Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,53
eyes at Quarter.
“Some women at the toilet complex were blaming Aanchal’s papa,” Pari says. “He was driving an auto before and now he can’t because he has TB or cancer or something. Aanchal has to do all kinds of things for money, like work at a kotha.”
Pari tap-taps her pen against her notebook, like she’s sounding out the thoughts in her head through a secret code.
“Faiz, will you find out more about the TV-repair chacha?” I ask.
“More what?”
“Like, did he know Aanchal?”
“You think the chacha is Aanchal’s Muslim boyfriend, haan? I knew it. You Hindus will accuse a Muslim of anything.”
“The chacha is a suspect because Bahadur worked for him, and he was probably the last person to see Bahadur,” Pari says. “There’s no other reason Jai is saying that, right, Jai?”
“Right.” I hadn’t even thought of that.
“Faiz, you’ll see the chacha at the mosque. Your kirana-malik might know him,” Pari says. “Shopkeepers in Bhoot Bazaar know each other.”
“You can ask questions even when you’re working,” I say. I almost add that’s what I do on Sundays at Duttaram’s tea shop, but I remember just in the nick of time that Pari doesn’t know my secret.
“Jai and me,” Pari says, “we’ll ask the kotha-ladies about Aanchal.”
“We can take Samosa with us,” I say.
“There’s no time,” she says. “And that dog, it will just bark and annoy people.”
* * *
“Arrey, why are you slow like Yakub-Chacha’s langda horse?” Pari shouts though I am only two feet behind her. My school bag knocks against my legs as I sprint, and it hurts. I wonder if I really want to solve the mystery of the missing children-brothel-lady. It would be nice to take a break to play or watch afternoon-TV, which is boring TV, but at least I don’t have to share the remote. This time of the day, Ma and Papa are working and Runu-Didi is training.
“You’re distracted so easily,” Pari says. “No focus. It’s ekdum-true, what Kirpal-Sir says about you. You get bad marks because you look at a question and then you see a fly or a pigeon or a spider and you forget you’re sitting for an exam.”
I don’t say anything because I have to save my breath for running. No detective on earth must have had to run as much as me. At least I am dressed for it. Byomkesh Bakshi fights crime wearing a white dhoti, and dhotis are the worst because they can slip off easily, leaving you in your chaddi in the middle of a bazaar. Everyone will laugh at you then, even the criminal you’re chasing. My trousers may be short and old, but I don’t have to worry they’ll bunch up around my feet if I ever get into a fist fight with bad people.
The kotha-alley is narrow, with tumbledown buildings on both sides. On the ground floors are shops that sell tarpaulin and paint and pipes and toilet seats. A muscly man flexes his biceps on a signboard, holding a PVC pipe the same way singers hold guitars on TV. Floating out of his mouth is a bubble that says STRONG!!! Another sign says HARDWARE in big letters and PAINTER, CARPENTER, PLUMBER ALSO AVAILABLE HERE in small letters. The shops are so boring, even flies haven’t bothered to visit. Above the shops are windows where brothel-ladies hang out, clapping their hands and whistling at passersby. Pari giggles. I think she’s brave for giggling but then I see her face and I realize she’s laughing because she’s nervous. It happens to some people. Runu-Didi smiles like an idiot when Papa scolds her.
Though it’s cold and smoggy, the brothel-ladies wear blouses and underskirts, no saris. Their lips are redder than blood and their necks are shiny with golden or silvery jewelry.
“Aanchal works here or what?” Pari looks up and asks a woman who’s hanging clothes to dry on washing lines strung below the open shutters. Pari has cupped her palms around her mouth so that her shout will go straight up to the woman without splashing into the ears of shopkeepers. The woman peers down, half of her dangling over the windowsill, and says, “Who’s asking?”
Pari looks at me. The woman will laugh at us if we say we are detectives.
“What business do you have here?” a shiny man wearing rings on all his fingers asks us. He’s filling a clay cup with water, from a dispenser placed on a low stool in front of a shop counter.