Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line - Deepa Anappara Page 0,96

office. A bus driver has dented the man’s car worth thirty-two lakh rupees. The policeman hisses when he hears the price as if hot water has burnt his hands.

“It’s not me you need to convince about your son’s innocence,” the senior constable says across the room to Faiz’s ammi and Wajid-Bhai. “Speak to your lawyer. The magistrate has given us permission to hold him for another fifteen days, and only the magistrate can tell us to free him.”

At least they know where Tariq-Bhai is, even if it’s a terrible place like jail. I would rather Runu-Didi was in jail than a snatcher’s car or a brick kiln or a djinn’s belly.

The senior constable calls us over. He asks Wajid-Bhai and Faiz’s ammi to leave. Faiz’s ammi pats Ma’s hand as she passes us.

Ma and Papa, and Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu and ammi, start talking at the same time. “Slow down,” the senior says. Ma’s mobile rings and, in the two seconds it takes her to cut the call, the senior scolds her, “Do you think I’m running a bazaar here that you can walk up and down, taking your time, deciding what to buy?”

“It’s my boss-lady,” Ma says. “She must be wondering why I haven’t turned up.”

Papa gives the senior constable Runu-Didi’s photo and says she’s the best athlete in her school, maybe even the whole state. He says she’ll compete in the National and Commonwealth games when she’s older. When I tell Runu-Didi that Papa praised her, she’ll laugh and say, who ever knew he had even one good word to say about me. Then I realize I may never hear her speak again; those who went missing haven’t come back. My eyes sting as if someone has rubbed chili paste into them. My chest hurts.

“I have seen you before,” the senior says, waving a file at me. “You ran away from school one day because you were bored.”

Ma and Papa glower at me.

I can’t see Bahadur’s ma’s gold chain around the senior’s neck. Maybe he sold it and split the money with the junior. “Are you going to put Runu-Didi’s photo on the Internet to send to other police stations?” I ask.

“What do we have here, Byomkesh Bakshi in disguise?”

The senior laughs as if he has cracked the best joke. I bite the inside of my cheeks like Faiz does so I won’t cry.

Papa takes the Parachute tub out of the bag and puts it on the constable’s desk. “We can get more,” he says.

“You think I need hair oil?” the senior asks, but he picks up the tub, opens the lid, and sees what’s inside. Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu-ammi look sadder. Maybe they don’t have any money to give the policeman.

The senior returns Didi’s photo to Papa.

“Internet?” I say.

“Not working now,” he says.

Ma and Papa plead with him. Come back in two days, he says finally, shaking his head and jiggling his legs as if we are the ones being unreasonable.

Outside the police station, I tell Papa, “We don’t have a second Parachute tub to pay him again.”

“At least he listened to you,” Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu says. “He told us he’ll have our basti demolished because it’s causing nothing but trouble for him.”

Ma looks at the sky, like she’s hoping God will come out of heaven and give us an answer, but the smog keeps its coat zipped up and doesn’t let out even a sliver of light.

* * *

Papa and Ma decide they have to check the hospitals Papa couldn’t check last night. I think they mean the Casualty sections but maybe they also mean morgues, and they don’t want to say morgues in front of me.

Ma’s hi-fi madam calls her on her mobile again. This time, Ma takes the call. She explains why she can’t be at work today. The hi-fi madam is not on speaker, but we can still hear her. When will you come? Tomorrow? Day after? Should I find a new bai to do your job? Your daughter must have run off with a boy. I heard it’s happening a lot in your area.

Ma says nothing, just snaps the threads that are hanging loose at the end of her pallu. Finally, she says, “Two days, madam. That’s all I’m asking for. Please forgive me for giving you so much trouble.”

After she hangs up, Papa says he and Kabir-Khadifa’s abbu will go to the hospitals. Ma and Kabir-Khadifa’s ammi will go home with me.

“I’m not scared of morgues,” I say. I have seen morgues on Police