Having accidentally watched ten minutes of a head-waggling, hip-shaking, breast-jiggling extravaganza on television, the inspector wasn’t surprised t… - Shamini Flint

“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.

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.

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."