A shop assistant is hauled up. He says his name is Hussain. But his name tag says ‘A. Sharma’. The leader hits him across the face with his gun. His lip splits open, and he struggles to speak with the blood dripping from his mouth. ‘It is my name! I work in a designer store. They like us to have suitable names. We can’t use our own.’

‘Pray,’ says the leader. ‘Let’s see which God you pray to.’ In a trembling voice, ‘A. Sharma’ begins. He is so scared that his voice stutters and shakes. He is barely able to get the words out.

The grey-haired man steps forward and stops him. ‘This is no way to speak to God,’ he says. ‘Not in terror. Calm down. Do not be afraid.’

The boy takes great gasping breaths. The man speaks gently. ‘Go, Hussain. Go sit with your brothers.’ The boy goes, blood dripping down the front of his shirt.

The person in front of me gets to his feet. He’s an old man, and his name is Mahendra Shyam Bhonsle. He shuffles off towards the growing group on the left.

Then it’s my turn. I get to my feet but keep my head down. Never make eye contact. It’s when you do, that things start to happen. They see you. And madmen like this mostly don’t like what they see. From the corner of my eye, I see that I am facing a boy who looks younger than me. He barely has fuzz on his chin, and his eyes dart everywhere.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

I say, ‘Kabir.’

‘Ah. And you are Hindu or Muslim?’

My tongue keeps going without any instructions from my brain. ‘My name is Kabir. I was born in an orphanage. I have no idea what I am.’

That catches the attention of the leader in the black headband. He walks over. ‘Really? We have ourselves a smart-ass. I could pull your pants down and check.’

I say nothing. He walks around me, inspecting me. I keep my head down. Don’t look. Do not catch his eye.

‘I think I should just shoot him. Let God sort him out.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He gestures with the gun he is holding. ‘Get on your knees,’ he says.

I do as he says, knowing that I’ve been really stupid. I should have just given them my name. But I left that name behind some time ago. I don’t want to be that person any more. I’ve run away from that person. I’ve travelled more than a thousand kilometres to get away.

He puts the gun to my head, but his tone is all nice and friendly. ‘Kabir, give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you. Mother waiting at home? Little sister who loves you?’

I can’t think of a thing. ‘I’m an orphan,’ I mutter.

The grey-haired man speaks up. ‘No one is an orphan. We are all God’s children. The question is: which God?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I never cared enough to make a choice.’

‘All right then.’ The gun is cold against my temple. ‘This would be a good time to make a choice.’

I whisper frantically so only he can hear, ‘I haven’t even lived!’

He leans forward to ask softly, ‘Never had a girl?’

‘No.’

‘Never been kissed?’

‘No. I don’t want to die before being kissed.’

The gun stays steady on my temple. Then it begins to shake. Black Headband is laughing. ‘I doubt you’re going to get lucky in our current situation,’ he says.

I sense the glance that goes between him and the grey-haired man. Then Black Headband shrugs and lowers the gun. The grey-haired man speaks up. ‘Go. Any group. Make the choice you have not made so far.’

I get off my knees to walk back, and stumble and nearly fall. Relief has turned my knees to jelly. I try to walk calmly. I know they are all watching to see which group I will choose.

I have a promise to keep. There is no real choice for me. I walk over to the group that holds her. I sit down with the non-Muslims.

All those with Muslim names head in a group for the exit, their hands on their heads. The shutters are opened 2 feet high. They have to crawl out.

If I had given the right name, I would be on my hands and knees right now heading for freedom. But promises chain you with a bond that even a bullet can’t break. The letter rustles against my heart. I lean back and look for her.

She is sitting on the ground, her face hidden by her long hair. She does not look up.