Diya

It’s time for the next death. The minutes have counted down and I haven’t noticed. Everybody has their eyes on the door. Some eyes are sliding over to Kabir. It’s his turn.

‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Tell me before—’

We hear Salim at the door. Kabir looks at me. We have run out of time.

But it is not to our group that Salim comes. He walks past us and into another room. Kabir takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

On screen, the presenter is wearing a black band. He sombrely announces that they will no longer be telecasting the executions. Instead, they will observe a one-minute silence. He asks the nation to join him. The noise of the television running non-stop suddenly becomes silent. The screen shows the national flag.

We strain our ears in that sudden and unexpected silence. We hear garbled shouts. Screams. Then the unmistakable sound of a single shot. It is followed by a volley of shots. There is silence again.

Somebody hears the sudden silence. Somebody is in this moment. But it is not me. I am lost in darkness. I am lost in a story that I don’t want to hear the end of. The minute of silence takes forever to slide past. I count the seconds slowly. I cannot bear for them to end. I cannot bear to hear the end to Aman’s story.

The voices on the television set come back. Their horror, their sorrow is shrill in the room. I speak under the cover of the noise.

‘And you killed him?’ That’s not my voice. I don’t recognize it.

Kabir opens his eyes. There are tears running down his face as he replies, ‘No. I laid the gun at my brother’s feet, and with folded hands I begged for Aman’s life.’