A notification pops up on my phone:
“Strait of Hormuz remains shut…”
I close the news app with more vigour than necessary. True, the graveyard shift for a constable waiting in a prowl car is boring—until a distress call comes in. But not boring enough to keep reading the same war headlines recycled across the media.
Another ping: a picture of Earth captured by Artemis 11. I am fascinated. I linger over it, curious. Maybe if they narrowed the lens of the camera to a particular point, they could uncover me in the shadows.
I wonder if a day would ever come when we have people on the moon? Will they be all idealistic or will they get corrupted, too?
Parthiv, my night-shift partner, knocks softly on the window, opens the door, and slides in. His phone pressed to his ear, he speaks in monosyllables.
He clicks it shut and turns to me. “That was my friend in the vigilance department. He said Shetty is on a list of corrupt officers.”
“Why am I not surprised? He takes bribes even from petty pickpockets. I’m ashamed to be under such a crooked boss. I wonder why he isn’t suspended.”
“I think they only have complaints and suspicions—no solid evidence.”
We sit in the dark on a street without lights, listening to quiet music.
“I’m hungry. I hate bringing a dabba from home, but with all the eateries closed due to the cylinder scarcity, there’s no other option. Even the dabbas will soon cease. My wife’s already whining that our gas will last only a week.” Parthiv opens his box, stares bleakly at the poha, and desolately spoons in a mouthful.
“Poha is better than these. The cylinder at my house is already empty.” I gesture toward the plastic cover holding two bananas with blackened skin, peel one, and bite off a piece.
That’s when my phone rings. Informer 3 flashes on the display. I quickly swallow, gulp down some water, and answer.
A disembodied voice murmurs, “I just saw a yellow truck pass by. No licence plate. No headlights, no taillights. It turned onto the road leading to an isolated area. I got a look at the driver—he’s the wheelman for the B Gang. I’ve shared the location.”
The phone goes dead.
I punch the location into Google Maps, kick the car to life, and tear down the road. Parthiv relays the information to the control room.
The route takes us far from the city, ending on a deserted road. A barely visible dirt track snakes into the dark jungle of scrub and thorny bushes.
We exchange a look. Parthiv gives a slight nod, checking the holster of his pistol.
The car growls low, moving with quiet urgency as we leave the tar road. Trees crowd the pathway. No sign of civilisation—no houses, no lights, not even the faint glow of a village. Only the occasional banyan tree looming suddenly in the dark.
Then, faint scattered lights shimmer on the horizon.
I ease the car into a crawl, keeping the engine hushed, edging toward the glow. We reach a clearing deep in the jungle.
A feebly lit warehouse stands there, its dilapidated structure throwing jagged shadows across the ground. The yellow truck is parked in front, its back open.
Workmen stoop under heavy loads, carrying objects into the warehouse. Two men—clearly the bosses—sit on a rickety bench, directing them, their torches cutting paths through the dark.
Parthiv and I share a tacit glance. I kill the engine, slip out, and vanish into the shadows. I turn back to see him hurriedly typing into his phone.
I trudge along the wooded edge, searching for a vantage point. A massive banyan tree looms, its branches stretching almost to the warehouse. Perfect cover.
I crouch behind the trunk and watch.
A faint light falls on the duo at the bench, and I almost cry aloud in shock. One of them is Shetty—our crooked boss. He barks a command. His partner jumps up, circles the truck, and swings open its back doors completely. Torchlight spills inside as he begins counting.
In the dim glow, a workman rolls out a heavy object into another’s arms.
In a heartbeat, I understand. They’re hoarding LPG cylinders. I count nearly fifty still stacked inside.
I creep closer, snapping photos on my phone—Shetty with the cylinders. Shetty with the workers. Shetty with the stock. Finally, from a strategic angle, I capture the entire setup.
Afraid the flash may have been noticed, I hurry back to the patrol car. No loud shouts follow me. No gunfire.
Parthiv silently opens the window and whispers that a convoy is on its way. I whisper back that Shetty is caught on camera, hand-in-glove with the villains. His face breaks into a wide smile.
