by Tarquin Hall
“You had the same frustrations on the ‘Pickles’ Sansi case. And look how that turned out.”
Puri was referring to his capture eight months ago of the leader of the notorious Sansi clan, who had been wanted on murder and racketeering charges.
The official version was that Singh had single-handedly tracked him down. In fact, Flush had cloned the mobile phone signature of Pickles’s mistress, an exotic dancer known as Lovely. Using SMS text messages, the detective had then lured the elusive but unsuspecting don to a midnight dalliance at the Raj Palace. Pickles had arrived at the five-star hotel expecting to enjoy, in the words of one of the detective’s saucy missives, “the full thali, big boy!” Instead, he had found himself clapped in handcuffs.
Given the Sansi clan’s fearsome reputation, Puri had not wanted his name associated with the case and allowed the inspector to take all the glory. The coup had helped greatly to further Singh’s career.
“So tell me,” said the detective as he finished his meal and pushed away his plate. “That ‘ash’ found at the scene? You’re in receipt of the lab report?”
“It turned out to be ground charcoal,” answered Singh.
If this information surprised or excited Puri, he didn’t show it.
“And what about your laughing gas theory? Any progress?”
“Nitrous oxide – that’s its proper, scientific name,” answered Singh. “It’s easy to get hold of. Doctors, dentists, all kinds of food manufacturers use it. One other thing. I talked with a chemist friend of mine and he told me the term ‘laughing gas’ is misleading. It doesn’t make people burst out laughing automatically. But it does make them feel extremely happy. And under its influence people will sometimes get the giggles.”
“That could explain why Shivraj Sharma was the only one not to do laughter and feel like he could not move,” murmured Puri to himself.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” added Singh quickly. “People under the influence of nitrous oxide are generally susceptible to suggestion.”
“Very good work, Inspector!” declared Puri before making a note of this.
Singh was struck for a brief moment by a sense of accomplishment. But this quickly passed.
♦
While Puri was breakfasting at the Gym, a couple of Tube-light’s boys were keeping vigil across the street from Professor Pandey’s house in West Shalimar Bagh.
Shashi and Zia were disguised as ditchdigger wallahs, a cover they often adopted because of its simplicity and the anonymity it provided. A couple of picks and shovels and some especially dirty clothes were all that were required for props. The persona was uncomplicated, too: looking downtrodden and bored, they stared in awe at fancy cars passing by and adopted heavy Bihari accents, using phrases like “Kaisan bha?” and “Jai Ram ji ki.”
The sight of such wretched, pitifully paid laborers toiling on construction sites was common across the city, and residents paid them little heed. Delhiites had also become inured to their streets and pavements being constantly dug up. There was not a neighborhood, sector or colony where new gas lines, telecommunications cables, water mains and sewage pipes were not being laid. Trenches with corresponding piles of dirt running alongside them were as common as they had once been on the Western Front, and there was no point complaining about it. As everyone knew, Delhi’s three municipal corporations were utterly corrupt, and the police were in the pay of contractors who worked without proper licenses and in violation of basic safety standards. Even the wealthiest of Delhi’s residents had learned to save their breath and ink.
Indeed, only one of Professor Pandey’s neighbors had raised an objection when, at six o’clock yesterday morning, Shashi and Zia had started digging up the pavement outside his house. Major Randhawa – according to the brass plaque on the gatepost, formerly of the Rajput Regiment, Indian Army – had come charging out into the street in a sleeveless vest and, without so much as a ‘good morning’ or ‘sorry to bother you’, started cursing Tubelight’s operatives as if they were a couple of street dogs. He’d also seen fit to make repeated, unflattering remarks about their mothers and sisters.
In response, Shashi and Zia had struck the right balance of crushed subservience and gormlessness, and muttered something about a water-pressure gauge and working for a local contractor.
This had prompted Major Randhawa to refer unfavorably to the contractor’s mother and daughters.
“After I get hold of him he’ll not father any more children!” he’d shouted.
Pretending to be illiterate, Shashi had shown the gentleman a mobile number written down on a grimy piece of paper and told him that it belonged to their employer.
Grabbing it from him, Major Randhawa had stormed back inside his house to call the contractor – and, presumably, threaten him with a swift and brutal castration.
Shashi and Zia had not heard another peep out of him after that and, within a couple of hours, dug themselves a nice, sizable hole.
They had spent the rest of yesterday tailing Pandey, who had left at ten o’clock in a car driven by his elderly chauffeur. He had reached Delhi University thirty minutes later, remained there all day, gone and done some shopping and returned home at six.
Another of Tubelight’s boys had taken the overnight shift, which had passed without incident. Then at six this morning, Shashi and Zia had returned, refreshed and filthy again, for another day on the job.
By now, it was almost eight.
There was still no sign of Major Randhawa. But that was hardly surprising given that Tubelight, the contractor, had threatened to cut off his water, electricity and phone lines if he didn’t simmer down.
As for Professor Pandey, he had been up for an hour and was engaged in his ablutions. The sounds of him clearing his throat and exhaling through his nostrils, which were amplified by the tiled walls of his small bathroom, could be heard clearly out in the street.
Shashi and Zia carried on shoveling some dirt, smoking bidis and discussing the physical assets of their favorite Bollywood actresses.
“Katrina Kaif is as thin as a grasshopper,” said Shashi as they kept a surreptitious eye on the house across the way. “No meat on the bones, brother. For me it is Vidya Balan. Have you seen those eyes? Wah!”
He broke into a rendition of ‘Tu Cheez Bath Hai Mast Mast’.
♦
From the Gym, Puri drove to Basant Lane, where he rendezvoused with Tubelight at nine o’clock.
The operative had been busy finding out all he could about Professor Pandey and archaeologist Shivraj Sharma – “putting them under the scanner,” in the detective’s parlance. Servants, drivers, neighbors and street sweepers had been consulted and bribed for gossip and information.
He had the following to report:
“Sharma’s wife died two years back in a car accident. Son was also injured. In a wheelchair, lives at home. Sharma’s a strict Brahmin: servants aren’t allowed in the kitchen. He fired one last month for drinking from one of his glasses. A Brahmin cook prepares the meals. Sharma’s very religious. A long-standing VHP member.” VHP stood for Vishwa Hindu Parishad, a right-wing organization that sought to turn India into a solely Hindu nation.
“And Pandey?” asked Puri.
“Nothing unusual, Boss. Eccentric – obviously. Always jolly. Never married. Lived with his mummy until she died last year. One thing: his servants – cook, cleaner, driver – all left last week. No one knows why. His current driver is a replacement.”
They discussed plans for breaking into Professor Pandey’s house to have a look around, but decided they needed a clearer picture of his schedule first.
“Tell your boys to keep him in their sights,” instructed the detective. “This laughing professor is involved somehow. Of that much I am certain.”
Tubelight’s phone rang. It was Shashi, reporting that Pandey had left the house and was on his way to the Garden of Five Senses, where he was due to hold his Laughter Memorial for Dr. Jha.
“While he is
so occupied, I will take a look round his office at Delhi University. See what all I can turn up,” said the detective.
♦
Puri drove through Civil Lines, where the British East India Company stationed its army before the War of Independence of 1847, to Delhi University. He passed the British Viceregal Lodge Estate with its whitewashed pillars and rose garden, now home to the Faculty of Science, and soon reached the School of Electrical Engineering.
A gaggle of male and female students milled around outside, joking and flirting. The detective made his way up the steps of the building, catching strains of Hindi rap playing on a mobile phone and snippets of current Delhi jargon – “What’s the funda, dude?” “He’s one of those art frat types!” “Nice half-pants!”
Inside, the main corridor was empty save for a couple of students walking toward him. He asked them for Professor Pandey’s office and was directed to the third door on the right.
While he waited for the corridor to empty, he read the notices pinned to the board. One announced the next topic of discussion at the debating society – ‘Can India afford to be an ally of the U.S.?’; another appealed for the ‘person or persons who removed the human skeleton from the biology lab to return it forthwith’.
The detective, whose key chain contained a pick and a set of tension wrenches, had little trouble opening the lock to Professor Pandey’s office.
The room was small but orderly, the shelves crowded with reference books and binders, the in-tray brimming with uncorrected exam papers. Puri opened drawers, searched the filing cabinet and sifted through the rubbish bin.
He then spent a few minutes reading Pandey’s notes for an upcoming lecture on signal processing.
“Signals can be either analog, in which case the signal varies continuously according to the information, or digital, in which case the signal varies according to a series of discrete values representing the information. For analog signals, signal processing may involve the amplification and filtering of audio signals for audio equipment or the modulation and demodulation of signals for telecommunications. For digital signals…”
The detective could feel his eyes glazing over and placed the notes back where he had found them. He sat back in Pandey’s chair and looked up at the photographs on the wall. One had been taken at an early morning Laughing Club session. The professor was standing with head tilted back, hands on hips and stomach pushed out.
Puri cast his eyes over the other pictures: parents, picnics, young nephews looking wide-eyed at the camera.
At the top of the wall hung an old black-and-white picture of nine men standing in front of an Indian satellite. There was a small brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. It read: DEPARTMENT OF TELECOMMUNICATIONS, INSAT IA, 1981.
Puri took it down to get a closer look. A younger Professor Pandey stood near the middle of the group.
The detective recognized the man standing next to him as well. It was Dr. Suresh Jha.
The two men had known each other for much longer than two years.
“Why Pandey told me otherwise?” murmured Puri to himself.
∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧
Thirteen
Facecream didn’t wake until long after it was light. She guessed it must have been around nine. Feeling groggy and dull-headed, she lay on the bedroll in the dormitory where she was staying and went over the bizarre events of yesterday in her mind.
She remembered entering the darshan hall along with Puri and Mrs. Duggal and being served a cup of papaya juice by one of the senior devotees. It seemed to her that he had handed her one from the back of the tray, whereas the others had chosen their own.
She’d sat down in front of the stage and Maharaj Swami had entered and been hailed by his adoring followers.
It had been about then that Facecream had started to feel woozy.
At first she’d put it down to all the incense smoke and the heat and noise. But soon her legs had started to feel heavy and her senses had become strangely heightened. The background din of devotional singing and chanting had faded and Maharaj Swami’s words had boomed in her ears. One minute she’d felt chilled to the bone; the next, the temperature in the darshan hall had seemed unbearably hot.
Everything around her with bright colors – the canary yellow kurta of the woman in front of her, the saffron banners hanging on either side of the stage – had started to bleed and pulsate.
She’d realized with alarm that the papaya juice had been laced with some form of hallucinogen. But her fear had quickly given way to a pleasant weightlessness, a sense of blissful detachment. She’d imagined herself six years old again, playing in the front room of her grandfather’s big house in Kathmandu with her old Kumari doll.
Up on the stage, the circle of lights behind Maharaj Swa-mi’s head had begun to spin around faster and faster, until they seemed almost liquid. She’d felt suddenly overcome with emotion, unable to control the tears that had streamed down her face or the impulse to laugh out loud.
But gradually the effects of the hallucinogen had started to wear off. And as Facecream had regained control of her faculties, she’d had the presence of mind to turn events to her advantage.
Her dramatic exclamations and subsequent fainting had fooled even Puri, who had given her a couple of stinging slaps and called for a glass of water.
A crowd had gathered, straining, peering, and then Facecream had started babbling excitedly about how ‘a kind of awesome celestial light’ had ‘like, flooded out of Swami-ji’ and filled her with ‘such warmth and belonging’.
“I could feel this energy pulsing through me. It was like I was actually part of the cosmos.”
Maharaj Swami had invited her up onstage, where he had ‘interpreted’ her vision for his congregation.
“Queenie has been given a taste of the Universal Nectar,” he’d announced. “Through this experience she will come to understand her true potential and comprehend the ultimate reality. Her purpose, like all of your purposes, is to achieve moshka, unity with God.
“God is like the ocean,” he’d continued. “But like raindrops taken up by clouds, you have become separated from Him. For so long you have drifted through the sky. Sometimes feeling light, other times dark and angry. But always aimless, with no purpose. Never happy. Now it is time to complete your journey. It is a long, difficult one with many obstacles. You must be prepared to go through transitions and purify yourself like water falling on the mountain and passing through rock. Those who are lazy and become distracted by worldly things will get trapped in stagnant pools deep beneath the earth. Those who overcome their own egos will join tributaries and eventually great rivers. This way leads back to the all-embracing Ocean where you will experience everlasting love.”
“I had, like, no idea, Swami-ji!” Facecream had gushed. “Thank you! Thank you so much. You’ve opened my eyes!”
The devotional singing and chanting had struck up again. And then Maharaj Swami had made a final pronouncement before bringing the darshan to an end.
“From this day forth,” he’d declared, “you will be known as Mukti. It means ‘salvation’.”
Queenie had been reborn.
♦
Facecream took a shower and changed into the white kurta and sarong that were now an integral part of her new identity as a dedicated, impressionable disciple. She forwent makeup, applied a red bindi to her forehead and pulled her long hair back into a discreet ponytail. The only reminder of the old Queenie – iPods, mobile phones and Jimmy Choos being banned in the ashram – was her Raspberry Rapture nail varnish.
She knew from the induction briefing she had been given yesterday evening that her roommates – all young Indian women – were attending the yoga and meditation sessions held every morning. Facecream decided to go and walk around the grounds in order to get a better lay of the land. But she had forgotten that silence was observed throughout the ashram until ten o’clock. And as she greeted some of her fellow devot
ees on the stairs with a ‘namashkar’, they all put their index fingers to their lips and frowned.
Making her way out through the front doors of the residence hall, stunned momentarily by the bright sunshine and the sticky heat, she came face-to-face with one of her roommates. A bossy young woman, she gave Facecream a disapproving look, took her by the hand and led her over to the gazebo.
There, amidst pin-drop silence, some two hundred devotees sat meditating.
Facecream found a place at the back, seated herself on one of the rush mats and closed her eyes.
Thirty minutes of meditation was part of her usual daily constitution, and after all the clamor of yesterday, she welcomed the opportunity to declutter and refresh her mind.
She could not help but wonder, though, whether Bossy had been standing outside the residence hall waiting for her.
♦
After the session was over, the devotees all made their way to the food hall, which was actually a big tent, and Facecream joined her roommates for a midmorning snack of curd mixed with chopped papaya, apple, pomegranate and a little spicy masala.
Conversation now being permitted, they all chatted away, introducing one another and telling their individual stories, and the mechanics of the group soon became clear.
By far the most assertive personality was Bossy, who was from Mumbai and had been living at the ashram for more than a year. Anorexic and neurotic, she spoke about Maharaj Swami as if no one else understood him as well as she did.
“You’re not the only one to have been given a vision,” she told Facecream. “Others have been chosen, including myself and Damayanti.” She was referring to another member of the group, a nervous, pretty twenty-five-year-old. “Swami-ji moves in mysterious ways. At times he will provoke a change in someone by giving them a tiny glimpse of the ultimate reality so that others can observe their reaction and behavior and witness the all-dominating ego at work. Not everything is always as it seems.”
Facecream thought it wise to listen attentively to what she had to say, at least for now, and occasionally mouthed platitudes like “Wow, that’s so interesting!”