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Prologue

The day had almost given up and the darkness of the night was creeping in. Most birds had returned to their nests. The occasional flapping of leathery wings that broke the silence along with the incessant chirp of crickets was of the bats which occupied the dilapidated hunting cabin, and came out at night to prey. Three men were standing in the small opening in the middle of the forest. A dead body of a girl was lying nearby. An SUV was parked a few meters away from the opening. Haria, their driver, was sitting inside the car. A local folksong was playing on the stereo.

Haria had known the girl from the village. He knew her entire family too. She was of the same age as his sister Mala. But, today he couldn't help her, even if he wanted to. The girl had caught the attention of Pappu Bhaiya. She had refused Pappu's advances numerous times, and he was not one to take refusal lightly, especially when it was from a woman and that too of a lower caste.

"Guddu, get the shovel from the car", said Sandeep.

Soon enough, the sound of metal hitting the earth was shattering the silence of the night. Once a pit big enough for the body was dug, Salman and Guddu rolled the body into the pit. Sandeep emptied a canister of petrol on the dead body. Keeping the empty canister on one side, he fished a matchbox and a packet of bidi from his pocket. Picking a bidi out of th packet, he pressed it between his lips and lighted it with the matchstick and flicked the burning matchstick in the pit. The petrol doused clothes on the dead body caught fire instantly, as with every passing second, the flames grow fiercer. The tip of the bidi glowed amber on Sandeep's face as took a drag.

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The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.

George R.R. Martin