Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,81

yells. “Is that what you wish on your own children?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Papa says.

We hear shuffling feet and I lie down quickly and pull the blanket over my head.

“I know you’re awake, Jai,” Ma says. “Get up, come on. I’m taking you to the toilet complex today. Runu, roll up the mat, boil water for drinking, cut some onions.”

Didi glares at me as if I’m the one forcing her to do chores.

Ma doesn’t even let me brush my teeth properly. In the toilet queues, I see Pari with her ma and Faiz with Wajid-Bhai. Ma drags me toward Pari’s ma; she wants to check if Pari’s ma is planning to stay at home today.

“Are you trying to sneak them into our queue?” the woman behind Pari asks, waggling her fingers at us.

“We don’t need your spot,” I say.

“The police arrested Tariq-Bhai and the TV repair-chacha for nothing,” Pari tells me.

“Musalman-people can’t be trusted,” says the nosey woman.

“Don’t you know that Muslim children have also disappeared?” Pari asks, her right hand on her right hip. Then she turns to me and whispers, “You heard, the brother and sister who disappeared also lived near the Shaitani Adda.”

“Faiz is right. It’s the work of a bad djinn,” I say.

“Nonsense,” Pari says.

Faiz is watching us from his queue. I hardly see him anymore because he works all the time, to help his ammi pay the bills Tariq-Bhai used to pay. I shoot him with a finger gun.

“Yes, they should really be shot,” the woman behind us says. “All this is their fault.” She points at Faiz’s ammi, standing ahead in the ladies’ queue with Farzana-Baji. Both of them are wearing black abayas. “This basti has become a den of criminals. The government will kick us out any day now.”

“It’s your fault,” someone shouts at her. “Two of our own have gone. You think my brother did that from jail?”

It’s Wajid-Bhai.

“Who knows what you people are capable of?” the woman says. Monkeys chitter-chatter on the toilet roof. “Maybe you snatched your own so that we’ll stop blaming you.”

Ma’s phone rings. “Haan, madam,” she says. “Haan, you’re right. No madam. Yes madam. This one time only…”

“Why doesn’t your brother just tell the police where he has hidden our children?” a man roars at Wajid-Bhai.

“Don’t talk to these Musalman-people,” the woman who started the fight says, pushing her pallu closer toward her neck. I can see her belly button. It’s turned down like a sad mouth. “They shout Allah-Allah over their loudspeakers day and night and none of us can sleep.”

“In Lord Krishna’s name, please stop. You’re frightening the children,” Pari’s ma tells the woman.

“If your child goes missing, you’ll sing a different tune,” the woman says, pointing a long, black fingernail toward Pari’s face, making Pari snap her head back.

“I can find a hundred people to do your job, like-that-like-that,” Ma’s hi-fi madam screeches so loudly on the phone we can all hear her. The madam has switched to English, which Ma says is something she does when her anger is extra-hot.

The monkeys on the toilet roof growl. Faiz’s ammi clutches Farzana-Baji’s shoulder as if her legs have turned rubbery and she’s about to faint. “Ammi, Ammi,” Farzana-Baji shouts, panic rounding her eyes, the loose folds of her abaya turning and spinning with her every time she moves.

“I remember I owe you money,” Ma tells her hi-fi madam. “It was very good of you not to cut it from this month’s salary.”

Men with their mufflers tied around their faces lunge toward Faiz and his brothers. Mugs and buckets clank and clash. Faiz screams and closes his eyes and puts his hands over his ears.

“Madhu, chalo, let’s get away from here,” Pari’s ma says.

The hi-fi madam’s anger keeps spewing out of Ma’s phone. Pari runs toward Faiz, and Wajid-Bhai punches a man taunting him. A scuffle breaks out, and Faiz clings to Pari. Someone shouts that they’ll grind every single Muslim into the ground like so many cockroaches. Faiz’s ammi and Farzana-Baji hobble toward Wajid-Bhai and Faiz.

“They’re children,” Faiz’s ammi tells the angry men. “Let them be.”

“Stop this,” Pari’s ma blubbers. “We don’t want a riot in our basti.”

Clever men use the melee to scramble over others so that they can get to the toilets without paying the fees. The caretaker runs after them. The woman behind us smiles and her face brightens like she has managed to do a big poo after ages. Faiz and his ammi and his brothers and