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endless, insistent blast.
    The van began to gain speed, still in the middle of the road, and pulled away from the blue hatchback.
    ‘Finally,’ muttered Girish, adjusting his seat belt.
    In an instant the van swerved sideways into the middle of the road and stopped, blocking the road. Girish slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted to a halt, tearing violently at the uneven surface of the road.
    Girish had taken his hand off the horn and a foreign silence descended. Mala turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless. The van’s door opened on the driver’s side. There was no further movement.
    Girish’s hands remained on the steering wheel, the veins fanning out like the talons of a bird of prey.
    A man jumped out of the van. He was slight and athletic looking, dressed in jeans and a tight vest, his hair cropped short. He approached the car at a leisurely pace, swinging a length of cloth.
    Mala whispered: ‘Oh God, Girish, please don’t say anything.’
    The man knocked at Girish’s window and then pressed his palm against the glass, his flesh pale and turgid. He knocked again, this time harder.
    Girish opened the window. The man leant down: ‘
Lo bhosdike,
what’s the problem?’
    Girish stared blankly at him. Mala pushed her handbag with her feet into the far corner.
    ‘I said, what’s the problem?’
    ‘There’s no problem.’
    ‘Really? You make a lot of noise for someone with no problems.’
    ‘There’s no problem.’
    The man took a long look at Mala and then shrugged: ‘If you say so, boss. Too much tension. You need to relax.’
    Girish was silent.
    ‘Okay boss, if you say no problem, then there really is no problem.’
    The man took another look at Mala and then sauntered back to the van, still swinging the length of cloth. In a moment the van’s engine fired up and it sped off.
    The man’s hand had left a greasy imprint on the window. Girish waited until the van was out of sight. He opened the door and spat into the road. Closing the door, he adjusted the mirror, restarted the ignition and began to move slowly forward.
    Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until Girish looked sharply at Mala.
    ‘What do you think I would have said?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You told me not to say anything. What do you think I was going to say?’
    ‘I don’t know. Nothing. I just didn’t want him to get angrier.’
    ‘Because I don’t know that much? That I should not make a crazy rowdy like him angry.’
    ‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just scared.’
    They were approaching the bend in the road at Bannur. Billboards scudded past: models entwined in cords of gold, rows of premium quality rubber
chappals
and earnest invitations to MBA courses in Australia. A truck carrying wobbling stacks of timber lurched in front of them. On top of the planks sat a sallow-faced man, his dead eyes focused on some distant point.
    The rest of the journey passed in silence.

CHAPTER TWO
    Venky Gowda had only ever sustained one vision in his life: HeritageLand. He dreamed of a world where cutting-edge technology could harness the drama of the ancient epics and transport his compatriots to an alternate reality. When he slept, he twitched and kicked, mouthing his plans for a recreated Dandaka forest where the curious could follow in Lord Rama’s footsteps, battle the Lankan army in an elaborate flume, cut off Shurpanakha’s ears and nose with laser arrows, soar to the treetops in a mechanical Garuda. His cupboards were crammed with notes for a Kurukshetra War simulation involving luxury chariots and a buffet service. Napkins within his reach were covered with doodles of the Kailash Wonder Mountain and the Yamaraja Monorail.
    Venky’s first attempts at obtaining finance for the project had been met with bloodcurdling laughter. Had he considered the problem of locating a site, the cost of construction and equipment, the logistical difficulties, the power shortages, the possibility that