The sky was flat grey over Delhi. A humid January afternoon. The smell of smoke and rain lingered above the overpass near Dhaula Kuan. Cars were jammed. Horns blared in short bursts like stuttering coughs. A broken tempo had stalled sideways, blocking two lanes. Nobody moved.
Vikramaditya stepped out of his WagonR with irritation. White shirt stuck to his back. He tapped the door shut with his knee and pushed through the shoulder-to-shoulder line of bikes and cabs.
Up ahead, drivers argued with the tempo man, who kept pointing to his engine like it explained anything. Vikram ignored them. He walked past the mess, eyes scanning for a path forward. On the other side of the divider, the road was still flowing. Trucks, SUVs, two-wheelers — one after the other, without pause.
He was about to return when he heard the scream.
A sharp, thin sound. A child.
Vikram's head turned fast. Ten meters to his right, near the service lane, a girl was crouched in the road. Maybe five years old. Blue frock. No shoes. Crying. Her toy had rolled under a truck and she'd gone after it. No one noticed. The truck was reversing.
Vikram didn't think. He sprinted.
Feet slammed against the tar. He didn't hear anything else. Just the girl crying. One hand reached out to grab her arm. His other hand shoved against the moving truck's bumper.
Too late.
The bumper caught him on the ribs. His body jerked. He twisted so she wouldn't take the hit. He felt her fingers slip from his hand just as the corner of the truck hit his lower back. A loud crack followed. The world tilted.
Then nothing.
When the truck finally stopped, people ran in.
Someone pulled the girl out. Someone else yelled for help. A man in uniform blew a whistle. One woman screamed and covered her mouth. Another tried to hold back traffic with her scooter.
Vikram's body lay still. Blood pooled slowly near his collar.
His eyes were half open.
But he wasn't there anymore.