I got a bucket and washed the car. I wiped it down thoroughly, and scrubbed out every bit of blood and flesh-there was a bit of both around the wheels.

When he came down, I was washing the tires for the fourth time.

"Well?"

I showed him a piece of bloodied green fabric that had got stuck to the wheel.

"It's cheap stuff, sir, this green cloth," I said, rubbing the rough material between my fingers. "It's what they put on children."

"And do you think the child…" He couldn't say the word.

"There was no sound at all, sir. No sound at all. And the body didn't move even a bit."

"God, Balram, what will we do now-what will we-" He slapped his hand to his thigh. "What are these children doing, walking about Delhi at one in the morning, with no one to look after them?"

When he had said this, his eyes lit up.

"Oh, she was one of those people."

"Who live under the flyovers and bridges, sir. That's my guess too."

"In that case, will anyone miss her…?"

"I don't think so, sir. You know how those people in the Darkness are: they have eight, nine, ten children-sometimes they don't know the names of their own children. Her parents-if they're even here in Delhi, if they even know where she is tonight-won't go to the police."

He put a hand on my shoulder, the way he had been touching Pinky Madam's shoulder earlier in the night.

Then he put a finger on his lips.

I nodded. "Of course, sir. Now sleep well-it's been a difficult night for you and Pinky Madam."

I removed the maharaja tunic, and then I went to sleep. I was tired as hell-but on my lips there was the big, contented smile that comes to one who has done his duty by his master even in the most difficult of moments.

The next morning, I wiped the seats of the car as usual-I wiped the stickers with the face of the goddess-I wiped the ogre-and then I lit up the incense stick and put it inside so that the seats would smell nice and holy. I washed the wheels one more time, to make sure there was not a spot of blood I had missed in the night.

Then I went back to my room and waited. In the evening one of the other drivers brought a message that I was wanted in the lobby-without the car. The Mongoose was waiting for me up there. I don't know how he got to Delhi this fast-he must have rented a car and driven all night. He gave me a big smile and patted me on the shoulder. We went up to the apartment in the elevator.

He sat down on the table, and said, "Sit, sit, make yourself comfortable, Balram. You're part of the family."

My heart filled up with pride. I crouched on the floor, happy as a dog, and waited for him to say it again. He smoked a cigarette. I had never before seen him do that. He looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"Now, it's important that you stay here in Buckingham Towers B Block and not go anywhere else-not even to A Block-for a few days. And not say a word to anyone about what happened."

"Yes, sir."

He looked at me for a while, smoking. Then he said again, "You're part of the family, Balram."

"Yes, sir."

"Now go downstairs to the servants' quarters and wait there."

"Yes, sir."

An hour passed, and then I got called upstairs again.

This time there was a man in a black coat sitting at the dinner table next to the Mongoose. He was looking over a printed piece of paper and reading it silently with his lips, which were stained red with paan. Mr. Ashok was on the phone in his room; I heard his voice through the closed door. The door to Pinky Madam's room was closed too. The whole house had been handed over to the Mongoose.

"Sit down, Balram. Make yourself comfortable."

"Yes, sir."

I squatted and made myself uncomfortable again.

"Would you like some paan, Balram?" the Mongoose asked.

"No, sir."

He smiled. "Don't be shy, Balram. You chew paan, don't you?" He turned to the man in the black coat. "Give him something to chew, please."

The man in the black coat reached into his pocket and held out a small green paan. I stuck my palm out. He dropped it into my palm without touching me.

"Put it in your mouth, Balram. It's for you."

"Yes, sir. It's very good. Chewy. Thank you."

"Let's go over all this slowly and clearly, okay?" the man in the black suit said. The red juice almost dripped out of his mouth as he spoke.

"All right."

"The judge has been taken care of. If your man does what he is to do, we'll have nothing to worry about."

"My man will do what he is to do, no worries about that. He's part of the family. He's a good boy."

"Good, good."

The man in the black coat looked at me and held out a piece of paper.

"Can you read, fellow?"

"Yes, sir." I took the paper from his hand and read:

TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN,

I, BALRAM HALWAI, SON OF VIKRAM HALWAI, OF LAXMANGARH VILLAGE IN THE DISTRICT OF GAYA, DO MAKE THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT OF MY OWN FREE WILL AND INTENTION:

THAT I DROVE THE CAR THAT HIT AN UNIDENTIFIED PERSON, OR PERSONS, OR PERSON AND OBJECTS, ON THE NIGHT OF JANUARY 23RD THIS YEAR. THAT I THEN PANICKED AND REFUSED TO FULFILL MY OBLIGATIONS TO THE INJURED PARTY OR PARTIES BY TAKING THEM TO THE NEAREST HOSPITAL EMERGENCY WARD. THAT THERE WERE NO OTHER OCCUPANTS OF THE CAR AT THE TIME OF THE ACCIDENT. THAT I WAS ALONE IN THE CAR, AND ALONE RESPONSIBLE FOR ALL THAT HAPPENED.

I SWEAR BY ALMIGHTY GOD THAT I MAKE THIS STATEMENT UNDER NO DURESS AND UNDER INSTRUCTION FROM NO ONE.

SIGNATURE OR THUMBPRINT:

(BALRAM HALWAI)

STATEMENT MADE IN THE PRESENCE OF THE FOLLOWING WITNESSES.

KUSUM HALWAI, OF LAXMANGARH VILLAGE,

GAYA DISTRICT

CHAMANDAS VARMA, ADVOCATE, DELHI HIGH

COURT

Smiling affectionately at me, the Mongoose said, "We've already told your family about it. Your granny, what's her name?"

"…"

"I didn't hear that."

"…m."

"Yes, that's it. Kusum. I drove down to Laxmangarh-it's a bad road, isn't it?-and explained everything to her personally. She's quite a woman."

He rubbed his forearms and made a big grin, so I knew he was telling the truth.

"She says she's so proud of you for doing this. She's agreed to be a witness to the confession as well. That's her thumbprint on the page, Balram. Just below the spot where you're going to sign."

"If he's illiterate, he can press his thumb," the man in the black coat said. "Like this." He pressed his thumb against the air.

"He's literate. His grandmother told me he was the first in the family to read and write. She said you always were a smart boy, Balram."

I looked at the paper, pretending to read it again, and it began to shake in my hands.

What I am describing to you here is what happens to drivers in Delhi every day, sir. You don't believe me-you think I'm making all this up, Mr. Jiabao?

When you're in Delhi, repeat the story I've told you to some good, solid middle-class man of the city. Tell him you heard this wild, extravagant, impossible story from some driver about being framed for a murder his master committed on the road. And watch as your good, solid middle-class friend's face blanches. Watch how he swallows hard-how he turns away to the window-watch how he changes the topic at once.

The jails of Delhi are full of drivers who are there behind bars because they are taking the blame for their good, solid middle-class masters. We have left the villages, but the masters still own us, body, soul, and arse.

Yes, that's right: we all live in the world's greatest democracy.

What a fucking joke.

Doesn't the driver's family protest? Far from it. They would actually go about bragging. Their boy Balram had taken the fall, gone to Tihar Jail for his employer. He was loyal as a dog. He was the perfect servant.