***
***
***
"Where is bau'ji?" asked the taller man. He had long hair and a gaunt face. Ameeta noticed he was fidgeting, restless. "Where is uncle?" another man asked. Realising who they meant, Ameeta told them that I didn't know anything about painting the house. At that point, they yanked the screen door open and forced their way inside. A fourth man, who had been hiding behind a corner of the wall, leapt up and joined them. He was wearing a knitted ski-mask, with holes for his eyes and mouth. Defending herself against the attacker's knives, Ameeta was cut on both hands. When they shoved her to the floor, she twisted one of the men's fingers. He cursed under his breath, saying she'd broken it, then kicked her in the face, leaving her dazed. Soon afterwards, they tied Ameeta's wrists and ankles. One of the intruders slashed her legs, cutting through her jeans. He also stabbed her below her ribs on the left side. Blood began pooling on the kitchen tiles.
By this time, I was also on the floor. With the butt of the wooden pistol, one man kept hitting me on the head. Each blow felt like the crack of a spoon against an eggshell, but much harder. Though it didn't knock me out, my eyes lost focus. Three of the attackers were on me. They worked quickly, efficiently lashing my hands and feet with a cotton cord. As they started to gag me, I bit one of their fingers. One of the men kept whispering in my ear, telling me to keep quiet. "Chup ho jao!" He said nothing else. A few seconds later, he tried to smother me, pushing down on my mouth and nose with one hand. In a panic, I began to kick and struggle.
The warning was repeated in my ear: "Be quiet!" As they dragged me to my feet, I could see Ameeta lying on the other side of the kitchen. She was completely still, one of the attackers crouched beside her. Earlier, I had heard her groan and thought she might be dead. All of this was a blur of shadows, as I was hauled into the dining room. "Where is the money?" they demanded in Hindi. "Where is the locker? Where do you keep your money?"
I could barely speak through the gag. "There's no money," I told them. "Take whatever you want...laptops, camera, TV.... Leave us alone." But they kept asking where the money was, voices calm and subdued, as if they were still inquiring about painting the house.
I was yanked back into the central hall and thrown to the ground. One of the attackers pinned me to the floor, my face scraping against the rough jute matting. Again, he began to smother me. The choking sensation was worse than the blows to my head. After a couple of minutes, however, the man unclamped his hand and asked again, "Where is the money?"
Another member of the gang was standing over me. It was the man wearing the mask. "Tell us where the money is or we'll shoot your wife—madam ko goli mar denge!" As I gasped for breath, I remember thinking it strange that they called Ameeta "madam" after they had beaten and stabbed her. Once again, I told them we had no money in the house.
When the masked man raised his arm, I clearly saw the knife he was holding—a commando knife with an eight-inch blade and decorative serrations near the handle.
Knowing that I was going to be stabbed, I rolled on to my left shoulder, still under the weight of my assailant. Desperately, I kicked at the masked man. Convinced that I was about to die, I didn't want to give up without some sort of resistance. The masked intruder stabbed me six times on the legs, though the only wound I remember receiving is the last. Avoiding my thrashing feet, I saw him brace himself before lunging forward and bringing the knife down on my right thigh, cutting into my flesh and ripping open a deep wound, 12 inches long.
There was no pain. In shock, my body switched off those nerves. Unlike the smothering, this felt as if it were happening to someone else. After the stabbing had stopped, the man who was holding me down must have taken the knife from the other attacker, for he began pressing it against my throat. Somehow, I got my hands up under his wrist, fingers clenched around his grip and the hilt of the knife. The serrations on the lower part of the blade cut into my palm. Unable to see my attacker, it felt as if I were wrestling with my own shadow. There was something intimate and obscene in the way he held me in his arms. From the time I had been knocked down in the kitchen until now, 20 minutes must have elapsed, though it seemed much longer.
Then, without warning, he let me go. The knife was suddenly withdrawn. My attacker pulled away and jumped to his feet, then rushed out of the hall, through the dining room.
Here was my only chance. I rolled over on the jute matting and pushed myself off the ground. With my wrists and ankles tied, I had trouble getting to my feet but when I did, I was able to hop across to the double doors that open into an outer hall, the main entrance to the house. But before I could reach it, I tripped and fell. My blood was smeared on the slate flagstones. Fortunately, I was able to get myself upright again and stumbled toward the outer door. Seeing daylight encouraged me, the chance of escaping those threatening shadows. I continued to feel very little pain, only a heavy dullness in my legs.
Hobbling outside on to the front steps, I pulled the gag from my mouth and sucked in the moist monsoon air. Immediately, I began to shout for help. Our employees, Ajeet and Ram Lal, live a hundred meters from our house.
Eventually, I saw a running figure. My vision was blurred by blood from cuts above my eyes. I couldn't tell who this person was, believing it might be one of the attackers, coming back to finish me off. Seconds later, when I turned to face the approaching figure, I saw it was Ram Lal. He hadn't recognised me because of the blood. "I thought someone was dressed all in red," he told me later, but at that moment he couldn't speak, breaking down in tears.
Ajeet and Ram Lal untied my hands and feet. I asked them to bring towels to staunch my bleeding. One of them put a cushion under my head. Chris Cooke, our neighbour, kneeled beside me. I asked about Ameeta. He reassured me that she was all right. When they lifted me into the back seat of the taxi that was taking us to hospital, I fainted.
***
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep and pass, and turn again...
