Read Online Mumbai Noir by Altaf Tyrewala - Free Book Online

say, “there’d be many more old women with knives in their bellies and young girls lying raped in alleys. We Ramdularis help release the beasts you men keep locked up inside you.” With that she’d light her only cigarette of the night, lean out of the auto, and leave a trail of smoke like a sad, small cirrus cloud.
    Over the course of the month Rahim started to simmer. It wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. But it wasn’t a feeling he could help either. Rahman noticed it. But the few times he attempted to talk about it with Rahim, an invisible door was slammed shut in his face. Rahman felt scared for Rahim. They had never been this far apart before. “The next time the cops come for us, if, God forbid, they do,” he had told Rahim, “promise me you’ll allow me to go.” Surprisingly for Rahman, Rahim readily nodded. He even looked relieved. Rahim had not forgotten how he had smarted when that subinspector, Doglekar, had abused his community. Rahman had it in his heart to forgive and move on. Rahim possessed no such reservoir inside himself that he could dip into. He signed a thank you to his brother and got up quickly so Rahman wouldn’t see the film that had spread over his eyes.
    The brothers decided to carry on with their normal life despite the Borivali blast. Disappearing now would make the cops unnecessarily suspicious. Not like they needed a reason anyways. Rahman stopped by the Yari Road masjid thrice to pray that day. He felt confident God was having a change of heart.
    But the next morning Rahim didn’t return.
    Rahman, though restless, his heart beating like the drums of Moharram, stayed put at home. The smell of death returned stronger than ever to his nostrils. He tried to shrug it off, talking to himself, telling himself that the stench must be from all the dead fish being dried in the fishing gaon. But his voice couldn’t convince his ears.
    On the second day there was a sharp rap on the door. Rahman’s breath froze; he didn’t respond. The knocking continued. A voice, scathing with authority, called out, “Rahim?” Rahman clenched his eyes shut. A part of him wanted to know where Rahim was, and perhaps this voice could tell him. But the other part of him told him to not expose himself. What if this was a trick, aimed at blowing their cover? “Damn the plan, damn me, why did I ever listen to Rahim?” Rahman muttered into his cold sweating fist.
    On the third flurry of knocks, Rahman, shaking, opened the window. To see Doglekar outside. Rahman’s throat went dry when the subinspector, his eyes hidden behind cheap plastic shades, pointed at the lock on the door outside and asked, “Trying to avoid the landlord, haan?” Rahman mustered a weak smile and nodded. Doglekar handed him the license and said, “You left it at the thaana that night.” As Rahman gently took it from Doglekar, the policeman seemed to peer at him as if searching for a piece that didn’t fit.
    And then he turned and left.
    That night Rahman emerged, feverish and fearful, gagging on the imagined smell of rotting flesh. His cache of ittar had vaporized awhile back. He now needed some sea air to wash the stink away. Worse, all the Bisleri bottles inside the room had already filled with his piss, and now he needed to shit and get something to eat. To get his mind off Rahim, he tried to remember the taste of daal and rice. All he’d eaten in two days was stale pav and dried chilis. He took the beach path out, so that he’d be seen by as few people as possible.
    Returning with a rice plate packed in flimsy plastic, the thought of dining alone was starting to depress him when he saw her at the mouth of Khoja Gully … Langdi, leaning slightly on the raised footpath, as if waiting for him.
    Langdi
    Rahman inhabited Langdi on the third day. He had tried not to, but he had run out of money, and the rickshaw owner had sent him a warning to drive or go fuck his mother. Missing Rahim desperately, he gave in and for the first