
The last time Arpit
Parashar spoke about his impending death to me was in 2014. It was a moonlit
night on the Ganga, and he was on a boat smuggling country-made guns across
Uttar Pradesh. It was the run-up to the general elections and the illegal arms
trade had seen a boost. On the boat was an old man everyone called Chacha, his
eyes pure violence and trained at the journalist who had hitched a ride.
Somewhere in western UP, on the unpatrolled waters of the holy river, Arpit
thought Chacha