11

What amazes me is that I find myself thinking, Why not?

Because this is not the past, right? Nor, obviously, is it the present. It’s a fragment from amongst my memories that I am somehow revisiting, so even if it’s a simulation — in fact, precisely for that reason — why not savour the experience of doing something that clearly you want to, and at least in this impossible alternative reality, free Naveen, Pavan and their mother? Imagine yourself into their kitchen right now; choose the sharpest knife, and do this family a favour.

But then a whole number of what-ifs pass through my mind: what would the impact be on Mrs Srivastava of waking up next to a murdered husband? Does this ‘world’ exist outside of my head enough for the police to appear in the morning; in that case, wouldn’t one of the family, especially Mrs Srivastava, be the obvious suspect? Would even her sons believe that she hadn’t done it? What destruction did I risk wreaking through acting impulsively?

What are the bounds of this world and the limits of its logic? Will that stop when I look away or leave the scene, or will it unfurl relentlessly and independently, just like any reality? For instance, those flats over there that we’re currently paying no attention to — 502, 3 and 4, Mr Rane’s and the Naiks’ and the Abrahams’: are people sleeping inside them just now, or are they merely cardboard sets? Or else, do people appear solely when my memory turns to them, and vaporise again?

Only when, and if, I have the answers to some of these questions could I take such a drastic step of erasing one of the monsters from my childhood. Although then, I’m already certain, I won’t hesitate, not with my father or anyone resembling him. In my idyll, they have no place.

‘But Shivani, how is any of this happening? Even the original gift is impossible; I still don’t understand that, but at least I saw it in action. I saw Dhanuka reacting to it, and my friend Bhaswati, and Arati and Ramesh. But that had a limit: a short while ago all I could do was peer inside people’s heads. Now I’m travelling in the past, and you’re asking me to return to 2017 whenever I feel like it, or stay in 1990? That’s not the gift I believed I had.’

The (late) fifteen-year-old who met me once for half an hour actually has an answer for me: ‘I guess it shows you didn’t only want to know people’s minds. You wanted a lot more than that.’

She adds, suddenly without any mirth in her voice, ‘Mine worked the same way. You’re getting a taste of everything it can be. You can return here for longer periods, and control everything you want. Your favourite parts of the past can become your new home.’

‘If …’

‘I don’t know what “if” they will set you. It’s different for each person, just like each of our gifts. They have tasks for every one of us.’

‘How many did you get through, Shivani, in order to be allowed this?’

When she doesn’t answer, I knowingly twist the knife in further. ‘Did those villagers near Bardhaman die so that you could have this afterlife?’

Again, the late fifteen-year-old who is the only guide I have through all of this has an answer for me.

‘You know, my first couple of days with my gift I felt exactly the same way. There’s nothing I can’t do from here on. I’ll do nothing but good with this. And nobody will ever again make me do anything I don’t want to.’

What I want more than anything is to stand at the corner of S S Wagh and G D Ambekar Roads in just a few hours, and watch two girls walk to school. Perhaps chatting with their friends, Naveen and Pavan. I want to spend the next twenty-seven years alongside the younger girl, if I cannot be inside her.

Coming down the stairs I ask Shivani if I would really be allowed to return here. Of course, she replies. You can go back and forth as you please, except when they need you.

‘I have to go back now because my sister’s flat in Jodhpur Park might still be unlocked, and also I must find Arati before she completes her next task. She’s very unlikely to leave Tuntuni’s side again, but she should know that I love her no matter what choice she makes.’

My young guide sees fit to warn me that I might still be Arati’s next task. Of course I’m aware of this. But really, if that’s the conundrum the bastards mean to stump me with, take me, motherfuckers! What good is my life doing anybody?

Jaya in 2017 could be the pathway to Arati’s return to 2001. Dyuti would once again take over my column. For five years I played Chandra Sir. Now, for the benefit of all Jaya Bhowmick’s new-found fans, Dyuti would simply play me.

And in return for consenting to my own sacrifice, I might be allowed to come back and be six forever.