Priya looked at the folder. At the keeping-count. At two years of a woman attending clinics and watching people die and writing their names down because someone had to.
"This is evidence," she said. "For a journalist and a court, these testimonies are exactly what is needed. A woman who kept count, who knows names and dates from direct community knowledge — that is what makes a case real."
Sunita looked at her. "You found something."
"I found the operational files. The registry, the rate card, the documentation system. A journalist at The Wire has it and the CBI has a case number. It will take time. But it's in motion."
"Time," Sunita said. "While it takes time, more people—"
"I know. There are two hundred and forty-seven active participants. I need to warn as many as I can before the programme is officially suspended. And I can't do it alone."
Sunita looked at her for a long time. The curry leaf plant on her windowsill rustled. "I know most of the enrolled families in this area," Sunita said. "I know where they live." She touched the folder. "And I know exactly what I am willing to do."
"It could be dangerous," Priya said.
"Dangerous," Sunita said, with a tone that placed the word precisely in context. She looked around her two-room flat, at the marigolds, at the folder full of dead people's names. "I have been living next to this for two years. I know exactly how dangerous it is."
Priya nodded. "Give me tonight. Tomorrow morning, I will have a plan. You sleep here tonight. They won't look here."
Sunita stood and began clearing the food dishes. "Sleep," she said. "Tomorrow we work."
