Diya

They bundle the other hostages back out of the room. The man’s hysterical wife has to be carried by two terrorists. Salim goes with them.

He leaves and there is a silence thick with horror. I’m trying not to be sick. The sight of that man on the stairs has made my stomach churn.

Malini is holding her children and praying. I don’t think I could pray. To pray, you first have to believe that God is listening. I don’t think he listens at all.

Only Mr Bhonsle seems undaunted. I guess because he’s drunk. ‘The army is coming!’ he announces loudly. ‘They’ll kill all you bastards. I’ll kill one of you myself. With my bare hands.’ Lucky man. It must be nice to have reality cushioned with alcohol and not think all of this is real. It is. It is real. And we are all going to die for real.

‘It’s really going to happen,’ says Harish. ‘We are really going to die.’ It had been something we’d been worrying about. But now it is real. I look around the room, and on every face is reflected the shock of the reality of death. Coming quick, for each of us.

‘I’m eighteen,’ says Harish.

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘I guess we’ll never have to worry about growing old. About having backaches and things,’ says Harish morosely. ‘Grey hair. Having to swallow half a bottle of Digene after dinner and praying for a good crap.’

I stare at him. In the middle of all that black terror, he’s worrying about a good crap. It is so unexpected, I burst out laughing. And so does Kabir.

‘What?’ says Harish. ‘My grandmother does that.’

We just laugh harder. I think we are a little hysterical. Around the room, dazed, uncomprehending faces turn towards us.

Harish says, ‘I’m only trying to look at the bright side of things. Cheer us up.’

‘You have,’ I say, trying to hold back the hysterical giggles that bubble out of me.

‘We won’t have to worry about going crazy and talking to plants,’ says Kabir.

‘Sprouting warts everywhere,’ says Harish.

‘Growing long hair out of our nostrils,’ Kabir says.

‘What about arthritis?’ I say. ‘And Alzheimer’s? We won’t have to worry about those things.’

‘You don’t have to worry about Alzheimer’s,’ says Harish. ‘If you have it, you just forget that you’re old.’

That sets us off on another round of giggles. Mr Bhonsle glares at us from his corner. He hates us. One more bonus point to dying young. We will never be bitter and angry all the time, like him.

The laughter dribbles out of us, and we go back to being silent. To waiting. ‘What is the time?’ asks Harish.

I look at my watch. Five minutes gone. Only fifty-five minutes left. God. How little that really is. How very small a span of time is one hour.

‘If I’m going to die, I would like to die laughing,’ says Kabir. ‘So, did you hear about the terrorist who tried to blow up a car? He burnt his lips on the tailpipe.’

Harish and I begin to chuckle. It is crazy. It is defiant. It is our way of holding on to life even as we know death is ticking closer.

We spend the rest of the time laughing. It seems like the only thing to do. Kabir tells awful jokes. And we laugh.

Stupid. But God, how we laugh.