by Tarquin Hall
“You’d like his car’s number plate, sir?” Facecream asked him again.
“No need,” said Puri. “I can guess where he’s putting up. There is only one five-star hotel in town.”
“I guess he’s probably been hired by Vishnu Mishra to clear his name and find his daughter,” said Facecream.
“God help us if he comes to know we two are involved in the case. Just he’ll make our life a living hell. Remember the cow-smuggling case? What a headache he gave us. Bloody cheeter.”
Puri headed back inside the restaurant to find that the dishes he’d ordered were on the table and that, to his horror, Vijay was already tucking into the hakka noodles and sweet-and-sour chicken.
The journalist’s magnanimous gesture for the detective to join him betrayed not the slightest hint of embarrassment at having started without his host. “Don’t mind, sir,” he said with a full mouth. “I went without my lunch.”
Facecream’s phone call had not put Puri in the best of moods and his temper boiled to the surface. “What the hell is this, yaar? I invite you and this is how you behave?” he thundered.
Vijay froze, his mouth half-open. Some noodles dangled from his lower lip. The guests at the other tables turned and stared.
“Sorry, sir,” he said with a hangdog expression. “Food was getting cold.”
Puri sat down opposite him. He took a moment to cool off. Journalists, especially “local” ones, were a lowly, uncultured bunch who knew no better, he reminded himself. Vijay’s clothes looked like they’d been slept in. But at least he had a reputation for honesty. Most Indian hacks wouldn’t have known how to spell “impartiality,” let alone define the word. The majority were on the payrolls of politicians and bureaucrats.
“This is not a proper way to behave, actually,” Puri admonished him, his anger giving way to an avuncular tenor. “Now, tell me about Vishnu Mishra. Who would want to frame him?”
“You think he’s innocent, sir?” asked Vijay as he started to shovel food into his mouth again.
“I told you earlier, no, my words are not to be quoted,” Puri reminded him. “This conversation must remain totally one hundred percent confidential—top secret, in fact. Tell me what I want to know and all and I’ll give you one scoop when the case gets cracked.”
He eyed the rapidly disappearing food, concerned that he wouldn’t get his fair share, and started to pile as much onto his plate as it would hold.
“In answer to your question, yes, Vishnu Mishra is innocent of this murder, that much is certain,” Puri added.
Vijay cocked an eyebrow in his direction. The consensus in the media was that Mishra was guilty. “Sir, he’s definitely capable of such a thing,” he said.
“No doubt. But he’s not a dog to leave his business on his own doorstep.”
“Maybe he just wants everyone to believe it was not him so the case will be thrown out.”
Puri groaned. And not because he had an entire spring roll jammed into his mouth.
“Why you people are always believing in conspiracy theories?” he scolded. By “you people” he meant the media in general. “A journalist should not be so ready to believe anything he is told. He should keep an open mind, remain objective ’til all facts are known.”
Vijay looked unfazed by the lecture and ate on. “You’ve got proofs, sir?” he asked.
“Believe me, there is no doubt. Someone is trying to frame Mishra. It is someone with political muscle. Now, tell me: Who is out to get him? One of his own people, is it?”
The journalist gave a shake of his head. “They’re loyal. Have to be. If they cross him, their family members suffer.”
“Who then?”
Vijay leaned forward. “Sir, I, too, have to be careful,” he said, his voice low.
“No one will come to know we have spoken,” said Puri.
“Fine, sir. Just I would require one beer, also.”
“Anything else? Maybe tickets for a cruise?” Puri’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“No, sir, sorry, sir,” said Vijay. “But beer goes well with pork, no?”
The detective signaled to the waiter. “Bring sir one beer,” he said as he watched Vijay clear his plate and help himself to the remaining food.
“Now, you mind answering my question?” asked Puri.
Under his wilting stare, Vijay brought his fork to rest on the plate.
“Sir, the person with the strongest motive for getting Mishra framed is Dr. Bal Pandey.”
Puri knew of Dr. Pandey, a former physician and now the vocal leader of Uttar Pradesh’s Brahmins. At the last election, he’d made national headlines after railing against the Dalit chief minister Baba Dhobi, about whom he’d said, “Doing laundry is in the blood. Thus he has taken to laundering money.”
“Some years back there was a Thakur and Brahmin alliance, so Pandey and Mishra were partners,” continued Vijay. “But old caste rivalries got in the way. Pandey claimed Mishra tried to dominate and promoted his own people to the detriment of the Brahmins, so they split up. It is also rumored that Mishra seduced Pandey’s mistress. He found out and swore revenge.”
“What happened to the girl?”
The journalist gave a shrug. “Vanished.”
Puri jotted down some notes. When he looked up, the last spring roll was gone. His guest was also scoffing down the ornamental cabbage-and-carrot bedding.
“You are planning to eat the plate, also?” Puri felt like saying. But he stuck to his line of questioning. “Mishra has other enemies, no?” he asked.
“Plenty, sir. He’s been directly responsible for the death of dozens of Dalits over the years.”
“So?”
“Framing him in such a way is definitely Dr. Pandey’s style. A very cunning individual, very calculating.”
“But he could not act alone. Someone high up gave the order for Mishra’s arrest.”
“Sir, cops can be bought like anything. Also, the current chief of police is himself a Brahmin and from Dr. Pandey’s hometown.”
Puri’s editor friend had been right: Vijay certainly knew his stuff.
“Then tell me this: who does Dr. Pandey’s dirty work?” he asked.
“Killings and all?” asked Vijay with nonchalance. “No one has ever been linked to him. But he maintains his own bodyguards. Big fellows.”
Puri wondered if there were any members of this outfit who were six foot one and left-handed. But he didn’t want to risk the question and give too much away.
“Dr. Pandey is having any rallies in the coming days?” he asked.
“There is one scheduled for tomorrow, sir. You’re thinking of attending?”
“Most definitely. I was thinking of visiting the circus also.”
“Circus, sir?”
“There’s one in Lucknow at present?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“A traveling fair, perhaps—with rides and all?”
“Why, sir? You’re looking for entertainment? I’d be happy to accompany you to a movie.”
“And eat all my popcorn,” Puri felt like saying, but instead replied, “Good of you. But it is getting late, actually. I should be heading to my bed.”
He gave a big yawn and called for the bill.
“You’ll keep me updated with the case?” asked Vijay as he finished his beer.
“Most definitely. But before you go, one more thing is there. I’ve come to know this evening, only, that Vishnu Mishra hired one private detective by the name of Hari Kumar. He is Delhi based, also. Most probably you will find him at the Grand.”
Vijay’s eyes lit up. “Right, sir, thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to chase it up,” he said.
“Tip-top, very good. Just remember my name should not appear in the story,” said Puri.
He waited until the journalist had gone, ordered another plate of noodles and one of spring rolls, and called Facecream. When he was satisfied she was safe, he put in a call to Rumpi, who’d returned by now to Jagdish Uncle’s hav
eli.
She’d sent his wallet by overnight courier and it was due to reach Lucknow the following afternoon, she told him, before asking whether he was going to be able to join them.
“Most unlikely, my dear. The case is a dark and murky one.”
Rumpi detected a distinctive lack of confidence in his voice. “Something wrong, Chubby?” she asked.
Puri hesitated before answering. “Seems Hari is working on the same case,” he said.
His words were met with an “Aah,” quickly followed by an “Oh, well,” and then, “Now, don’t let him affect your thinking, Chubby. You’re a better man than him by far.”
“Problem is Hari is always one to cut any and all corners. Short of murder and blackmail, there are no lines he is not prepared to cross.”
“That may be, but your morals have always stood you in good stead. Sounds like you need a good night’s sleep.”
“Some meter down is required, that is for sure.”
“Will you have a quick word with Mummy before you go? I think she’s still upset about this morning. She was only trying to help.”
“I’ve been meaning to call her, actually.”
Mummy came on the line. She still sounded testy.
“Something is the matter?” he asked.
“One apology and such is in order. Manners are totally lacking!” she said.
Puri was in no mood for a lecture; equally, the last thing he wanted to do was argue.
“Hearties apologies, Mummy-ji,” he said. “It was not my intention to sound ungrateful, actually.”
“Fine,” she said. “Now you have done forwarding of the picture?”
“Picture?”
“Of the pickpocket—one Pranap Dughal.”
“I’ll pass it on to the concerned persons for sure. I would welcome the opportunity to become acquainted with him.”
“This one’s a charge-sheeter for sure, Chubby,” she said. “He’s planning to do murder of his wife, na.”
Rumpi’s voice cut in. “Now, Mummy-ji, we have no proof of that,” she said.
“Just he’s going to do drugging and push her down the mountain,” Mummy managed to say before Rumpi took the phone back from her.
“What she’s saying?” he asked.
“Nothing to worry about, Chubby. It’s been a long day. I suggest we all get some rest. Sweet dreams.”
And the line went dead.
Nine
The next morning, a Monday, Facecream woke at six and lingered on her bedroll for a few minutes, watching a gecko up on the ceiling. Most people were terrified of these harmless little lizards and had all kinds of superstitious beliefs about how they were portents of bad luck. Many Indians believed that if one crawled over you at night, you would be dead within days. But she admired their agility and patience. Geckos were masterful hunters, hanging motionless from ceilings and walls for hours until insects wandered within reach of their darting tongues.
She watched her roommate catch a mosquito and whispered a thank-you for a deed well done. Then she got up and retrieved her khukuri from beneath her bedroll. As a schoolteacher, she could hardly go around wearing a four-inch steel blade, so she put the weapon at the bottom of her bag for safekeeping.
Outside, she found smoke rising from the kitchen, where the cook was crouched on her haunches stoking a new fire. The paranthas would take “a while,” she said without looking up from what she was doing, and so Facecream, who’d forgotten to buy toothpaste, decided to head into the village.
Atif, who was standing by the gate rolling up his prayer mat after the first obligatory namaz of the day, said that he, too, needed something from the shop, and they set off together. He made no mention of her foray of last night, seemingly content to mind his own business, and seeing that the sky was clear again, he lamented the monsoon’s no-show. Those without the means to irrigate their fields were growing ever more desperate for the rains. “May Allah in his wisdom grant their wish,” he intoned.
Facecream noticed a sour vinegary smell coming from the direction of the river to the east. It caught in the back of her throat. But it soon passed and her attention was drawn to the fields on either side of the lane. She could hear women whispering to one another amid the crops, the word “teacher” being passed down an invisible line. Looking closer, she spotted several pairs of eyes staring out at her from between heads of corn.
A few yards from the periphery of the village proper, they came across three boys engaged in the same activity as the womenfolk, albeit with less regard for their own privacy. Here, Atif suggested a detour so that he could show her his house and they set off east along a narrow pathway. The caretaker soon stopped beneath a neem tree, which he promptly began to climb with the dexterity of a teenager, his sinewy legs scaling up the trunk. When he returned, it was with a young twig snapped from the topmost branches.
“No need for toothpaste,” he said as he peeled back the brown skin and handed it to her.
She smiled, working the end against her incisors, and they continued on to the Muslim area of the village. Here the houses were separated from their nearest Hindu neighbors by a no-man’s-land some ten meters wide. In spite of this age-old segregation, the Muslims were prospering. Many of them were traders and owned shops in the nearest town, Atif explained.
“My nephew supplies spare parts for tractors,” he said with pride. “He has money like none of us has ever known.”
Atif led on past an area inhabited by Kumhars, or potters, who, judging by the state of their dilapidated homes, were not faring well in the new Indian economy. Tupperware containers had supplanted clay storage vessels across the country and chai stands were gradually doing away with the traditional biodegradable terra-cotta cup.
“These people have no land and they’re not adapting,” explained Atif.
Ironically, the same could be said for the village’s Brahmin families. “They refuse to do manual work and their fields have been divided up by all their sons, so they’re not profitable,” he explained. “Also, there are no government jobs reserved for them.”
The power of the Thakurs, too, had waned in the area, despite the fact that they remained in possession of roughly 50 percent of all the agricultural land in the state. This had allowed the Yadavs, who’d risen from laborers to landowners in the past half century, to gain dominance. The pradhan ranked amongst their number and had ensured that they were all in possession of highly prized government-issued “Below Poverty Line” cards. The cards entitled them to around thirty-five kilos of cut-price rice a month and five liters of subsidized fuel. Outside one Yadav house that enjoyed such concessions stood a brand-new hatchback with a red ribbon stretched across the hood and plastic covering the seats inside.
“Since they’ve become wealthy, they treat Dalits like slaves,” said Atif. “They don’t allow them to own land or even spend time in the middle of the village. And they’re still prevented from visiting the temple by the high castes.”
“Are the Dalits allowed to vote?” she asked.
“In the state and national elections, yes. The big parties make sure security is in place so their people can get to the polls. Every Dalit votes. But when it comes to village elections, they can’t set foot in the booth.”
They came across the pradhan himself, Rakesh Yadav, standing outside the village shop with a few hangers-on, smoking a cigarette. He was in his fifties with a chin of graying stubble, bulbous cheeks and abnormally large ears. Atif greeted him with a friendly “Ram, Ram!” and introduced Facecream.
“Welcome, madam,” said Yadav, whose gums were stained red with gutka and whose hands and fingers were blemished white, as if he’d been handling strong chemicals. “You are comfortable?”
“I’m excited to be here, sir,” she told him, striking an enthusiastic, innocent tone.
“If you need anything, you need only ask,” said Yadav with largesse. “I am here to serve.”
“Actually, there is one thing, sir,” she said. “The
children’s food: I’m concerned about the quantity. It seems like they’re not getting enough. The daal yesterday was very watery. Who’s responsible for the supply?”
“That duty falls to me, madam,” said Yadav.
“I believe the school should receive one kilo of lentils per day and two kilos of atta, sir,” said Facecream.
The pradhan sucked on his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “I will make sure everything is in order, madam, don’t worry. That is my work. Now there is one thing from my side. Such a young and beautiful woman as yourself should not be outside after dark.”
He’d come to know about the incident last night, she realized. “It’s not safe?” she asked.
“Men should not be tempted” was his cryptic reply.
“I saw some young men bullying a boy last night. They knocked him to the ground. I think they’d been drinking.”
“Madam, let the school be your concern and I will look to my responsibilities. And please, it is better you don’t go wandering around at night. Your safety is my concern.”
Facecream set off back to the school in no doubt that if she tried to rectify the food situation, it would put her in direct confrontation with the most powerful man in the village.
About halfway, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an auto spluttering past. It was packed with squealing schoolchildren all dressed in the uniform of one of the private schools on the highway—the girls in green salwar kameez, the boys in white shirts and shorts.
A scruffy-looking boy with disheveled hair and tattered clothes followed behind on a bicycle, two wooden blocks attached to the bottom of his feet so that he could reach the pedals. Facecream recognized him as the Dalit kid she’d rescued the night before. He stared back at her without the slightest hint of acknowledgment or recognition and pedaled on.
“Who is he?” Facecream asked Atif.
“A dhobi, I think.”
“He’s seven, eight maybe? He should be in school.”