Excerpts from the second draft of Bound by Crimson Threads

Chapter 18

Manav was manhandled from the jeep and into the red-brick police station. Khaki-clad constables puttered around trying to deal with the morass of complainants. He couldn’t understand everything, but the most common utterance was an accusation of theft against a “jealous” neighbour. Others begged the police to find their daughter or son who had invariably run off with an unacceptable lover. The constables cared little. They listened with fake empathy and told most people do go solve the problem on their own.

“What’s the point of having the police, then?” one woman cried out.

“We’re not here to solve your domestic squabbles,” the constable replied.

Not wanting to admit her powerlessness, the woman huffed and glared at the constable. He ignored the what had become customary rudeness and moved onto the next complainant.

The crowd cared little that Manav was being marched through the station and into one of the interrogation rooms beneath the ground. Nobody shouted, “That’s him! That’s the guy from the television!”

At least he wasn’t in handcuffs. That would’ve made him look guilty in the eyes of anyone who saw him.

Chapter 22

They were seated in a cramped room inside the school that Manav and Ojas had attended as kids. Thirty men faced forward, with only a single fan swinging from side to side. If he remembered correctly, it was their third-grade classroom. The teacher, what was her name?, was fond of smacking the hands of children who misbehaved. Ojas had been on the receiving end of more smacks than Manav cared to remember. Even at that age, school didn’t come easy to Ojas. He much preferred cricket or throwing rocks at moving targets. Manav’d had no such problems sitting still. He was only smacked once that he could remember and that was because some kid behind him tried to tip is chair over. Ojas had quickly seen to it that such a thing never happened again.

The chatter ceased the second a man dressed in a crisp, long kurta entered the room. Ojas nudged Manav with his elbow. “That’s him.”

Shaji walked calmly to the teacher’s desk where he put down a stack of paper. He then turned to the crowd, brought his palms together at chest level, and gave a curt bow.

“Brothers,” he began. “I see we have a new one among us. Brother Ojas, who is this divine soul you have brought?”

Ojas rose to his feet and gestured for Manav to do the same. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“This is Brother Manav. We grew up together here in Viramgam.”

Shaji gave a nod of approval.

“Splendid. Welcome, Brother Manav.”

The group echoed the welcome. A fuzzy sensation rippled through Manav’s body. For the first time in a long time, he had been accepted without first having to explain himself.

Chapter 23

This cycle of hilarity continued for an unknown period of time. Five minutes? Two hours? In his mind time had become little more than a theoretical concept; a unit of account with no practical application. His existence was now measured in stark changes to his perception of the environment around him. Like when the squat toilet ceased to be funny, and instead, he was convinced, had taken on the qualities of a vacuum-powered void that intended to suck him into the depths of the Delhi sewer system.

He attempted to inch as far away from the toilet as he could, which was to say that he stayed in the same place. Worse, the floor was conspiring against him as well by tilting ever so slightly in the direction of the void. Fear gripped him as he started to notice that the sink and shower head had also developed malicious intentions. Sweat glistened his forehead and soaked his shirt. He had to get away.

The sound of the door lock being picked pushed him over the edge. Someone was coming for him! He had not mistakenly left the door open earlier. He wanted to get up and run but his legs and arms felt like cement. All he could do was steel himself against the onslaught. Whoever it was would be upon him in minutes.

But no one came. He felt foolish for even having been worried in the first place. His heart rate had returned to normal and he felt a calmness that he had not experienced since leaving for Mongolia. There was something different, though. Looking down at his hands, he was struck by how small they were. His legs and torso, as well. Had he morphed into a child?