Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,70
Just my luck.
She’s so surprised she can’t speak. Her eyes turn round like an owl’s, her mouth opens and closes but no words come out, and even the sweat trickling down her face because she runs everywhere instead of walking seems to freeze for a moment. She steps closer, lifts my chin and inspects my face as if to confirm it’s me, Jai. Then she looks at the kettle and the glasses in my hands.
“I work now, only on Sundays,” I tell Didi quickly. “I’ll give you half of what I make. You can buy the shoes you need for running and get rid of these.” I point at her scuffed, black-and-white men’s sports shoes that Ma bought for her, second-hand, from a hi-fi building watchman.
“What—”
“Can’t talk. People are waiting for this chai.”
“Jai, tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m working,” I say, walking ahead.
“But why are you working? You don’t even do anything at home.”
“Pay me and I’ll get up early and collect water for you.”
“What do you need money for?”
I don’t say anything because we are at the jewelry shop now. I distribute the tea glasses to the burqa-clad women sitting on floor cushions, pointing at the necklaces and bangles they want to try out. The owner must be hoping to make a big sale to these customers if he’s paying for their tea.
“Five-star hotels don’t serve tea of this quality,” he tells the women.
Runu-Didi and I wait outside for them to finish.
“How long has this been going on?” Didi asks.
“Are you going to tell Ma-Papa about me?”
“Only if you tell them I’m still training.”
I try to whistle so I’ll sound cool, but only air comes out.
“It’s dangerous to stay out after dark,” Didi says. “Even an idiot like you knows that, right?”
“Duttaram sees a film every Sunday evening, so he shuts his tea shop by five latest. He watches even flop films. Last week he saw—”
“Just don’t get snatched, okay?” Runu-Didi gives me a strange pat on the head. I pretend a ghost has touched me and shake all over. She mock-punches me in the face. Then she takes off running again, bumping into people. They curse her and ask if she thinks she’s a hi-fi lady with an airplane to catch.
* * *
The next morning, I don’t get a chance to tell Pari and Faiz about what I heard at the tea stall because Pari scolds us nonstop for keeping my job a secret from her.
“You two have formed a boys’ club, haan?” she asks. “Fine, I don’t need you. I’m going to be best friends with Tanvi from now on.”
“Tanvi only cares about her watermelon backpack,” Faiz says.
Pari gets angrier and walks ahead of us. I whisper to Faiz that she doesn’t know I stole Ma’s money.
“I guessed that,” he says.
Pari doesn’t talk to us at assembly, or after. Kirpal-Sir starts his Social Studies lesson, which is on cricket, but we know more about the game than he does. Then a strange sound rolls into the classroom.
“Bulldozers,” somebody shouts.
“No,” I shout back. I don’t know what the sound is, but I don’t want it to be bulldozers.
“Silence,” Kirpal-Sir squeaks.
The sound becomes a roar. We dash out of the door and into the corridor. Kirpal-Sir doesn’t try to stop anybody. Outside the school walls, the roars become angry words: Give us our children back or else. A voice we recognize shouts through a megaphone: Don’t forget, India belongs to us, India belongs to Hindus. It’s Quarter.
“They were talking about this demonstration at the tea shop,” I tell Pari and Faiz. “But I didn’t know it was today.”
“Muslims took Bahadur and Omvir, and the other children also,” Gaurav announces in the corridor. “The Hindu Samaj will stop them.”
“Shouldn’t they be marching against the police?” Faiz asks.
“They said it’s against the police too,” I say.
Kirpal-Sir chats with other teachers in the corridor. When the demonstration sounds drift away, he asks us to return to the classroom. We take ages to sit. One boy even blows bubbles, dipping a plastic ring into a small bottle of soapy liquid.
“Don’t try to sneak outside during the break,” sir tells us when we’re done chasing the bubbles. “We’ll be lucky if this doesn’t turn into a riot.”
“There’ll be a riot?” Gaurav asks, and he can’t keep the happiness out of his face.
“You don’t start one now,” Kirpal-Sir says.
“Riot, riot, riot,” Gaurav chants, looking at Faiz. The red tikka on his forehead seems to be flaming.