Shamini Flint Quotes

The apartment building was tall and modern and would not have looked out of place in Singapore. In Singh’s view, it was extremely dull. “I thought that these rich Indians lived in mansions with one lot of stairs going up and another coming down and dancing girls everywhere?” “You watch too much TV.”

He knew from his own experience in Singapore that the further up the ladder one got, the more the job was about politics and statistics than actually dealing with crime.

"He gives away a lot of money to charity and supports Sikh causes.” “Maybe we could persuade him that I’m a Sikh cause.”

Temples are places of worship, not war. We should never have let separatists hole up in our gurdwaras.

“Indian police not at all good at keeping secrets.” “The press doesn’t seem to know that it’s murder,” said Singh reassuringly.

“Where’re you from?” “I’m a policeman from Singapore and a distant relative by marriage to Ashu’s family,” replied Singh. “I’ve been there – most boring place in the world, I think,” said Sameer. Singh grinned. This was a different opinion from that of the American boss.

Singh sat in front of a screen glumly, occasionally scrolling down with one grubby finger on a key. He hated computers. He especially hated information presented to him in such an impersonal way. There was no human touch here. Whatever opinions might have been found scribbled in the margins of a hard copy were nowhere to be found online.

So your certainty that Ashu was murdered by her family despite the absence of any evidence is based on your certainty that they were behind the assault on you for which you don't have any evidence either?"
Sameer was undaunted by the sarcasm. "It's your job to find evidence, Singh. I've just made it easy for you by identifying the murderers.

A shudder ran through the stout frame of the policeman. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a rat in Singapore. A few scrawny squirrels that looked a lot like rats and the occasional garden shrew – that was the sum of rodent life in his recent past. Inspector Singh, who prided himself on his familiarity with the dark fringes of society, realised that he’d been fooling himself. His Singaporean version was the Disney equivalent of the seedy side of life.

The inspector was suddenly reminded of his English literature classes as a teenager. The teacher dissecting Jane Austen while the boys looked bored and the girls swooned over Darcy. Certainly, there was enough pride and prejudice within this Sikh clan to write a number of sequels. Although Jane Austen had never felt the need to sully her books with premature death, or premature pregnancies for that matter.

“Eighty per cent of doctors in the United States are of Indian origin,” snapped Mrs. Singh, looking up from the computer for a moment to ensure that he was paying attention. “That can’t possibly be right,” protested Singh. “It says so right here,” said his wife, pointing a bony finger at the screen and basking in the blue light like an acolyte before a high priest. “Not everything you read on the Internet is true,” muttered Singh, addressing his remark to the skinny back in the flamboyant pink caftan.

If publicity was the lifeblood of terrorists, the week-long siege of the hotel had been a massive transfusion.

“You see,” whispered Mrs. Singh triumphantly, “we just had to find someone trustworthy.” She continued darkly, “In India, you can only trust your own kind. Blood calls to blood.”
One friendly Sikh and suddenly they were all part of the Sikh brotherhood.

The gods were fighting over her children but she could not seek the help of any of them. And she had so much choice. She had grown up a Buddhist, her ex-husband was alleged a Moslem when he died, her own sister was a Christian - so many options for salvation. [...] Chelsea would have settled for solace through prayer. But she did not believe that there was an invisible hand behind the farce that was her life's play. At the very least she did not believe in a benevolent God. [...] Surely it was better to lay the blame for the machinations of fate at the door of chance?

Singh could not help but think that, in a hospital, the proximity of death was best disguised — and the actual dead hidden. It was not conducive to the right frame of mind for recovery to have the morgue signposted for patients. It would be the medical equivalent of 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'.