Samiran clenches his fists under his armpits, fighting to keep his face impassive. A pigeon comes and settles on the parapet behind the fat cop. After examining the situation, it starts a slow sentry march up and down the parapet, pecking every now and then at live goodies in the lime paint, being a total sidekick to the cop.
The policeman pulls up a cane chair and sits himself down. He takes out a little notebook and a battered rollerball from his tunic pocket. “What is the girl’s mobile number?” His voice is quiet, final, pronouncing death. “We need to talk to her.”
Samiran opens his mouth, wondering what to put through it. Ajit’s voice is suddenly very audible, speaking in oozingly respectful, clear, official Hindi.
“No sir, no, no, no need for that, not yet. No sir, please, Saikia sahab is usually very tough in these cases, sir, overtough sometimes, so why disturb him? Why bother DCP Corruption, sir, for such a small thing? It would become a policeman’s whole career at stake, sir, because of a small mistake. No, no sir, no, no, there is no demand for a bribe, just a case of... how to say it, overzealous imposition of a certain morality... and, you know, malicious neighbors with nothing better... Exactly, ji, exactly!”
Ajit has walked out onto the terrace as if there’s no one else around, his phone trapped between ear and shoulder. He ignores Samiran and the cop and goes to the parapet, making the pigeon flap away. “DCP Saikia, you know, will immediately suspect the other motive... Sir, yes sir... His new anticorruption campaign, yes sir... Well, he has just been posted from the northeast, no, sir? I don’t know if they harass girls there for wearing small-small clothes, no... Oh yes! Hahahaha! Yes, yes sir, army-paramilitary may rape women, but local police will not arrest a boy-girl for kissing! Hahaha, quite right, sir!”
Samiran sees that Ajit is using his hands to carry two glasses and a bottle of beer, all of which he gingerly manages onto the parapet. He listens intently to the other party as he pours the beer, making sure the head of foam is just right in both glasses.
“Ji, sir, Nizamuddin thana, I think... Yes sir, Wahi sahab, the officer is right here. Should I just ask him and call you back?... No?... Okay, okay, I’ll just ask him right now.”
Ajit hands a glass to Samiran and turns to the cop. His tone is politely conversational, equally for the cop and the benefit of his phonee. “Sir-ji, please, can you tell me your name?” Before the cop can answer, Ajit bends to take a look at the name tag on the cop’s left tit. He speaks into the phone: “Subinspector U.P. Singh, sir... Yes, I will just ask.” He turns back to the cop and smiles kindly. “Sir, thoda, please, aapka full name? DCP South wants to know your name.”
The fat cop is sliced into two zig-zagging parts, two halves that fit perfectly but which are barely able to cling to each other. One part of him clearly wants to snatch the phone from this new stranger and slap him unconscious; the other part seems to want to vault over the terrace wall and parachute away. Samiran imagines he can see thin seepings of blood where the blade has cleaved the man. When the voice comes out, it’s barely audible, so squeezed is it by the juice-press of rage.
Ajit straightens up and announces into the phone: “Sir, he says his name is Ujjwal Prakash Singh. Nizamuddin thana, na?” The thulla jerks out the smallest of nods. Ajit listens a beat longer, allowing the bloodlines to well up further, and then, “Okay, sir, yes sir, I will tell him.” He snaps his mobile shut and takes a deep pull on his beer.
“Nice, no? This one is much better than the usual bird-piss we get, no? Genuine German wheat beer. Deepti says her friend will be importing it now regularly.” Samiran forces himself to gulp from his own glass. Ajit turns to the cop. “Sir-ji, your mobile is on and working?”
“Yes.”
“The thana will have your number I take it?”
“It is naat so eejhhi to threaten me, my friend.” Fat Cop is now pushing out his English, trying to jump start it. “You and your friend will get into the deeper trouble.”
“Threaten, sir-ji? Threaten who? Who is threatening anybody? What are you talking about? I am just trying to bring about a friendly solution to the little problem we seem to be having.” Ajit sticks to his smoothly purring government Hindi. “Oh, sorry, we haven’t met. Ajit Karlekar, Delhi Government.” He puts his card down on the low table between them.
Fat-fuck’s phone has a ring-tone that Sam can’t quite place. His voice is cautious as he answers it; Sam can see that the guy’s hoping the whole thing’s a crazy bluff, in which case he’ll be able to tear into Ajit and him, but he can also see that the guy has a sinking feeling about the whole situation; after the first few moments on the phone, Sam can see anxiety cloud the small eyes; he can almost feel the mobile phone winch the man up from his chair, almost hear the voice that makes the man spin around and move away from them. Even from behind, Samiran is sure he can see the sweat spots enlarge, turning the khaki a darker brown under the man’s armpits; and if, maybe, he’s imagining that, he’s certainly not imagining Fat Cop’s smell, which is now sharp and impossible to escape.
Sam can’t take his eyes off the thulla but Ajit is engrossed with his mobile, sipping beer and text messaging intently. All Sam can hear from around the cop’s back and spreading ass is a binary progression of Sir-sir-sir-ji-ji-sir-ji-ji-huzoor-huzoor-ji-sir-huz... a word or syllable getting chopped off here and there as the other side cuts in. At one point, Fat Cop says a name which Sam assumes is that name of the Haryanvi rapist Tall Cop: “Sir, ASI Neb Chand, sir, yes, Neb Chand, he a good—” and then Neb Chand’s goodness is also abruptly cut off. Sam notices the sidekick pigeon is back, waddling and cooing sympathetically as the man nods into his Nokia.
The phone conversation twists Fat Cop around again, and he’s back to facing Sam and Ajit. Still listening and nodding, the man starts to give in to the September heat. His non-phone hand goes first to middle of stomach, through his shirt, right into the belly button, one scratch, two, three, then to the side of his paunch, as if drawing a median around the earth, the fingers fiddling between the liver area and the right kidney, and then, as someone on the other side ups the ante, the hand goes down to the crotch. But there Fat-fuck stops, suddenly aware that he’s being watched.
The next time Samiran sees Fat Cop, however, the man completes the gesture. He begins by fiddling with his balls and then giving them a good, full-turbo mauling. It’s late afternoon a month later and Samiran is looking down from his bedroom window, watching Fat Cop standing outside his entrance, three floors below. Fat Cop is standing there because he has been summoned by Samiran to counter a new policeman, Third Cop, who has entered the frame from outside, entered all the way from Mandawali thana across the river.
Third Cop has also come into Samiran’s life courtesy K-5. Though the pimp-rat hasn’t connected Sam to the sharp misfortunes that have befallen him and his family over the last four weeks, he has figured out that the local cops from Nizamuddin are no longer able to help; somehow or other they’ve been disabled, turned even, so that any complaint seems to almost backfire. K-pimp has therefore called upon the thulla talent from around his factory, obviously bribed them, and sent them, sent this Third Cop, after Sam. Chandran, in the meantime, has picked this up on his magical radar and given Sam an early warning, advising him to call Subinspector Singh, which Sam has promptly done.
“Sir, you know I don’t have a problem with any police, but it would be good if your colleague didn’t waste his time or mine.”