Omair Ahmad: Delhi Noir

Delhi readers will be well acquainted with this volume’s Blue Line buses and Mughal tombs, and also with most of its contributors. But this is the first time they will see original works of fiction by such a varied, talented group of authors in a single book. Non-Indian readers will be unfamiliar with many of the names in this book, which will hopefully offer them a rare taste of a different type of Indian writing: literature that fascinates simply because it’s well written — not exotic. For these readers, we have provided a glossary of the Hindi, Urdu, and Punjabi words used in Delhi Noir . It will hopefully make the richness of Indian language and culture accessible to an international audience without compromising the quality and flow of these stories.

Hirsh Sawhney

Delhi, India

May 2009

Ashram

The call, when it came, was unexpected, but then most calls in her life had been. She’d been looking up a number in her cell phone when it suddenly started blinking and vibrating. Her thumb punched the answer button before she had time to process things, and the thin, tinny voice said, “Suhasini? Suhasini?”

The little screen showed Sunny’s name, but she didn’t really feel like raising the phone to her ear. Even in the afternoon it was too early in the day for Sunny. Irritated, more at herself than anything else, she punched the speakerphone button and cut the caller’s desperate “Hello?” with her own voice. “Tell me, Sunny, you need money?”

For a moment there was no answer, and she thought he’d hung up on her. Sunny had never hesitated to say anything but a hurried “Yes” when asked if he needed money. It was what made him such a good snitch.

But his voice came through again, hesitant now. “Suhasini?”

“Yes, baba, Suhasini,” she said, speaking to him as if he were a small child. “Damnit, you’re calling me, you should know who you’ve dialed. Or are you stoned again?” He might have been one of her more reliable informants, but this didn’t mean she liked him.

“Listen, Suhasini, Triloki gave me something for you.”

“So?” She thought it was odd that Triloki would give

Sunny anything for her. Triloki knew where her office was if he needed to send anything. He’d been her senior partner, after all, until she’d found him blackmailing one of their clients.

They hadn’t been in touch for the last two years despite the fact that the private investigator community in Delhi was such a small one. Her annoyance with Sunny became one pitch higher. Sunny had always been a resource for Suhas-ini. She was the one who had found him stealing the drugs from the hospital and decided that he was better use as an informant than in jail. It was bad form to tap somebody else’s snitch. It made the informants uncomfortable and more nervous than they already were. But Triloki had always taken liberties; she liked to think it was his way of flirting with her. Maybe she had been eager for that, for him to cross boundaries, to be more than just business partners, which was why the betrayal had hurt so badly.

“He said to get it to you quick. Gave it to me yesterday.

Said it had to do with Arjun Singh.”

“The politician?”

“No, no, the collector — you know, old things, what do you call them, un-teek things...”

Un-teek? she thought, until the sounds rearranged themselves. Antique . Arjun Singh, the antique collector. She’d heard of him.

“The one who lives near Nizamuddin?” she asked.

“Closer to Ashram, in a haveli near Hotel Rajdoot.”

“Yeah, yeah, near the railway station, not the dargah. Why don’t you bring it over and stop pissing yourself?”

She’d been pushing him since the mention of Triloki’s name, but even she knew when she’d gone too far. This wasn’t her usual style. Detective work, like all good intelligence, relied on confidence building. You didn’t build much with rudeness and insults.

“Busy, I’m busy. You want it, you come yourself.” His voice was brusque, the whine gone from it in his attempt at manliness.

“Right, right,” she tried to be soft, but it was too late now, and after some useless information that was a waste of her time, he hung up. She would catch him for lunch, and maybe he would speak after being fed. It was only much later that she realized that he hadn’t asked for money for the information, or even hinted at it.

Had she realized this immediately, it might have saved her from something, but then again, maybe not.

Arjun Singh rang right afterwards, almost as if they’d coordinated it.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Ms. Das?” the voice on the other side said. The language was impeccable, intonation precise. She could hear money, great amounts of it, in that voice. Old money. This was a voice nurtured by wealth and generations of connections.

“Speaking,” she said, trying to clear the crudeness that had come from speaking with Sunny from her own voice.

“Ms. Das, I hear you are the best detective in Delhi,” the voice said.

“The agencies are always the best,” she found herself saying. “They have the resources. And Jaidev Triloki has a good reputation.” The last bit surprised her as it came out, and she wondered why she was still defending the man’s reputation.

There was an intake of a breath, almost a sigh. “I am old-fashioned, madam, and I prefer to employ people rather than agencies.” There was a pause, another intake, another sigh.

“And I’m afraid Mr. Triloki can no longer help me. He’s the one who suggested I contact you.”

What the fuck? she thought, but the words that came out were professional. “Could you tell me who you are, sir, and why you need a private detective?”

“My name is Arjun Singh, Ms. Das. I am a collector of time.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Singh,” she replied sarcastically, “I can’t help you find time.”

There was a moment of silence, and she cursed herself inwardly. She couldn’t afford to speak to a client, and a potentially rich one at that, like this. Most of the old clients had gone with Triloki, and new ones had been hard to find.

When Arjun Singh broke the silence she could hear the edge to his voice. It wasn’t anger as much as strain. Something was riding him hard. “Only God can give us time, and He is hard to find these days,” he sighed. “But I believe you can help me.”

She bit down on the next sarcastic reply that came rushing to her lips, and only said, “How, exactly, can I help you, Mr. Singh?”

“I need help finding someone. I would like to speak to you about it in person, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” Suhasini said. “My office is in CR Park—”

“Could you meet me at my house this evening?” he interrupted. And as she hesitated, a note of pleading entered his voice. “Please, it’s terribly important.”

And somehow she couldn’t say no. She jotted down Purani Kothi, behind Hotel Rajdoot, although she didn’t need to, not after Sunny’s call.

The address confirmed he was rich, to own a whole building like that, but also that he wasn’t one with a taste for the flashy. The area was old, and built-in, with such tangled alleyways that she had always referred to it as Jalebi Central. It was twisted up, like the orange-colored sweets they sold there.

The only case she’d ever investigated in that area was for the government, or at least that was what she had assumed. Triloki had been with the Intelligence Bureau before, and they had received a number of cases through that route. Though he’d never explicitly told her that was who it was for, and payment came in tax-free bundles of cash. He’d always been the one introducing her to these things, and she’d walked right along, Mary’s fucking little lamb.