The Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan

things, ignoring their injured assistants. The owner of the framing shop, a young macho Punju fellow with a lippy twenty-five-year-old wife and two young kids, had actually escaped the initial explosion and rolled into the alley between shops; then, overcome by greed, he hadclimbed through the burning tarpaulin to retrieve the cash from his box, only to be crushed by the falling A/C he’d had installed the week before.
    But there were also instances of out-and-out heroism in this capitalist scramble. One of the shopkeepers, half his face blown off, had picked up a megaphone and warned customers to keep away. The assistants risked their lives to pull other assistants from the rubble. Mansoor ran away in fright but someone, some kind person, never to be named or found out, had taken the boys to the hospital; auto drivers, god bless their souls, had lined up outside the market, transporting victims to Moolchand and AIIMS for free. “I should make a separate documentary about them,” Vikas said.
    He expected his wife to pick out holes but she said, “Don’t get killed in a bomb yourself.” Which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.
    ________
    Deepa had not been idle during this period. Vikas came from a politically well-connected family—his grandfather had been an ICS officer and the chief commissioner of Chandigarh and a chacha had served as a cabinet secretary under Indira Gandhi; another cousin, Mukesh, was a friend of Venkaiah Naidu, the spokesperson of the BJP party.
    Deepa, who had previously kept away from these family members on account of Vikas’s distaste for them (he hated anyone who didn’t flatter him about his art, who asked how he made money), now began approaching them for favors.
    They were helpful. One of the more surprising moments at the chautha had been the appearance of Venkaiah Naidu—present at Mukesh’s behest—and now Mukesh said he would be happy to talk to Naidu again. “He’s not in power but I’m sure he’ll know the right person to talk to,” he said. Then, putting his paw on Deepa’s hand—he was a notorious groper of women, widely recognized as the colony’s lecher—he said, “Are you sure you want to meet the terrorists?”
    She nodded. “Who knows how many years the trial will go on? Just once, I want to talk to one of them, to understand why they did this.”
    â€œThey wanted to disrupt the election in Kashmir,” Mukesh said, his eyes sympathetically grazing her grief-shattered face. “Will you have some tea?”
    They sat in his office—he ran a construction business from a building across the street from the family complex—and drank tea. He reflected that it was the first time they’d ever sat together like this.
    He’d always thought Deepa an exceptionally attractive woman, her exoticism enhanced somewhat by the fact that she was Christian and from the South, with sweater-gray eyes that seemed only a few nicks of color removed from her grayish-brown skin, a peculiar color that didn’t appear in Delhi, where the shades seemed to swing between black and white, Dravidian and Aryan (Mukesh himself was dark and hated the world for it).
    Poor woman, he thought. Trapped in a doomed marriage with my depressed cousin (Vikas was ten years younger than Mukesh, but they were cousins)—a man who never knew how to handle women, who, with his nervous shifty mannerisms and sudden uncomfortable smiles, seemed to attract bad luck. You could see misfortune imprinted on people’s faces years before it hit them. Mukesh had always known that Vikas, the academic star of the family, would be a failure. Which is why he’d been surprised when Vikas had come one day to the communal drawing room with this sexy item at his side. Women work in mysterious ways; men do too. “Will you have biscuits with your chai?” he asked.
    â€œNo, no,” she said. “You have