Delhi Noir (19 page)

“Tomorrow morning,” Hoshiyaar called after her, winking at me. He jerked his head approvingly at her backside. I swear I would have laid my life down for a piece of that world-class ass.

Walking back, Hoshiyaar thumped my shoulder. “At that price I’m willing to arrange delivery on the moon!” he laughed.

“You’re getting balls, chotey!” I grinned back. Until tonight I’d never interfered in the bargaining.

“Give me a little extra cut then—” I said, getting the words out before I lost my nerve.

“We’ll see,” was all Hoshiyaar replied. Still, it had been a good night.

When we got back to the waiting room, Hoshiyaar lay down again. “Get lost! I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Chacha, why are you delivering at the hotel?”

Hoshiyaar shrugged. “That bitch was talking a bit too much. I just want to scare her a little—have some fun.”

Don’t ask me how but I knew he was lying. I stayed put, staring down at him.

He turned his back. “Okay, okay. This place is crawling with sisterfucking cops—that Inspector Balwant is always sniffing around so it’s safer to go to the hotel,” he proffered.

But I wasn’t convinced. He was definitely up to something.

“Chacha, I’m coming to the hotel with you,” I said. He pulled the blanket over his head and didn’t respond.

The sky was lightening all around me as I walked away from Hoshiyaar. The terminal was slowly stirring to life. I could hear the deep roar of cars on Mahatma Gandhi Road, all those people rushing to beat the early-morning traffic. Passengers were streaming in through the main gate, many of whom would want tea.

I went into a PCO booth and made a local call. Outside the sweepers began their futile cleaning, scraping their stiff brooms through the trash. Farther away, the earliest buses started up with a rumble.

Sethi’s food stall was already busy when I wandered over to pick up my tea caddy, my stomach gurgling at the hot smell of chole baturas frying.

A few hours later, at 8:30 a.m., Inspector Balwant turned up and parked his ample backside on the bench in front of Sethi’s. I had come back for a refill and was waiting for the cook to pour the boiling tea into my metal caddy.

The inspector was an extra-large man with a hairy paunch that flashed through the buttons on his khaki uniform. He was the seniormost of the policemen that swarmed all over ISBT. He liked to make surprise visits to the terminal and, although he never bothered me, it was obvious he didn’t like Hoshiyaar.

“A holy warrior meditating on money,” he had characterized Hoshiyaar last week. “Who knows if he is even really a Sikh or just pretending to be one? Though his look is a smart move, sant aur shaitan—saint and devil at the same time. Must be good for business, eh?”

I had never seen Hoshiyaar enter a gurdwara in the years I’d known him, but I didn’t give a damn. Anyway, I knew that the inspector was telling me that he knew what Hoshiyaar and I were up to—the cop wasn’t looking for answers. So I’d said nothing, just made myself scarce.

Still, Hoshiyaar and every other tout at ISBT knew Inspector Balwant was after bigger fish and couldn’t be bothered with our petty scrounging.

There was someone new with the cop today, a clean-shaven young man with glasses.

“Chole batura for my journalist friend here!” shouted the inspector. As if there was any other food choice. The cook rushed to comply, fishing the fried bread out of the huge kadai and artistically arranging raw onion rings and lemon slices on the plates.

“No, no, how can I? I already ate, sir …” the journalist demurred, but he wolfed the food down anyway, nodding with his mouth full, while the inspector held forth.

“As you can see, sir, this is the shithole of the world.” He waved his hand in a circle. A family passed the stall—a man and wife with bundles on their heads, two ragged children dragging after them. The man touched his hand to his head in a salaam as they moved past the inspector. “Ten thousand people rushing about every day—and my bosses expect me to find one or two criminals.” He shifted on the seat and his stomach jiggled on his thighs like an oversized baby.

“But sir, you caught Abdul Kadeer just recently. Then what about those fellows from the Tyagi gang your team stopped on the Chirag Delhi flyover?” A few months ago the inspector had walked up to a bearded man climbing into a bus near Ja-hanpanah forest and had drawn his gun on him. That’s where men go to fuck other men, and who knows what that guy was really up to, but the next day it was all over TV that Balwant had caught some most-wanted terrorist type.

“Aah! Yes—you remember that? Very good memory. Yes, sometimes God is with me.” The inspector looked pleased at the journalist’s chamchagiri. Recently the government had designated Balwant to some big-shot post in the antiterrorism task force. The papers had immediately dubbed him the Don of Delhi. Maybe the journalist was here because he was hoping the inspector would fall over a terrorist or two right then and there in front of his camera.

“Get going, fucker,” Sethi, who had appeared from nowhere, snarled at me. The inspector looked up from his plate.

As I picked up my full caddy and left I could feel his eyes following me.

The ISBT was roaring around me when I plunged back into the crowds. Dust rose in thick clouds and diesel fumes were everywhere. The place smelled of fried food—and nervousness. Everyone here was anxious to be gone, to be somewhere else. At least the ones who had somewhere else to go. As I passed, a flower seller I knew brandished her jasmine garlands in my face, teasing. Around me vendors shouted, babies cried, autorickshaws honked.

My mother had been a flower seller, Hoshiyaar said. I couldn’t recall her face, though sometimes if I concentrated her smell came back to me. She’d been killed in a hit-and-run accident near our slum. I was five years old and would have been doomed to begging in the streets if Hoshiyaar hadn’t taken me home, found me work at the stall, given me a life. He reminded me of his magnanimity often. On most days I believed him.

When my caddy was empty I went back to the stall. Inspector Balwant was still there declaiming to the journalist.

I had been out among the crowds five times already and I was tired. All I had eaten since last night was a slightly brown banana one of the vendors had given me. I slid to the ground and sat on my haunches.

The cook plunked another full caddy in front of me and I picked it up. Sethi would leave to check on his other business in an hour. I could go to Miss India’s hotel then. Without waiting for Hoshiyaar.

“Oy, chotey! Naam kya hai tera? Come here,” the inspector called out, waving his hand at me.

“Ji! Abhi aaya.” I went around to the bench, stood in front of him. “I’m Ramu,” I said. He knew my name. He’d asked me twice before. The inspector heaved himself to his feet. The journalist stood up too, and then at a word from the inspector walked off in the direction of the white Maruti Gypsy parked a short distance away.

“There’s something I want to ask you, Ramu—so don’t go anywhere,” he said. I wondered what he wanted with me—I was small fry, insignificant.

I felt a cold little tickle start up in my stomach. These cops were always sniffing around for trouble until someone paid them to go sniff somewhere else. Hoshiyaar had said the inspector wasn’t interested in our little sideline, but now I wasn’t so sure.

Inspector Balwant’s lips drooped. He sighed, his face comically sad. I shifted from one leg to the other. “Give me your hand,” he said.

I hesitated, set the caddy down, and put my hand out. The cop took it in his huge paw and held it loosely, then covered it with his other palm, so my fingers were sandwiched in between.

“Where are those two going?”

“Who?” I said.

“The couple who wanted tickets from your Hoshiyaar last night,” the inspector said, and pushed my fingers backwards so hard that the pain made me rise up on my toes.

“Shimla, sir,” I said when I could speak.

“Are they coming back here to collect the tickets?” The inspector’s hand moved up casually until his fingers circled my wrist, gave it a little experimental twist. I felt slightly lightheaded—this man was going to snap my wrist in broad daylight. Past Inspector Balwant’s bulk I could see the journalist smiling at the sight of the two of us, from the window of the jeep. He took out his camera and snapped a picture of the celebrated inspector shaking hands with the lowly tea-boy.

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. My voice came out cracked and whispery like an old man’s. The inspector’s hand squeezed my wrist. Hard. “They arranged delivery with Hoshiyaar. They’re leaving tonight—that’s all I know. By private bus.”

“Where’s Hoshiyaar now?” He glanced toward the ticket booths, searching.

I didn’t look up. “I don’t know, sir.” I could taste the sweat dripping off my upper lip.

“Tell him I am looking for him, okay?” The inspector released my hand and it flopped down to my side. “If they come back here I want you to call me,” he added, then wrote a number on his notepad and pushed the torn page roughly into my shirt pocket before walking off.

Gaandusaalachutiyabenchodmaderchodbastardwhore-spawnmotherfuckingsisterfucker. My fingers hurt as if they were broken. Watch out for the ones who aren’t on the take—they’re the worst, Hoshiyaar always said.

I waited until the Gypsy, with the inspector squeezed safely inside, had driven off. Then I shoved my tea caddy back into the stall with my good hand and left for the hotel. I could hear Sethi behind me yelling for me to come back “right-now-this-minute or I’ll skin you alive,” but at that moment I didn’t care. Miss India and her loverboy were up to something that was bad enough to get the police all excited. Perhaps I could do her a favor, warn her somehow.

“I transferred them to room 5-B this morning. You owe me,” the manager said in answer to my panted question, pointing a finger to the ceiling. The room number was familiar. I had called him this morning, made him change Miss India’s room. No harm in a little look-see, I’d thought. Coming here, the bus had gotten stuck in traffic a mile away and I had cut in front of Imperial Cinema to get to the hotel. As usual there was a big crowd of people chowing down in front of Sitaram Diwan Chand. These suited-booted types were crazy to come to the stall from faraway places to eat chole baturas of all things. As if there weren’t a million other places in Delhi selling the same greasy shit.

Behind the reception desk was a glass mirror with the outline of the Red Fort etched in gold on it and I got a glimpse of my sweaty face. I pushed my hair off my forehead.

“You missed some top action, yaar. She was licking him like an ice-cream cone. Early in the morning they were at it—without even brushing their teeth,” the manager said. He made an obscene sucking noise. I turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He called something after me but I didn’t stop to listen.

When I put my eye to the hole in the wall, my view of the bed was partly blocked by Hoshiyaar. He had come without telling me and the manager must have let him up. He was standing quite still, his back to me. Beyond him was Miss India’s smooth naked leg sticking out to one side.

I knocked on the closed door of 5-B and said his name twice before Hoshiyaar replied.

“Go home and wait for me,” he growled.

“No. Inspector Balwant came after me—there’s something going on with those two.” Hoshiyaar opened the door and yanked me inside.

“And what did you tell him?” He grabbed my arm and shook it.

“Nothing. I didn’t know where you were.” I glanced at the bed and the words jammed in my throat.

Miss India lay on top of the blood-soaked sheet, arms flung wide apart, a stab wound to her throat. Her valise lay open on its side next to her. Spilled out of it were three handguns and bundles upon bundles of rupees wrapped in transparent plastic. The guns looked so much smaller than in the movies.

She mumbled something indistinct and weakly moved her fingers. My legs gave way under me and I stumbled to a chair, held onto its arms. Her eyes were open and they locked into mine as if she was trying to tell me something. My stomach heaved and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away.

“We fought, struggled. Bitch pulled a gun on me—I lost my head,” Hoshiyaar said. “Her friend ran into the bathroom—I locked him in. He was crying and carrying on—I couldn’t think.” His eyes bounced around the room. “I need to think.” His turban had fallen off his head and his bald pate, barely covered by his wispy topknot, shone with sweat.

Leather Jacket thumped on the bathroom door, yelled something I couldn’t quite understand.

It seemed important at that moment to find Hoshiyaar’s turban. I looked around until I spotted it fallen down behind the chair. I picked it up carefully, dusted it off, and handed it to him. “What the hell are you doing?” he said.

I heard sirens in the distance. They were coming closer.

“The bastard cops must have had you followed.” Hoshi-yaar looked toward the door. “Will the manager lie to them? Go down and tell him I’ll kill him if he opens his mouth.”

“No—it’s no good,” I said. “He’ll sell his own sister—and then watch while they fuck her.” I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. I felt unhinged by the blood, the dying girl.

Hoshiyaar slapped me so hard that my head snapped back. I put a hand to my cheek, then drew a deep breath. The shock steadied my head. Below us the terrifying
wow-wow
of the sirens drew even closer, then passed. Just some fat-cat politician going about his dirty business. I looked at the money. Miss India was quiet now, her eyes closed.

“Did you bring their tickets?” The old man nodded. I walked to the bed. I couldn’t make myself touch the valise, so I tore off a pillowcase and started shoving the money into it.

“Don’t touch the money!” Hoshiyaar said. So that’s why he had come here without me. He must have sensed that these two would have hard cash hidden in the room. If I hadn’t barged in, if his plan had gone smoothly, would he have shared any of it with me, his so-called son?

I doubted it.

“We’ll take the money and get out of here,” I said, then resumed picking up brick after brick of cash and stacking each inside the pillowcase. It was all becoming clear to me. Our life here was over. “I’ll go to Shimla—wait for you.”