The festering smell of home stung Satya’s nose, causing him to steady himself on the side of the AHI powerboard that had long been stripped for parts. Even now, in his old gully, he heard the cries from the homes -- cries from the elders in proclamation of bad luck at the cursed one, abhisapta, cries of laughter from the boys cradling the sides of carts to watch, and the silent cries of his mother into her shawl as her husband whipped himself in the street, as was his duty whenever bad luck touched the town.
He steadied his stomach and thought of Smita and his daughter, Sapna, and wiped his brow with a rag, his heart still racing. He heard the commotion from the outer street where Sonu Uncle used to sell bicycle parts, and where Reza Bhai would occasionally appear before making his way deeper into the slums after a particularly brutal police crackdown, gun in the waistband of his jeans. It was in the middle of this reflection that he heard his supervisor call for him, and that he was dragged back to the crowd of laborers gathered around Raj Saheb.

“The Arjun Housing Initiative is a violation of the cleanliness of Bombay, and has long outlived its purpose,” Raj bellowed. “The municipal board has promised these people new homes -- relocation -- in 45 days, once they agree to file their proper paperworks and proof of residencies. These people know they violate their duty as Indians, and that they wish to do so, which is why they refuse to comply. Many of them are criminal, and many of them are unclean, and impure in their civil behavior. When the dozers advance, surely many of them will refuse. It is your job as Indian citizens, and as patriots, to fulfill your duty and clean up Bombay. The AHI must be cleaned. Jai Hind!”

Satya stood in nauseated silence as the clamoring of applause from the others built into a deafening, dull white noise around him. He dizzied and his vision blurred, his mind repeating the words, “The AHI must be cleaned”.

Salim, the supervisor, yanked Satya back to reality and berated him for his behavior, asking him if he was drunk. Satya thought of his mother asking his father the same thing all those years ago, and smiled wistfully, mincing a tear. Salim wandered off in disgust, muttering “dalit” under his breath, the term for an untouchable. Satya clenched the keys in his hand until his palm began to cut, losing the courage to enter the seat, sweat racing into the bands of his only shirt with buttons.

Suddenly, a scream broke out from under the hot damper of the Bombay smog, and he became aware of the missing dozers, of the time that had passed. They had begun their descent down the shantytown, into Arjun Hill. He thought of Sonu Uncle’s shop and retched, then vomited as another flailing cry shot like a flare of surrender into the hot wave from the machines. The beating drum of their warpath was the yanking crash of fillers and rafters hitting the ground, and the shattered cries of elderly women losing the only world they had ever seen. Through it he heard Smita’s voice call “Satti” and he saw a hungry Sapna smile and he saw his mother cry as his father came home drunk again, smelling like defeat, mud and blood on his coat from where the city boys had zipped him with rocks, and he wiped his eyes, and steadied the gear of the CAT. The drum pounded and dulled his awareness through redundancy.

In the blazing sickle of Bombay July, Satya surrendered himself into the seat, a beaten dalit holding his whip, hiding his face from what was to come.