The Case of the Love Commandos

by Tarquin Hall

  “Kya?”

  The detective finally lost his temper and shouted, “Does your wife have a phone?”

  It was the chowkidar who answered. “Yes, saab, she has one. Ram gave it to her,” he said.

  “About a month back, no doubt?”

  “Yes, saab.”

  “Do you know the number?”

  The man giggled again, as if this was the silliest thing he’d ever been asked. “No, saab.”

  Puri left the house and walked back to the car. It would take a less direct approach to find out what had happened here—and for that he would use Facecream.

  “Which way did the mother go—when she left last night?” Puri asked, pausing by the open door of the hatchback.

  “Through the village to the main road, saab,” the chowkidar answered.

  “Was she carrying anything?”

  “Just a plastic bag.”

  “Did anyone pass her on the way?”

  “Saab, it is possible,” he said, his hands pressed together again. “But it was dark and the night belongs to the owl and the jackal.”

  Five

  Puri was making his way back to the highway from the village when he spotted a plume of dust rising above the narrow lane ahead. A black Range Rover soon came into focus, traveling at high speed. In little more time than it took him to mumble to himself, “I don’t like the look of this, actually,” the vehicle closed the distance between them and came to a grinding halt.

  With the way effectively blocked, Puri’s driver had no choice but to stop as well, although he did so in rather less dramatic fashion. He then made his displeasure known by pressing down on his horn, which emitted a sound like a duck quack, and gesturing through the windscreen as one might to a lowly rickshaw wallah.

  His railing ceased abruptly, however, when through the haze of fine sand stirred up by the Range Rover’s tires, a large goon wielding a shotgun stepped out of the vehicle.

  The driver’s exact words were: “Mar gaye!” (“We’re dead!”)

  Puri, too, was taken aback by the size of the man and the sheer thickness of his jaw. But he wound down his window nonetheless and was perfectly friendly.

  “Beautiful morning, no?” he said.

  The goon’s skin was red and blistered around his eyes and nose. This was Naga, the thug Facecream had described.

  “Come,” he grunted, the shotgun held across his chest.

  Puri smiled up at him. “Direct and to the point, haan? Well, how I can refuse when you put it in such a gracious manner?”

  He exited the car and Naga motioned him toward the Range Rover. A back window slid down, revealing an unshaven man in a white collarless shirt and a silk half-sleeve jacket.

  Vishnu Mishra wasn’t someone who would have possessed a great sense of humor at the best of times, Puri observed, and right now he looked like he was ready to take on the whole world.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice dispassionate.

  “Sir, with due respect and all, my mummy-ji told me not to speak with strangers,” said Puri, conscious that Naga was now standing directly behind him.

  “That was bad advice,” said Mishra. “Some strangers won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’m not in the habit of providing information of a professional nature to any and all persons,” answered the detective.

  Mishra said nothing to this. He simply gestured to Naga, who promptly grabbed Puri by the shoulder, twisted him round and drove the butt of his rifle into his stomach.

  The detective’s ample padding absorbed a good deal of the blow, but he felt the wind go out of him and bent double.

  The goon gave him a moment and then straightened him up by the arms. “Aaan-saar!” he bawled.

  It took a moment for Puri to catch his breath. “I’m Inspector Lal Krishna, Delhi Crime Branch,” he wheezed.

  Mishra looked him up and down. “What’s a Delhi cop doing out here?” he said, doubtful. “And why are you being driven in a hire car with Agra plates?”

  “Chasing a con man. His name is Ram Sunder.”

  “A con man? What are you talking about?”

  “He plays on girls’ sympathies, gets them to agree to marry him, then absconds with all their valuables and such. We’ve been tracking him for some months.”

  Mishra studied Puri’s expression as intently as a portrait painter, weighing up his story, then said, simply, “Search him.”

  The goon promptly pushed Puri up against the Range Rover, patted him down and went through his pockets. He found a few clear plastic bags, one of which contained some pasty residue from a samosa, a mobile phone, and a forgotten, oily receipt from Dosa Heaven.

  “ID?” demanded the goon.

  “It’s in the dickie,” said Puri with impatience.

  Naga gave him a shove and the detective staggered back toward the hatchback. His heart was beating furiously. Had his wallet not been stolen, he’d have used his Inspector Lal Krishna, Delhi Crime Branch, fake ID. His only option now was to get ahold of his pistol. Otherwise he had no doubt that Mishra would order his goon to beat the truth out of him.

  With shaking hands, he opened the trunk and unzipped his bag.

  “My wallet’s in here somewhere,” he said as he felt amongst his clothes for the metal of the pistol.

  He found it near the bottom and gently wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  “Jaldi!” bawled Naga.

  “Moment, yaar,” insisted the detective. “It is in here somewhere.”

  Slowly, he took his pistol out of the bag and pushed the toe of his right shoe down into the sandy surface of the lane. His plan was to kick some dirt into the goon’s face and then draw on him. If he had to shoot, he’d aim for the legs.

  Puri took a deep breath to calm his nerves. On the count of three. One, two …

  On three, as if by a miracle, Puri heard sirens in the distance. He looked over the roof of his car and, to his relief, spotted a police jeep racing toward them.

  “The cavalry,” he said with a smile.

  Naga cursed, ordered Puri to stay put and hurried back to the Range Rover. The police jeep pulled up moments later and disgorged an inspector and four jawans.

  Mishra couldn’t have looked less concerned. He greeted the officer with an irritated “What is it, bhai?”

  The police wallah, whose nametag read GUJAR, was nervous. “Sir, I’ve been ordered to place you under arrest,” he half-apologized.

  “For what?”

  “Murder, sir. Ram Sunder’s mother was found in the canal close to your ancestral village two hours back. At the hospital she was declared ‘brought dead.’ ”

  Mishra made a face like a customer in a restaurant who’s discovered his food is cold. “Who gave the order for my arrest?” he asked.

  “Sir, I’ve been told to bring you to the station, where you’ll be charged under section 302,” said Gujar.

  Mishra waved his hand as if to brush away a fly.

  “Go have your khana,” he said. “Tell them I wasn’t at home.”

  For a moment, the Inspector looked as if he might indeed back off. His expression betrayed the agony of indecision. But he stood firm and unclipped his service revolver. The jawans, too, readied their rifles and trained them on Naga.

  “Sir, I respectfully request that you alight from your vehicle,” said Gujar.

  “Sure you know what you’re doing, Superman?”

  “Sir, I’ve my orders.”

  Mishra opened the door to his Range Rover and stepped out. He maintained a commanding presence even as he was cuffed.

  “Careful what you start, bhai,” he said as he squared up to the inspector. “Once you have dirtied your hands, only death will remove the stain.”

  He shook off the jawans’ grip on his arms and walked, slowly, to the waiting jeep. Naga and Mishra’s driver were taken into custody as well, and they were all driven back along the lane toward the highway.

  Puri, whom Gujar had
noticed but ignored, followed behind.

  One thousand kilometers to the northwest, another police wallah was preparing to question a suspect. Inspector Malhotra, the Jammu deputy chief of police, stood on the platform as the Delhi overnight train pulled into its final destination three hours late. He was soon approached by Mummy, who was the first passenger to disembark.

  “Pranap Dughal is the suspect’s name,” she informed him. “It is written there on the chart.”

  “Very good, madam,” said Malhotra. “But understand, at most I can check his identity. If there are any irregularities, then only I will be able to take action.”

  “Irregularities” could be construed as almost anything in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, where the security forces had special powers to fight the ongoing insurgency. Mummy therefore took succor from his statement and waited at the back of the platform to watch what happened.

  The Dughals were slow to disembark and the reason for the holdup soon became obvious. Mrs. Dughal was so large that she required two porters to carry her down onto the platform. She then had to be hefted into a wheelchair, her lower frame wobbling like blancmange.

  “That is she—the one who was doing shouting,” Mummy told her daughter-in-law, who’d joined her on the platform.

  “She doesn’t look like a very happy person, does she?” observed Rumpi.

  They watched as Inspector Malhotra interviewed Pranap Dughal, who listened and smiled, and made an amiable gesture that suggested he had nothing to hide. He then reached into his back pocket for his wallet. As he took it out, half the contents spilled onto the platform. Cards, bank notes and receipts scattered in all directions.

  “Such a pagal!” scolded Mrs. Dughal. “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing! I’m always telling you not to keep your wallet there!”

  Her husband looked embarrassed and flustered as the porters scrambled around after his personal effects and returned them to him.

  Once he’d found his ID, he handed it to the inspector the wrong way up.

  “He doesn’t look like he’d make a very competent pickpocket to me,” said Rumpi. “Think maybe we’ve got the wrong man?”

  “Definitely not,” replied her mother-in-law. “Just he’s doing acting.”

  It was at this point that Chetan came running down the platform. “Aunty-ji, Mummy-ji! Look! I found it!” he shouted.

  Rumpi and Mummy shot him an irritated look and told him to “chup!”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. Here, here, see!” Chetan was in a state of breathless excitement. “It … it … was on the floor … under the table. Between the … the berths.”

  He handed Puri’s wallet to Rumpi.

  The outburst caught Inspector Malhotra’s attention and he approached. “Is this Puri sahib’s?” he asked with a frown.

  Rumpi checked the contents and confirmed that it was indeed her husband’s property.

  “Looks like we owe you an apology, Inspector,” she said. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.”

  But Mummy wasn’t convinced.

  “No, no, something is not right, na,” she interjected. “Definitely the wallet was not there! Just it has been planted by this fellow in the wee hours. Inspector, I tell you this Dughal is guilty as charged.”

  “Now, Mummy, that’s enough,” said Rumpi. “We’ve got Chubby’s wallet back, buss.”

  Inspector Malhotra cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing more, madam, I’ve my duty to attend to,” he told Rumpi in a polite but firm tone. “With your permission I’ll take my leaves.”

  He went and handed Pranap Dughal back his ID and wasted not a second in making for the station exit.

  Rumpi placed a hand on her mother-in-law’s arm and gripped it tenderly. “Come, Mummy-ji, we should get a move on,” she said. “Jagdish Uncle’s come to pick us up.”

  But her mother-in-law didn’t budge. “He’s a cunning one,” she said. “Must be he came to know he looted the wallet belonging to a certain jasoos. No doubt, he was already regretting his mistake, na. Then thanks to Chetan my face becomes known to him. Thus he does two and two and checks the chart. There he finds my good name—that is Puri, also. What to do? Return the wallet, that is what. Thus he slips it under the curtain in dead of night.”

  “But, Mummy-ji, you told me you were up all night—keeping ‘vigil,’ as you put it.”

  “Correct. In case he fled the train.”

  “So don’t you think you would have noticed a man that size coming through our carriage?”

  “He’s got a compliss.”

  “An accomplice? Now, Mummy, I’ve heard enough. I’m going to call Chubby, tell him the good news, then let’s just forget the whole thing. Come. Everyone’s waiting.”

  Mummy had been watching the Dughals over Rumpi’s shoulder. The porters had struggled to get their bags—they looked uncommonly heavy—up onto their heads and were now heading for the exit. Pranap Dughal was pushing his wife’s wheelchair and she in turn was berating him.

  “How could you let that police wallah harass you without a protest? You should have given him a piece of your mind! Who is he to ask to see your ID? What are you, a man or a mouse?”

  Mummy looked for Weasel Face, but there was no sign of him. He must have left the train from a door on the other side, unseen, she decided, and reluctantly she went with Rumpi to join the rest of the family in the station car park.

  Her mood was not improved by their teasing—“Better bring your magnifying glass next time, Mummy-ji,” joked Chetan. And when Rumpi gave her a gentle reproach—“You have to admit, you got a bit carried away”—she bristled.

  “Not at all, Chubby was looted for sure,” said Mummy with crossed arms. “He himself told you, na.”

  Indeed, Puri, although delighted to hear that his wallet had been retrieved, was adamant that he’d been pickpocketed.

  “There is no way I dropped it,” he insisted when Rumpi called him while the bags were being loaded onto the roof of Jagdish Uncle’s car. “Definitely it was taken by that bloody bastard.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say,” said Rumpi. “I’ve got your wallet. Just tell me what you want me to do with it … Wait, your mother’s trying to say something.”

  She handed the handset to Mummy.

  “Hello? Chubby? Listen,” she said. “Definitely this concerned person, name of Pranap Dughal, got hold of your wallet. What is that?”

  Mummy held the handset away from her ear for a moment. She rejoined the conversation with “Yes, I came to know. I was the one to get that snap on my portable. Do checking of police files. He’s a charge-sheeter, no doubt.”

  She listened to him for a few seconds and then let out a loud tut. “Just I’m trying to be of assistance, Chubby. Making so much of effort on your behalf. Thanks to me your wallet got returned. But fine. Have it your way.”

  She disconnected the line and handed the phone back to Rumpi.

  They both sat in silence, brooding, until they reached Jagdish Uncle’s haveli.

  After Puri’s run-in with Vishnu Mishra, Facecream spent a couple of hours in a small town five kilometers from Ram’s village where there was a hole-in-the-wall establishment that offered long-distance calling, prepaid mobile charging and photocopying. Internet access was also available, subject to electricity, with seven partitioned booths equipped with PCs. All but one was occupied by young men surfing social media sites and ogling busty snaps of Bollywood starlets.

  Facecream’s searches were mundane by comparison. On the official website of the state government of Uttar Pradesh, she found details about the Govind village school. The current teacher, who was charged with the education of some fifty-two children between the ages of four and eleven, was a certain Mr. P. Joshi. After accessing the Most Private Investigators online database of Indian logos, she then forged all the official paperwork she required. With half a potato, her trusty switchblade, a red ink pad and a laminating machine, she also fashioned herself an ID.


  An hour later, after buying some dour cotton suits, a pair of bookish glasses, and a few notebooks and pens, she arrived at the school in the guise of Miss Padma Jaiteley, an assistant teacher from Lucknow.

  An elderly Muslim caretaker wearing a prayer cap sat in a metal chair behind the gates. There was not a gram of fat on him, his sun-baked skin stretched taut over his bones and joints.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Joshi,” Facecream explained, brandishing a letter for him from the Uttar Pradesh state Education Ministry, which appointed her as his deputy. But the caretaker, whose name was Atif, said he wasn’t there.

  “He went for a family wedding.”

  “When?” asked Facecream.

  “Oooh, long time. A month at least.”

  She spotted some children playing hopscotch in the shade of a banyan tree. There were roughly twenty in all.

  “Where are the rest of the students?” she asked.

  “Working in the fields, mostly. Some go to a new private school. It’s a few miles up the road.”

  Atif took her bag and led the way across the compound. The children greeted her enthusiastically and followed her as she inspected the school buildings.

  The only classroom was dusty and littered with insect carcasses. It contained a few old desks, some metal chairs that were all bent out of shape, a couple of rusting almirahs and a pile of textbooks missing half their pages. A dog was asleep in one corner.

  The “kitchen” was a room with an open hearth and a metal bucket for washing dishes. There, the cook, a miserable-looking local woman, was preparing a heap of spotty potatoes. Watery daal containing a minimum of onion and garlic was boiling in a large aluminum pot.

  “The pradhan provides us with the worst-quality rations,” complained Atif, referring to the village headman. “It’s barely enough for each child.”

  “What does he do with the rest? Sell it?” asked Facecream.

  “In the local market.”

  She stepped outside into the sunlight and stood for a while watching the children who’d returned to their play. She’d been wondering why they still came to school despite the absence of their teacher. Now she understood: they hailed from the poorest families and their parents didn’t want them to miss out on the pitiful, adulterated gruel cooking in the kitchen.