In each puddle of light, like a morality play, the homeless lay on carefully laid out bits of cardboard or blanket. The ‘new middle class’ of Mumbai,… - Shamini Flint

“What are you trying to say?” “Well, she’s due to get married and she runs away from home…what else is one supposed to think?”
“Are the Singapore police trained to leap to conclusions, Inspector?”
Tanvir’s ironic remark was a little too close to the bone. Still, one did have to examine the obvious before indulging in colourful speculation.
“Embellish your theory, Inspector,” said Tara Singh. His voice was as sharp as the knives with stiletto points that Singh sometimes found embedded in the chests of victims.

He could have added that many bodies went unclaimed because relatives could not afford a funeral. Men and women left their villages to find work in the cities and were far from loved ones when some accident carried them away. And of course, there were those who were killed in the sudden outbreaks of communal violence – it was difficult to find the family of these victims, many of whom might have died at the same time, escaped to their villages or be too traumatised to search for the missing.

“Washing machines?” Singh was baffled. “Any electrical item. Everyone is wanting one to show off. Even if they still give the clothes to the dhobi wallah. He irons also, you see,” she said, making a vigorous motion with her right hand. Mrs. Singh – the method actor. So technology had not yet mastered all the skills of that wiry man in the dirty lunghi with a pile of clothes on his head. Singh was suddenly glad. To his surprise, he realised that India was getting under his skin. Already, he was feeling defensive about the old way of doing things.