sale.
And it goes on: a steady stream of petty and not so petty extortion, fraud and theft. She’ll have her lover locked away long before his fire is out: her pet. She’ll get her man.
The severity of the Firozabad rail disaster keeps the station busy for many weeks. Only when the missing have been officially presumed dead can Roopa Vish pick up the loose threads of her ongoing enquiries. Top of her list is Samjhoria Nankar’s complaint into mistreatment and non-payment of wages at the Chhaphandi brickworks: Vinod Yadav’s fiefdom and the Yadav family’s weakest link. She calls Vinod on the phone to discuss Samjhoria Nankar’s accusations.
‘Samjhoria and her family absconded months ago.’
‘Nonetheless,’ she says, hoping to haze him into an interview.
It works: they set a date and time. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
The way Vinod describes it over the phone you’d think the Chhaphandi brickworks was a well-run, bureaucratic operation. You only have to see the compound from the road to know the truth. You only have to smell the children hunkered down in the dirt, chipping away with hammers at chunks of coal, their faces black with coal dust.
A girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, her face smeared with dirt and sweat, walks right in front of Roopa’s car, oblivious. She is balancing four heavy bricks on her head. At the edge of the nearest kiln she lifts her burden up to her father, who’s standing on top of an enormous heap of dun-coloured bricks. Then a boy runs under Roopa’s wheels, so close that she stalls, braking to save his silly life.
It’s all for nothing, anyway. Vinod’s blown her out. He’s left his Komatsu driver, Rishi Ansari, to answer her questions. He’s waiting for her by an old shipping container – ‘MOYSE’ dimly visible on its flank – which marks the southern boundary of the compound. ‘He’s had to go back to hospital to have his stump seen to,’ Rishi tells her. A persistent infection, apparently. There are many persistent infections round here. Stillbirths. Mysterious goitres. Birth defects. All the kids round here have these funny little bibbly-bobbly heads. Mind you, Chhaphandi’s always had a reputation for inbreeding. What else is there to do?
Rishi is here to set her right about Vinod Yadav, his medical problems, his important schedule, the need to confirm all appointments on the day. ‘He can’t be at everybody’s beck and call, you know.’ As though she’d come round here to try and sell him something. He turns his back on her a moment, swinging the door shut on the old shipping container.
As the door swings, Roopa feels suddenly ill, as though something is roping itself around her chest. She staggers, tugged by some impossible, invisible muscle, away from the shipping container. Another tug.
Another. Is she going to be sick?
There is a stale, mealy smell on the air. She puts her hand to her nose, instantly revolted.
Rishi hasn’t noticed anything. He secures the doors with a padlock, chuntering on, and the smell fades, the tugging ceases. ‘The Nankars? Vanished. God knows where they went. I mean, this Lohardaga scum. Excuse me, but you know how it is.’ Rishi Ansari: a forgettable man with a forgettable face. ‘A complaint?’ He sucks his teeth. ‘No, don’t know nothing about that.’
The thing around her chest lets go. It slides away. Roopa feels its dry rasp as it relinquishes her and she has this nonsensical impression that she has been rescued from some terrible, unseen danger.
She drives out of the compound, still on edge, sucking up air in shallow, panting breaths. She is afraid the smell will come back. She is afraid it will surprise her again, in the car, on a bend in the road. It was one of those fundamentally wrong odours that lodges in the memory, ready to trigger a fierce, unpredictable reflex. But the air in the car stays clean, cut only with the tang of the vehicle’s own hot oil.
The following morning, Roopa lies in Yash
And it goes on: a steady stream of petty and not so petty extortion, fraud and theft. She’ll have her lover locked away long before his fire is out: her pet. She’ll get her man.
The severity of the Firozabad rail disaster keeps the station busy for many weeks. Only when the missing have been officially presumed dead can Roopa Vish pick up the loose threads of her ongoing enquiries. Top of her list is Samjhoria Nankar’s complaint into mistreatment and non-payment of wages at the Chhaphandi brickworks: Vinod Yadav’s fiefdom and the Yadav family’s weakest link. She calls Vinod on the phone to discuss Samjhoria Nankar’s accusations.
‘Samjhoria and her family absconded months ago.’
‘Nonetheless,’ she says, hoping to haze him into an interview.
It works: they set a date and time. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
The way Vinod describes it over the phone you’d think the Chhaphandi brickworks was a well-run, bureaucratic operation. You only have to see the compound from the road to know the truth. You only have to smell the children hunkered down in the dirt, chipping away with hammers at chunks of coal, their faces black with coal dust.
A girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, her face smeared with dirt and sweat, walks right in front of Roopa’s car, oblivious. She is balancing four heavy bricks on her head. At the edge of the nearest kiln she lifts her burden up to her father, who’s standing on top of an enormous heap of dun-coloured bricks. Then a boy runs under Roopa’s wheels, so close that she stalls, braking to save his silly life.
It’s all for nothing, anyway. Vinod’s blown her out. He’s left his Komatsu driver, Rishi Ansari, to answer her questions. He’s waiting for her by an old shipping container – ‘MOYSE’ dimly visible on its flank – which marks the southern boundary of the compound. ‘He’s had to go back to hospital to have his stump seen to,’ Rishi tells her. A persistent infection, apparently. There are many persistent infections round here. Stillbirths. Mysterious goitres. Birth defects. All the kids round here have these funny little bibbly-bobbly heads. Mind you, Chhaphandi’s always had a reputation for inbreeding. What else is there to do?
Rishi is here to set her right about Vinod Yadav, his medical problems, his important schedule, the need to confirm all appointments on the day. ‘He can’t be at everybody’s beck and call, you know.’ As though she’d come round here to try and sell him something. He turns his back on her a moment, swinging the door shut on the old shipping container.
As the door swings, Roopa feels suddenly ill, as though something is roping itself around her chest. She staggers, tugged by some impossible, invisible muscle, away from the shipping container. Another tug.
Another. Is she going to be sick?
There is a stale, mealy smell on the air. She puts her hand to her nose, instantly revolted.
Rishi hasn’t noticed anything. He secures the doors with a padlock, chuntering on, and the smell fades, the tugging ceases. ‘The Nankars? Vanished. God knows where they went. I mean, this Lohardaga scum. Excuse me, but you know how it is.’ Rishi Ansari: a forgettable man with a forgettable face. ‘A complaint?’ He sucks his teeth. ‘No, don’t know nothing about that.’
The thing around her chest lets go. It slides away. Roopa feels its dry rasp as it relinquishes her and she has this nonsensical impression that she has been rescued from some terrible, unseen danger.
She drives out of the compound, still on edge, sucking up air in shallow, panting breaths. She is afraid the smell will come back. She is afraid it will surprise her again, in the car, on a bend in the road. It was one of those fundamentally wrong odours that lodges in the memory, ready to trigger a fierce, unpredictable reflex. But the air in the car stays clean, cut only with the tang of the vehicle’s own hot oil.
The following morning, Roopa lies in Yash
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