Delhi Noir (Akashic Noir) by Hirsh Sawhney

Author:Hirsh Sawhney [ed] [Sawhney, Hirsh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Anthologies
ISBN: 9781933354781
Amazon: B008SBHC9K
Goodreads: 6488278
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2009-07-31T12:00:00+00:00

SMALL FRY

BY MEERA NAIR

Inter State Bus Terminal

There was this girl. The first time I laid eyes on her she was standing in front of the closed Himachal Roadways ticket counter, clutching a valise as if it contained her life savings. From behind she looked like a schoolgirl—her hair fell down her back in two long braids. But then she swung the valise down and turned around and that’s when I saw her chest—straining to escape the tightest T-shirt this side of Bollywood. She was a real cheez, a top-class no. 1 item. Even in the sickly light of the fluorescent bulb that flickered above the counter, her skin looked like she bathed in milk.

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.

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