There is this group of men, who are staring at me from the bar counter. But I relax; it’s good to get attention. I want to fight them – all three of them – but not here, in the middle of the shady Delhi bar. I want to take them to the park, near the musical fountain, more so now, when the music would be dead, the fountain lost for the day. There are trees there and they would be the witness. I am confident I can take them by my bare hands, all of them. I also have a pistol, and if required, a knife in my sock, and if things really go out of hand, my dad’s high position in the judiciary. A phone call and the cars would come screaming, screeching, like they were waiting for my dad to ask them. So you see I have come well prepared.
My fingers ache. I close my eyes and recall the karate lessons. I am ready, but have to learn to wait. I go over my plan once more: hurt, make them beg, and if required kill them. It is far too exciting. I ask for another peg of rum, just as they ask for their whiskeys.
I whisper: Bloody whiskey guys, sissies, slaves, you have your noses in the ass of the British and the Irish. I am certain they haven’t heard me, but one of them suddenly seems particularly agitated. I like him glaring at me. This is the opportunity, I know, so I wink, smile and move my lips: fuck you!
It’s fun to see his face twitch as he deals with the surprise. I don’t want him to consult his friends, and he doesn’t. So, I wink again. I see him jump to his feet and charge towards me. I laugh; the game is going just as I wanted. He is halfway when one of his drunken friends pulls him back. The two of them have a slight scuffle and I laugh when I hear his abuse. He is taken back, but he is now staring at me like I am someone who has ordered the world to come to an end. There is still time son, I whisper, as he glares.
It’s under a full moon that I follow them an hour later, drizzle adding to the mood as I pull up in front of their car. They hit my car but manage to stop. I jump out and hop straight into the park, jumping the wrought iron gates, ignoring as they abuse me in Hindi. Moments later I hear their footsteps; it feels nice for the predator to be chased by the prey. I stop when I know I am at the spot I want to be.
I hit the first of them with a punch and he goes back reeling. The second one gets me in the chest; it is a mighty powerful blow. I fear I might just go to sleep, so I shout and lunge at the third. Something doesn’t feel right. It takes me a second to realize that he has already hit me with the pistol which I see now. I take out mine. But it is late. I hear them laugh and I smile, unable to laugh. I should have stayed with my fighting just-with-two policy. The lesson is clear, but comes at the very end. Whiskey wins; the rum loses. I must return to the base camp now, my home that is, the rum base.
*
