A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  ♦

  The next morning, Inspector Singh decided that, as the girl was dead and the wedding was off, there was no need to ignore breakfast in pursuit of answers. His appetite was sharp and the reasons were twofold. One, he’d missed dinner while traipsing around looking at corpses. And two, his wife had elicited the information that breakfast was part of the generous package sponsored by Tara Singh.

  The inspector was firmly convinced that his high standards would not be compromised and in this, he was right. The coffee was piping hot as was the milk. The beverage options included chai and other spiced concoctions. The spread had every conceivable type of Indian bread from roti to naan, and thosai to idly. Each came with a varied assortment of curries and chutneys. And, as if that was not sufficient, there was a vast Western spread: eggs scrambled, poached or fried, sausages, bacon and ham, baked beans and hash browns as well as a Japanese corner which smelt to Singh like rotting fish. Beef – holy cow – was not on the breakfast menu but the hotel had decided to ignore the demands of the other major religions. Just as well when considering the diversity of religious opinion in India – he’d have been reduced to eating boiled rice otherwise.

  “Are you really going to eat that much?”

  He didn’t bother to answer his wife and opened the newspaper instead. There was a cholera outbreak in the slums, more nuclear sabre-rattling from the governments of India and Pakistan and a riot because a Bollywood film had gone too far. Apparently, Indian morals were being compromised. Singh smiled happily. They just didn’t make the newspapers like this in Singapore.

  “What are you going to do first in this ‘investigation’?” asked Mrs. Singh, managing to incorporate verbal inverted commas around the word.

  “Talk to the family.”

  “You’re going to offend everyone.”

  “A girl is dead.”

  There was a sudden round-shouldered slump from Mrs. Singh.

  “What’s the matter?” Surely his lack of manners wasn’t sufficient to provoke this fit of despondency from his usually invincible wife?

  “I was looking forward to the wedding.”

  He nodded sympathetically. He’d stumbled on her discussing what to wear with her sisters on at least three separate occasions in Singapore.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Sit with the family.”

  The inspector winced. He knew the drill. A death was always greeted with a gathering of the community. Mostly womenfolk but men would also be present, especially those who were retired. The mourners would sit on borrowed chairs along the walls of the home or in huddles around tables rented for the occasion and speak in low tones about the departed if there was family within hearing range or about the cricket results if there wasn’t. Sometimes there would be an outbreak of loud wailing when a close relative, probably hurrying back from some far country, walked in exhausted.

  “Not a great way to spend the day,” he said.

  “Will the body be there?”

  “I doubt it. There will have to be some sort of post-mortem for a death like this.”

  “That will be difficult for the family. They will want to bring Ashu home, wash and dress her and organise the funeral.”

  “I think you’ll find that this is a closed-coffin situation.”

  Mrs. Singh sighed. “She was such a pretty girl.”

  “After the cremation, it won’t matter anyway,” muttered Singh and then realised that this was probably very cold comfort to the family members of Ashu Kaur.

  As they walked past the chandelier-lit lobby of the Taj, Singh noticed a turban protruding over the back of one of the low sofas. He skirted the paisley artwork on the floor; it seemed rude to step on it – why did they have art on the floor anyway? – and lumbered towards the turban on a hunch. He found Ranjit gazing at an antique horse on a glass table as if he was eyeing it up to auction at Sotheby’s. On closer perusal it was possible to see that his gaze was blank, like the stare of the blind.

  “What are you doing here?” Singh asked in a gentler tone than had been his first instinct. After all, this skinny boy had just lost a sister. He looked like a man in shock as well, hands trembling and shoulders hunched as if exposed to a chill wind.

  “Tara Baba told me to come here and see you in case you had questions for me.”

  Singh scowled. He didn’t like the mechanics of his investigation being dictated by anyone, whether it was Superintendent Chen, faraway and unmissed, or the wealthy grandfather of a dead bride.

  “But you were at breakfast,” continued Ranjit in an accusing tone. “I’ve been sitting here for ages.”

  Singh wasn’t about to apologise for enjoying his morning repast.

  “Just you?” he asked.

  “Tanvir will be here soon. My mother is unwell but she will come when she is better.”

  Great. Apparently the entire membership of this grieving family was going to parade through the hotel. That wouldn’t be good for business if the lugubrious face in front of him was any indication. Besides, the Taj lobby was a place to see and be seen – not exactly a private venue. Singh made a quick decision. “Let’s find out if there’s a room we can use for interviews,” he said and walked over to the front desk where a smiling young thing in a blue sari suggested that one of the small conference rooms at the business centre could be leased for a few days.

  Singh nodded at the woman with what he hoped was a rich man’s insouciance about cost. “Put it on my bill.” If Tara Singh wanted him to investigate, he would have to absorb incidental expenses.

  In a short while, they were ensconced in a room with a large window overlooking the Gateway. Singh noticed that his witness was gnawing his fingernails hungrily. Perhaps he had eschewed breakfast.

  “Why does Tara Baba want us to see you?” asked Ranjit.

  “He didn’t explain?”

  “Tara Baba doesn’t explain – he only gives orders.” A hint of a smile played around his lips only to be chased away by memories. “And I follow them.”

  “He wants me to look into your sister’s death.”

  “Oh – I see,” he responded in a voice that suggested he didn’t see it at all. “You mean, like find out why she did this?”

  “I guess so,” said Singh, acknowledging to himself that this was the reality despite the grandfather’s suspicion of foul play.

  “So, what do you have to tell me?” continued Singh.

  “What do you mean? I thought you were going to ask me questions…”

  “All right. Tell me about Ashu.”

  “What sort of thing do you want to know?”

  “Anything – I’m a stranger, you’re her brother – I expect you know more about her than me!”

  “Well,” Ranjit stared at the older man helplessly, “she was just, you know, Ashu.”

  “That’s very helpful,” remarked Singh, his words so laden with sarcasm that the boy turned pale and his acne glowed like traffic lights.

  “She was smart,” he said at last. “She loved her work at the chemical factory.” He added with greater conviction, “And she was Tara Baba’s favourite, of course.”

  Singh nodded his approval, a reward for effort. “What about your family?”

  “There’s just my mother and the three of us. Tanvir is the oldest and I am the youngest. And Tara Baba, of course.”

  “Your father?”

  “He died when I was still a child.”

  Singh remembered what his wife had said about the father’s death, that it had been during the anti-Sikh riots after the assassination of Indira Gandhi.

  “That must have been difficult for you,” he said.

  “I don’t remember much. It bothers Tanvir much more than me, what happened to our father.”

  That made sense. Tanvir had been old enough to be badly scarred by what he had seen.

  Ranjit added, meeting Singh’s eyes, “This is much worse for me.” There were tears in his eyes that lent an air of truth to his words. Sin
gh remembered him confidently telling his grandfather that he was sure the girl was all right. He’d been quite wrong about that.

  “OK, so why did your sister kill herself?”

  Ranjit shivered suddenly as if he’d been at the receiving end of a cold blast from the air conditioning. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  He shook his head and Singh wondered again why he affected such a huge turban for a young man. It was disproportionate and slightly comic. Was it a rather sad attempt to give himself stature? And if so, was he as lacking in self-confidence and self-awareness as that suggested?

  “But you’re sure it must have been suicide?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Of course not,” said Ranjit. He added almost resentfully, “Everyone liked Ashu.”

  “Was Ashu happy about the impending marriage?”

  “Tara Baba said that Kirpal was a good Sikh boy from a good family.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I think so. I mean, why wouldn’t she be?”

  “But did she have a young man? Aside from the MBA, I mean.”

  There was a firm shake of the head but also a quick glance to see if Singh had been convinced by the air of certainty.

  “Are you sure? It seems to me that you had your suspicions.”

  “No, no. I didn’t.”

  Singh raised a single eyebrow.

  “Well, it’s nothing really.” The boy became garrulous and Singh wondered if it was to hide the truth in a flood of words. “It’s just that once, when we went to see a film together, at the Regal – I said something about the story which was one of those typical boy-meets-girl type of thing…”

  “Well, spit it out!” snapped Singh.

  “I said that I liked happy endings.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She sounded angry, you know? She said that a couple like that – there was no chance of a happy ending and I was a naive young fool.”

  “What sort of couple was it?”

  “I can’t remember. Mixed religion, I think. He was Hindu and she was Moslem.”

  “Is that true?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would it have been a problem if Ashu had found someone different?”

  “Not a Sikh, you mean?”

  “Yes – or poor, or Moslem, or Hindu, or handicapped, or with unfortunate personal hygiene! I mean, how would your family feel if she had branched out from the good Sikh boy from a good family?”

  Ranjit was struggling for words, his large Adam’s apple bobbing about like a boat on a stormy sea. “Tara Baba would not like it,” he muttered finally.

  “Would not like it but would grit his teeth and dance at the wedding because he loved his granddaughter?”

  “Would not like it and would put a stop to it immediately!”

  Seven

  Singh kicked his heels in the hotel lobby for a good half an hour before he realised that Tanvir Singh, unlike his younger brother, had no intention of pandering to the convenience of his grandfather’s recently appointed private investigator. However, he was pleasantly surprised to discover, on exiting the hotel in search of some form of transport, that Tara Singh had sent a car around to wait for him.

  “Wearewudyouliketobegoingsar?”

  Singh shook his head, nonplussed. “I’m afraid I only speak a bit of Punjabi and no Hindi,” he explained, momentarily distracted as a horse and ornate silver carriage clip-clopped past. He assumed it was a tourist gimmick. They’d have been better off preserving the Ambassadors.

  “For tourists,” explained the driver, following his gaze and confirming his suspicion. He reverted to his original question. “Yes – but wearewudyouliketobegoingsar?”

  The penny dropped with a loud clank. The chauffeur was actually speaking English. It was a combination of the enthusiastically rolled ‘r’s and the curious choice of tenses that had thrown Singh off the scent. Great. He was supposed to investigate a death and he didn’t even understand the natives when they spoke English.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kuldeep, saar.”

  “Take me to the office where Ashu used to work,” he said.

  “Verrywellsar – the chemical works.”

  The drive was innocuous by Indian standards. They spent an hour and a half in traffic. Singh insisted on winding down the glass and handing a fistful of rupees to a man in a loincloth who appeared to be holding a seething mass of intestines in his arms while still having a few fingers free to clasp his collection cup.

  “If you give him money, the rest will be cutting stomachs too,” warned the driver.

  “What?”

  “Always they are trying to have worst injuries to get money from foreigners. Sometimes, they are putting acid in eyes or cutting hand or leg…or both legs and then wheel around in cart.”

  Singh immediately spotted just such a contraption. Was it really possible that some of these were self-inflicted injuries? In such a culture was it that surprising that Ashu had killed herself in so dramatic a fashion? Mind you, these were the poor and destitute seeking the largesse of tourists, not the relations of Tara Singh.

  He continued to stare out of the window, fascinated by the chaos and confusion of Mumbai. They passed pavement dwellings where whole families cooked over a portable gas stove, a sturdy mosque that was situated right square in the middle of the road causing the asphalt road to fork around it – Singh couldn’t imagine the Singapore government showing such restraint in wielding its powers of compulsory land acquisition – and dozens of bright red buses packed to the brim with commuters. He’d soon completely lost his bearings.

  “Where are we?” he asked, nonplussed by the length of time spent on crowded roads without lane markings that seemed to allow for seven vehicles abreast.

  “North of Santa Cruz,” explained Kuldeep.

  Singh looked out over the usual expanse of rust-coloured shanties draped at irregular intervals in the ubiquitous bright blue tarpaulins. It didn’t look like California.

  The chemical works’ offices and factory were housed in a reasonably modern building with air-conditioning units attached to the exterior at regular intervals. A high wall around the perimeter was the main structural support of an ocean of flapping canvas and rusty corrugated iron which formed the residential area of yet another uncountable mass of humanity. It really wasn’t difficult to believe that Mumbai was the most heavily populated city in the world.

  A security guard stood by the steel gate and insisted on examining Singh’s passport at length, staring at him and then at the photo with an air of great suspicion. How one could distinguish between one turbaned, bearded Sikh and another was a mystery to the inspector but the guard seemed to be making a serious effort.

  At last, they were waved through.

  “Lot of security,” remarked Singh for lack of anything better to say.

  “This is very important factory.”

  Singh got out of the car, stretched carefully – his breakfast was resting rather heavily in his stomach – walked into the cool interior with relief, and asked to speak to the boss.

  The boss turned out to be an American gentleman named John Tyler Jr. whose office was modern, furnished in light pine and smelt of disinfectant.

  “So you’re the PI that Tara hired. How would I know why that girl killed herself? I just got to this hellhole.”

  “By which you mean Mumbai?”

  “Of course, whaddya think I meant? New York?”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Three months ago – and only nine more until my retirement to sunny Florida.” He sounded as if he was counting the seconds, let alone the minutes and days.

  “Where were you before this?” Singh asked, seeking to prolong the conversation but not entirely sure what to ask this ornery character.

  “Guangzhou.” The American stroked a long
grey moustache. “They said this is the other economic powerhouse of Asia.” He snorted his derision. “In China things work.”

  “But this is the world’s largest democracy,” protested Singh. “You’re not going to get the same kind of order as China.” The fat man closed his eyes for a moment – he couldn’t believe he was getting defensive about India and sounding like his wife to boot.

  “I don’t think much of the democracy they got over here.”

  Singh doubted that John Tyler Junior – how lacking in imagination had John Tyler Senior been that he couldn’t even come up with a fresh name for his own son? – would be so keen to sacrifice his vote for cleaner streets in Florida. “So you’re not happy?” asked Singh, somewhat unnecessary.

  “It’s impossible to run a business in this town. Corruption, nepotism, cronyism – you name it, it’s here.”

  “So was Ashu Kaur an example of nepotism?”

  “Because she was Tara Singh’s granddaughter? Actually, she was a good worker, smart, knew her stuff. And she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re not from India, are you?”

  “Singapore.”

  The American calmed down immediately. “Now there’s a place I like to do business. Clean, organised, honest, efficient and no slums on the doorstep.”

  “Well, I guess those people have nowhere to go,” suggested Singh, his turban pointing in the direction of the adjacent slums, the guilt that he’d not been able to shake since getting to India overwhelming him once more. He tried his latest theory. “It shows the tolerance within Indian society. There’s no restriction on people moving into the cities to seek a better life even if it means greater discomfort all around.”

  “In China, when the work dries up in the cities, they ship the migrants back to the villages,” was the American’s response. He continued, “Look, it’s a safety issue, isn’t it? This factory should be built away from population centres. Instead, we’ve got most of Mumbai trying to move into the compound.”