cars fly off the tracks, and in one particularly tragic accident, watched as a runaway train mowed down an entire village. “It’s even better with fire,” I said, and a pyromaniacal gleam immediately sprang to Karun’s eyes. We drew the curtains and turned off the lights, then sent two trains to their mutually assured doom by stuffing them with matches and lit birthday candles.
Later, as we lay amid the ruins (in the finale, an enemy air raid had blown apart the tracks), I took one of the engines and ran it down Karun’s back. “Does it tickle?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I skimmed it lazily over his buttocks. “And now?” He didn’t answer, so I rolled it down his leg, teased his ankle with it, then rolled it back. “This little engine thinks it’s time for another experiment.” I worked off his pants and underwear, then pressed the engine playfully into his cleft.
Karun still didn’t speak, but stretched out more fully, crossing his forearms to rest his head. He sighed as I retraced the engine’s path with my lips, kissing him all over, using my tongue to tease out ingress. I moved to position myself in place, the condom already discreetly slipped on, my mouth still planting kisses to keep him relaxed. “Shh,” I whispered, as I began to enter and he tensed, “it’ll feel better in a second.” I wrapped myself over his body as completely as I could, to convey my tenderness, to let him feel our oneness.
That night, I awoke around three a.m. Karun lay beside me, his mouth open, the air flowing in and out in regular breaths. He looked innocent, untroubled—I wondered what dreams unfolded in his head. Could I be in them, could his scientist mind be tabulating the results of his tests? We still had tomorrow morning—I’d have to think up some more games, some other experiments. Right now, though, I just wanted to gaze at him, feel the warmth of his body next to mine, absorb the pleasure of sharing my bed.
8
THE FIRST THING THAT STRIKES ME WHEN THE TRAIN CRASHES through the wall and barrels down the road is the collisions Karun and I used to engineer. The candles, the matches, the smoke billowing out from the windows, the flames burning paint off the cars. Surely when the weapons in my compartment detonate, they will surpass any of our extravaganzas. Too bad I’ll be seated right in the middle. The Jazter would have preferred being a spectator of the conflagration to come, rather than an ingredient.
The compartment twists and grinds around me like a giant pepper mill, and I am rendered airborne along with everything else inside, but only for the instant before we land on our side, skid along the ground, and come to a crashing halt. Three separate miracles occur in those milliseconds—I am unhurt except for a bruised arm, the weapons decide not to go off, and most magically, the door at the rear of the compartment bursts open. Perhaps Allah does have a soft spot for sodomites after all.
I climb out and see the engine lying on its side like a downed beast, smoke still heaving out in dying spurts. Behind it, the first compartment has somehow remained upright, though the roof has caved in and the walls have dramatically scrunched up. It all looks very cool—something we never could have done with the toy set. Two women are trying to pry loose a third—her upper half gesticulates animatedly out a window while the rest disappears inside, as if she is being eaten alive by the car. For an instant, I fear it is Sarita, who will no longer be able to lead me to Karun, but then I spot her sitting dazed on the road next to a wheel that has rolled off. Standing beyond are the engine driver and his assistant, contemplating the wreckage with identical small wrenches in their hands, as if with this single tool, they will get the train back on its tracks.
I run up to Sarita. For some reason, she’s changed into a bridal costume since I last saw her—the lead of her sari unfurls in a flaming red swathe around her feet. “Come, we have to get out of here.” She just stares at me when I offer her my hand—I notice the line of white dots decorating her forehead. “We don’t have any time.” Something flickers in her eyes, and I wonder if she’s placed me. “It’s Gaurav. From the hospital. And the aquarium. Remember?”
“Gaurav? What happened?”
“The train derailed. Probably an ambush. We have to run.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I’ll explain everything. Just come with me.” I can see the confusion on her face begin to harden into suspicion, so I squat down beside her. “I know you told me not to follow, but I did—I jumped into the rear compartment when I saw you get on. I still want to save your life, do the same thing you did for me. But we have to leave immediately, since whoever made the train derail will show up any minute.”
“I… I don’t think. The girls. I can’t leave them here.”
So we try to get the girls to come with us, but they’re reluctant. “Mura chacha’s still inside,” the one half stuck in the train says. Her name is Madhu, and despite her sandwiched state, she seems in charge. “Can you go in and free him? Then we can all go visit Devi ma.”
Sarita declares she wants to search the wreckage as well—not for this Mura character, but for a pomegranate. I think I have not heard her correctly, but she starts babbling about how it’s the last pomegranate in all of Bombay and her very fate depends on it. I wonder if she has a concussion—is there a way to unobtrusively check her scalp? Madhu, meanwhile, barks orders at the other girls from her horizontal position. “Guddi, leave me alone and go fetch the train driver. Anupam, get this man here to help you lift the sleeper berth that fell on Mura chacha. You there. Go and help.”
She gets very irate when I reply there’s no time. “Mura chacha’s much more important than a few of your precious minutes. How can anyone be so selfish?”
I’m trying to drag Sarita away from the train as Madhu continues to hector me when there is a retort. “I’ve been shot,” Madhu screams, and holds up her hand. She has, indeed, been shot—blood streams down her arm and drips from her shoulder. More shots ring out, and she slumps forward, dangling limply from the waist. As the other girls scream, I grab Sarita’s hand and pull her behind the bogey to take cover. She stops jabbering about her pomegranate.
We scramble down a side street, Sarita’s sari blazing as conspicuously as a flag. The sounds of gunshots ricochet between the walls on either side. A few times, I think I hear someone running behind us. I lead Sarita in a zigzag through the labyrinth of an abandoned slum, finally stopping at a curbside bus shelter to catch my breath. For a moment, neither of us speaks as we gulp in air.
“Are they going to come looking for us?”