Mumbai Noir by Altaf Tyrewala

Author:Altaf Tyrewala
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Bombay (India), Mystery & Detective, ebook, India, Fiction, book, Mystery Fiction - India, Indic (English), Short Stories
ISBN: 9781617750274
Publisher: akashic books
Published: 2012-02-28T05:00:00+00:00

Dil dhoondta hai

Phir wohi

Fursat ke raat din

The driver asks the inspector for directions to the house. The inspector in turn looks at me; I show them the way.

When we reach the house and get out of the car, I’m shocked. The lock on the front door is open, but the door is bolted from inside. Steve never comes to Panchgani, or to Mumbai for that matter, without letting me know in advance.

At this stage, I notice something uncanny. A figure has been drawn on the door. I scratch my head trying to recall where I’ve seen it. Then I get it: it’s the tattoo I’d seen on Robert’s upper arm. This meant Robert was inside. Steve must have given him his key. But why didn’t they keep me in the loop?

Inspector D’Souza knocks on the door but no one answers. He knocks again, then again, and finally thumps on the door with his fists.

Still no answer. As the inspector contemplates breaking down the door, we hear the latch click from within and the door opens. Robert steps out groggily, and closes the door behind him. He’s dressed only in Bermudas, the kind sold on Goa’s beaches, with bright red flowers on a yellow background.

“Yes?” he says to Inspector D’Souza, pursing his lips.

The inspector does not think it necessary to give Robert explanations. He pushes him aside and enters the house with his men. I stupidly follow. After all, I’m a joint owner of the property. Robert is dumbstruck.

We head to the room upstairs and find foam mattresses laid out on the floor. Six boys, aged around twelve, are asleep on the mattresses. Inspector D’Souza yanks the blankets off their faces. They open their eyes and frown. Like Robert, they are all bare-chested and in Bermudas. They appear to be the same boys whose pictures I saw on Robert’s mobile. Some of them sit up in bed, and I see something that makes me queasy: they have the same tattoo as Robert on their upper left arms.

Robert has joined us upstairs. Inspector D’Souza turns around to face him.

“My students,” Robert explains. “We often come here from Mumbai for the weekend.”

Everyone is asked to pack up and get ready to leave. One of the boys starts crying at the sight of the policemen. Robert protests, but Inspector D’Souza silences him: “Shut up! Tell us whatever you want in Mumbai. And give me your passport …”

One of the two havaldars is made to wait with Robert and the boys for the van that will arrive to take them back to Mumbai, because the Qualis cannot accommodate all of us. The other havaldar, Inspector D’Souza, and I sit in the Qualis. Inspector D’Souza collects the keys to the house from Robert and puts them in his pocket. We drive off, the inspector and I seated in the back.

“You’re educated,” he says to me after a while, as we descend the ghats. I am distracted by Panchgani’s famed paragliders floating in the air without a care, like mammoth birds.

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