Blood Money
“And we may have trouble.’ Trilok hooked the phone under his shoulder while he grappled with his breakfast, a dosa – a large crispy rice pancake – bought from a stall. He tore a piece off and put it in his mouth.
‘Trouble?’ said the voice at the other end.
Trilok swallowed. ‘When I went to see the family there were these western kids nosing about. They’re aid workers or something. You know what they can be like. They have no idea about our way of life but they think they can interfere.’ He walked across a stretch of grass, past a sign saying that the park and the white, domed building behind it had been constructed in 1913. He picked his usual bench and sat down.
‘Don’t worry, Trilok. I’ll be on the lookout.’ There was a pause. ‘Enjoy your breakfast.’ Trilok cut the call. The past twelve hours had been exhausting. Finally, things seemed to be going in the right direction. He’d spent a gruelling afternoon talking to Mootama and Naresh, patiently explaining that all was not lost.
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