Narcopolis

They left him tied up, retching dry when there was nothing left to vomit. They left him on the floor with the door open and they went to Shuklaji Street, stopping for jalebis, which they wolfed from newspapers, the jalebis unusually yellow today, egg-yellow and very sweet, hot from the deep fry. They stood in the crowd, three happy men working their jaws, saying nothing while they ate. Salim ate his from the outside in, saving for the end the knotted bits at the centre, where the sugar syrup was thickest. After the jalebis, they had a glass each of masala tea, and they were ready. They borrowed a cab from Kaanya’s brother and drove to Khalid’s house. They waited until his son came home in his blue shorts and shirt, his big school bag full of books. They picked him up and put him in the car and — this was Pasina’s idea — they left the school bag on the sidewalk in front of the house.

Salim’s friends drove the boy, nine years old, asthmatic, too well behaved to be frightened, to Pune, about six or seven hours away on the national highway. They checked into a guest house on MG Road and for the next few days they went to the movies, two, sometimes three screenings a day. They saw Star with Kumar Gaurav, music by Biddu. No good, Pasina told Salim on the phone. Budhu should stick to what he knows, Tina Charles and disco. He’s useless when it comes to Hindi. The songs are pure dinchak, no heart, yaar. Even the bachcha was bored.

‘Biddu.’

‘Arre, yaar, Sallu, I know his name. Budhu, Biddu, he’s still a fool.’

They saw Desh Premee, with Kaanya’s favourite actor, and Salim’s: Amitabh Bachchan. Amitji with a meesha and what a meesha, said Pasina, like a skinny dead caterpillar on his upper lip, even Kaanya was disappointed. Pasina’s one-line review was categorical: Believe it, total flop it will be because of the choothiya moustache. They saw Namak Halal and Shakti, both starring Amitabh with Smita Patil, whom Pasina called a ‘dusky up-and-comer’, a phrase he’d found in a film magazine. The two movies received good reviews from the kidnappers. Even the bachcha liked, Pasina said. Still a kid, can’t stand up straight and piss, but you should have seen him looking at Smitaji: his eyes were like headlights.

Salim called Khalid a day or two after his son had been taken, called him a few times a day, at strange hours, with updates about the boy. ‘Bachcha has asthma, poor fellow, he needs constant care.’ ‘Looks like your boy takes after you, stubborn as hell.’ ‘Eats a lot, too much, you ask me.’ Khalid said in reply: ‘Please.’ It was all he had time for before Salim ended the call. So when, five days after the boy was taken, the kidnappers gave him a chance to talk, Khalid had a lot to say, and it took a little less than a week for Rashid to reopen his shop.

Chapter Eight A Chemical Understanding