CHAPTER 13: "THE INTERROGATION"

  The police station in Lajpat Nagar smelled of stale sweat, beedi smoke, and bureaucratic indifference.

  Vikram sat on a hard wooden bench in the corridor, his left arm in a makeshift sling, dried blood crusting on his temple.

  A constable had given him a glass of water an hour ago.

  It sat untouched, lukewarm and filmy.

  Inspector Rajveer Singh walked past him twice, each time glancing at him with a mixture of suspicion and something else—something that looked like pity.

  Or maybe contempt.

  It was hard to tell in this place where truth was negotiable and justice was a commodity.

  "Sharma. Inside." The inspector finally gestured toward a small interrogation room. The walls were stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke. A single naked bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.

  Vikram limped in.

  His knee had taken a blow during the fight; he hadn't noticed it until the adrenaline wore off.

  Now every step was a reminder of how close he had come to dying.

  Inspector Singh sat across from him, a file folder open on the scarred metal table between them.

  He lit a Gold Flake cigarette and studied Vikram through the smoke.

  "So," Singh began, his voice gravelly from years of shouting and smoking, "you want to tell me what happened tonight? Or do I have to guess?"

  "I already told your constable,"

  Vikram said, his voice hoarse.

  "Ten men broke into my house. They attacked me. I defended myself. It's that simple."

  "Simple." Singh laughed, a bitter bark. "Nothing in this city is

  simple, Sharma-ji. Ten men don't just randomly attack a software engineer's house. Who were they?"

  Stolen story; please report.

  "I don't know."

  "Don't know, or won't say?"

  Vikram met the inspector's gaze. "I. Don't. Know."

  Singh leaned back, dragging on his cigarette.

  "You stabbed two men tonight. One might lose his leg. You shot another. The bullet went through his shoulder, shattered the clavicle. These are serious charges, Mr. Sharma. Attempted murder. Illegal possession of a firearm."

  Vikram's blood turned cold.

  "They broke into my house! They had swords! I was defending my life! This is self-defense!"

  "Self-defense requires proportional force," Singh said, tapping ash into a rusted tin.

  "You used a gun. An illegal gun. That complicates things."

  The silence stretched.

  Vikram could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  This was it.

  They were going to arrest him.

  Lock him up.

  And while he rotted in a cell, the Khanna gang would find Priya and Aanya.

  "Where did you get the gun?" Singh asked, leaning forward.

  "I found it," Vikram lied.

  "In the garbage near Nehru Place metro. Two weeks ago. I kept it because... because I was scared. I've been getting threatening calls."

  "Threatening calls? From whom?"

  "I don't know. They said I owed money. But I don't. I think it's a case of mistaken identity."

  Singh studied him for a long moment.

  Then he closed the file with a soft thump.

  "Interesting story, Mr. Sharma."

  He stood up and walked to the door.

  He opened it a crack and spoke to someone outside in a low voice.

  Then he returned and sat down again, this time without the cigarette.

  "Let me tell you what I think happened," Singh said, his tone softer now, almost conversational.

  "I think you got mixed up with the wrong people. Maybe you borrowed money. Maybe you witnessed something you shouldn't have. Maybe they wanted protection money and you refused. And now, they want to make an example of you."

  Vikram said nothing.

  Every word could be a trap.

  "The men who attacked you tonight? Two of them are known associates of the Khanna gang," Singh continued.

  "We found IDs on them before their friends dragged them away. We know who they are. We know who sent them."

  Vikram felt a flicker of hope.

  "Then arrest them! Arrest Rakesh Khanna!"

  Singh laughed again, but this time it was devoid of humor.

  "Arrest Rakesh Khanna? On what evidence? You think those men will testify against him? You think anyone will? Khanna owns half the politicians in South Delhi. He owns judges. He owns cops."

  Singh's eyes hardened.

  "But he doesn't own me."

  The statement hung in the air.

  Vikram wasn't sure if it was true, or if it was bait.

  "I can help you," Singh said.

  "File an FIR. Put it on record. Get you police protection. But you have to cooperate. You have to tell me everything. Who contacted you first? How much did they demand? Have you paid them anything?"

  Vikram wanted to trust him.

  God, he wanted to believe that there was still a part of the system that wasn't corrupt.

  But trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.

  If he told Singh about Bunty, about Salim, he would be confessing to murder.

  "I can't," Vikram whispered.

  "I can't give you names. If I do, they'll kill my family."

  Singh sighed, a long, weary exhalation.

  "Then you're on your own, Sharma. And let me tell you—you won't survive. Khanna doesn't forget. He doesn't forgive. You're a dead man."

  He stood up and opened the door.

  "You're free to go. For now. But that gun? We're keeping it. And if I hear about any more bodies turning up, I'll be looking at you first."

  Vikram stumbled out of the station into the grey dawn.

  The air was thick with smog and the sound of morning traffic.

  He felt hollow, scraped out from the inside.

  He got into his car—miraculously still parked outside his ruined home—and sat there, staring at nothing.

  His phone buzzed.

  It was Priya.

  "Vikram? The neighbors called. They said there was a fight at the house? What's going on?"

  He closed his eyes.

  "Stay where you are. Don't come back. I'll... I'll explain later."

  "Vikram, you're scaring me."

  "Good," he said quietly.

  "You should be scared."

  He hung up and started the engine.

  He didn't go home.

  There was no home anymore.

  There was only war.