Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,66
Patrol. He lets me even though it’s an only-for-grown-ups episode about five children killed by their evil uncle who pretended to be their best friend.
One morning soon after that night, when November has rolled into December and even water smells of smoke and smog, Pari, Faiz and I see Aanchal’s papa on our way to school. He’s buying packets of milk and telling anyone who’ll listen that the police are in the silk-lined pockets of rich murderers and kidnappers. “Laugh at me now,” he says, “but you’ll remember my words when other children go missing. And believe me they will.”
A man howls as if he’s shocked to hear that, but he’s just getting his ears scraped out and oiled by an ear-cleaner with a brass ear-pick and several balls of fluffy cotton. We pass a bad-tempered Santa Claus with dirt streaks in his white beard, wearing a holey red suit, ordering around a group of workers making a snowman out of Styrofoam and cotton. People snap photos of the half-made snowman on their mobiles.
At assembly, the headmaster scolds boys caught making dirty drawings in the bathrooms. Then he talks about Bahadur and Omvir. It’s almost six weeks since they have been seen, he says. He warns us against running away and also tells us about child-snatchers who carry sedative injections and sweets laced with drugs. “Don’t go anywhere alone,” he says.
I look at Faiz. He’s alone at night in the bazaar. I should have remembered to worry about him.
In the classroom, as Kirpal-Sir asks us to list the names of state capitals, I tell Faiz not to stay out late.
“When did you become my abbu?” he asks.
“Fine, go get snatched then,” I say, pushing his hand away from my side of the desk.
The spotty boy who is Runu-Didi’s No. 1 fan bumps into me during the midday meal break.
“You must wait for your sister to finish training and take her home,” he says, chucking black looks over the playground to where Quarter is holding his daily court under the neem tree. “She shouldn’t be out by herself. Times are bad.”
Everyone thinks Quarter is terrible and we still can’t pin the kidnappings on him. Either he is too clever for a criminal or we are too stupid. Still, I’m not taking advice from a loser.
“The only person Didi has to be scared of is you,” I tell the spotty boy and run away.
* * *
When the last bell rings, Kirpal-Sir shouts over our noise that we should remember to finish our projects and bring them to class on Monday. This project is to make greeting cards for New Year. It’s the worst project I have ever heard of.
We dash out of the classroom, and then the school gate. It’s a Friday and Faiz is making us hurry. On the road, there’s a flurry of pushcarts and cycle-rickshaws and parents waiting to take their small children home. I can smell the roasted peanuts and the steaming sweet potato cubes dusted with masala and lime juice that hawkers sell from their carts and baskets.
A hand with a cluster of bangles clanking at the wrist pushes aside a woman wearing a burqa, and the voice that belongs to the hand shouts, “Pari, there you are.”
It’s Pari’s ma. I have no idea what she’s doing here; she has to work until much later.
“Ma, what happened?” Pari asks. “Is Papa all right?”
Pari’s ma sobs. “Another child,” she says and tightens her hold on Pari’s wrist.
“Ma, it hurts,” Pari says.
“Another child disappeared last night,” Pari’s ma says. “A small girl. Your neighbor-chachi called me on my phone as soon as she heard. People are looking for her everywhere. It’s not safe for you to walk home alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Faiz says. “We’re here.”
A cycle-rickshaw full of schoolchildren chugs past. Spicy smells of biryani and tandoori chicken waft by. It doesn’t feel like something dreadful has happened. Everything around us is noisy and normal.
“Jai, where’s your sister?” Pari’s ma asks.
“She has training.”
“Your ma said to get her too. I spoke to her on the phone.”
The ladies-network in our basti is too strong. I run back to the playground. Runu-Didi is laughing with her teammates.
“Didi,” I say, “somebody else has disappeared in our basti and Ma called Pari’s ma and said we should all go home together. Pari’s ma is waiting for us at the gate.”
“I’m not coming,” Didi says.
“Another child has disappeared?” Tara, her teammate, asks.