Young Writers Society

Alex stood there and thought about the situation. What do I do now? There was only one logical solution she could come up with, even though she doubted its effectiveness. So she turned around and started on her way to the police station.

She arrived at the police station after taking a little jog; she was wondering whether jogging was even worth it in this heat, but she decided that sooner was better than later. The police station wasn’t very appealing as there was littering all across the street in front of it, it was most likely because there were more serious matters to deal with on a daily basis than organising a group of volunteers to pick up rubbish. Rubbish was the least of India’s concern, even if the police wanted to establish a group to help clean the city, Alex doubted that they would get a lot of volunteers to make any progress at all.

The biggest problem India has, however, is corruption. The police, the government, corporations and even the leaders of India themselves are corrupt. It’s quite strange because the police are almost the same as a mafia, if you think about it hard enough; but in a way, they are worse than a normal mafia because there are no repercussions other than being killed or used a scapegoat for the press. Police officers dish out beatings and mutilate those who steal, they steal themselves ironically, and they help drug rings import and export drugs all across the world among other unspeakable activities. India is a special kind of poison on this earth. But hell, it is remarkably beautiful when you disregard everything else.

On her way to the station Alex thought that telling the police what happened was the only way there was any possibility she was getting her stuff back, no matter how much she doubted their capabilities. She simply did not have the resources.

She entered the station and walked straight over to the receptionist, she stood at the front desk for several minutes in silence as the receptionist typed away on his computer. She had been there a few weeks before to get the information about recent crimes in the area, so she was familiar about how things were done around there, including the fact that the receptionist was a huge asshole.

The receptionist was a man, unlike western stereotypes. A lot of jobs are done by men exclusively because of India’s obsession over masculinity, whilst only the feminine jobs are done by women such as running laundromats, fabric factories, selling clothes in stalls and only a handful more. Although, there are plenty of women who make it quite successful,  but most of those women leave India after a while.

The receptionist had made eye contact with Alex several times already, but he kept on typing away at his computer and lifted a finger every now and then to say “Almost done.” Alex stood quietly, waiting for him to finish his ‘work’.

Prick.

At her last visit she would inquire about how long she would have to wait and she was left waiting excruciatingly long before he was done. It seemed he made it his little game to leave tourists waiting longer the more they attempted to get his attention; it was most likely his only source of entertainment.

After ten minutes of standing in silence the receptionist got bored and asked her what she wanted.

“I’d like to see Detective Joshi if he is available.” Alex said.

Detective Aarav Joshi was the man who helped Alex gather the data for crimes in the area, as well as help her compile all the data into information that could be understood. This helped her see the pattern of the crimes in the area, although it did result in her becoming one of the statistics. She was also glad that she just so happened to be complying with one of the very few good cops in the precinct.

The receptionist nodded and picked up the phone to let Det. Joshi know that there was a white woman asking for him. After a moment or two of clarifying he put the phone down and told Alex that he’s ready to see her.

She walked down a rundown hallway until she saw a door with the title ‘Det. Aarav Joshi’. She knocked on the door and heard some rustling. She also heard the clanging of a bottle or two that she suspected was liquor that he was trying to hide. He called her in.

Alex opened the door to an average looking Indian man other than being unusually paler than most. He also had a lazy eye that Alex found distracting at first but eventually got used to. He was sitting at his desk, day old stubble and ruffled hair indicated that he hadn’t bathed today, a blanket on the floor added that he probably slept the night at the office. But what gave away the fact that he slept at the office the most was because he had red sleep lines all across his forehead from falling asleep on his arms. He looked at Alex and gave her a sleepy smile.

“And what may I do for the FBI today?” he said, a little slurred.