by Tarquin Hall
Judge Suri was sitting in the far corner in his favorite chair, smoking his pipe and reading the Indian Journal of International Law . Puri recognized Shonal Ganguly, professor of history at Delhi University, sitting with his wife. Next to the fireplace slouched L. K. George, the former industrialist who had given away his family fortune to the League for the Protection of Cows and their Progeny and now lived in a crumbling Lutyens bungalow on Racecourse Road. Propping up the bar stood Major-General Duleep Singh along with his eldest son, a surgeon and resident of Maryland visiting from the USA.
Apart from the waiters, the only other person in the room was a distinguished-looking gentleman sitting on his own at one of the little round tables near the French windows with an empty glass in front of him. Puri guessed this must be his guest because his brow was deeply furrowed with worry, a feature prospective clients often shared.
"Sir, your good name, please?" asked the detective, approaching the stranger.
"Ajay Kasliwal," he answered, standing up and offering his hand.
Despite the bar's cool temperature, his palm was moist. "Vish Puri, is it? Well, I'm certainly glad to meet you. Bunty Bannerjee put me on to you. Said you were to be found here most evenings. He sends his best wishes, by the way."
"Most kind of you," replied the detective. "How is the old devil? It's been such a very long time!"
"Very good, very good. No complaints. In and out of trouble," replied Kasliwal with a jovial chuckle.
"Everyone is well?"
"World class! Flourishing, in fact!"
"And Bunty's factory? Thriving, is it?"
"Thriving, absolutely thriving."
Puri gestured for Kasliwal to take his seat. He sank back into the armchair and his weight caused it to wheeze air like an old bellows.
"You'll join me?" asked the detective.
"Please," sighed Kasliwal.
The detective snapped his fingers and an elderly waiter who had been working at the club for some forty years approached the table. He was hard of hearing so the detective had to shout his order.
"Bring two Royal Challenge and soda! Two portion chili cheese toast!"
The waiter nodded, picked up Kasliwal's empty glass and methodically wiped the surface of the table. This provided Puri with an opportunity to study his guest up close.
Kasliwal, who was in his late forties, had an air of privilege about him. His manicured fingernails, contact lenses, and well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair, swept back from his forehead, indicated that he spent a good deal of time tending to his appearance. His gold watch, two thick gold rings and the gold pen glinting from his shirt pocket left others in no doubt of his wealth and status. There was an intellectual gravitas about the man too. In his thoughtful eyes, Puri perceived a certain striving.
"Accha," said Kasliwal, once the waiter had finally withdrawn. He leaned forward in his armchair. The furrows on his brow deepened. "Firstly, Puri-ji please understand one thing. I'm not a man to panic easily. Not at all."
He spoke English with a strong accent and "not at all" was rolled into one word as "naataataall."
"Believe me, I've faced many obstacles and challenges in my life. This I can say with utmost confidence. Also, I'm one man who prides himself on honesty. That much is well known. Ask anyone. They will tell you that Ajay Kasliwal is one hundred and fifty percent honest!"
He went on: "Puri-ji, I understand you are a man of integrity and discretion, also. That is why I've come. Frankly, I'm facing a serious situation. A crisis. It can be my ruin, actually. That's why I've air-dashed here to see you."
"You are a lawyer residing in Jaipur, is it?" interrupted Puri.
Kasliwal looked taken aback. "That's correct," he said. "But, how…Ah, Bunty told you, I suppose."
Puri enjoyed impressing prospective clients with his deductions, despite the simplicity of his observations.
"I've not spoken with Bunty, actually," he said, plainly. "But from your Law Society of India monogrammed tie and type of briefcase, I deducted you are a man of the Bar. As to your hometown, traces of red Rajasthani sand are on your shoes. Also, you mentioned air-dashing to Delhi. You arrived here thirty minutes back. So should be you came by the five o'clock flight from Jaipur."
"Amazing!" exclaimed Kasliwal, with a clap of his hands. "Bunty said you were a gifted fellow, but never would I have believed!"
The lawyer edged even closer, looking from side to side to make sure no one could overhear their conversation. The waiters were at a safe distance behind the bar. None of the other members appeared to be paying Puri and his guest any attention.
"Yesterday I was paid a visit by the cops," he said. "Someone has lodged an FIR against me."
Kasliwal handed Puri a copy of the "First Information Report." The detective read it carefully.
"You're ordered to produce one female named Mary within seven days, is it?" he noted once he'd finished, passing back the document. "Who is she exactly?"
Before Kasliwal could answer, the waiter returned with their drinks and snacks. Slowly, he placed them on the table one by one and then presented Puri with the bill. The club did not accept cash, so all purchases made at the bar or in the restaurant had to be signed for. This system produced piles of paperwork, which kept at least four clerks employed in the club's accounts department. Puri had to sign one bill for the drinks he'd ordered, another for the double Scotch Kasliwal had downed earlier, and another for the food. Naturally, the guest book required a signature as well.
It was several minutes before Kasliwal was able to answer Puri's last question.
"Mary was a maidservant in the house-did cleaning, laundry and all," he said.
"And where is she now?"
"I'm not having the foggiest! She left two, maybe three months back. Just disappeared one night. I wasn't home at the time. I had work to attend to."
Puri tucked into a slice of chili cheese toast as he listened.
"My wife says Mary stole some household items and ran away. But a rumor has circulated that, well…" Kasliwal took a swig of his whisky to fortify his nerves. "There's no truth in it. You know how people talk, Puri-ji."
"Most certainly I do. India is one giant rumor mill, actually. Tell me what all they're saying?"
There was a pause.
"That I got Mary pregnant and did away with her," admitted Kasliwal.
"By God," intoned the detective.
"This has been the complaint made against me and, as you know, in case of FIRs, the police are obliged to investigate."
There was a silence while Puri retrieved his notebook from his inside pocket and then pulled out one of the four pens he kept tucked into the breast pocket of his safari suit.
After jotting down a few details, he asked: "Any body has been discovered?
"No, thank heavens!" exclaimed Kasliwal. "The police searched my house and grounds and some media persons have been on the doorstep asking questions."
"Sounds like someone's trying to ruin your good name, is it?" asked the detective.
"That's it! You've hit the nail on the head, Puri-ji! That's exactly what they're trying to do!"
The lawyer went on to explain that in the past few years he had launched a number of public litigation cases in the Rajasthan High Court. This was something many honest lawyers and individuals were doing across India: working through the legal system to bring inept local and national authorities to account.
"I've had some success tackling the water mafia. I've managed to stop a lot of the illegal water drilling in the driest parts of the state," he explained. "But with so much corruption in the judiciary itself, it's been a tough innings. So earlier this year, I decided to take on the judges themselves. I've launched a public litigation case calling for them to declare their assets."
Puri sipped his whisky. Out of the corner of one eye he registered Major-General Duleep Singh and his eldest son leaving the bar.
"Must have made a few enemies along the way," he said.
"At f
irst they tried to buy me, but I'm not a bowler to do ball tampering. I turned them down flat. To hell with them. So now they're gunning for me. They've seized on this missing servant to muddy my name."
"It seems there's no hard evidence against you, so surely you've got nothing to worry-" said the detective.
"Come on, Puri-ji, this is India!" interrupted Kasliwal. "They can tie me up in knots for years to come."
Puri nodded knowingly; he knew what a long, drawn-out court case did to a family. The similarities between the Indian legal system and the Court of Chancery as described in Dickens's Bleak House were startling.
"The circumstances are certainly unusual," he said, eventually. "What is it you want from me?"
"Puri-ji, I'm begging you, for God's sake, find this bloody Mary!"
"You have her full name?" he asked, biting into a piece of chili cheese toast.
Kasliwal shrugged. "She was there for two months. I believe she was a tribal."
"You have a photograph, personal possessions, copy of ID?"
"Nothing."
Puri's tone became measured. "She was a verified domestic, registered with the cops at least?"
Kasliwal shook his head.
"Sir, allow me to understand," said Puri. "It is your suggestion I locate one tribal-type girl called Mary with no second name, no idea where she is coming from, no idea where she is alighting?"
"That is correct."
"Sir, with respect, I think you must be some kind of joker."
"I can assure you that while I'm enjoying a good joke, I am no joker," objected Kasliwal. "Such an accomplished private investigator as yourself should have no difficulty in such a matter. It's a straightforward thing, after all."
Puri's eyes bulged with incredulity.
"It is certainly not straightforward locating one missing female in a population of one billion plus personages," he said. "It will take time and resources and all of my considerable skills. Looking in Yellow Pages will not suffice."
Puri explained that he worked on a day rate and would require two weeks in advance, plus expenses. The total amount caused Kasliwal to gag on his Scotch.
"So much? Surely you can do better than that, Puri-ji! We can reach some accommodation. Funds are a bit tight these days, you know."
"I don't work for farthings and I don't do negotiation," said the detective, munching on the last piece of chili cheese toast. "My fee is final."
Kasliwal thought for a moment and, with a grave sigh, drew a checkbook from the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Sir, rest assured I will find this female by hook or crook," said Puri. "If I fail, then I will return my fee minus expenses."
The detective drained his glass.
"There is one other thing," he added.
The lawyer, who was bent over the table writing a check, looked up.
"Cash, banker's draft or electronic transfer only," insisted Puri with a smile.
Four
Puri woke the next morning to the sound of water dribbling into an empty bucket in the bathroom. This was his anomalous alarm, a signal that it was 6:30, the hour when Sector Four received its daily supply of water and each household filled up buckets, tanks and all manner of receptacles to carry them through the day.
Puri sat up and glanced over at the single bed next to his. It came as no surprise to find it empty. Hardly a day had gone by during the past twenty-six years when Rumpi had not risen at five. Even during the months when she was heavily pregnant with each of their three daughters, Puri's devoted wife had insisted on getting up at the crack of dawn to oversee the running of the house. No doubt she was downstairs now churning fresh butter for his double-roti. Or she was in the second bedroom rubbing mustard oil into her long, auburn hair.
The detective reached for the light switch, which, like the radio alarm and world clock, was fitted into the astonishingly shiny imitation-mahogany headboard. The side lamp did not come on, which prompted him to glance over at the electric mosquito repellent plugged into the far wall to see if its red light was glowing. It was off. Sector Four was experiencing more load shedding.
Muttering a curse, Puri reached for his flashlight, switched it on and slipped out of bed. His monogrammed slippers-"VP"-were lying next to each other on the floor where he had carefully positioned them the night before. He wriggled his feet inside their furry lining and reached for his silk dressing gown. His collection of fourteen Sandown caps were arranged on a shelf inside one of the fitted cupboards. He chose the tartan one, pulling it snug over his head. Then he surveyed himself in the mirror, gave the silk handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket of his dressing gown a tug and, pleased with what he saw, walked out into the hallway.
The beam of his flashlight fell on the marble floor, partially illuminating the large silver-plated Ganesh idol and the gilded legs of the hallway table, which supported a vase of plastic sunflowers. Puri walked to the top of the stairs, where the sound of giggling from the kitchen caused him to pause.
Listening intently, the detective was able to make out the voice of his new houseboy, Sweetu, who was in the kitchen joking around with Monica and Malika rather than attending to his morning duties. The detective couldn't quite make out what Sweetu was saying, so he crept over to the door of his private study. This was the one room of the house which no one, save Rumpi (who cleaned it every Friday), was allowed to enter. There were only two keys in existence: one hung on his key chain; the other was hidden in a secret compartment built into the shrine in the puja room.
Like his office, Puri's study was simply furnished. In one corner stood a fireproof safe containing his private papers, various important files, a selection of fake passports and IDs and his Last Will and Testament. The bottom half of the safe also contained 100,000 rupees in cash, some of his wife's gold and diamond jewelry (the rest she kept in a bank vault), and a loaded .32 IOF pistol-a copy of the .32 Colt Pistol made by the Indian Ordnance Factory.
Puri sat at his desk and pulled open one of the drawers. Inside lay a battery-operated receiver set to the frequency of the bug he had concealed in the kitchen. He switched it on, pushed the mono earpiece into his left ear, adjusted the volume and sat back in his chair to listen.
Rumpi frowned upon his practice of listening in on the servants, but Puri made it a policy to monitor all new recruits at home and at the office. He himself relied on servants as primary sources of intelligence and often planted his own operatives inside other people's households. As a man who fiercely guarded his privacy and had a number of dangerous enemies and unscrupulous competitors, he needed to be sure that his own staff were not spying on him or unwittingly passing on details about his private affairs to interested parties.
Furthermore, Puri was well aware of just how lazy servants could be. Village types like Sweetu were often under the illusion that city people did not work for a living, and saw no reason why they should behave any differently. Living in a modern house in comparative luxury could give them delusions of grandeur. The boy before Sweetu had had the audacity to seduce a part-time cleaner on Puri's bed. The detective had come home unannounced one afternoon when Rumpi was away visiting her sister and found them at it.
Puri spent ten minutes listening in on the conversation in the kitchen. The talk was mostly about the latest Shahrukh Khan film, a double-role. It all sounded harmless enough, as gossip went. But it was obvious that Sweetu was keeping the girls from their duties and shirking his own. The detective decided to put a stop to it and reprimand the boy. Switching off the receiver and locking the study door behind him, he walked to the top of the stairs.
"Sweetu!" he bellowed.
The sound of Sahib's voice brought the boy scuttling from the kitchen into the hallway below.
"Good morning, sir," he stammered, awkwardly,
"Why are you being idle?" demanded Puri in Hindi. "You are not employed to discuss Shah Rukh's double-roles!"
"Sir, I-"
"No argument. Where is my bed tea?"
> "Sir, power cut-"
"Tell Malika to bring it to the roof. And," he added in English, "don't do chitter chatter!"
Puri headed upstairs, satisfied with the manner in which he had handled Sweetu. The boy was young, only fifteen, and an orphan. What he needed was discipline. But Puri was never one to abuse, exploit or treat his servants badly, as he had known so many other people to do. He believed in looking after the interests of all his employees, providing they were hardworking and loyal. In Sweetu's case, Puri had arranged for the boy to attend school two afternoons a week so that he would learn to read and write and acquire a skill. And in a few years' time, the detective would also help him find a suitable wife.
Had not Chanakya taught that it was the duty of the privileged to help the underprivileged?
Puri climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the flat roof of the house. The sun was climbing into what should have been a clear, azure sky. But as was so often the case these days, a brown pall of dust and pollution blanketed Delhi, smothering the city like some Vedic plague.
The family had hoped to escape the smog when they had moved to Gurgaon nine years earlier.
When Puri had bought his plot of land, it had lain many miles from the southern outskirts of the capital. It had taken more than two years to build his and Rumpi's dream house-a white, four-bedroom Spanish-style villa with orange-tiled awnings, which they'd furnished from top to bottom in Punjabi baroque.
On the roof, Puri had established a garden of potted plants, tending to them every morning at dawn.
In those days, the vistas in all directions had been breathtaking, the sun shimmering off mustard fields and casting long shadows over clutches of mud huts. Goatherds and their flocks wove along time-worn tracks that dissected the complex patchwork of land. Farmers drove oxen and wooden plows, kicking up dust in their wake. Barefoot women in bright reds and oranges walked from the hand pump to their homes, brimming brass pots balanced on their heads.