Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,38
government has declared a holiday. Because of the smog,” Pari says.
“Did they now?”
“Yes, this morning,” Pari says. “You can ask someone if you don’t believe us.”
I don’t think the man will check but he takes out his mobile, swipes his fingers up and down the screen and exclaims, “You’re right. It’s a holiday.”
“We told you,” I say. “You didn’t believe us.”
“And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he tells me with a smile. “I work here, for the Children’s Trust. Our center helps children like you who come to the city for whatever reason. Children who aren’t with their parents. Children who may be in danger. That’s why, when I saw you, I thought you were lost.”
I didn’t know this was a job; hanging around a railway station to help children. It’s an odd job. If Faiz were here, he would have asked how much it pays.
“This city isn’t safe,” the man says. “All kinds of terrible people live here. I can’t even begin to tell you—”
“We have heard about child snatchers,” Pari says.
“I have seen them too,” I say. “On Police Patrol.”
Pari rolls her eyes.
“It’s much much worse,” the man says. “Things are so bad they can’t even show it on TV. I’ll tell you because you shouldn’t have come here without your parents. I’ll tell you so you won’t do this again. Do you know there are people who’ll make you their slaves? You’ll be locked up in a bathroom and let out only to clean the house. Or you’ll be taken across the border to Nepal and forced to make bricks in kilns where you won’t be able to breathe. Or you’ll be sold to criminal gangs that force children to snatch mobiles and wallets. Take it from me, I have seen the worst of life. This is why children should never travel unaccompanied. This is why I’m giving you a lecture. What you’re doing, it’s irresponsible. It’s downright dangerous.”
“Have you seen this boy?” Pari asks, her voice as cool as her ice-hands, holding up Bahadur’s photo. “Was he here? Have you seen his friend?”
“The police should be doing this, not you,” the man says.
“The police don’t care about us because we’re poor,” I say.
The lecture-man clicks his tongue like a lizard but he takes the photo from Pari’s hands and studies it.
“How old is he?” he asks.
“Nine,” Pari says. “Ten maybe.”
“I can’t say I have seen him. Was this what he was wearing when he left home?”
“He was wearing our school uniform. Same as what he’s wearing now,” Pari says, jabbing my sweater.
Pari’s uniform is the same colors as mine but instead of trousers she wears a skirt and long socks. When we reach Standard Six, her uniform will be a salwar-kameez like Runu-Didi’s. Boys’ uniforms are always the same, so Ma will make me put on these trousers even when I’m tall enough to pluck jamuns from trees.
“I haven’t seen any children in uniform here other than you,” the man says. “If they were waiting for a train on a platform, alone, a chai-wallah or a porter would have alerted us.” He returns Bahadur’s photo to Pari. “Truth be told, thousands of children come here daily, and we don’t get to talk to every one of them. We try, of course. But the numbers, the logistics of it, it’s a nightmare.”
Faiz would say this man is ekdum-useless.
“Since you have come all this way, let’s go inside and ask the children here. Maybe one of them saw your friends.”
Pari and I look at each other because we don’t know this man and maybe this room on the terrace is a trap.
“We have classes here for children to attend if they want. But sometimes we don’t teach them anything and instead they watch TV.”
This sounds like the kind of school I want to go to but it’s also impossible that this is a real school.
“It’s a place where street children can feel safe for a few hours,” the man says. “If they like it, they can move into one of our shelters, or they can go home. We help them do whatever they want.”
“We’ll talk to them,” Pari says.
Inside the room, just as the man said, a small TV is attached to the wall, but it’s switched off now. Below it, children—some my age, some older, some younger—sit on bedsheets spread like mats on the floor. They look up when they see us and one of them says, “Tourist? One dollar please.” But they realize