Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,108

be taken to the police station now,” he says. “They’re refusing to talk, and the police haven’t found anything else in the rubbish.”

“Can’t they get some battery lamps and continue this work over the night?” Chandni’s papa asks.

“They’ll come back tomorrow,” the pradhan says. “You have already seen how tirelessly Eshwar—my son—has worked for you today. And I have done what I can too. Remember the puja I organized? Our prayers are slowly being answered.”

“But our children,” Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu says. “My wife, she’s about to have our baby, she can’t take this much tension.”

“What about Runu?” Papa asks.

“The police have to complete the formalities of filing a case against Varun and his wife,” the pradhan says. “There are procedures to be followed. Leave them to do their job.”

“If they had done their job, we wouldn’t be here today,” a man says.

“Let’s not antagonize the police now,” the pradhan says. “I’ll personally go to the police station and check they’re doing everything right.”

“Duttaram had said the wrestler worked in a hi-fi building. Remember its name?” Faiz asks me.

“Golden Gate,” I say.

“Maybe he has locked up Runu-Didi in that building,” Faiz says.

“His boss-lady wouldn’t let him do that,” I say, but then I think of the bad boss-ladies I have seen on Police Patrol. I’m too stupid for forgetting something so important. How could I have forgotten? I must be going crazy. I can’t think a single thought clearly.

I tell Papa and Ma about the hi-fi flat. Faiz says sometimes flats are empty for ages because hi-fi people live in foreign countries or in the city and visit only once in a while. Ma says this is true. Papa repeats everything to the pradhan and Quarter, who are preparing to leave. “We should go there,” Papa says.

“We can’t wait,” Ma says. “My daughter could be there right now.”

“Only very special people live in that building,” the pradhan says, looking irritated. “They don’t even know about this basti, I’m sure. It’s not their fault their servant has been arrested.”

“Surely you can ask the police to check,” Papa says.

“Golden Gate is not a tea shop that you can drop in for a glass of chai whenever you feel like it,” the pradhan says.

The police shove Varun and his wife into the back of the van. People shout abuses at him, call him sisterfucker and motherfucker.

When the police vehicles and the JCB drive away, the press-wallah says, “They didn’t even tell us anything about our children.”

“I’m going right now to the police station,” the pradhan says. “I’ll talk to them about this Golden Gate business. I’ll call you.” Quarter asks a lackey to take down everyone’s mobile numbers. Then they leave.

It’s almost forty-eight hours and we still don’t know where Runu-Didi is.

THE RUBBISH IS A SEA OF—

—rustling black now except where charcoal fires smolder orange. Pari tugs my hand.

“We need answers,” Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu says. “We have to make the Golden Gate people open their gates.”

“Let’s show them what we are made of,” Aanchal’s papa says, thumping his chest.

“Off we go,” Drunkard Laloo says, but he heads in the direction of the rubbish ground. Bahadur’s ma runs after him and brings him back.

Our long procession sets off, passing Bottle-Badshah, now reclining on a charpai-throne in front of his house. “Be careful,” he shouts after us.

Strangers join our group, drawn to us maybe because of the anger in our stride. Their day must have been ordinary and dull, like mine once used to be, and now they are eager to witness a fight so that they will have a story worth repeating at the tea shop tomorrow.

Past the rubbish ground are the first of the hi-fi buildings, and here the roads pick up width and smoothness. They are paved with asphalt and lined with neem and amaltas trees. Pari and Faiz stay close to me. I don’t want them to see my sadness, but I’m also glad they are here.

A bunch of stray dogs bark as they chase their enemy dogs across the dark road. Samosa would never snarl at anyone like that.

We reach a sloping side road that leads up to Golden Gate. It’s lined with street lamps and plants trapped in cages. The building is a jumble of cream and yellow, not gold. I imagine Runu-Didi with her face pressed against the window of a flat, her breath drawing a misty circle on the glass.

Papa and other men from our basti talk to the watchmen who have two offices by the entry