Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,23
her is that once we are inside the school, she acts as if she doesn’t know me. I like it that way because she never rats on me either.
Four boys are looking at Runu-Didi’s group with sly eyes and toothy smiles. One of them is the spotty boy who was in my school queue yesterday. His friends laugh at something he says. Runu-Didi and the other girls glare at them.
Near the neem tree where Quarter is holding his afternoon court, I find a twig that I can chew to fool my tummy into thinking more food is on its way. A few boys are standing around Quarter, hands tucked into their armpits for warmth. Paresh, who’s in Standard Six and from our basti, is telling Quarter about the police constables and Bahadur. But Paresh wasn’t even there like I was when it happened.
“The constables asked every woman in the basti to give them whatever they could, gold or cash,” he says. “The policemen hit Buffalo-Baba with batons too.”
I want to put Paresh right but break will be over soon and I have an important task to do. I order Pari and Faiz to follow me to an empty space under an amaltas tree whose flowers paint the ground yellow in spring. Tanvi and her watermelon backpack that she carries everywhere try to join us, but I shoo-shoo them away.
“This whole poor-Bahadur-is-missing thing,” I tell Pari and Faiz, “it’s like a bad Hindi picture, it’s been going on for too long.”
I have to speak up because the small children playing kabbadi-kabbadi-kabbadi are squealing too loud, their fast-as-cheetahs feet kicking up dust from the ground in big, brown swirls.
“I’m going to be a detective, and I’m going to find Bahadur,” I say, putting on my best grown-up voice. “And Faiz, you’ll be my assistant. Every detective has one. Like Byomkesh has Ajit and Feluda has Topshe.”
Pari and Faiz look at each other.
“Feluda is a detective and Topshe is his cousin,” I explain. “They’re Bengalis. The Bengali Sweets-wallah in Bhoot Bazaar, next to Afsal-Chacha’s shop, you have seen him. The old man who shakes a broomstick at us if we go too close to his sweets? That guy. His son reads Feluda comics. He told me a Feluda story once.”
“What kind of name is Feluda?” Faiz asks.
“How come you get to be the detective?” Pari asks.
“That’s very true,” Faiz says. “Why can’t you be my assistant?”
“Arrey, what do you know about being a detective? You don’t watch Police Patrol.”
“I know about Sherlock and Watson,” Pari says. “You two haven’t even heard of them.”
“What-son?” Faiz asks. “Is that also a Bengali name?”
“Leave it,” Pari says.
“Just because you read books doesn’t mean you know everything,” Faiz tells her. “I work. Life’s the best teacher. Everyone says so.”
“Only people who can’t read say such things,” Pari says.
These two are always quarrelling like a husband and a wife who have been married for too long. But they can’t even get married when we grow up because Faiz is a Muslim. It’s too dangerous to marry a Muslim if you’re a Hindu. On the TV news, I have seen blood-red photos of people who were murdered because they married someone from a different religion or caste. Also, Faiz is shorter than Pari, so they wouldn’t make a good match anyway.
“This assistant job,” Faiz says, “how much does it pay?”
“No one is paying us,” I say. “Bahadur’s ma is poor. She had a gold chain and now that’s also gone.”
“Why should I do this then?” Faiz asks.
“Bahadur’s ma will keep going to the police and the police will get angry and demolish our basti,” Pari explains my thinking to Faiz. “But we can stop her if we find him.”
“I don’t have time,” Faiz says. “I have to work.”
“So that your hair will be Silky Soft?” Pari asks. “Or Stunning Black?”
“So that I’ll smell like Purple Lotus and Cream,” Faiz says.
“There’s no such thing. It’s made up. Your life-teacher forgot to tell you that or what?” Pari sneers.
“Listen,” I say, so they’ll stop fighting. “I’ll ask a few questions. Whoever gets the most answers right can become my assistant.”
They both groan loudly, as if they have stubbed their toes against a big stone.
“Jai, you na,” Pari says.
“He’s mad,” Faiz agrees.
“Okay, first question. Are most children in India kidnapped by: (a) people they know, or (b) people they don’t know?”
Pari doesn’t answer. Faiz doesn’t answer.
The bell rings.
“We can look for Bahadur together,” Pari tells me, “but I won’t