I ride to the police station on my Vespa scooter, across the market streets bustling with rickshaws and motorcycles. Along the way, I swivel my neck to look at all the young men I pass, hoping to find my son, Shaheen. He did not return home last night. I’ve checked with his friends although he doesn’t stay overnight at anyone’s place.
At my destination, a metal board on the squat one-story building says “Police Chowki, Saharanpur” in Hindi letters. Tendrils of a wild plant growing on the roof swoop down to frame the sign. Reddish-brown betel nut spittle streaks the walls like dried blood. Click here to read the full story.