The girl faltered when she saw Hoshiyaar, then continued walking toward us. He must have looked terrifying looming out of the dark like that — a tall Sikh made taller by his turban. A blanket was slung around his shoulders and underneath it was a belt strapped across his chest. It ended in a holster for his kirpan. The dagger was his most precious possession, and he checked now to see if it was resting against his thigh where everyone would notice. He’d said I could keep it when he passed away.
He liked to say I was the son he’d never have, especially after he gave me a pasting for something I had failed to do properly. A year ago, after he broke my nose and had to take me to the hospital, Hoshiyaar had started letting me distribute the hafta money to his network. Now I was in charge of weekly payments to the hotel receptionists, autorickshaw and taxi drivers, and eager little clerks in their ticket cages who funneled travelers to him.
I knew he also wanted me to slip secret packets to rich young men idling their motorbikes in a bylane near Kashmiri Gate, far away from the cops — it was a new sideline he’d started and he needed a runner. He’d asked me once or twice, pretending he was joking, but so far I’d found some excuse to sidestep him. Every once in a while some kid turned up dead or cut up by the drug dealers and I wasn’t looking to lose any bits of myself just yet. But Hoshiyaar was a dangerous man to cross and soon his patience would run out. Then I didn’t know what I’d do.
In return for my help with his ticket business, he gave me a small percentage of the profits and a corner of his room to sleep in and watch Zee TV. Plus he made sure I was safe from gangsters, homosexuals, and Sethi’s rages, or the odd policeman looking to make an easy arrest. I was grateful for the protection.
Back then I was scrawny, with arms like sticks, no different than the other chokras who harassed passengers streaming through the bus adda, urging peanuts or shoe shines on them.
As long as I had my tea caddy, no one paid me any attention a second longer than it took to buy a glass of chai. Since I was invisible to most people, I was able to hear conversations and pick up tips that were useful to Hoshiyaar. Sometimes I’d stand with my mouth slightly open, stupid expression firmly in place. Or hunker down and pretend to be heavily asleep, head lolling on my chest. I made up roles in my own little drama.
Together we were a double-action pair. Hoshiyaar stood out, I did not. I bagged the customers, Hoshiyaar finished them off.
That night I must have done a good job of acting because Miss India didn’t spare me a glance for the longest time, even though I was standing close to the three of them. She was busy frowning up at Hoshiyaar’s face. He was playing Leather
Jacket like a ringmaster in the Apollo circus. Here’s the hoop, now jump, doggy!
The two of them wanted tickets to Shimla.
“So I am getting tickets to you the moment it is morning,” Hoshiyaar said, speaking English — the boyfriend didn’t know Hindi. Perhaps he was from the South, a Madrasi. “You not pay single paisa now — only on delivery. Yes, I am doing under-table business, but bahoot clean dealings only, sir. I have to feed wife, four children, old mother. But I giving good customer service. You tell other people about Hoshi-yaar, okay?”
His eyes twinkled when he raised his palms in front of his chest as if he was blessing the boyfriend. Or surrendering, like the gangsters did in the movies when the police arrived with guns drawn, I thought, suppressing a grin. Tonight Hoshiyaar was a harmless, jolly old fellow trying to make a living, getting by in his own fashion. The honest broker — Hoshiyaar, too, was good at his act.
“How much?” Miss India demanded. It was clear she was the boss. Hoshiyaar acted as if he hadn’t heard and continued talking.
“We have to leave tonight,” the boyfriend said, sealing their fate.
I stepped up from where I was making like a shadow behind Hoshiyaar and named a sum four times the official rate before the old man could hazard a price. Leather Jacket’s mouth fell open a little. He was a got-to, must-have type — let him pay through the nose. I could feel Hoshiyaar staring at me but I ignored him.
“That’s bullshit, yaar!” Leather Jacket finally bleated, his eyes skittering over Miss India’s face. She made an impatient sound then raised her perfect eyebrows in my direction, noticing me for the first time. I forced myself to hold her glance.
“Can’t you lower it a little? It’s too much, bhayya—” Her voice went all breathy and pleading. Brother, she had called me. If only she knew. The things I wanted to do to her were far from brotherly.
“Not too much.” I shook my head. “You want to go today night — that is rate. Tomorrow night different rate. You ask anyone, he and me are not like others, only less profit we are taking.” I could feel Hoshiyaar beside me stiffening but I didn’t look at him to see how he felt about my promoting myself to partner.
“Private superdeluxe bus — AC, semisleeper, free water bottle, free cinema,” I continued, and I swear she was amused by my persistence. Not that she deigned to smile or anything but there was something softer in her look, something almost admiring, I thought.
I tore my eyes off her mouth and turned to the boyfriend.
“Bus parked very close to here — you board without problem.
Where you and madam are staying?” I asked casually.
“Anand—” Leather Jacket blurted out like the fool he was — and Miss India clutched at his arm in warning.
“We’re checking out in the morning,” she said quickly.
I glanced at Hoshiyaar. If he was as surprised as I was, he didn’t show it.
One would have thought anyone who looked and dressed like these two would choose a better hotel. Anand Vikas was a low-class, dirt-cheap, zero-star cowshed on Chuna Mandi managed by a tobacco-chewing degenerate who sometimes let me go up to an empty room and watch a whore performing on her customer next door through a secret hole drilled into the wall. The manager charged by the hour — same as the whore.
Hoshiyaar jumped in: “We’re giving good service. No standing in line for you — we bring tickets to your hotel,” he said. I’d asked where they were staying as a bluff. I was horny and curious and had some vague idea of stalking Miss India in the morning. But what was Hoshiyaar up to?
“There’s no need — we’ll come back. Just tell us where,” Miss India said quickly. She sounded nervous all of a sudden.
“No tension, no tension — I bringing to hotel in Paharganj,” Hoshiyaar insisted. Leather Jacket was shifting from foot to foot. “Ticket delivery only in hotel,” Hoshiyaar repeated, his voice still silky-smooth.
She looked down at her high heels and my stomach clenched. Hoshiyaar had botched it — she was going to walk away from the deal and I wouldn’t see her again.
“Don’t worry, be happy,” I chimed in, and her head shot up at that. A lopsided little smile came and went.
“When you come to the hotel, ask the manager to call the room and we’ll come downstairs to collect. Understood?” she said finally, addressing Hoshiyaar, ignoring me once more. It dawned on me that whatever was waiting in Shimla for these two must be life-and-death. They were a little too desperate, too willing to pay the price. Miss India was mixed up in some shady number-two dhanda, the kind of rich-people’s business that wasn’t exactly legal but never got anyone marched off in handcuffs.