Delhi Noir

by Hirsh Sawhney

  I never learned her name, but I owe her my life. Sort of.

  She was with a guy and they were arguing. He wanted to get the hell out of there and she wanted him to go to hell—only she said it in words I never imagined could come out of a movie-star mouth like hers.

  I was lying under a cart parked in a safe corner of Delhi’s Inter State Bus Terminal. I was fifteen going on hundred that year. A street kid who had seen everything. Still, I had never seen anyone like her. Smooth, rich, glossy from head to carefully painted toe.

  I had taught myself to size up people, to spot the suckers and the desperate. In my line of work it was a survival skill. I quickly figured out that she was putting on an act. There was something a little too eager about the way she looked around, as if expecting someone to rush forward any minute and do her bidding. Three in the morning, not even a decent dog awake, and here she was, carrying on loud enough to excite every insomniac crook in the place. Obviously these two weren’t from Delhi. No Dilli-wallah would venture into the bus terminal and yell at this time of night. The last bus had left hours ago and the earliest one was hours away.

  After watching a few minutes longer I decided they were boyfriend and girlfriend, even though the chokra looked a good five years younger than Miss India there. The two of them must be off to someplace high in the hills for a week or two of fucking, I figured. Probably staying in some hushed hotel where no one would recognize them and report back to unsuspecting mamas-papas back home.

  The boyfriend tried to put a hand on her shoulder and she shook it off. Now, he was a different breed altogether. Hrithik Roshan–style star stubble. Nike shoes. Leather jacket. Everything he had on was foreign, imported, no Palika Bazaar fakery for this one. I just knew she had bought his outfit. He looked like a kept boy, the lucky bastard. I hated him instantly.

  Although just then he wasn’t exactly feeling fortunate, judging by his swiveling eyes. Scared shitless more like it. The thought cheered me up a little as I sidled out from under the cart and went in search of Hoshiyaar.

  Scalper, tout, scam artist, mentor, mai-baap, fathermother—Hoshiyaar Singh was the closest thing to family I had in that place. He, better than anyone else, would know how to take care of the loving couple.

  Hoshiyaar was asleep on his blanket against the wall of the so-called waiting room of the bus terminal, his hands crossed neatly on his chest. Business hadn’t been great tonight, and he’d stuck around in case I managed to reel in an extra customer or two. Fast asleep like this, his gray beard resting on his chest, Hoshiyaar looked like someone’s kindly grandfather, a devout old man who made daily trips to the gurdwara to pray for his soul.

  The streetlights outside shone dimly through the high windows of the room. Around me, strewn beside the broken plastic chairs, other men lay huddled on their sheets, hands clutched between their knees. The suffocating stink of urine pressed down on us all. A chilly little breeze had sprung up and it came in through the open doorway and twirled up the trash, yesterday’s newspaper pages and plastic bags, toward the hapless sleepers.

  These poor bastards hadn’t managed to snag an official ticket in time for a bus to Karnal or Kullu or any one of the small towns the government buses jolted past. The men had probably stood in endless lines all yesterday. By the time they got their precious ticket the last buses would’ve been full. That’s why they were still here, sleeping open-mouthed on the filthy floor—because they couldn’t afford anything but a cheap ticket on a government bus.

  But for the rich or desperate there were easier options: buses that parked with their lights and engines switched off in the dusty lanes behind Ritz Theatre or Mori Gate, or in front of the Tibetan refugee colony. Most of these vehicles were illegal, run by black-market operators without government permits. The bus mafia bribed local politicos, State Travel Association clerks, travel agents, the police—threw money all the way down the food chain to scalpers like Hoshiyaar. Who, in turn, sold tickets for whatever the going rate was that day.

  The ticket counters wouldn’t open for a few hours yet and the shouting, fist-waving crowds wouldn’t be here until later, but I was dead certain Hoshiyaar had tickets to sell. I was also pretty sure that Miss India had cash enough in that bag of hers to buy a Volvo bus, never mind a ticket on one.

  Now, standing next to Hoshiyaar, I shivered. His face, shadowed and cratered in the half-light that came in through the window, looked bloodless. Someone nearby sighed deeply in his sleep and I was suddenly frantic for Hoshiyaar to wake up, scared like a child alone in the dark.

  “Chacha.” I crouched down close to him, then remembered.

  I’d better make sure the couple was still there before I woke Hoshiyaar—otherwise he’d twist my ear like a bottle cap.

  The couple was headed toward us looking around for someone to make them an offer. They knew the rules of the ticket game after all.

  “Chacha,” I hissed once again in Hoshiyaar’s ear. The old man snapped awake and stared at my face fiercely without missing a beat, as if he had just closed his eyes a second ago.

  “Kya bey, Ramu? What is it?” Even after all these years, his instant alertness unnerved me and I took a shaky breath before I stuck a thumb in the direction of the duo.

  “Two bakras for you,” I said. Sheep for the shearing.

  He took a look then turned to face the wall. “You woke me up for that?” he said. “Go away, fucker, I’m asleep.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Ever since I was a kid, washing used plates and glasses in a basin under the table at Sethi’s food stall, it had been my job to spot the potentials, to alert Hoshi-yaar or keep the suckers talking until he arrived and took over.

  This was the second time this month he’d chosen sleep over the solid dhanda I was reeling in.

  “Acha, theek hai, I’ll go tell Jaggu then,” I said, naming a rival ticket tout. “He needs the business and that chick is dripping with cash.” The old man sat up at that, hands smoothing down his beard, and I swear I could hear his mind click on instantly, I am talking tchak, like a pistol’s trigger cocking. He flicked two fingers at my skull but I ducked.

  “You do that and I’ll break your legs.” He wasn’t kidding so I grinned to convince him that I was. He stood up, straightened his white kurta, still crisp after a full day’s work, and waited until the couple came closer. Behind them, Jaggu and another ticket tout emerged, snouts quivering, but slunk back into their corners when Hoshiyaar sauntered toward them. No one who did any business in the terminal messed with Hoshi-yaar. The few who did either left to find other turf fast or had nasty accidents. Once I saw him slowly bend a man’s arm the wrong way until it jerked out of the shoulder socket with a soft pop. The sound kept me from sleeping some nights—nights I lay awake and thought of leaving Hoshiyaar.

  The girl faltered when she saw Hoshiyaar, then continued walking toward us. He must have looked terrifying looming out of the dark like that—a tall Sikh made taller by his turban. A blanket was slung around his shoulders and underneath it was a belt strapped across his chest. It ended in a holster for his kirpan. The dagger was his most precious possession, and he checked now to see if it was resting against his thigh where everyone would notice. He’d said I could keep it when he passed away.

  He liked to say I was the son he’d never have, especially after he gave me a pasting for something I had failed to do properly. A year ago, after he broke my nose and had to take me to the hospital, Hoshiyaar had started letting me distribute the hafta money to his network. Now I was in charge of weekly payments to the hotel receptionists, autorickshaw and taxi drivers, and eager little clerks in their ticket cages who funneled travelers to him.

  I knew he also wanted me to slip secret packets to rich young men idling their motorbikes in a bylane near Kash-miri Gate, far away from the cops—it was a new sideline he’d started and he needed a runner. He’d asked me once or twice, pretending he was joking, but so far I’d found some excuse to sidestep him. Every once in a while some kid tu
rned up dead or cut up by the drug dealers and I wasn’t looking to lose any bits of myself just yet. But Hoshiyaar was a dangerous man to cross and soon his patience would run out. Then I didn’t know what I’d do.

  In return for my help with his ticket business, he gave me a small percentage of the profits and a corner of his room to sleep in and watch Zee TV. Plus he made sure I was safe from gangsters, homosexuals, and Sethi’s rages, or the odd policeman looking to make an easy arrest. I was grateful for the protection.

  Back then I was scrawny, with arms like sticks, no different than the other chokras who harassed passengers streaming through the bus adda, urging peanuts or shoe shines on them.

  As long as I had my tea caddy, no one paid me any attention a second longer than it took to buy a glass of chai. Since I was invisible to most people, I was able to hear conversations and pick up tips that were useful to Hoshiyaar. Sometimes I’d stand with my mouth slightly open, stupid expression firmly in place. Or hunker down and pretend to be heavily asleep, head lolling on my chest. I made up roles in my own little drama.

  Together we were a double-action pair. Hoshiyaar stood out, I did not. I bagged the customers, Hoshiyaar finished them off.

  That night I must have done a good job of acting because Miss India didn’t spare me a glance for the longest time, even though I was standing close to the three of them. She was busy frowning up at Hoshiyaar’s face. He was playing Leather

  Jacket like a ringmaster in the Apollo circus. Here’s the hoop, now jump, doggy!

  The two of them wanted tickets to Shimla.

  “So I am getting tickets to you the moment it is morning,” Hoshiyaar said, speaking English—the boyfriend didn’t know Hindi. Perhaps he was from the South, a Madrasi. “You not pay single paisa now—only on delivery. Yes, I am doing under-table business, but bahoot clean dealings only, sir. I have to feed wife, four children, old mother. But I giving good customer service. You tell other people about Hoshi-yaar, okay?”

  His eyes twinkled when he raised his palms in front of his chest as if he was blessing the boyfriend. Or surrendering, like the gangsters did in the movies when the police arrived with guns drawn, I thought, suppressing a grin. Tonight Hoshiyaar was a harmless, jolly old fellow trying to make a living, getting by in his own fashion. The honest broker—Hoshiyaar, too, was good at his act.

  “How much?” Miss India demanded. It was clear she was the boss. Hoshiyaar acted as if he hadn’t heard and continued talking.

  “We have to leave tonight,” the boyfriend said, sealing their fate.

  I stepped up from where I was making like a shadow behind Hoshiyaar and named a sum four times the official rate before the old man could hazard a price. Leather Jacket’s mouth fell open a little. He was a got-to, must-have type—let him pay through the nose. I could feel Hoshiyaar staring at me but I ignored him.

  “That’s bullshit, yaar!” Leather Jacket finally bleated, his eyes skittering over Miss India’s face. She made an impatient sound then raised her perfect eyebrows in my direction, notic-ing me for the first time. I forced myself to hold her glance.

  “Can’t you lower it a little? It’s too much, bhayya—” Her voice went all breathy and pleading. Brother, she had called me. If only she knew. The things I wanted to do to her were far from brotherly.

  “Not too much.” I shook my head. “You want to go today night—that is rate. Tomorrow night different rate. You ask anyone, he and me are not like others, only less profit we are taking.” I could feel Hoshiyaar beside me stiffening but I didn’t look at him to see how he felt about my promoting myself to partner.

  “Private superdeluxe bus—AC, semisleeper, free water bottle, free cinema,” I continued, and I swear she was amused by my persistence. Not that she deigned to smile or anything but there was something softer in her look, something almost admiring, I thought.

  I tore my eyes off her mouth and turned to the boyfriend.

  “Bus parked very close to here—you board without problem.

  Where you and madam are staying?” I asked casually.

  “Anand—” Leather Jacket blurted out like the fool he was—and Miss India clutched at his arm in warning.

  “We’re checking out in the morning,” she said quickly.

  I glanced at Hoshiyaar. If he was as surprised as I was, he didn’t show it.

  One would have thought anyone who looked and dressed like these two would choose a better hotel. Anand Vikas was a low-class, dirt-cheap, zero-star cowshed on Chuna Mandi managed by a tobacco-chewing degenerate who sometimes let me go up to an empty room and watch a whore performing on her customer next door through a secret hole drilled into the wall. The manager charged by the hour—same as the whore.

  Hoshiyaar jumped in: “We’re giving good service. No standing in line for you—we bring tickets to your hotel,” he said. I’d asked where they were staying as a bluff. I was horny and curious and had some vague idea of stalking Miss India in the morning. But what was Hoshiyaar up to?

  “There’s no need—we’ll come back. Just tell us where,” Miss India said quickly. She sounded nervous all of a sudden.

  “No tension, no tension—I bringing to hotel in Paharganj,” Hoshiyaar insisted. Leather Jacket was shifting from foot to foot. “Ticket delivery only in hotel,” Hoshiyaar repeated, his voice still silky-smooth.

  She looked down at her high heels and my stomach clenched. Hoshiyaar had botched it—she was going to walk away from the deal and I wouldn’t see her again.

  “Don’t worry, be happy,” I chimed in, and her head shot up at that. A lopsided little smile came and went.

  “When you come to the hotel, ask the manager to call the room and we’ll come downstairs to collect. Understood?” she said finally, addressing Hoshiyaar, ignoring me once more. It dawned on me that whatever was waiting in Shimla for these two must be life-and-death. They were a little too desperate, too willing to pay the price. Miss India was mixed up in some shady number-two dhanda, the kind of rich-people’s business that wasn’t exactly legal but never got anyone marched off in handcuffs.

  Hoshiyaar nodded with obsequious vigor and she turned, heading for the exit. Her boyfriend stared after her, perhaps surprised at her abrupt capitulation, threw an awkward smile at Hoshiyaar, and trotted off after her. She stalked past me behind my pillar and I got a whiff of her perfume, a scent of jasmine. A memory teased at the edges of my mind then drifted away, leaving only a feeling of warmth and softness. My throat began to ache.

  “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 r
oar 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.