Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,105
Had these been made by Bahadur and Omvir while trying to claw out of his grip? All of him has been cut up by people now, and one dotted red line on his skin looks like the other.
Four policemen, including the senior and junior constables I have seen many times, turn up. Quarter takes them aside and talks to them. The senior constable doesn’t even look at Bahadur’s ma though he took her gold chain.
The arrival of the police doesn’t soften the sharpness of the anger in the alley. Wrestler-Man crumples under the kicks and punches that don’t ease up. Everything unfolds in slow motion. The smog dips and rises; the light turns blue and grey; a man scratches his armpits; voices whip through the air asking could the children be…no, not dead! The buzzing in my ears grows louder. Blood spills from Wrestler-Man’s broken lips, but he doesn’t say a word. “Where are the children?” each man hitting him asks. A thousand questions, and he stays silent through them all.
I go near Quarter. He’s telling the constables that Wrestler-Man’s name is Varun. He has been seen at a few Hindu Samaj events, but he doesn’t know Varun and neither does his father. The constables ask the scavenger children a few questions: who saw Varun bury the box, what is in it, where is it. They don’t write anything down in a notebook like Pari does.
“Where is Runu-Didi?” I scream. The words taste like rust in my mouth. I don’t understand what is happening. I can’t think like a detective because I’m not one. The constables look at me and look away.
The pradhan arrives in a cycle-rickshaw. The policemen stand around him in a half-circle. He puts his hands together, he says thank you for coming.
“I can’t believe someone who worships our baba can be a criminal,” the pradhan says. “When Eshwar called me and told me about it, I was heartbroken.”
I don’t know who Eshwar is and then I realize it’s Quarter.
The pradhan approaches my ma and Bahadur’s ma, who stand up. Aanchal’s papa and the press-wallah stagger out of Varun’s house empty-handed.
“He’s your friend,” I say, and push aside grown-up legs so that the pradhan can see me. “Wrestler-Man Varun. I have seen you talk to him. Ask him where he has locked up my didi.”
“Eshwar said Varun has done some work for the Samaj,” the pradhan says, addressing the crowd and not me. “But the Samaj has so many members, and I speak to so many people, I’m afraid I do not personally know this fellow.” He doesn’t even glance at Varun. “Be assured we will get to the bottom of this. You have my word.”
“But where’s my daughter?” Ma asks.
“My son?” Bahadur’s ma asks.
“Why were their things in a box?” I ask.
“All in good time,” the pradhan says.
“You’re waiting for all of us to die?” Ma asks, her words soft and clear. “Will that be a good time for you to do something?”
* * *
The police put handcuffs on Varun and his wife and say they are taking the two of them to the rubbish ground.
“He’ll show us what else he has hidden there,” a policeman explains to us. “Since the children aren’t in his house, and since he seems to have collected souvenirs from every child he snatched, there’s only one logical explanation as to what he was doing with them.”
“What do they think they’ll find there?” the press-wallah asks my papa as we follow the police procession. “Our children aren’t there.”
He knows what they are looking for; we all do. We can hear the questions the police are asking Varun and his wife.
“Did you cut them to pieces and throw them in the rubbish?”
“Leave them to be eaten by dogs and pigs?”
“Tell me, you motherfucker. I’ll make you talk.”
People spill out of their shops to watch us. “What is happening here?” they ask. The Muslim shopkeepers wrangle their skullcaps into little balls in their hands and turn away from us.
“Runu-Didi is alive,” I tell Papa.
Varun must have hidden Didi somewhere, maybe an abandoned factory or a godown. A trafficker would sell those he snatched, not kill them. Who has Varun sold Didi to? Or is Varun a djinn that has taken the form of a human?
Papa scrambles ahead and grasps Varun’s elbow. “My daughter, Runu, where is she?”
Blood trickles down Varun’s bruised face and onto his sweater. He eyes Papa with his swollen eyes and smirks.