Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,78

thought to anyone willing to listen to her.

“Baba was right,” the chachi tells Pari. “It turned out to be the work of Muslims.”

“Muslim who?”

“The police have arrested four of them. A mullah gang.”

The chachi turns away from us and says the same thing to someone else.

Pari’s right foot taps the floor. “Four Muslims, arrested on the same day a Samaji baba holds a puja? Doesn’t it sound suspicious to you?”

“Faiz will be upset,” I say.

I’m upset too; I wasn’t the one who solved the case.

Pari and I sit down on the doorstep. I see Faiz walking toward us. I wave at him and move my backside so that there’s space for him to sit. He slumps down next to me and says, “They took him.” He doesn’t look sad, just stunned, like somebody knocked him on the head and stars are still flashing in front of his eyes.

“We heard,” Pari says.

“They took Tariq-Bhai,” Faiz says. “They say he has Aanchal’s phone. Just because he works in a phone shop.”

“No,” I say. “The police arrested the TV-repair chacha.”

“Tariq-Bhai too,” Faiz says.

Something tightens in my chest. I must have breathed in too much smog, so I cough to let it out.

Faiz scratches his stomach, then wipes his nose against his sleeve.

“Did he have Aanchal’s phone?” Pari asks.

“Of course not.” Faiz’s nose turns an angry-red.

“I was just asking,” Pari says.

“The police checked our house,” Faiz says.

“Without a warrant?” I ask.

“They looked under the bed, even opened our flour tins. Said when we find Aanchal’s HTC phone, we’ll—”

“That’s an expensive phone,” I say. “You can only make calls on Ma’s phone, but on Shanti-Chachi’s mobile, you can—”

“Shut up, Jai,” Pari says, widening her eyes at me.

“You must be happy,” Faiz says. “You wanted the TV-repair chacha to be arrested.”

“Maybe you should go to the police station,” Pari tells Faiz. “Tariq-Bhai will need your help.”

“Ammi is there with Wajid-Bhai. They told me and Farzana-Baji to wait at home, but I couldn’t sit doing nothing.”

“Look,” Pari says. “You mustn’t worry.”

“It’s very worrying,” I say.

“Who else did the police arrest?” Pari asks.

“Two of Tariq-Bhai’s friends from the mosque. Nobody you know.”

I wonder if Tariq-Bhai could be a snatcher but it’s impossible. I have known Tariq-Bhai my whole life. He never once tried to snatch me.

“A bad djinn has cursed us,” Faiz says. “It’s watching us cry and it’s feeling happy, it’s dancing.” He pushes his tongue out against the insides of his cheeks and rolls it around as if that will stop the tears from falling out of his eyes.

“Let’s go to the police station,” I say.

“I promised my ma and your ma we will stay here,” Pari says.

“You don’t have to come,” I say.

“Ya Allah,” Faiz says, hitting his forehead with the side of his right hand and then hitting it again.

“Don’t do that,” Pari says, her voice cracking as if she’s about to cry too. Then she pulls the door to her house shut and shuffles her feet into her chappals. “We’ll all go.”

* * *

At the highway we find out from autorickshaw-wallahs and vendors where the police station is. None of us have been there before. We fast-walk, Pari holding Faiz’s hand, which is embarrassing.

Outside the police station are huddles of women in black abayas and men wearing skullcaps. Some of the women wail and beat their chests. The men whisper about the “evidence” the police might plant in their homes to make it appear that those arrested are really criminals. We have to guard our homes, they tell each other, but we also have to be here. I wonder which family belongs to the TV-repair chacha, but I can’t tell and we don’t have the time to talk to them.

The police station looks like a house. Its windows rattle, and brown, damp patches billow on the yellow walls though it hasn’t rained in ages. When we step inside, the room is so dark, it takes a few seconds for my eyes to see what’s around me. My heart races like it does before I have to show Ma my exam marks.

The air in the room is heavy with murmurs and ringing phones, landlines and mobiles both. My legs bend like grass in the wind or maybe that’s just how it feels to me. I shuffle closer to Pari and Faiz.

The policemen’s desks are cluttered with bulky computers and dusty stacks of files tied with string. In one corner of the room, to our right, are Faiz’s ammi and Wajid-Bhai, sitting