7

With no outward sign of changing my mind, I gave myself some more time before confiding in Arati. For all sorts of reasons, that moment seemed premature.

The gift might be gone by tonight, either arbitrarily snatched away or because I would — almost certainly — refuse my deal with the ‘demon’, just as Arati had. I realised that, amidst all the emotions and events of this mad morning, I’d somehow given no thought, until now, as to whether my new condition would be passing or permanent. I had been so immersed in figuring it out, then — with gleeful disbelief — employing it!

Yes, I could always tell my closest people afterwards, but my current priority must be to use my power, rather than talking about it, as meaningfully as I could for as long as I had it, which meant coming through on the promise I had just made Arati, and for anyone else I could help.

Before the demons came knocking for their toll.

Over the years, there had been so many young people I’d wanted to help through understanding them better. That was probably why I received this particular gift, which was gratifying to think. But the search for Tuntuni would come first, no matter if it used up all my time.

Which, however, reminded me of Shivani, another lost daughter, and her unlikeable-but-still-bereaved mum. Didn’t I owe it to Shivani’s parents to share my (possible) knowledge of her struggles? Besides, asking for another meeting right now would be my best chance to spend time inside their minds: what might I find out that would suggest a reason for Shivani’s alienation?

And if, miraculously, there was any time left over after learning the truths about Tuntuni and Shivani, and no Mephistopheles had yet come calling, I’d contact some of my correspondents — the ones I’d felt most unable to help with written words alone — to see what I could do for them (offer some insight about buried things, if nothing else). It would mean breaking my rule of no meeting, but the main reason for that had been shattered anyway with being outed.

The idea of helping the police was also not to be dismissed. If I wanted to maximise my impact, little could be more direct.

That was going to be my week, those things in one or other order (but always beginning with Tuntuni and Shivani), assuming I was granted that much time.

When my mind returned to the present, I saw that the man bringing over our dosas at the snack stall was carrying a body on his shoulder as part of a (Muslim) funeral procession. He must have noticed the shock on my face as he set down our food, because he asked if something was wrong.

I shook my head, so as not to give anything away to Arati, but I wanted to ask who he was missing and where he was from (I would have guessed North Bihar or eastern Uttar Pradesh from his accent). But it was also the coincidence which had startled me: that the last three people I’d spoken to — my Uber driver, my friend Arati and now our waiter — were all carrying so much trauma. Not to mention the reporter with a microphone who’d been recalling a living person being dragged along the street, or that woman on the Metro with family members under attack in a destroyed bar.

Truly, there would be an endless number of people to help while I had this gift, endless pain to see. The tasks I was setting myself were laughably impossible.

And yet, quite childishly, right then I felt euphoric, and hoped I would be allowed to keep my power longer than any of the others. Because until the demons came, I was determined to be the hero that so far no one else had thought to be.