Chapter 11: Confessions at the Barbecue Stall

“You’ve seen my wife, right?” Harish Bhaiya ordered barbecue and beer by himself.

He poured beer into two steel tumblers, his eyes never leaving mine. The sizzle of kebabs on the grill filled the air.

“Saw her once in the hallway.”

I lied, staring at my shoes.

“What do you think of her?”

He leaned in, voice low.

“Pretty—bhabhi is a beauty.”

I tried to sound casual, but my words stuck in my throat.

“Aren’t you curious how I, with my conditions, could marry such a beautiful woman?”

He grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light. The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous.

“Not at all, Boss Harish. You have a business, income, skills. These days, not many can support themselves, let alone support a wife.”

I forced a laugh, hoping flattery would defuse his suspicion. In India, a man’s worth is measured by the food he puts on the table.

Harish Bhaiya smiled at me. “Little brother, you just play games at home? Don’t want to get a job or something?”

His words stung, but I tried to laugh it off. “Arrey, gaming is also a job these days, na?”

I smiled too, pretending confidence. “Playing games is a job. You don’t know, a lot of people have money but no patience, so they pay me to play for them.”

I explained, “Bas, these days, even playing games pays. People hire me to grind for them, like people hire a cook for their house.”

Harish Bhaiya thought about it. “Just like not cooking for yourself, hiring a cook to come home.”

He nodded, finally understanding. “Accha, so you’re a gaming-wala, like a cook-wala.”

“Right, exactly.”

We both laughed, the tension easing a little. I could see the suspicion fading from his eyes.

Harish Bhaiya’s topic gradually became normal, his mood eased. I thought I was temporarily safe.

He talked about food, cricket, even politics. For a while, it felt almost normal, as if nothing had happened.

Fueled by alcohol, Harish Bhaiya lamented that the landlord was no good, raising the rent maliciously, trying to force him out, then poach his staff and steal the matka business. I asked him what he would do. He said as an outsider, he couldn’t compete with the local bosses, planned to go back home and quit. I understood—he was going to run away.

He cursed the landlord, the local MLA, and even the milkman. “Sab chor hain, yaar. Nobody lets a small guy like me survive.” He looked tired, defeated.

“How can that be? Then this area won’t have good food.” I flattered him.

He grinned, a little cheered up. “Arrey, someone else will come, make better biryani, who’ll remember Harish Bhaiya?”

We didn’t really drink much in five hours. Neither of us could get drunk, nor dared to get drunk.

I nursed my beer, pretending to sip. Harish Bhaiya just picked at the kebabs, eyes far away. We both waited for something, but I didn’t know what.

After returning home and locking the door, I quietly went to the wall hole again.

The building was quiet, the streetlights painting gold patterns on the peeling walls. I pressed my eye to the hole, heart racing.

Harish Bhaiya sat by the bed, smoking at the freezer. No one else was in the room. After one cigarette, Harish Bhaiya lifted the freezer lid. Inside the freezer was an arm in pink cartoon pyjamas. Harish Bhaiya looked in again and again, his expression numb and fierce.

The sight chilled me to the bone. Meera’s arm was stiff, fingers curled. Harish Bhaiya just stared, face blank, as if trying to understand how everything had gone so wrong.

I stayed awake all night with my eyes open.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Every sound made me jump. I waited for sirens, for screams, for something. But the city just rolled on, indifferent.