First, I thought he was one of my father’s men. But he doesn’t seem the type at all. Then I thought he was just some cheap roadside boy trying to harass a girl. He wasn’t. I can’t figure out who he really is. His clothes are crumpled and worn, and he smells stale, like he has slept in them. But he seems decent enough. He is too shy to meet my eyes, and his ears turn bright red when I thank him. When he steals looks at me, I find that his eyes are a startling grey. I’m about to ask him about himself, but then the announcement comes on.

‘Just a few minutes ago we received a phone call and some photographs.’

Our photograph flashes on the screen. There we are. A bunch of terrified people staring into the camera. Faces that are stunned. Faces that are pleading. Faces that are blank with fear.

‘The terrorists have demanded that a plane be put on standby with full fuel tanks. They have demanded safe passage to the plane and safe passage through Indian airspace. They said they have thirty-six hostages in their custody. They will release all safely on the completion of their demands.’

The cacophony of the announcement descends into speculation about where the plane will go. Experts analyse the kind of plane, the fuel load, the possible destination. Everyone agrees that the aviation demands have been made by someone who obviously knows what he is asking for. Then, the first politicians begin popping up on screen. Fingers are pointed at our neighbouring countries. Finger-wagging denunciations are made. There is talk of expelling ambassadors. Debates rage and pronouncements are made.

Midway through the news report, the angry old man gives a snort and stands up. ‘You really think the government is going to do this? Fly you out free and safe from India? You are mad. And we are all dead people.’

Another woman screams at him, ‘Why not? The government will give him a plane. They will!’ Others join in to shout him down.

Mr Bhonsle spits out a single word, ‘Fools!’ Then he sits down again. People begin to cry louder. Some beg to be released.

They have the prime minister on and get his reaction. ‘Our government will never give in to terrorist blackmail.’

They have the leader of the Opposition. ‘Our government would never let innocent people die.’

They have a lawyer. ‘The police have failed us. They have failed in their duty to protect innocent civilians.’

They have the head of an NGO. ‘The judiciary has failed us. For every terrorist sentenced to death, another ten walk free.’

The chief of police. ‘We are studying the situation.’

The home minister. ‘We are studying the situation.’

Then a familiar face flashes on screen. Bhai Thakur. His voice is more strident than all the others. It rises out of the hubbub, loud and hypnotic. ‘Only people of one religion are being held hostage. All of you who share the religion of those innocents who are being held, will you not rise up and take revenge?’

Bhai Thakur had started as a small-time goon, terrorizing an area full of slums. Then he learnt that religion could be a ticket to power. He claimed the position of saviour of the majority and became the power behind a string of violent riots, all aimed at minority communities. He is a big name in politics now. He’s got there by whipping everyone into a frenzy about preserving Hindutva. Between rabble-rousing speeches and goons that bash anyone who protests, he has managed to get a foothold in the Hindu heartland. Today, he is wearing his trademark orange.

‘Will we stand by and watch our brothers and sisters being slaughtered by those who would ruin our country?’ He is warming up nicely. ‘All you terrorists be warned—it is said in your holy book “an eye for an eye”. We will take much more than an eye.’

This is too much for the old man. Mr Bhonsle stands up again and shouts at the screen. ‘Shut up! We don’t need this made worse by madmen like you!’

‘He’ll get us killed!’ another woman shouts. A salesgirl is shrieking away. An expensively dressed woman begins screaming, ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ A frantic fear seems to seize everybody at the same time. The noise grows as panic spreads. The terrorists look uneasily at each other as the hostages scream and shout.

Salim ends it with a bullet. He shoots at a TV screen that has Bhai Thakur screaming his endless stream of hate. The screen explodes like a bomb going off. The hostages all instantly fall silent. Bhai Thakur continues to rant on the other screens. No one dares to listen.

Salim speaks softly and menacingly. ‘You have all forgotten rule number one. Shut up and sit down!’ Everyone fearfully subsides.

Salim says, ‘Men like him make measures like this necessary.’ Another terrorist spits on the ground. ‘Do you think he would hesitate to cut thirty-six Muslim throats?’ says Salim. ‘But I am not him. I am still a reasonable man.’

Salim’s tone is quiet, conversational. ‘I have made reasonable demands. Now the government just has to be reasonable. A little plane so we can fly away—and all of you will be free.’

Not one word from the hostages. Even Mr Bhonsle is quiet. The only sound is the low moan of the security man who is dying very slowly.

The show is over. The armed men divide us into four groups, not willing to risk rebellion. I stick close to Diya and get shoved into her group. The other groups are moved to different sections of the store with a man each to guard them. They go quietly, all following rule number one. Salim goes with them.

We stay in the electronics section and watch TV.

It’s me and Diya. Harish. The old man. Malini and her two kids. Two salesgirls. One of them slightly older. The younger one looks like an intern. They cling to each other. We’ve kind of all just hung together and have been placed in one group.

Mr Bhonsle mutters, ‘That man was right. The government will never agree. We are dead people.’

‘Will you shut up?’ says Malini. ‘The children are listening.’

Silence falls on us.

It is broken by a scream that goes on and on. The moaning of the gut-shot guard has become part of the background, like the non-stop chatter of the TV screens. Now he suddenly shrieks and convulses.

‘Somebody please help me,’ says the old lady. ‘I need help!’ Beside her, the man writhes and screams in a puddle of his own blood.