Year’s Best SF 15 Read Online Free PDF

the faded awnings of Munshilal and Sons, past a rickshaw stand into another quiet lane, this one shaded with jacaranda trees. Gangadhar’s house is a modest white bungalow, stained an indeterminate gray from many monsoons. The creak of the wooden gate in the compound wall is as familiar a greeting as Gangadhar’s welcome.
    But the day comes when there is no chess game at Gangadhar’s house.
    The servant boy—not Gangadhar—ushers him into the familiar room. Sitting down in his usual chair, Abdul Karim notices that the chess board has not been laid out. Sounds come from the inner rooms of the house: women’s voices, heavy objects being dragged across the floor.
    An elderly man comes into the room and stops short as though surprised to see Abdul Karim. He looks vaguely familiar—then Abdul remembers that he is some relative of Gangadhar’s wife—an uncle, perhaps—and he lives on the other side of the city. They have met once or twice at some family celebration.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” the man says, without any of the usual courtesies. He is white-haired but of vigorous build.
    Puzzled and a little affronted, Abdul Karim says:
    â€œI am here for my chess game with Gangadhar. Is he not at home?”
    â€œThere will be no chess game today. Haven’t you people done enough harm? Are you here to mock us in our sorrow? Well, let me tell you…”
    â€œWhat happened?” Abdul Karim’s indignation is dissolving in a wave of apprehension. “What are you talking about? Is Gangadhar all right?”
    â€œPerhaps you don’t know,” says the man, his tone mocking. “Some of your people burned a bus on Paharia road yesterday evening. There were ten people on it, all Hindus, coming back from a family ceremony at a temple. They all perished horribly. Word has it that you people did it. Didn’t even let the children get off the bus. Now the whole town is in turmoil. Who knows what might happen? Gangadhar and I are taking his family to a safer part of town.”
    Abdul Karim’s eyes are wide with shock. He can find no words.
    â€œAll these hundreds of years we Hindus have tolerated you people. Even though you Muslims raided and pillaged us over the centuries, we let you build your mosques, worship your God. And this is how you pay us!”
    In one instant Abdul Karim has become “you people.” He wants to say that he did not lift an arm to hurt those who perished on the bus. His were not the hands that set the fire. But no words come out.
    â€œCan you imagine it, Master Sahib? Can you see the flames? Hear their screams? Those people will never go home…”
    â€œI can imagine it,” Abdul Karim says, grimly now. He rises to his feet, but just then Gangadhar enters the room. He has surely heard part of the conversation because he puts his hands on Abdul Karim’s shoulders, gently, recognizing him as the other man has not done. This is Abdul Karim, his friend, whose sister, all those years ago, never came home.
    Gangadhar turns to his wife’s uncle.
    â€œUncle, please. Abdul Karim is not like those miscreants. A kinder man I have never known! And as yet it is not known who the ruffians are, although the whole town is filled withrumors. Abdul, please sit down! This is a measure of the times we live in, that we can say such things to each other. Alas! Kalyug is indeed upon us.”
    Abdul Karim sits down, but he is shaking. All thoughts of mathematics have vanished from his mind. He is filled with disgust and revulsion for the barbarians who committed this atrocity, for human beings in general. What a degraded species we are! To take the name of Ram or Allah, or Jesus, and to burn and destroy under one aegis or another—that is what our history has been.
    The uncle, shaking his head, has left the room. Gangadhar is talking history to Abdul, apologizing for his uncle.
    â€œâ€¦a matter of political