Vish Puri 02; The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

by Tarquin Hall

  While she waited, it was strangely quiet in reception – so quiet in fact that she noticed a noise coming from the next room. It sounded a lot like her pressure cooker when it was coming to a boil: first a rattling as the steam built up inside and then the volcanic release accompanied by a high whistle.

  She went and put her ear to the door. The noise came again. It was her employer snoring.

  “Sir, are you in there?” she said, having returned to her desk and speaking quietly over the intercom.

  The response was groggy. “What time you’ve got, Madam Rani?”

  “Nearly half past nine, sir.”

  “By God! Why no one woke me!” he exclaimed.

  “Sir, I – ”

  The automatic security latch on his door opened. Elizabeth Rani took this as a signal that she was wanted and hurried inside.

  The office was a shambles. Every surface was cluttered with takeaway boxes, soft drink cans and Styrofoam cups. An ashtray on the windowsill was overflowing with cigarette butts. Evidently, the detective had had a number of visitors during the night.

  Puri was looking equally disheveled. His mien betrayed both exhaustion and anxiety.

  “This thing is not turning on,” he grumbled as he pressed the TV remote control.

  “There’s load shedding, sir. I told the boy to put on the UPS.”

  “Well, tell him to get a move on. Should be the story will air at ten.”

  “Story, sir?”

  “Ask him why my chai is taking so long also.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after, send him for some aloo parathas.”

  The lights suddenly went on, as did the TV.

  An anchor on one of the news channels was talking about cricket. Puri flicked to one of its rivals, which was airing a feature about a Bollywood actor’s on-set tantrum. The channel after that was covering the usual humdrum politics.

  “Our three national obsessions – and all in the usual order of priorities,” he commented sarcastically to Elizabeth Rani, who had given Door Stop his orders and was in the process of cleaning up the office.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, distracted by seeing him in such a state. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, Madam Rani, everything is certainly not all right. But God willing, everything will be all right. I have hardly slept a single wink, actually. Round the clock we have been working. But it is nothing a cup of tea and something hot and tasty should not fix.”

  Two cups of chai, three aloo parathas and some of Rumpi’s homemade garlic pickle – a jar of which he kept in his desk drawer – did indeed work wonders for his temperament.

  After a cat wash in his private bathroom with some cold water from the fridge, Puri was more or less back to his normal self.

  By ten o’clock, his office was also spick and span and smelling of mountain-pine air freshener.

  “Madam Rani, be good enough to come and watch this,” said Puri, back behind his desk with the TV tuned to Action News! “If all has gone to plan, it will be dynamite.”

  She came and stood next to him as the headlines rolled.

  “This morning we have an exclusive that is going to shake the whole of India,” said the young anchor. “The footage that you are about to see was released to us in the past few hours. We have been able to verify that it is not a hoax. What you are about to see is authentic and has been independently verified.”

  Puri quickly checked the other channels to see if they were carrying the same story. On Bharat TV a graphic screamed:

  WORLD EXCLUSIVE.

  Only government-controlled DD News, and SATYA, which was owned in part by the Foundation for the Promotion of World Consciousness, a Maharaj Swami mouthpiece, were not airing the story.

  He returned to Action News!

  It was running grainy CCTV black-and-white footage of Maharaj Swami sitting on the floor of his private audience chamber.

  “It’s our understanding the Godman recorded this footage himself with cameras hidden inside the room where he has welcomed thousands of people privately over the years – including at least two prime ministers,” said the lady presenter.

  The video showed a young female devotee entering the audience chamber, stopping to touch Maharaj Swami’s feet and then sitting before him.

  “The pixilation effect you’re seeing around her face has been added by our technicians in order to protect her identity,” continued the presenter. “Some of the images we are about to show you have had to be disguised as well because of their graphic content. But what you’re watching here is this young lady performing favors of, well, an oral nature for the pleasure of Godman Maharaj Swami. Again, this footage was taken inside his private audience chamber on a hidden camera placed there for – and here we can only speculate – Swami-ji’s own purposes.”

  A male co-presenter appeared on the screen and said: “In an extraordinary development, the woman who appeared in the video has come forward this morning. We cannot show her face, but she tells a harrowing tale of systematic sexual abuse at the ashram.”

  A silhouetted profile of Damayanti, newly liberated from the Abode of Eternal Love, appeared. In a hesitant, at times choked voice, she described how the Godman had emotionally blackmailed her into performing sexual acts in his audience chamber.

  “Swami-ji used to say that like Lord Krishna’s gopis, or milk maidens, it was my duty to show him unconditional love,” she said. “I was terrified of telling my parents because I knew they would never believe me and I thought they would disown me.”

  After the clip, the male presenter appeared again and said: “We’re going live now to Haridwar for the latest developments in this breaking story from our reporter Smeeta. Smeeta, what can you tell us?”

  The screen divided. On the left, the CCTV footage played on a loop; on the right, Smeeta stood in front of the main gates of the Abode of Eternal Love, which were being guarded by police.

  “Yes, dramatic developments here in Haridwar,” she said excitedly. “We’ve learned that at eight o’clock this morning, police, led by Delhi inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, entered Maharaj Swami’s ashram with a warrant for the Godman’s arrest. Apparently, Inspector Singh and his men did encounter resistance inside the ashram. This was of a passive nature. Hundreds of devotees lay down on the ground in front of the entrance to the Godman’s private residence and Singh had to call for reinforcements before they were able to get inside.”

  “Was Maharaj Swami there at the time?” The question came from the anchor in the studio.

  “My sources tell me he had been in Delhi overnight but arrived back at his ashram this morning at around six by helicopter,” answered Smeeta. “But police say when they…”

  Her words were drowned out by a flurry of activity behind her. The camera zoomed in on a scowling Inspector Singh emerging through the gates on foot.

  “Sir, sir, sir!” cried the reporters, rushing toward him.

  The police wallah stopped as the cameras gathered round and the questions came all at once.

  “Have you arrested Maharaj Swami? What are the charges? What’s that smoke we can see rising above the ashram?”

  Singh’s gruff voice broke in. “I have a statement to make,” he said. “This morning my men and I entered the Abode of Eternal Love with the intention of arresting the man known as Maharaj Swami on charges of sexual assault, manslaughter and fraud. Our progress was severely hampered by his followers, who blocked our entrance. We were only able to gain access to his private residence a short while ago. So far we have been unable to locate Swami-ji, but we are now conducting a thorough search of the area.”

  The reporters started shouting all at once again.

  “As to the smoke you can see rising over the buildings,” Singh continued, “a fire started in a room adjacent to Maharaj Swami’s private audience chamber minutes before we entered the building at approximately half past nine. It has since been extinguished, but the contents of the room were destroyed. We have reaso
n to believe the fire was started deliberately.”

  More questions were fired at him. Ignoring them, the inspector finished his statement: “One Vivek Swaroop, Maharaj Swami’s number two, is also wanted on the same charges. So far, he is absconding. We will be issuing a photofit of both him and Maharaj Swami within the hour. Anyone seeing these two gentlemen should contact the Delhi police immediately.”

  Singh turned and walked back inside the ashram and the gates were slammed shut in the reporters’ faces.

  Puri muted the TV and sat back in his chair. “Seems Swami-ji got word about the video footage being released in advance. But his goose is definitely cooked, that is for sure,” he said. “My only regret is Dr. Jha did not live to see the day.”

  “He would have been overjoyed, sir,” Elizabeth Rani said, smiling. “But how did you get hold of that shocking material?”

  “It was not I, Madam Rani. For that we have Flush to thank.”

  “But I read in Facecream’s report that she got no information. Her USB key was destroyed by that thug Vivek Swa-roop.”

  By now Elizabeth Rani was standing in front of the detective’s desk.

  “That was a masterstroke!” said the detective, beaming. “Unbeknownst even to my good self, the USB key contained a virus. Thus when Facecream inserted it into the Godman’s computer it was delivered. Afterward, Flush was able to penetrate the protection system of the network – ”

  “I believe it is known as a firewall, sir,” interjected his secretary helpfully.

  “Exactly. So this fiery wall was penetrated and thus the system was accessed. Flush got hold of all the secret accounts. Even Maharaj Swami’s private computer was not immune. That is where the video clip and many more besides were located.”

  Elizabeth Rani, looking disgusted, said: “What kind of a man could do something like that to those poor young women?”

  “One without any moral compasses. One who is ready to take full advantage of any and all people for his own benefit.”

  A philosophical look came over the detective’s face. “Actually, Madam Rani, we Indian people believe that in life a spiritual guide is required, that we cannot find all the answers on our own,” he said. “Like children learning ABC, we need a teacher. This is a belief I hold to be true, also. If we are to escape the cycle of birth and rebirth, a guru must and should be there to show the way. But that does not mean one should follow any Tom, Dick or Harry, no?

  “Problem is so many people these days are following these con men without question, ready to believe anything they say and do,” he continued. “If any old Charlie like this Swami-ji can make a watch appear from thin air, they are ready to worship him. But that is not genuine spirituality. Just it is so much hocus-pocus.”

  “I agree, sir, people are all too gullible these days,” said Elizabeth Rani. “I suppose that is what Dr. Jha was trying to teach them.”

  Mention of the Guru Buster reminded Puri that he needed to bring his file up-to-date with last night’s developments and he asked his secretary to fetch her laptop so she could take dictation.

  When he was finished and Elizabeth Rani had saved the file, she said: “Sir, there are a few things I don’t understand. While you were waiting in the hospital room you told Inspector Singh there were two suspects. Who was the other one?”

  “Allow me to tell you a little secret, Madam Rani,” answered the detective mischievously. “At that time exactly, I strongly suspected Professor Pandey had been killed for his magical boots. I suspected, also, Manish the Magnificent could be the one. He is a charge sheeter, after all. But other miscreant persons came to mind, also. Those who would have liked the invention for themselves – Maharaj Swami being one other.”

  “I see, sir,” said Elizabeth Rani, but she was still frowning.

  “There is something else I can help you with?” asked Puri.

  “Yes, sir. What was the role of Dr. Jha’s widow in all this?”

  “Naturally she knew from day one her husband was not dead, that the Kali murder was totally fake.”

  “So the wine and flowers Professor Pandey bought that night he went to visit Mrs. Jha – those were actually from Dr. Jha?”

  “Correct, Madam Rani. Dr. Jha was posing as Pandey’s driver so as to get around unrecognized. He was in disguise, actually. Naturally when Tubelight saw the good professor giving Mrs. Jha one embrace, he was not aware her husband was also present.”

  It took his secretary a few seconds to decipher Puri’s syntax before she nodded and said: “I think I understand, sir.”

  “The truth is, Madam Rani, Vish Puri was slow on the uptake,” he said with a mournful shake of his head. “Moment I saw that picture in Pandey’s office – the one of him standing along with Dr. Jha – I should have known the two were in this thing together.”

  Elizabeth Rani took her cue. “But how were you to know, sir?” she said.

  “It is my business to know, no?”

  “Sir, the plan was so elaborate and perfectly executed,” she stressed. “Who could have ever guessed that Dr. Jha’s cremation was staged? What with all his near or dear present.”

  “Most kind of you, Madam Rani,” said Puri, shaking off his self-pity. “As usual you are quite correct.”

  She sighed. “What a remarkable case it’s been,” she commented.

  “Undoubtedly, Madam Rani. One of the most remarkable till date. And even now, as we speak, it is not seen the curtains go down.”

  ♦

  There were two loose ends.

  Puri decided to deal with them both before heading home to catch up on some sleep.

  The first was Shivraj Sharma.

  He called Shashi to get the latest on the archaeologist’s movements and asked him in Hindi: “Where did Fossil go?”

  “B Block, Sector Forty-four, Boss. It’s a church.”

  “He went inside?”

  “He put an envelope through the letter box.”

  “And after?”

  “He went home, Boss. Then this morning, very early, he returned to NOIDA. This time to a different address in B Block. The Christian priest who works at the church lives there. Fossil followed him for half an hour and then drove to work.

  “One other thing, Boss,” continued Shashi. “We got hold of his garbage this morning. It contained some copies of Dainik Bhaskar. They were in tatters, lots of pieces cut with scissors. Looked like rats got at them.”

  Puri immediately called the church and asked to speak with the priest. Father James confirmed that he had received a strange note in his postbox that morning – the Hindi letters all cut from a newspaper.

  “What it said exactly, Father?” asked Puri.

  “It was a quote from a Hindu text – something about how all unbelievers would be purged.”

  “Whenever there is a withering of the law; and an uprising of lawlessness on all sides; then I manifest myself,” quoted Puri.

  “Yes that’s it.”

  “You called the cops, Father?”

  “Why bother? We get threats all the time and they never show any concern, let alone investigate.”

  “It is most important you keep the note safe – and the envelope, also,” the detective told him.

  Puri decided to hold off from calling Singh and briefing him about Sharma. It could wait until tomorrow. The archaeologist was a hatemonger aspiring to be a murderer and not an immediate threat to anyone.

  He checked his watch. It was nearly twelve. Time to contact the health minister’s secretary – the last loose thread.

  “Vish Puri, Most Private Investigators Ltd., this side,” he said politely when his call was answered. “Sir asked me to revert this morning. You were made aware? Exactly. You’d be good enough to pass on my answer? Fine. Be good enough to tell him following: It is with regret I must decline his generous offer. Actually, I am very much engaged in getting my shoes polished.”

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Twenty-Seven

 
; Vish Puri was at home in his sitting room laughing so hard the tears were rolling down his face. His mother, who had come to visit, was also having convulsions.

  “What a total duffer!” she guffawed. “There’s daal in that head of his or what?”

  Jaiya, who was by now six weeks from her due date – it being a week after Maharaj Swami’s disappearance – waddled into the room with a quizzical smile.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, lowering herself into one of the armchairs.

  “Sorry, na,” said Mummy through a grin she could barely control. “Just we’re talking about Bagga-ji.”

  “Oh God, what’s he done now?”

  “Go ahead and tell her, Chubby,” prompted Rumpi as she returned from the kitchen with a tray of tea and chillas. “Jaiya, you’ve got to hear this. Even by Uncle’s standards, well, it… bagga-rs belief!”

  Everyone burst into laughter again. It was a good minute before Puri was able to pull himself together and let his daughter in on the joke.

  “Beta, you remember Baggage-ji was here the night you arrived, no? Talking about some money-minting scheme?”

  “I remember.” She did an impression of him in a strong yokel accent: “‘I’ll soon be richest man in aaall Paannjaaab!’ Didn’t some construction company want to build a mall on his land?”

  “Correct.”

  “Let me guess. The company is a bogus one.”

  “No, no, company is bilkul real.”

  “So?”

  Puri went on to describe his visit to his brother-in-law’s drinking den in Punjabi Bagh and how Bagga had admitted that he was planning to buy his neighbor’s land for one crore, hoping to sell it to the construction company at a profit. The detective also described the priceless expression on Bagga’s face when he had cursed him and stormed out.

  “Papa, I don’t understand,” said Jaiya. “What was so wrong about Uncle buying the other land?”

  “Obviously its owner, a most cunning gentleman by name of Jasbir Jaggi, was giving Bagga the squeeze.”

  “How?”