Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,30
of us will lose our homes.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Shanti-Chachi says.
“Yes, true,” Ma agrees as if she hasn’t packed our house into a bundle and left it by the door.
“Our people are looking for the children,” Shanti-Chachi says. “They’ll bring the boys home tonight, I’m sure.”
“They might have gone to Mumbai,” I say in a hushed voice. “Manali maybe.”
I’m giving up my secret, but not all of it.
“What did you say?” Papa asks, hands on his hips.
“Can I go to Pari’s?” I ask Ma. It’s the wrong question for right-now, I realize as soon as I say it.
“Whatever work you have with her, it can wait till tomorrow,” Ma says.
“You should buy me a mobile,” I say, and turn to go back into the house.
“Not so fast,” Papa says, his hand on my shoulder. “Did Bahadur tell you he was going to Manali?”
“I have never talked to him,” I say. This is the truth. I should ask Pari to teach me how to lie.
Papa’s fingers dig into my bones. “Omvir isn’t even in my class,” I say.
“How will we find these children if they have gone that far?” a chachi says, eyes squeezed small, fingers pressing her forehead as if it’s throbbing with pain.
“My son wants to see Dubai. Doesn’t mean he’s getting there any time soon,” another chachi says.
“The boys must be hiding in a park near a hi-fi building,” a chacha says. “Even the grass there is softer than our charpais.”
“Homework,” I mouth to Papa so that he’ll stop interrogating me. He lets me go.
Inside our house, I stand in front of the kitchen shelf where Ma has put the Parachute tub. I can reach it easily now that Ma has changed its position. On its lid is a bindi shaped like a black teardrop that Ma must have stuck there, meaning to wear it again and forgetting. Before going to sleep or washing their faces, Ma and Runu-Didi take their bindis off their foreheads and stick them on whatever their hands can reach, the sides of the bed, the water barrel, the TV remote, my textbooks even.
I twist the lid open and fish out all the notes. There’s 450 rupees, the most money I have ever seen. I put fifty rupees back, screw the lid tight, and stand the tub back on the mango-powder tin. I hide the rest of the money in the pockets of my cargo pants.
My hands have gone clammy and my tongue is scalding-hot in my mouth. Stealing money makes you feel terrible. But having 400 rupees in your pocket feels excellent. I can eat anda-bhurji and bread-butter for a whole year with this money. Maybe not a whole year. Maybe a month.
I should put the money back. I feel a note in my pocket, crisp and smooth and full of hi-fi power. It sends a flash of current through my fingertips, makes me sway like Drunkard Laloo.
“When will this end?” Ma asks as she enters the house. “As if we don’t have enough problems.”
She looks at me. I’m her No. 1 problem.
“Come now, let’s eat, beta,” she says, smiling at me. “You must be hungry.”
She tickles the back of my neck. I push her hand off.
I’m a detective and I have just committed a crime.
It’s for a good cause though. If Pari and I bring Bahadur and Omvir back, we won’t lose our homes. Our home is worth loads more than 400 rupees.
* * *
The next morning, we talk about Omvir as we make our way to school through the smog. He is still nowhere to be found. I tell Pari I borrowed money from Runu-Didi. “She won a race and got a cash prize,” I lie.
“How much?” Pari asks.
“Enough for one Purple Line ticket,” I say. I don’t know what the fare is, but it can’t be more than 400 rupees. I’m not sharing my money with anybody, not even Pari.
“Runu-Didi is so good,” Pari says. “I wish I had a sister.” Then she looks at Faiz. “You’re lucky you have brothers and also a sister.”
“They’re okay,” Faiz says, trying to get the hair standing up on his head to sit down. He hasn’t washed today. He must have worked till late and turned around and kept sleeping in the morning after his ammi or his sister Farzana-Baji tried to shake him awake.
Pari believed my lie too easily. Maybe I’m a good liar. I just didn’t know it. The part about Runu-Didi winning a race wasn’t