Shamini Flint Quotes

“How’s the investigation going – any light at the end of the tunnel?” “Of an oncoming train.”

The fact of the matter was that he was spoilt. Singapore was such a pleasant place to hunt down murderers. It was easy to get around, hardly any traffic. The killers had nowhere to run, the island was so small. The air was clean and the trees green so his health didn’t deteriorate as he pursued his vocation. He stared sadly at a dusty spindly tree surrounded by a protective cordon of railings. Here, even the trees were in prison.

That was probably the most truthful thing that Tanvir had said to him yet. Wherever one was in the world, it seemed that it was difficult to bring the rich and powerful to book. It was enough to turn anyone into a communist – as long as it didn’t mean he had to share his cigarettes and beer.

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.

Sikhs seem to have done quite well in India," said the inspector provocatively, looking around the gleaming office with its panoramic views of the brown smog hanging over the city. "Don't be fooled," said Tara. "This is just window dressing. There are Sikh figureheads everywhere including that Manmohan Singh. But if you look deeper, you will see the truth!" "And what is that?" asked the inspector. "We're second-class citizens. They deny us our rights in Punjab. What about water rights? What about Chandigarh? What about our language? They attack our places of worship and massacre our citizens ..." Tara Singh was a man who preferred to have the last word. "You foreigners," he said. "You don't understand India.

Do you think of yourself as an Indian, Inspector?" "I suppose so. In Singapore, with so many different races living cheek to cheek, it's hard to forget your roots." "Outsiders think that all Indians are one big happy family. But within the country we know better.

If they’d been in Singapore, he’d have thrown an army of investigators at the place, established once and for all whether there was a nexus between the factory and the illness at the slum. He didn’t have that option in India.

Self-immolation was a peculiarly anticipatory gesture for someone who would eventually be cremated and her ashes scattered in a river. Mrs. Singh wondered whether the family would take the ashes to the Punjab or whether a river closer at hand would suffice. ... She tried to imagine for a moment what [her husband] would do when she died.
Probably chuck her ashes into the nearest monsoon drain and head to a coffee shop for a cold beer.

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.

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.

The inspector wondered whether ‘those people’ really had immunity or just died at a higher rate than the wealthier denizens of the city. He suspected the latter.

“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.

It's impossible to run a business in this town. Corruption, nepotism, cronyism – you name it, it's here." "So was Ashu Kaur an example of nepotism?" "Because she was Tara Singh's granddaughter? Actually, she was a good worker, smart, knew her stuff. And she didn't mind getting her hands dirty." "What does that mean?" "You're not from India, are you?" "Singapore." The American calmed down immediately. "Now there's a place I like to do business. Clean, organised, honest, efficient and no slums on the doorstep.

The American stroked a long grey moustache. “They said this is the other economic powerhouse of Asia.” He snorted his derision. “In China things work.”
“But this is the world’s largest democracy,” protested Singh. “You’re not going to get the same kind of order as China.” The fat man closed his eyes for a moment – he couldn’t believe he was getting defensive about India and sounding like his wife to boot.
“I don’t think much of the democracy they got over here."