WHISPERED ZAIROS. There was no movement from Ganpat at all, not a single twitch or half breath. The rope, thick and strong, had done its job. But its grip around Ganpat’s neck was still fierce. It pulled Zairos towards the body. He lightly placed his palm under the sole of Ganpat’s muddy, cracked foot. The smell made him recoil. He was surprised, ashamed even, at how easily the dead body repelled him. After all, Ganpat was a Warli who had lived and worked on the farm since he was a child. A tribal of the region, he used to be one of Shapur Irani’s most trusted workers. But when he was caught stealing money, he was asked to leave. Zairos remembered that afternoon ten years ago. Ganpat’s eyes were red, and for once it was not the red of liquor but the red of tears, proof that he had betrayed his master. He had to walk away from the farm he had grown up on and was never seen again. Until now. Ganpat’s face had not changed much since that time. His eyebrows were extremely thin, mere lines that had been drawn above his eyes as an afterthought; his moustache was made of small wisps, so frugal, a perfect reflection of his poverty.
