noticed a satellite dish on the roof—an incongruous sight given the inherent impoverishment of this part of the village.
“They have a TV?” he asked.
“His father bought it.”
“With money sent by Ram?”
“Yes, saab.”
“When?”
“A few weeks back.”
“There’s electricity?”
“It comes and goes.”
Puri started toward the house. They passed a water pump, the only one in the Dalit section. It appeared to be broken. A well-trodden path ran down through the fields beyond the village to a river about a mile away. It explained why the chowkidar smelled of river water.
“Are Ram’s parents at home?” the detective asked as they approached the house.
“His father is there.”
“And the mother?”
The chowkidar didn’t answer.
“Where is she?” Puri demanded.
“She left, saab.”
“Left the village?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night. After dark.”
“And she hasn’t come back?”
The chowkidar shook his head, eyes cast down.
There was a sudden urgency to Puri’s step as he strode up to the front door of the house. This might well be a serious business after all. The boy’s life, the mother’s too, perhaps, was at stake. He found the door open and hanging off its hinges, a boot tread clearly visible across the grain.
Puri pushed his way inside. The room beyond was sparsely furnished, the floor bare concrete. A man sat snoring in a lone chair, his head resting on his chest. The TV in front of him had a cracked screen and a dent in its side, yet it still worked and was tuned to the Filmy channel. Bollywood’s Govinda was gyrating his hips in front of a Swiss Alpine landscape.
“Is this the father?” Puri asked the chowkidar, who’d entered the house behind him.
“That’s him, saab.”
There were a couple of empty plastic bottles lying discarded on the floor. Puri didn’t need to pick up and examine them to tell what they had contained. The whole place reeked of tharra.
His attention was drawn to the far wall of the room, which was plastered with posters, flyers and cutouts from newspapers all depicting Uttar Pradesh’s Chief Minister Baba Dhobi.
“For Ram’s parents, he is God,” explained the chowkidar, as he stood behind the detective. “When the party sends buses, she goes to his political rallies. Any opportunity to see him.”
“And you? You voted for him?”
“Of course. We all did. He gives us hope.”
Puri took a closer look at the collection on the wall. There was a photo mixed in. It showed a handsome young man in a T-shirt and jeans standing next to a village woman. They were posing in front of a statue of Baba Dhobi.
“That’s Ram and his mother, Kamlesh,” said the chowkidar. “They traveled to Lucknow last year.”
Puri took the photograph off the wall, slipped it inside his safari suit and went to rouse the father.
“Hey, you, wake up!” he bellowed, and gave the man a rough shake. “I want to talk to you!”
The man snorted a couple of times and opened his bloodshot eyes.
“Kya?” he said with a grimace.
“He’s with the police,” bawled the chowkidar in a belligerent tone that could not have been more different from the one in which he addressed Puri. “You’d better answer his questions!”
The detective could see now that the father had also been badly beaten in the past few days.
“Do you know where your son is?” he demanded.
His question was drowned out by the sound of “dishooms!”—the exaggerated fight-scene sound effects coming from the TV. Puri turned off the set and repeated his question.
“He was here but he left,” replied the father.
“Where did he go?”
“How should I know?”
“How does he make his money?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Who beat you?”
“Some men. They were looking for Ram.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What I told you.”
Puri rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. This was a waste of time. What
“They have a TV?” he asked.
“His father bought it.”
“With money sent by Ram?”
“Yes, saab.”
“When?”
“A few weeks back.”
“There’s electricity?”
“It comes and goes.”
Puri started toward the house. They passed a water pump, the only one in the Dalit section. It appeared to be broken. A well-trodden path ran down through the fields beyond the village to a river about a mile away. It explained why the chowkidar smelled of river water.
“Are Ram’s parents at home?” the detective asked as they approached the house.
“His father is there.”
“And the mother?”
The chowkidar didn’t answer.
“Where is she?” Puri demanded.
“She left, saab.”
“Left the village?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night. After dark.”
“And she hasn’t come back?”
The chowkidar shook his head, eyes cast down.
There was a sudden urgency to Puri’s step as he strode up to the front door of the house. This might well be a serious business after all. The boy’s life, the mother’s too, perhaps, was at stake. He found the door open and hanging off its hinges, a boot tread clearly visible across the grain.
Puri pushed his way inside. The room beyond was sparsely furnished, the floor bare concrete. A man sat snoring in a lone chair, his head resting on his chest. The TV in front of him had a cracked screen and a dent in its side, yet it still worked and was tuned to the Filmy channel. Bollywood’s Govinda was gyrating his hips in front of a Swiss Alpine landscape.
“Is this the father?” Puri asked the chowkidar, who’d entered the house behind him.
“That’s him, saab.”
There were a couple of empty plastic bottles lying discarded on the floor. Puri didn’t need to pick up and examine them to tell what they had contained. The whole place reeked of tharra.
His attention was drawn to the far wall of the room, which was plastered with posters, flyers and cutouts from newspapers all depicting Uttar Pradesh’s Chief Minister Baba Dhobi.
“For Ram’s parents, he is God,” explained the chowkidar, as he stood behind the detective. “When the party sends buses, she goes to his political rallies. Any opportunity to see him.”
“And you? You voted for him?”
“Of course. We all did. He gives us hope.”
Puri took a closer look at the collection on the wall. There was a photo mixed in. It showed a handsome young man in a T-shirt and jeans standing next to a village woman. They were posing in front of a statue of Baba Dhobi.
“That’s Ram and his mother, Kamlesh,” said the chowkidar. “They traveled to Lucknow last year.”
Puri took the photograph off the wall, slipped it inside his safari suit and went to rouse the father.
“Hey, you, wake up!” he bellowed, and gave the man a rough shake. “I want to talk to you!”
The man snorted a couple of times and opened his bloodshot eyes.
“Kya?” he said with a grimace.
“He’s with the police,” bawled the chowkidar in a belligerent tone that could not have been more different from the one in which he addressed Puri. “You’d better answer his questions!”
The detective could see now that the father had also been badly beaten in the past few days.
“Do you know where your son is?” he demanded.
His question was drowned out by the sound of “dishooms!”—the exaggerated fight-scene sound effects coming from the TV. Puri turned off the set and repeated his question.
“He was here but he left,” replied the father.
“Where did he go?”
“How should I know?”
“How does he make his money?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Who beat you?”
“Some men. They were looking for Ram.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What I told you.”
Puri rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. This was a waste of time. What
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