A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  Singh’s detective instincts had overcome his reluctance to get involved.

  His wife looked daggers at him, displeased at his sudden metamorphosis from bystander to participant.

  “And who might you be?” asked Tara with old-fashioned courtesy.

  Jesvinder interrupted before Singh could fashion his own response.

  “This is my cousin from Singapore,” she said, nodding in the direction of Mrs. Singh with a small smile, “and her husband, Inspector Singh who is the head of the Singapore police.”

  Singh wished that Superintendent Chen was present to witness this unexpected promotion.

  Jesvinder added, tears welling up again, “They’re here for the wedding. Staying at the Taj.”

  “Well then, if he’s a policeman, he knows what’s he’s talking about. Answer his question.”

  If he’s a policeman? Singh didn’t like the overt scepticism from Tara.

  Every member of the immediate family, Tanvir, Ranjit and the mother, shook their heads in unison but again it was Tanvir who acted as spokesman for the family.

  “No – the apartment was as usual today. I checked with the houseboy who opens things up in the morning – he said everything was locked up from the night before. Nothing is missing.”

  They all digested the implications of this. From the expressions on their faces, the reality was unpalatable in the extreme.

  Singh articulated their thoughts. “So the girl left of her own accord.”

  “But why?” The question from Tara Singh was impassioned. “The wedding is in a few days. Why has she left without telling anyone?”

  “The obvious inference is that she didn’t want to go through with it,” remarked Singh.

  His wife’s eyes warned him that this was dangerous ground. Tanvir stood up and strode over until he was towering over the seated inspector.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Well, she’s due to get married and she runs away from home…what else is one supposed to think?”

  “Are the Singapore police trained to leap to conclusions, Inspector?”

  Tanvir’s ironic remark was a little too close to the bone. Still, one did have to examine the obvious before indulging in colourful speculation.

  “Embellish your theory, Inspector,” said Tara Singh. His voice was as sharp as the knives with stiletto points that Singh sometimes found embedded in the chests of victims.

  “Is there a boyfriend?”

  There was a hiss of sound, like air leaking out of a car tyre.

  “Of course not,” said Aunty Harjeet in a definite tone, twisting and pulling at her plait as she spoke. “Ashu’s a good girl. Anyway, we would have known if there was such a thing going on. If not me, then her mother at least.”

  Singh caught himself before he smiled at this convoluted defence. Ashu was a good girl and they trusted her but in any event she was watched. He noted that the brothers had not been so quick to leap to her defence. A more modern outlook or inside knowledge? The inspector stood up and walked to a mantelpiece which was decorated with ceramic cherubic figurines. Singh identified a cow, a dog and a milkmaid. It was like stepping back in time – to his own youth – when such collectibles were prized. There was also a silver-framed studio portrait of a girl at her graduation. She wore a hat and gown and smiled self-consciously and rather reluctantly at the camera. She had a firm chin with a mild cleft and hazel eyes light enough to have a greenish tinge. Her hair was tucked behind one ear but cascaded over the other.

  “Is this Ashu?” asked Singh, picking up the portrait with two beefy hands.

  There were brief, guarded nods.

  “A beautiful and intelligent woman. Would it be so odd if she had a boyfriend and preferred him to the MBA?”

  “It is completely out of the question,” said Tanvir, as if daring Singh to pursue the subject. “Ashu fully understood her responsibilities to the family. She would never run away.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Singh noted that the younger brother looked scared. There were secrets within this family. But was there anything odd in that? All families had something to hide, a sin that loomed large in the household although trivial in the greater scheme of things. A quarrel between members, feuding factions, perhaps an affair. It didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the missing woman.

  “You will not be familiar with Indian culture, Inspector,” explained Tara Singh in a patronising tone, “but I can assure you that a well-brought-up Sikh girl like Ashu understood that her family would arrange a suitable marriage for her.” He continued, “And we would appreciate it if you did not make any further suggestion to the contrary as her reputation might be damaged beyond repair – even if we prevent word of this escapade getting out.”

  Tara Singh had gone from a state of near panic to treating the disappearance as an ‘escapade’. What had reassured him? wondered Singh. The knowledge that she must have left the house of her own free will? The inspector was not so sanguine.

  “You might keep her disappearance a secret for a few days – but she’ll be missed at the wedding.”

  There were angry glares directed at Singh but no one protested his logic.

  “Do you know where she might have gone? Friends, family? A hideout?” he asked. He turned to Tanvir. “You said you were looking for her – where did you go?”

  He shrugged. “The park where she goes for her morning walk, a friend’s house, the coffee place not far from here where she sometimes stops.”

  “No sign of her?”

  “No sign of her,” he agreed.

  “No one – not friends or family – would keep her presence a secret – not from me.” There was confidence in Tara’s voice.

  Was it justified? If the old man was right, then where had Ashu gone? Mumbai was not the sort of place where an unaccompanied single woman would feel comfortable. What was the euphemism for bothering women in India – Eve teasing? It made the practice sound benign but a man of his experience of the darker side of life knew that such behaviour was the pinnacle of a slippery slope.

  “Are any of her clothes missing?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think about that. I haven’t checked.” The mother answered slowly, understanding dawning in her large brown eyes.

  “What are you waiting for then?” snapped Tara Singh.

  Jesvinder hurried out of the room with Mrs. Singh hard on her heels, whether to lend a hand, provide some emotional support or ferret out more information, Singh couldn’t guess.

  Mrs. Singh stood at the door while her cousin sporadically pulled open drawers in a tall wooden chest.

  “Policeman bhai doesn’t know my daughter or he wouldn’t say that she has a boyfriend,” said Jesvinder defensively as she rifled through drawers like a light-fingered thief looking for the hidden stash of family jewels. The article of furniture was ancient and the drawers were sticky and uncooperative.

  Mrs. Singh nodded. “Yes, he only sees modern girls in Singapore – Chinese, you know – so he thinks that our girls might behave the same. With boyfriends and what not.”

  There was a silence while they both contemplated the decadence of other races and cultures and sheered away from the details of ‘what not’.

  “India too is getting more modern,” said Jesvinder tearfully and the inspector’s wife wondered whether a mea culpa was in the offing. It was true what her cousin said about modern manners though. Just that morning, she’d spotted two girls with bare arms from shoulder to wrist. That would have been a sight to provoke whispers and jeers just a few years ago.

  “She was happy about the marriage?” asked Mrs. Singh.

  “Of course,” was the defiant response. “Kirpal is from a very good family.” She added, as if determined to make a clean breast of everything, “But not much money any more.”

  A man as wealthy as Tara Singh was probably looking for pedigree rather than wealth, guessed Mrs. Singh.

  No further confidences were forthcoming so Mrs. Sin
gh looked around the bedroom with a beady eye. It was small and crammed. A bookshelf was laden with chemistry texts. Where were the novels of romance and suspense? The bed was neatly made, the orange cotton handloom bedspread a bright spot of colour in the otherwise drab room.

  “Her bed is made,” she said.

  “Yes, Ashu is always tidy.”

  Did girls who were about to run away from home make their beds first? Mrs. Singh didn’t know. She tried to imagine what she would do in similar circumstances but her mind balked at contemplating such independent behaviour as to leave home in the run-up to a marriage, jangling bangles announcing this perfidy to the world.

  “What were her hobbies?” asked Mrs. Singh.

  “Always she was reading a book – and mostly books about the work she did at the factory. She is a research scientist, you know?” This was said with a proud lift of the head although Mrs. Singh suspected she had no idea what Ashu’s job actually involved. In similar circumstances, she would have been clueless and Mrs. Singh was not one to attribute superior powers to her female relatives than she possessed herself.

  “What about your sons?”

  “Tanvir works for his grandfather in the office. Ranjit is still studying. He wanted to do literature at Mumbai uni but Tara Baba says he will not waste his money on such useless pursuits. So now he is studying for a marketing degree. Already doing a Masters. Much better. Easier to get a good job.” She sounded as if she was rehashing old arguments that had been put to her by Tara Singh.

  “So only Ashu is…ermmm…independent?”

  “Actually, the factory where she works belongs to Tara Baba.”

  The family were well and truly caught up in the tentacles of their benefactor, realised Mrs. Singh. Had it been too much? Was that why the girl had run away? Jesvinder stood up slowly and the creak in her knees was audible to her cousin. She walked over to a cupboard and flung the doors open as if determined to confront whatever she might find head-on. Mrs. Singh, standing next to her, was struck by the simplicity of the cloth and hues, so unlike the primary colours favoured by many Indian girls.

  Jesvinder’s next words were mildly apologetic. “I do not mean to criticise Tara Baba. He knows best in these matters. And we owe him everything. Things were very bad for us when my husband died.”

  The missing girl’s mother looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time through the eyes of a stranger. “Tara Baba helps us with schools and jobs but he says it would not be right for us to live more grandly than my husband could have provided.”

  Mrs. Singh’s eyebrows shot up. His generosity had limits then.

  “We are very very grateful for all he has done for us,” continued Jesvinder and she sounded as if she really meant it. “Especially for Ashu.”

  “Do you think she has run away?” asked Mrs. Singh.

  “I don’t know,” said Jesvinder. “I don’t know what to think. But none of her clothes are missing.”

  ♦

  Singh looked around the room, noted the simple furnishings; wooden framed chairs with square cushions, the two sofas and a carpet with loud geometric designs. A small picture of Guru Nanak Singh, founder of the Sikh religion, a gold leaf halo around his head and a snowy white beard down to his chest, was on the wall. He looked a little like Tara Singh, realised the inspector. The guru’s finger was raised in admonishment so Singh looked away and gazed instead at a small glass-topped table in the centre of the room. The apartment was certainly not luxurious or ostentatious. Tara Singh might be the family benefactor but this apparently did not imply unlimited largesse.

  Singh decided to continue in the vein of a policeman rather than contemplate the furnishings in silence. “Where did Ashu work?” he asked.

  “She was a chemist,” replied Tanvir. “At Bharat Chemicals. They have a factory in Mumbai.”

  “That would be a good place to begin a search although it might be difficult to be discreet.”

  “They will be silent on the matter if I tell them so,” said Tara Singh.

  “My grandfather owns a majority shareholding in the company,” explained Tanvir. “It is a joint venture with the Americans.”

  “I don’t believe that Indian entrepreneurship should be limited to call-centres,” said Tara with the air of a man who had made the same point on many previous occasions to people more worthy of his insights.

  Singh remembered the taxi drivers and porters – and especially their recent encounter with the self-proclaimed Sikh brother. “You’re quite right,” he agreed. “There is no shortage of entrepreneurial spirit here.”

  Tara Singh appeared to belatedly remember his manners. “Are you enjoying your stay at the Taj, Inspector?”

  “Yes, very much. I must thank you for your generosity.”

  “Nothing is too good for my Ashu.”

  Mention of Ashu reminded everyone present that the bride had gone missing. Glum silence reigned once more and not even the policeman had the heart to break it.

  The door opened and Jesvinder waddled back in. Mrs. Singh had a hand on her elbow to steady her progress.

  “What is it?” demanded Tanvir.

  “Nothing is missing – all her clothes except what she was wearing are still here.”

  “Maybe she planned to buy herself new ones,” suggested the inspector.

  “Her handbag is in the room too with her wallet and credit cards. The only thing that is gone is her small purse – which she used when she was just popping out for a short while and needed a few rupees only for taxis.” She added, “It’s easier because there is a lot of bag snatching in Mumbai.”

  Mrs. Singh’s gripped her own handbag more tightly.

  “What does this mean?” asked Ranjit, finding his voice for the first time since being belittled by his grandfather. “Why would she run away without any clothes?”

  Singh noted that the younger brother at least was not so adamant that Ashu would ‘never run away’ as Tanvir had asserted earlier. “It appears that your sister did not intend to stay away for very long,” said Singh. Deep frown lines appeared on his forehead. Ashu had not intended to remain absent. And if that was the case, where was she? Somewhere in Mumbai without a change of clothes or much money.

  “Does she have a mobile phone?”

  “She left it charging here,” said Ranjit.

  “She was always forgetting it…” added the mother quietly.

  “Inspector Singh, what do you think we should do?”

  The policeman looked at Tara Singh, who had gone from supercilious to desiring his advice in a few short moments. Needs must, it would seem.

  “Call the police,” he answered abruptly.

  “That’s out of the question,” barked Tanvir.

  Tara Singh cocked his head to one side as if he was thinking. At last, he said, “Not yet. We should make our own inquiries first.”

  “How will you do that?” demanded Singh. It was a ridiculous notion – this was definitely a job for the police with their extensive resources.

  Tara Singh raised his cane and pointed it at the policeman from Singapore. “I won’t be doing it, Inspector Singh – you will.”

  Five

  “As a favour to me, you will look into this mystery of my granddaughter’s whereabouts.” Tara Singh’s tone was clipped. A man used to having people dance to his tune. Well, he’d found himself a fat man with two left feet and no rhythm.

  “You need professionals,” insisted Singh. “The Indian police.”

  “And are you not a professional then, Inspector Singh?”

  “I’m a professional in my own country,” he said stiffly, hackles raised. “Here, I am a stranger.”

  His wife added quickly, “And he investigates murders, not missing persons. He would have no idea what to do, Tara Baba.”

  The inspector scowled at his better half. She was right – he would have no idea what to do – but surely a good Sikh wife should be blindly supportive? Even when she was on his side she could only ac
hieve their mutual ends by undermining him.

  “I cannot go to the police – not yet,” said Tara. “Trying to keep a secret within the wider Mumbai police force is like trying to hold water with a sieve.”

  Singh rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Missing persons often came home in boxes and that was the truth. But not the whole truth. Not always. Singh glanced at the picture on the mantelpiece and hazel eyes met his without blinking. He really hoped this girl had developed a case of cold feet and made a run for it. He would hate to think of such a young life snuffed out – whether by accident or design.

  “My sniffing around will raise questions too.”

  “You will have to be discreet.”

  Singh scratched his tummy with thick short fingers. “How can I be discreet when I am asking whether anyone has seen a missing bride?”

  “I’ll leave that to you,” said Tara. “But perhaps you could make your inquiries more general – pretend to be from the groom’s family checking her antecedents. That would not be uncommon before a marriage.”

  “A few days before the wedding?”

  Tara Singh shrugged.

  The timing was not perfect but, to give the old man due credit, it was almost plausible, decided Singh. And although he was a murder cop, tracking down the girl should not be that different from a murder investigation. Understanding the victim was still key to any resolution of the mystery. Once he got to know this Ashu Kaur, albeit vicariously, through her family, friends and workmates, he might be in a position to deduce where she’d gone. Indeed, why she had gone. And here, for a change, there was even the possibility of a happy ending. Or, at least, an ending where the protagonist was alive which would make a change from his usual diet of dead bodies. Singh was tempted. He knew it was a ridiculous assignment. The family should go to the police and that was that. A freelance private investigator looking for a missing person amongst the twenty million people living cheek by jowl in Mumbai? He would have a better chance of success looking for the proverbial needle. On the other hand, this girl was not one of the nameless, homeless millions who poured into Mumbai looking for a better life only to find themselves sleeping on sidewalks or crammed into slums. Ashu Kaur was somebody. She was Tara Singh’s granddaughter.