Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,114
never thought he was the kidnapper.
Didi’s coach visits us with Mitali and Tara and Harini and Jhanvi.
“Runu, she was the best of the lot,” Coach says as if Didi is no longer alive. “Faster than anyone I have trained in my life.”
“It’s true,” Tara says. “It will be tough for our team to win without her.”
Nana and Nani call Ma on her mobile. “I told you that place wasn’t safe,” Nani says. “I told you to send the children to live with us.”
Ma cuts the call.
Pari and Faiz turn up with Wajid-Bhai, who says the lawyer his ammi has hired is certain Tariq-Bhai will be released soon. “Things always turn out okay,” he says.
“When will you be back at school?” Pari asks me. “After the exams will work best. I told Kirpal-Sir he can expect you then.”
“Pari’s ma is talking about moving to another basti,” Faiz says.
“Shut up,” Pari tells him. “Your ammi is the one who’s planning to move.”
“Move where?” I ask.
“Ammi thinks we should go to a place where there are more of us.” Faiz scratches his scar. “More Muslims. Then the Hindu Samaj can’t threaten us like they keep doing here.”
* * *
When our house is empty, and it is dark outside, Ma serves Papa and me the roti and aloo Shanti-Chachi’s husband made for us. We pretend to eat, moving food from one side of the plate to another. I no longer feel hungry, but I chew a piece of roti so that my stomach won’t hurt at night like it has been hurting the past few nights.
Shanti-Chachi comes running to our door and asks Papa to switch on the TV news. Then she puts her hand around Ma’s shoulder, as if preparing her for something terrible. A newsreader wearing a black jacket, her hair pulled back tight from her forehead, says that chilling details have just emerged in the Slumdog Kidnapping case.
“Varun Kumar has confessed that he lured victims with drug-laden sweets or rendered them unconscious with sedative injections, bottles of which were recovered from the flat where he was a caretaker. His wife, who cleaned and occasionally worked as a cook at the same flat, is thought to have been his accomplice. More shockingly, police sources say Varun Kumar has confessed to killing and dismembering the children he abducted. He carried their body parts in plastic bags tied to his bicycle and dumped them in rubbish grounds, drains around malls and the metro stations on the Purple Line. These abductions were not limited to the slum where he lived. He is thought to have preyed on street children too. The exact number of those missing is still unclear. Is it seven or seventy, we simply do not know. The police hope that the souvenirs he collected will help them identify his victims.”
A policeman’s face fills the screen, an assistant commissioner maybe. Mikes are held up toward his mouth by invisible hands.
“We have launched an extensive search for the recovery of the children’s remains,” he says.
I don’t understand. Are they talking about Runu-Didi and Bahadur?
The newsreader returns. “It’s learned that following complaints of negligence by the local police, the case is likely to be transferred to the CBI, which will look into the possibility that Varun Kumar was part of a wider trafficking ring that indulged in child pornography or organ trade.”
Ma snatches the remote from Papa’s hand.
“The posh penthouse flat costing eight crores is thought to have been the site of these brutal murders. The role of the owner of the flat, Yamini Mehra, a socialite often spotted at parties alongside politicians and top policemen”—the TV screen shows photos where the boss-lady is standing next to politicians and policemen dressed in a commissioner’s or a DCP’s or an ACP’s uniform—“is as yet unclear.”
“My child isn’t dead,” Ma says.
“Of course she isn’t,” Shanti-Chachi says.
Ma switches off the TV and throws the remote against the wall.
* * *
JCBs return to the rubbish ground the next day. They are looking for remains. I don’t understand why the police think Varun killed the children he snatched. Even if he said so, he must be lying. He isn’t a djinn to cut them up or eat them; if he were really a djinn, he would have disappeared instead of staying in jail.
Papa and I watch the machines. Papa convinced Ma to go to work, telling her she’ll have a heart attack if she has to witness every plastic bag in the rubbish ground being opened. “Our daughter