The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

by Vaseem Khan

  She had grown up angry and wild, swept along by her own internal fires.

  In time the firebrand had risen within her community; she had fought and suffered, but she had prevailed.

  And now, it seemed, history had come full circle.

  The past was about to meet the present.

  Rangwalla broke the spell. He moved forward to stand before the Queen of Mysore. “Thakur Suraj Pratap, permit me to introduce you to your… daughter.”

  Rangwalla held out a hand towards the Queen.

  A tremble of emotion passed over the Queen’s features.

  Thakur Pratap moved forward. Rangwalla could see tears standing in the old man’s eyes. “Daughter,” he breathed. “My daughter.” He moved closer until he stood directly before the dais, his gaze locked on the Queen of Mysore.

  “You have your mother’s eyes,” he eventually said.

  The Queen bowed her head. “Get out!” she growled. “Everyone get out!”

  Rangwalla knew that she did not wish her tears to be seen. He could not imagine what was going on inside her; the dark wraiths that had been unleashed from the deepest pit of her memories.

  A childhood lost and scattered to the winds.

  A life stolen.

  Her shoulders shook as she wept.

  He looked up and saw that no one had moved.

  Finally, Thakur Pratap reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on the Queen’s shoulder. “Do not be troubled,” he said. “Daughter.”

  And at last the Queen of Mysore raised her head. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “Daughter?” she said, hoarsely.

  Thakur Pratap nodded. “Daughter,” he confirmed.

  Rangwalla felt something he had rarely known: the blazing sun of a moral rightness.

  In spite of the best efforts of men to crush the spirits of their brethren, hope and goodness still flowered. The eunuchs, earthy-spirited, with basic human goodness in their bones, had risen time and time again, had prevailed in the face of relentless adversity.

  And one day, he was now certain, they would gain the emancipation they so richly deserved.

  THE FINAL TAKE

  Scene Ninety-three. Exterior. Bank of the Yamuna River. Day.

  (LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION!)

  Fade in:

  Mist boiled from the surface of the river, rolling over the ghostly silhouette of the Taj Mahal as a solitary bugler greeted the dawn. Crows lifted from the water’s edge, cawing in indignation, as the prow of an imperial barge parted the streams of mist and glided towards the riverbank. At the last second courtiers in Mughal finery leapt from the barge’s bow, and tethered the longboat to mooring posts.

  The barge discharged its passengers—a platoon of armed warriors in cavalry battledress: chain mail, golden breastplates and pointed helmets—closely followed by their steeds, also resplendent in riveted chain mail. Behind the cavalrymen came a group of chattering religious clerics, dressed in white. Finally, flanked on either side by his personal bodyguard, came Prince Shah Saleem, anointed heir to Emperor Shah Jahan, atop his magnificent white stallion, Buharrim.

  In one graceful movement the stallion leapt from the boat to the shore, then at the subtle urging of the prince’s heels, raced ahead onto the plateau that lay before the Taj.

  Cries of alarm followed the prince, and then his cavalrymen gave chase, even as princely laughter fluttered back towards them on the gentle wind.

  Prince Saleem raced on towards a copse of trees cresting the rise of a shallow hill. The dawn air invigorated him, filling him with optimism. He could smell the coming battle, and he was not afraid. In the distance smoke rose from the fires of the encamped armies, all the way out to the nearby town of Agra, which had been besieged by enemy forces. He knew that death stalked him out there. Perhaps, tonight, when the final battle began, it would hunt him down.

  But that was beyond his control.

  For now all that mattered was that he was here, alive, and ready for war.

  He wheeled his stallion around, and looked back at the Taj Mahal.

  The great monument had only recently been completed. His father’s chief architect had planned a surrounding wall and formal gardens, but for now the Taj stood alone on the river’s edge, open to the four winds on its lonely plain, the plain that today would serve as the battleground for the final clash between the forces ranged against the emperor.

  It would be the greatest battle in history, thought the prince.

  And he would be in the very thick of it.

  A noise spun him around.

  He saw a shadow moving in the copse of trees.

  “Who goes there?” he shouted.

  No reply came.

  Drawing his curved sword—his father’s sword, with its ruby-encrusted gold hilt, which he had named Alamgir or “World-Seizer”—the prince dismounted, then moved on foot towards the trees. Behind him the thunder of hooves drew nearer as his soldiers approached.

  “Who goes there?” shouted the prince again.

  And then a short, squat shape appeared from between the trees. It saw the prince, then turned in alarm and limped back into the darkness.

  The prince jogged behind the creature and into the copse.

  In a clearing, the prince saw an elephant lying on its side in a mulch of churned grass and leaves. The great beast had been mortally wounded—blood seeped from a constellation of wounds on its flank. The grey hide rose and fell in laboured breathing, the eyes glassy. Death was only moments away.

  The infant elephant he had followed into the copse was now hunkered close to its mother, caressing her face with its trunk.

  Prince Saleem understood that this was an omen. He did not know yet if the omen was good or bad.

  He moved towards the young elephant—a bull—who limped backwards, away from him.

  Saleem saw that an arrow protruded from the beast’s right foreleg. “Steady there, boy,” he said. “Let me help you.”

  He knelt down beside the beast, and looked into its eyes. A bright intelligence looked back at him. The calf lifted its foreleg, and twirled its trunk.

  “I understand,” said the prince.

  He took hold of the arrow’s shaft. “This is going to hurt,” he said. Then, with one sharp tug, he pulled the arrow from the elephant’s hide.

  The little calf trumpeted in pain, ears flapping in alarm. His eyes fluttered, and he limped back and forth. Finally, he calmed himself, and stood, eyes downcast, trunk hanging between his legs, staring forlornly at his dying mother.

  (“Isn’t he good?” breathed Poppy, watching with Chopra from behind the director’s camera.

  “He needs to be careful not to ham it up,” smiled Chopra. A swell of pride puffed out his chest as he watched Ganesha in the minor role Vicky had engineered for him. “There are enough hams out there already,” he added, under his breath. But he was, nevertheless, glad that he had accepted the gesture.

  “It’s the least I can do after throwing you off the Sea Link bridge,” Vicky had said. “It never occurred to me that you might not be able to swim.”)

  “Do not be sad, little one,” said the prince. “Death comes to us all. Man and beast, prince and pauper. Who knows? Perhaps tonight I will join your mother in the afterlife. If that is God’s will, then so be it. War plays no favourites.” The prince sighed, striking a pose, as he delivered his soliloquy. “Perhaps the time of princes is at an end.”

  He raised his eyes to the heavens, his expression wistful.

  (“Doesn’t he look dashing?” murmured Poppy. “I am sure it will be a hit.”

  “If it isn’t, a lot of people are going to lose their shirts,” said Chopra.)

  Prince Saleem turned back to the calf. “Go,” he declaimed. “Go, before the battle comes. If any of us deserve to survive the coming night then it is you, my little friend. You are a symbol of the innocence we have lost. Go, now, your prince commands you. And perhaps, one day, if I live to tell the tale, we will meet again.”

  Little Ga
nesha looked up at the prince, then turned and limped to the edge of the clearing.

  At the last second, he glanced back, hesitating for one brief second, fixing the prince with a look of heartrending sorrow, before turning and melting into the shadows.

  “CUT! CUT! CUT!” bellowed the director, B. P. Agarwal, brandishing his megaphone.

  Immediately, the gathered cast and crew relaxed. Vicky’s co-stars slapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on a great performance.

  Agarwal glanced over at Poppy and Chopra. “That elephant is a natural,” he declared. “You should consider a career in the pictures.”

  Chopra stood. “He has a career already.”

  “But he could be a movie star,” said Poppy, her eyes shining with possibility.

  Chopra smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “But for now, he is a private detective, and a damned good one at that.”

  GLOSSARY

  Alghoza—a pair of flutes joined together and played simultaneously

  Astrakhan—hat with dark curly fleece of young karakul lambs from central Asia

  Betel nut—areca nut, often chewed and the resultant fluid spat out

  Dhoti—traditional men’s garment wrapped around legs and knotted at the waist

  Dupatta—long scarf made from light fabric

  Goonda—thug or bully

  Hookah—instrument for vaporizing and smoking flavored tobacco

  Jaggery—cane sugar

  Kabaddi—a traditional form of Indian wrestling

  Kurta—loose collarless shirt worn usually with a salwar or pajama.

  Lathi—a stick / baton

  Maya—that which is not (i.e. illusion)

  Parotta—a layered flatbread

  Pajama—a pair of loose trousers tied by a drawstring around the waist

  Peepal—sacred fig tree

  Ram ram—a common Hindi greeting meaning hello.

  Rangoli—decorative patterns created using colored rice, flour, sand or flower petals

  Salwar—a pair of light, loose, pleated trousers, usually tapering to a tight fit around the ankles, worn by women with a kameez or long shirt

  Shree—polite form of address equivalent to the English “Mr.”

  Sundari—double-reed wind instrument

  Thaali—steel platter with individual sections to serve a variety of dishes.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The best encouragement any writer can receive is to hear the words “you’re getting better.” So thank you, first and foremost, to my agent Euan Thorneycroft at A. M. Heath and to my indefatigable editor Ruth Tross at Mullholland. If I was adrift in the ocean in a small boat, I’d want them both there… just so we could go over the final manuscript one more time.

  Once again a big thank you to Kerry Hood at Hodder, who continues to promote these books with gilt-edged zeal, and her assistant Rosie Stephen.

  I am grateful too to others who helped improve the original manuscript. Thomas Abraham and Poulomi Chatterjee at Hachette India; Amber Burlinson, copy-editor, and Justine Taylor, in the role of proofreader.

  I would also like to thank Ruth’s team at Mullholland, Naomi Berwin in marketing, Laura Oliver in production, Dom Gribben in audiobooks, and assistant editor Cicely Aspinall. In the U.S. thanks go to Devi Pillai (who will be missed as she moves on to pastures new), Ellen Wright, Laura Fitzgerald and Lindsey Hall, and also Jason Bartholomew at Hodder. Similar thanks go to Euan’s assistant Pippa McCarthy, and the others at A. M. Heath working tirelessly behind the scenes.

  Another wonderful cover to add to those in the series—fast becoming artistic pieces in their own right—and kudos for this one goes to Sarah Christie and Anna Woodbine.

  Lastly, much gratitude is due to Jonathan Kinnersley at The Agency and the great people at Cinestaan Films—Rohit Khattar, Deborah Sathe and Tessa Inkelaar—for agreeing a film option deal for book one in the series. And yes, I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of Chopra and Ganesha ending up on the silver screen. After all, no one is immune to the magic of Bollywood, not even fictional baby elephants and their creators.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo Credit: Nirupama Khan

  Vaseem Khan first saw an elephant lumbering down the middle of the road in 1997 when he arrived in India to work as a management consultant. It was the most unusual thing he had ever encountered and served as the inspiration for the Baby Ganesh Agency series.

  He returned to the UK in 2006 and now works at University College London for the Department of Security and Crime Science where he is astonished on a daily basis by the way modern science is being employed to tackle crime. Elephants are third on his list of passions, first and second being great literature and cricket, not always in that order.

  For more information about the world of the book (plus pictures of baby elephants!) please visit vaseemkhan.com.

  By Vaseem Khan

  BABY GANESH AGENCY INVESTIGATIONS

  The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra

  The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

  The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

  Praise for

  THE UNEXPECTED INHERITANCE OF INSPECTOR CHOPRA

  “The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra is certainly a delightful and uplifting crime caper, but it also comes with an edifying dose of serious social comment, with many of Chopra’s preoccupations mirroring those of his creator.”

  —The Bookseller

  “Debut Mumbai-based ‘cosy’—complete with baby elephant—keeps things heart-warming while tackling corruption at the highest levels and violent crime at the lowest. Endearing and gripping, it sets up Inspector Chopra—and the elephant—for a long series.”

  —Sunday Times

  “A winning debut… Khan’s affection for Mumbai and its residents adds to the novel’s charm.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for

  THE PERPLEXING THEFT OF THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN

  “Every bit as captivating as its predecessor. The reason has much to do with Khan’s ability to craft such quirky, three-dimensional characters and the fact that he places them in such believable difficulties amid the rich stew of Mumbai.”

  —Booklist

  if you enjoyed

  THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

  OF A BOLLYWOOD STAR

  read the mystery that started it all

  THE UNEXPECTED

  INHERITANCE OF

  INSPECTOR CHOPRA

  A Baby Ganesh Agency

  Investigation

  by

  Vaseem Khan

  On the day he retires, Inspector Ashwin Chopra inherits two unexpected mysteries.

  The first is the case of a drowned boy, whose suspicious death no one seems to want solved.

  And the second is a baby elephant.

  As his search for clues takes him across the teeming city of Mumbai, from its grand high rises to its sprawling slums and deep into its murky underworld, Chopra begins to suspect that there may be a great deal more to both his last case and his new ward than he thought.

  And he soon learns that when the going gets tough, a determined elephant may be exactly what an honest man needs…

  INSPECTOR CHOPRA RETIRES

  On the day that he was due to retire, Inspector Ashwin Chopra discovered that he had inherited an elephant.

  ‘What do you mean he’s sending me an elephant?’ he said, turning in astonishment from the mirror in which he had been adjusting the collar of his uniform to face his wife Archana, who was hovering anxiously in the doorway, and who was known to friends and family alike as Poppy.

  ‘Here, see for yourself,’ said Poppy, handing him the letter. But Chopra had no time for that now. It was his final day in office and Sub-Inspector Rangwalla was waiting for him downstairs in the police jeep. He knew that the boys at the station had planned some sort of farewell celebration, and, not wishing to ruin their surprise, he had been feigning ignorance of the preparations go
ing on around him all week.

  Chopra stuffed the letter into the pocket of his khaki trousers, then headed for the door with Poppy in tow, her heart-shaped face pulled into a pout. Poppy was annoyed. Her husband had not even noticed that she had worn a new silk sari for this special day, that fresh lotus flowers garlanded the silky black bun of her hair, that kohl had been expertly applied beneath her almond-shaped brown eyes. A frown now sat above her small nose and two spots of colour glowed on her milkmaid-fair cheeks. But Chopra’s thoughts were already at the station.

  What he couldn’t know then was that the day would hold another, entirely unanticipated surprise–a murder case, the final case of his long and illustrious career, the case that would rock the city of Mumbai to its foundations and herald the birth of its most singular detective agency.

  ‘It will be one hundred and four degrees today,’ remarked Rangwalla as they juddered along the potholed access road leading out of the Air Force Colony within which Inspector Chopra lived. Chopra could well believe it. Already his shirt was sticking to his back, a rivulet of sweat snaking down from under his peaked cap to drip onto his nose.

  It was the hottest summer in Mumbai for more than twenty years. And for the second year in a row the monsoons had failed to arrive on cue.

  As usual the route to the station was clogged with traffic. Auto-rickshaws buzzed through the dusty urban maze, a menace to man and beast alike. A low-lying cloud of pollution curdled the heat, stinging Chopra’s nostrils as he leaned out of the rickshaw and squinted up at another of the numerous giant hoardings that had sprung up around the city since the start of the elections. A labourer in shorts and a tattered vest was balanced precariously on bamboo scaffolding painting a moustache onto the grinning face of a well-known politician.