Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,75
doesn’t show on his face.
Thumper-Baba’s words walk with us as Pari drags me and Faiz away: “In this basti resides great evil that doesn’t answer to our gods, and it’s up to us to stop it before it does more harm…”
* * *
It’s Christmas holidays now. We have more time to watch our suspects who aren’t djinns. Pari had crossed out the TV-repair chacha from her list, but she has put him back on because his shop is close to the Shaitani Adda. Faiz says Pari and I should start wearing saffron because we are acting like members of the Hindu Samaj. Pari explains that if we catch the kidnapper, we will be helping everyone, Hindus and Muslims.
Stake-outs are excellent for child-detectives like us. I can take Samosa with me, when he isn’t busy chasing his own tail and lapping dirty water from puddles.
Today we are near the TV-repair chacha’s shop. Faiz has shirked work and come along with us because he’s worried Pari and I will outright accuse the chacha of child-snatching, and then Quarter and the Hindu Samaj will set fire to chacha’s beard or cut off his head with a sword. We have seen that happen to Muslims on the TV news. It’s strange that Quarter, our main suspect, is acting like he wants to catch the kidnapper.
Right now we are hiding the fact that we are on a stake-out by pretend-playing with marbles that belong to Faiz’s brothers. Samosa gets excited each time we flick marbles and barks too much.
“Why did you bring this idiot dog along?” Pari asks.
“He can track clues.”
“Everyone’s looking at us because of Pakoda,” Pari says.
“You know that’s not his name.”
“Can you make Chow Mein shut up please?” she says.
Faiz scoops up the marbles and drops them in his pockets; maybe he’s afraid Samosa will eat one.
I feed Samosa a bit of the rusk Ma gave me for breakfast. It’s a good thing he loves rusk and I hate it. Ma thinks Runu-Didi and I sit at home all day, studying for our exams that will begin the day school reopens. But Didi leaves for training soon after finishing her chores. We don’t ask each other questions. We are good at keeping our secrets.
The TV-repair chacha steps out of his shop with two of his customers and sees us. “You’re playing here because you think Bahadur will come back to my shop first, haan?” he says. “You’re such good children.”
He asks us if we want tea, and we say no, but his words make us feel so bad, we call off our stake-out and go to the Shaitani Adda. We check for any clues the kidnapper or djinn might have left, but there’s only the usual rubbish we see in every alley in our basti: toffee wrappers, chips packets, newspapers trodden into the ground by slippered feet, goat pellets, cow dung, a rat tail left over from a bird’s meal. The broken Goddess Saraswati is still looking stunned in the weeds.
“We could tell grown-ups about this place,” I say. “Maybe they can keep watch here, 24/7. Night too.”
“When did you become so stupid?” Faiz shouts. The amulet that keeps him safe from bad djinns bounces around his throat. Samosa yelps. “You tell anybody anything about this place, people will hundred-percent blame the TV-repair chacha. They’ll think he’s the snatcher, same as you.” Then he stomps off, the marbles rattling in his pockets.
“You shouldn’t have upset him,” Pari says.
“Me? You’re the one who made the TV-repair chacha a suspect.”
Samosa barks.
I can tell the Shaitani Adda is a bad place full of bad feelings because it makes even good friends fight.
CHRISTMAS DAY IS ALSO THE DAY OF—
—the Hindu Samaj puja to ask our gods to vanquish the great evil in our basti. Even Ma has taken the morning off from work so that she can attend it.
I’m dressed in my usual clothes but Ma is wearing a gold-plated chain around her neck and she has lipsticked her mouth red. Runu-Didi has put on a blue salwar-kameez shimmering with sequins. Ma braids Didi’s hair, and Didi keeps saying she isn’t doing it right.
“When you were only a little smaller than Jai, you used to run behind me, begging me to tie your hair just like mine,” Ma tells Didi. “You thought I looked beautiful.”
“You’re still beautiful,” I say and Ma smiles. When she finishes with Didi’s braid, she hands over bangles and a silvery chain for Didi to wear. Runu-Didi looks much older