In any case, about two-thirds of the way to Sangrama, we pass a large tree. Chinar ornot, I have no idea. But it dominates the landscape hereabouts enough that it might be thecorrect one. And as a coda to my sighting it—as a reminder of a bloody day in2001—there is a bicycle there, leaning against the tree. For one long instant, I havethe feeling that I’ve been transported back to that day. That any second now, as wedrive past, the bicycle will explode and send sharp bits of metal slicing into my flesh.As it once did to 38-year-old Major Abhimanyu Sikka, famous in these parts even then.