Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,112

bedroom, I find a hidden bathroom, with two washbasins and a tub and a shower too. The tiled floor is sparkly and dry; no one has used it.

Just as I turn to leave, two men from the basti thunder into the room. “Look at the fan, look at the split AC, look at this bedsheet—is it made of silk? How much do you think this bed costs? One lakh? Three lakhs?” the men ask each other. They flop down on the bed and say, arrey-waah, how soft it is also.

I hear Pari calling me and Faiz. Has the boss-lady caught her? I run outside, through the corridor where basti chachas and chachis have caused a traffic jam, and into the kitchen, where everything is painted blue-grey. People are opening cupboards and stealing spoons and masalas and even sugar cubes and salt containers. One man tucks a bottle of daru into the waistband of his trousers.

Pari is kneeling on the floor by a washbasin, her head bent over a bucket. Faiz is by her side.

“What is it?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

Pari shows us what the bucket holds: brushes, soap-water bubbling inside plastic bottles, sponges and rags. Underneath it all lie three dark-brown glass bottles with labels that are hard to read. It takes me ages to figure out that one says Chloroform LR. The labels on the smaller bottles say Midazolam Injection BP and Mezolam 10 mg. I don’t know what that means.

“Why is this here?” Pari asks.

“What is it?” Faiz asks.

“The headmaster talked about syringes and sleep-making medicines, remember?” Pari says. “Maybe you weren’t at school that day.”

“Faiz was there,” I say. “It was before Tariq-Bhai was arrested.”

“Chloroform puts you to sleep,” Pari says. “Even forever.”

“Don’t touch the bottles,” I say. “Fingerprints. Evidence.”

“Does this mean,” Faiz asks, “that the boss-lady is a child-snatcher? Did she and Varun run a child-snatching business together? Was this their headquarters?”

“But,” Pari says, “this woman is a friend of the pradhan and the police commissioner. Does that mean…what does it mean? They knew she was a criminal and did nothing?”

“Where has she kept Runu-Didi?” I ask.

“We’ll find her,” Pari says. “The boss-lady will have to tell the police the truth now.”

“Take a video of this,” Faiz tells a chacha who is picking up the knives in a drawer and examining them against the light, maybe to decide which one he should sneak out of the flat. “See, this bottle, it’s a sleep-making medicine. That Varun must have used it to kidnap children and bring them here to his boss-lady.”

The chacha puts the knife down and does what Faiz asks. Police constables run into the kitchen, batons held high, panting, shouting, out, now, you monkeys.

“We have proof that the madam of this flat, your commissioner’s best friend, is guilty. She’s a child-snatcher,” Pari tells them.

“We have already taken videos of all this,” Faiz says, “and we have sent it to a thousand people. You can’t make it go away.”

The policemen lower their batons. They ask the other people in the kitchen to file out. The chacha who took the video stays.

“Check these labels,” Pari tells the policemen. “These drugs, they put people to sleep. Why does this woman have these in her flat? It’s illegal. You have to arrest her.”

The kitchen is silent except for something humming, maybe the fridge or a light. A policeman tries to touch the bucket but Pari stops him. “Where are your gloves?” she asks.

“That Varun must have hidden the bottles here. Do you think a boss-lady bothers with the rubbish under her kitchen sink?” a constable asks.

A scream is growing inside me and I feel like I will explode all over the ceiling. I stand up and move my hand to the kitchen counter where there is a black bowl filled with oranges. I push it to the edge as Pari talks to the policemen. Then I tip it over. The bowl shatters. The oranges roll around the floor, stopping at people’s feet.

Papa and Ma and Pari’s ma and Wajid-Bhai come into the kitchen.

“Pari,” her ma cries. “I thought you had disappeared.”

“Runu-Didi isn’t here,” I say to Ma and Papa.

In the living room, the inspector explains to the boss-lady that it is in her best interest to go with him to the police station. “I can’t guarantee your safety here,” he says. Then he orders us to leave or face arrest. “You can see there are no children here. Madam can’t be held responsible for what that