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