Extra Green Chilli

its on the glass now

"It is," Dev said, small. "It's come down off the arm. It's flat on the mirror, all spread out, grey with road dust. And somebody's written in the dust with a finger. Two words. It says BRING DEV."

"Boys write on trucks at the depot."

"It wasn't there at the depot. I cleaned that mirror. You said that's my job."

Mohan leaned on the wheel through a long bend. "Listen. Every ghat keeps one. That's what the old drivers say. You keep moving, it doesn't keep you."

"The sign says 60."

"60 is for cars with nothing in them. We do 20 and we pray. And the law says nobody stops on this road. No scooters, no rickshaws, no carts, no stopping. For once the law and me agree."

"There's a tanker in front," Dev said. "Chat, he's braking. Grandpa, we're doing 15. We're doing 12."

hes moving

"Why is he moving?"

"Because we're slow," Mohan said. "Slow, he comes down. Stop, he comes in."

hes at ur door now

"Hang on, I'll turn you round," Dev told them. "Okay. Chat. There's a face on my window. Outside. Pressed right up, next to mine. Blue cap. I can't see the eyes." He laughed, too high. "47 of you. This isn't a bit, okay? I swear on my mum it isn't a bit."

The door handle moved. Click. Click.

"He's trying my door, Grandpa. Not yours. Mine."

"It's locked. He knows it's locked. Listen, he can knock all day."

The phone buzzed. MUM.

"Where are you?" Asha said.

"On the ghat. Grandpa says hi."

"Put me on speaker." Her voice came out thin over the engine. "Mohan. I am in a queue at the bank, selling your truck for you, and you are on the ghat. You swore. Not this road. Not with the box. Not with him."

"The old road was shut," Mohan said.

"It was not shut. I checked. Dev, listen to me. Don't open the window. Don't open the door. Don't give it anything of yours."

"Mum, what is it? Mum?"

The call was gone. "No signal," Dev said. "Chat, are you still there? Okay. Big bend. Oh no. There's red lights all the way up. A container truck's broken down across two lanes, hazards on, and a cop is waving everyone into one lane with a stick."

"No," Mohan said. "No, no. Keep rolling. Keep rolling, you fool."

"10," Dev read. "Five. Three. Grandpa, the tanker's stopped."

Mohan stood on the brake. The truck sighed and stopped.

where did he go

hes gone??

"He's off the window," Dev whispered. "He's off the mirror. I'm counting. 30. 35. 40. The cop's waving. We're moving."

Mohan sat very still, staring at the middle of the windscreen.

"He got bored, chat," Dev said. "31 of you now. Let me see your faces. Okay, we survived the..."

He flipped the phone round.

On the screen, inside the cab, between him and Grandpa, sat a man in a blue cap.

His mouth was an inch from Dev's ear.

Dev dropped the phone.

"There's nobody," he said. "Grandpa, I'm looking. There's nobody there. But the seat's pushed down. And I'm cold. My whole right side is cold."

"Pick it up," Mohan said quietly. "Pick it up and look at him. You should look at him once."

"He's got dust in his eyebrows," Dev said, with the phone in both hands. "He's thin. Grandpa. I know him. He's the photo under your clock."

"Yes."

"That's Papa."

"Yes."

"You said it was a ghat thing. You said it takes trucks."

"I said every ghat keeps one." Mohan's voice cracked down the middle. "This one kept Vijay. 2015. His brakes went, at the bend after the last tunnel. The next week, there he was on my mirror."

"And the chilli."

"He likes chilli. Every morning, 'Baba, extra green chilli.' I feed him at that bend. He goes after the food and lets go of the truck. Three times a week, for 11 years."

"Why does he have to let go?"

"Because if he rides to the top, he's gone. That's what your mother's priest says. She wanted me to let him go up." Mohan wiped his face with his wrist. "I couldn't."

"So it's not keeping him away from us," Dev said. "You're keeping him."

Mohan said nothing.

"And you brought me."

"He asked. It's on the mirror every week. Bring Dev. He hasn't seen you since you were three. And your mother sells the truck on Friday. After Friday, who comes up here with his lunch?" Mohan breathed out. "I thought he just wanted to see you. Once."

"He's smiling at me," Dev said. "His lips are moving, right by my ear. I can't hear him. It's too loud in here."

bro turn captions on hes saying something

Dev didn't. He held the tiffin on his knees with both hands.

"Mum's right," he said. "Let him go up."

"Dev."

"You've had him 11 years. Let him go up. I'm not throwing it."

Mohan looked at the dent in the seat. "All right," he said, very softly. "All right, beta. All right, son."

"Tunnel," Mohan said. "The last one."

The sun went out like a switch. Orange lamps slid by, and the windows turned black, and black glass is a mirror.

"Grandpa," Dev whispered. "I can see him. In the windscreen. Without the phone."

"I see him."

"He's reaching over me. He's at my door."

The lock clicked up.

The door swung open onto the tunnel wall, and the roar came in, huge and hot.

"My belt," Dev said. "Grandpa, my belt's come undone. There's a hand on my back. It's not pushing. It's waiting."

"VIJAY," Mohan roared. He grabbed Dev's shirt in one fist and steered with his knee. With the other hand he tore the tiffin off Dev's lap and flung it out of his own window. Steel rang along the wall behind them.

"He's turning his head," Dev said. "To the sound. Grandpa, he's... He's gone. The cold's gone."

Mohan hauled the door shut.

Sun, at the top. Khandala. Mohan drove one handed, and he did not let go of Dev's shirt.

Nobody spoke for a long way. The phone said 212 watching. Dev did not say hi.

Then Dev wound the stream back to the face at his ear and turned the captions on. White words came up under the still picture.

Swap with me, Dev. You hold the mirror. I sit in the seat.

It's not so bad out there.

Baba brings lunch.