Short fiction: A young man’s sisters are killed during the 1997 ethnic unrest in Manipur
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The body arrives in an old Shaktiman truck in the hush of the early autumn afternoon. I hold the hands of my sisters, 10 and 12, standing on either side of me, their eyes red from crying. My fingers are growing numb from their grip, but I don’t tell them to loosen it. My mother, clutching the hems of her shawl at her chest, standing a few paces away and shivering, even though the day is warm, does not cry.
We’ve been at the churchyard since noon, along with a growing crowd of relatives, friends, and neighbours, waiting for this moment, promised over the telephone by the gruff voice of a man the night before. And as the truck approaches, so does the crowd – the mourners.
The heavy vehicle makes its slow, lumbering final turn, white steam rising from under its hood and black smoke spouting from the exhaust. It halts with a vicious hiss, its back to us.