Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,73

clearing is an electric transformer, a big, crinkled metal box that belongs to the electricity board, ringed by a tall iron fence. A severed Goddess Saraswati head with a jagged crack running across her shocked face lies in the weeds that thrive around the transformer. It’s a terrible omen.

A white sign attached to the fence has red letters that say DANGER ELECTRICITY, with a skull below it; the skull has a huge mouth with crooked teeth. It’s smiling, but it’s an evil smile.

Strings of jasmine and marigold are tied to the fence railings. Maybe this place is a temple for the broken goddess. Ma drags me to the temples around Bhoot Bazaar during Diwali or Janmashtami but she has never brought me here. Our basti is quite big, and people say it has over 200 houses, so even Ma with her too-strong mobile-phone network doesn’t know everyone and everything.

Two boys run into the clearing, screaming at each other. One hits the other with a stick, and the welts on the second boy’s skin change color from white to red in seconds.

“You know where Chandni’s house is?” Pari asks them. “Chandni, the missing girl?”

The boy with the stick points it in the direction of the houses that lie beyond the clearing. “Keep straight,” he says. Then he goes back to hitting his friend.

We walk to the edge of the clearing, where the lane splits into two alleys, one heading straight toward where the boy said Chandni’s house is, and the other turning right toward the highway.

“It seems like everything is happening around this transformer-temple,” Pari says.

“What everything?” I ask.

“Bahadur was working at the TV-repair shop, which is close to this place. And Aanchal’s and Chandni’s houses are also near here.”

“Omvir’s house isn’t,” I remind her.

“Maybe he came here to talk to the TV-repair chacha, same as we did. This is a good place for a kidnapper to kidnap. It must be empty at night. It’s almost empty now.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I say it sadly. I had all the clues and I didn’t make the connection. Pari did, her brain knitting things together with the speed of light. Pari is Feluda and Byomkesh Bakshi and Sherlock. I’m only an assistant, Ajit or Topshe or Watson-type.

“Are you blaming the TV-repair chacha again?” Faiz asks. “How do you know it’s a human kidnapper and not a bad djinn?”

“Maybe djinns hang out here the same way criminals like Quarter hang out at the theka,” I say. “This must be their adda.”

“Yes, the Shaitani Adda,” Faiz says.

“Doesn’t shaitan mean the devil?” I ask.

“Evil djinns are also called shaitan,” Faiz says.

“Why don’t you two start your own show called Djinn Patrol and save all this nonsense for it?” Pari asks.

“Loads of people will watch that show,” I say.

Pari can’t scold us more because we have reached Chandni’s house. We can tell it’s her house because there’s a crowd outside it. I recognize a few faces: Quarter, the press-wallah, Aanchal’s papa and Drunkard Laloo. Slouching at the doorstep of the house is a girl holding a baby. A woman leans into the shadows behind her, her face half-covered by a sari’s pallu. That’s Chandni’s ma, I guess. The house doesn’t have a door; a torn bedsheet hangs in its place.

Most men in the crowd wear saffron clothes. They must have been part of the Samaj demonstration. Only Quarter is wearing black, like always.

“I really don’t think this place is safe for you,” Pari tells Faiz.

“Quarter doesn’t know he’s Muslim. No one knows us,” I say, but my stomach turns, and it’s not from the stale rice and kadhi we had for the midday meal.

Faiz looks scared like a dog caught in a dog-catcher’s net, but he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s proving a point to somebody, maybe even us.

A man wearing a saffron robe, with a rudraksha bead necklace clattering on his chest, comes out of Chandni’s house. It’s a baba, I don’t know which one. There are too many babas in Bhoot Bazaar.

I crane my neck to see clearly. The pradhan is here, just behind the baba. I haven’t seen him in months. His black hair is glossy as if the sun is shining on it, even though today too the air is murky with smog. He’s a thin, short man dressed in a white kurta-pajama and a hi-fi golden vest-jacket buttoned at the collar. A saffron scarf is loosely draped around his shoulders. He speaks to Quarter, who bends down so his papa