Delhi Noir

by Hirsh Sawhney

  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.”

  “Shut up! Put the money down and get out of here. I’ll say she pulled a gun—I stuck her with the kirpan in self-defense.

  Lots of these cops owe me favors—I’ll take care of everything.

  But you shouldn’t be found here.” Hoshiyaar was talking fast, almost babbling.

  “But what about the manager?” I asked. The pillowcase was full and I put it down where he could see it. “He saw us, and you’re going to have to take care of him.”

  Hoshiyaar turned away and picked up a jug and glass from the little table beside the bed. It took him a few tries but in the end he managed to pour himself some water without spilling it. He drank noisily. “Go down and get the manager,” he said after a while.

  I went down to the manager. There was no one else around. There never was—this hotel was probably a front for some other operation.

  “You have to come and see this,” I said, acting excited. “You can’t believe what she’s doing.” I took him back to the empty room next door to 5-B. He was bending over to look through the hole when Hoshiyaar came in. I thought he was going to offer him money to keep quiet but instead he simply snapped his neck. “It was either him or us,” Hoshiyaar said. I couldn’t talk—what was left to say now? Hoshiyaar was taking me somewhere I hadn’t been before, a place I didn’t want to inhabit. “Help me here,” he ordered, and I got hold of the manager’s arm and together we dragged him back to Miss India’s room.

  That’s when I had my idea. “Shoot him with her gun,” I suggested. “When the cops come they’ll think they had a fight and he killed her.” I pulled cash out of the pillowcase, tore the plastic off, and scattered some bundles on the bed. The manager tried to rob her and she shot him—that was the story here. It would save the old man, I thought. Hoshiyaar put a pillow over the gun to muffle the shot but it still sounded like an explosion. I could feel myself beginning to shake. Deep inside, not anyplace where it showed.

  When Hoshiyaar went to wash his hands in the bathroom, I took three bricks of cash and dropped them down the front of my pants. My shirt was many sizes too big and I figured he had been too rattled to count the money.

  When he came back, Hoshiyaar reached into the pocket of his kurta, fished out a bus ticket, and gave it to me. He talked fast, panting a little. “Get out of the city. Wait for me in Shimla, check in at the Satyam Chaat stall once in a while—I’ll find you. I’ll get out of here in a few days—I’ll work as usual at the ISBT so no one gets suspicious.”

  “Give me the money,” I said, pointing to the pillowcase. “You can’t be found with it.” He looked at me for a long time, his eyes hooded. I waited, testing him.

  “Don’t worry about it—I’ll hide it somewhere and bring it with me to Shimla,” he replied finally.

  I nodded, then swallowed. My throat felt tight, squeezed shut.

  “What about him?” I asked, to change the subject, indicating the bathroom door. Poor Leather Jacket.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he said.

  Then he grabbed me by the arm and marched me toward a door at the other end of the room. It led to a tiny balcony.

  “Leave from here so no one sees you exiting the building.”

  At the door he hesitated, then went back to the bed and returned with some cash and handed it to me. It must’ve been a couple of thousand rupees.

  “That should be enough till I get there.” He put out a hand and patted me on my cheek. His fingers were cold. “Don’t be afraid, son, I’ll be all right. We’ll leave Dilli—disappear forever. You and I—we can do business anywhere. I’ll phone Satyam—he’ll be waiting for you.” He pushed me through the doorway onto the balcony, then closed the thick wooden door behind me and latched it with a loud click.

  Five stories below me was a gali filled with garbage. On the left side of the balcony, fat water pipes ran all the way to the ground. My heart jumped inside my chest as if it was trying to break free.

  I took a deep breath and threw my flip-flops down before swinging my leg over the balcony ledge. My palms were wet and slipped on the pipe once or twice but I made it down okay.

  When my feet touched the ground I collapsed and sat legs splayed out in the dirt of the alleyway for a few minutes, crying and shaking. I thought of us in Shimla, me doing what I always did, living the life Hoshiyaar planned, stepping on the stones he laid down. I stumbled to my feet and started running.

  At the ISBT there were no busloads of policemen, just the usual chaos. I grabbed two plastic bags off a cart selling oranges. At another stall I wheedled a bar of soap from the owner, a Bihari guy I treated to free tea once in a while. Inside the bathroom of the waiting room I washed my face, hands, and neck, combed my hair in the mirror. I took Inspector Bal-want’s note out of my pocket. On it he had printed his name and ANTITERRORISM TASK FORCE in spindly capitals. Hoshiyaar had taught me to read from the garish chi
ldren’s books the vendors sold. I put the money and Inspector Balwant’s note in the bags, then walked into one of the stores near the terminal and bought some jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, cheap dark glasses, and a pair of fake Nikes. After I put them on I looked like a new person—even Hoshiyaar would have trouble recognizing me. I threw away my shirt and shorts. Afterwards, I went into the Ritz Theatre and bought tickets for all the films and watched them one after the other, staring blankly at the screen until it was time for the bus to leave.

  I looked out of the window at the busy street as the vehicle turned away from Kashmiri Gate. The monument itself was now behind grating, locked away by the government. There were a few foreigners around it, mouths and guidebooks open as they squinted up at its massive curved brick doorways. I had lived my whole life in the city yet had never gotten on a bus, never ventured beyond this little world. Now Delhi was spitting me out. As we raced over the quiet highways I couldn’t sleep. Miss India would have sat in the seat I was in, rested her cheek against the cool glass of my window. I imagined Hoshi-yaar a week from now leaving for Shimla. I would go to the Satyam Chaat stall and there he’d be waiting, smiling faintly, ready to kick-start our life together again.

  Sometime in the middle of that night, the bus driver stopped on the outskirts of a small town to let passengers use the bathroom. I got off the bus, plastic bag in hand, and walked toward the blazing storefronts. There was a phone booth there and I told the operator I had never made a long-distance call and so he dialed the number on the paper in my hand. The inspector answered and I told him about the hotel and Hoshiyaar and the money he had taken and hung up before the cop could ask me a thing.

  Next to the booth was a dhaba with a corrugated tin roof.

  A man in an undershirt was rolling rotis and pressing them onto the walls of a tandoor. I asked him to wrap up an order of dal-roti and stood there beside the glowing drum, breathing in the scent of toasted flour.

  (Years after I had made myself into another Ramu, I went into a library in a big city far from Delhi and dug through old newspapers until I found the one I wanted. There was a picture of Inspector Balwant, another of Hotel Anand Vihar.