by Tarquin Hall
"Dr. Mohan has ruled out butter and said you have to cut down on salt. This is your life we're talking about. You want to leave me a widow so I have to shave my head and live in a cell in Varanasi and chant mantras all day long?"
"Now, my dear, I think you're being a little overdramatic. You know full well that well-to-do middle-class widows don't have to sing mantras for a living. Besides, are we going to allow Doctor-ji to ruin every last little pleasure? Should we go through life living in fear?"
Rumpi ignored him and carried on preparing the rotis.
"All I require is a one small pinch to have with my chili," he continued. "Is that really going to kill me?"
Rumpi sighed irritably and relented.
"You're impossible, Chubby," she said, spooning out a little salt from one of the sections of her dabba and putting it on the side of his plate.
"Yes, I know," he replied playfully. "But more important, now I am also happy!"
He bit off the end of the chili, dipped it in the salt and took another bite.
For most people this would have been equivalent to touching molten lead with the tip of their tongue. The Naga Morich chili is one of the hottest in the world, two to three times as potent as the strongest jalapeno. But Puri had built up an immunity to them, so he needed hotter and hotter chilies to eat. The only way to ensure a ready supply was to propagate them himself. He had turned into a capsicum junkie and occasional dealer.
"So how is my Radhika?" asked the detective, who ate with his hands, as did the rest of the family when at home. This was a convention he prided himself on; Indians were supposed to eat that way. Somehow a meal never seemed as satisfying with cutlery. Feeling the food between your fingers was an altogether more intimate experience.
"Very fine," answered Rumpi, who made sure her husband had everything he needed before taking her place next to him and serving herself a little kadi chawal. "She found a good deal on one of those low-cost airlines so as to come home for Diwali. It's OK with you, or should she take the train?"
More family news followed during the meal. Their second grandchild, four-month-old Rohit, the son of their eldest daughter, Lalita, had recovered from his cold. Jagdish Uncle, one of Puri's father's four surviving brothers, had returned home from the hospital after having his gall bladder removed. And Rumpi's parents were returning from their vacation "cottage" in Manali.
Next, she brought Puri up to date on local Gurgaon news. There had been a six-hour power cut that morning (it had been blamed on fog). An angry mob of residents had stormed the offices of the electricity company, dragged the director out and given him "a good thrashing." Eventually, the police had intervened using lathis and roughed up a lot of people, including many women.
Finally, Rumpi broached the delicate subject of a vacation; she wanted to go to Goa.
"Dr. Mohan said you need a break. You never stop working these days, Chubby," she said.
"I'm quite all right, my dear. Fit as a fiddle, in fact."
"You're not all right at all. All this stress is taking its toll. You're looking very tired these days."
"Really, you're worrying over nothing. Now what about dessert? There's something nice?"
"Apple," she replied curtly.
After Puri had finished eating, he washed the residue of kadi chawal from his hands in the sink, ladled out a glass of cool water from the clay pot that sat nearby and gulped it down.
Afterward in the sitting room, he turned on his recording of Yanni Live at the Acropolis , relaxed into his favorite armchair and dialed Mummy's number.
She answered on the sixth ring, but there was a lot of static on the line.
"Mummy-ji, where are you?" he asked her.
"Chubby? So much interference in there, na? You're in an auto or what?"
"I'm very much at home," he said.
"You've not yet reached home! So late it is? You've had your khana outside, is it?"
"I'm at home, Mummy!" he bawled. "Where are you?"
The static suddenly grew worse.
"Chubby, your mobile device is giving poor quality of connection. Listen, na, I'm at Minni Auntie's house. I'll be back late. Just I need rest. Some tiredness is there."
She let out a loud yawn.
"This line is very bad, Mummy-ji! I'll call you back!"
"Hello, Chubby? My phone is getting low on battery and no charger is here. Take rest. I'll be back later, na-"
The line went dead.
Puri regarded the screen suspiciously.
"Who is Minni Auntie?" he shouted to Rumpi, who was still in the kitchen.
"Who?"
"Minni Auntie. Mummy said she's at her house."
"Might be one of her friends. She has so many, I can't keep track."
Rumpi came to the door of the sitting room, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
"Who are you calling now?" she asked Puri.
"Mummy's driver."
He held the phone to his ear. It rang and rang, but there was no response and he hung up.
"She's out there looking into the shooting-I know it," he said wearily.
Rumpi made a face. "Oh, Chubby, I'm sure she's just trying to help," she said.
"It's not her place. She's a schoolteacher, not a detective. She should leave it to the professionals. I'm making my own inquiries about the shooting and will get to the bottom of it."
"If you ask me, I think Mummy's a natural detective," said Rumpi. "If you weren't being so stubborn and proud, you might give her a chance. I'm sure she could be very helpful to you. It doesn't sound like you've got any clues of your own."
Puri bristled at this last remark.
"My dear, if you want your child to learn his six times table, you go to Mummy," he said brusquely. "If you want a mystery solved, you come to Vish Puri."
As her son had rightfully surmised, Mummy was not at Minni Auntie's (although such a lady did exist; she was one of the better bridge players among the nice group of women who played in Vasant Kunj); she was on a stakeout.
Her little Maruti Zen was parked across the street from the Sector 31 Gurgaon police station, five minutes from Puri's home.
With her was her driver, Majnu, and Kishan, the servant boy, whom she'd persuaded to come with her. She'd also brought along a thermos of tea, a Tupperware container packed with homemade vegetarian samosas and of course her handbag, which, among other things, contained her battery-operated face fan.
This had come in extremely useful when her son had called earlier. By holding it up to her phone, she had created what sounded like interference on the line, which helped her avoid having to give away her location. This was an old trick she'd learned from her husband, who had occasionally used his electric razor to the same effect.
During forty-nine years of marriage, she'd picked up a number of other useful skills for a detective and a good deal of knowledge as well.
Take red boots, for example.
Mummy knew that they were part of a senior police officer's dress uniform and were supposed to be worn only during parades. Occasionally cops were known to wear them for their day-to-day work when their other boots went for repairs.
If the shooter was indeed an officer-who else would wear such footwear?-then the most logical place to start looking for him was the local "cop shop."
Of all the stations in Gurgaon, the one in Sector 31 had one of the worst reputations. Stories abounded about police-wallahs arresting residents of the bastis and forcing them to cook and clean for them; of beatings, rapes-even murders.
"We might be here for hours," moaned Majnu, who was always whining. They had been outside the station for an hour already and he was annoyed at having to work late.
"We have no other choice," Mummy told him. "Everyone else is being negligent in this matter. Some action is required."
At around 10:40, a man in plain clothes emerged from the station. Kishan recognized him as the person he'd seen leaving the scene of the shooting.
"Madam, please don't tell
anyone it was me who told you! The cops will kill me!" he said when he realized that the shooter was a police-wallah.
"Your secret is safe," Mummy reassured Kishan, giving him a couple of hundred rupees for his trouble. "Now go home and we'll take it from here."
The servant boy did not have to be told twice. He hurriedly exited the car and rushed off into the darkness.
On the other side of the road, Red Boots got into an unmarked car, started the ignition and pulled into the road, heading west.
Mummy and Majnu followed behind. But the driver kept getting too close and she had to scold him more than once.
"There's a brain in that skull or just thin air or what?"
Twenty minutes later, they found themselves pulling up outside a fancy five-star Gurgaon hotel.
Red Boots left his car with the valet and went inside.
"I'm going to follow him. You stay out here in the car park," Mummy told Majnu.
"Yes, madam," sighed the driver, who was by now in a sulk.
Puri's mother passed through the hotel doors-they were opened by a tall Sikh doorman with the kind of thick beard and moustache that appealed to tourists-into the plush lobby. Red Boots had turned left, past the bellboy's desk and the lifts. Mummy saw him disappear inside a Chinese restaurant, Drums of Heaven.
Outside the entrance, she stopped for a moment and looked down at what she was wearing in alarm; her ordinary chikan kurta and churidaar pajamas were hardly appropriate for such a fancy place.
"But what to do?" she said to herself, continuing her pursuit.
Beyond a kitsch dragon and pagoda, Mummy was greeted by an elegant hostess, who looked Tibetan. Would Madam like a smoking or nonsmoking table?
"Actually I'm meeting one friend, only," replied Mummy. "Almost certainly she's arrived. Just I'll take a look. So kind of you."
The hostess escorted Mummy to the back of the restaurant, where Red Boots was sitting with a fat-throated man in a white linen suit. They were both smoking cigarettes and drinking whisky.
Behind them there was a vacant table for two; Mummy made a beeline for it, sitting directly behind her mark.
"Must be my friend has yet to arrive," she told the Tibetan lady. "Her driver's always getting confusion."
The hostess placed a menu on the table and went back to her podium.
Mummy pretended to peruse the dim sum section while trying to eavesdrop on Red Boots's conversation with Fat Throat, gradually inching her chair backward as close as she dared.
The Muzak and the general murmur from the other tables drowned out most of their words. So Mummy asked the waiter to turn off the music-"Such a headache is there"-and, after turning up her hearing aid to full volume, she was able to grasp a few clear sentences.
"You'd better not fail again. Get him out of the way or the deal won't go through," Fat Throat was saying in Hindi.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of him," replied Red Boots.
"That's what you said before and you missed."
"I told you I'll get it done and I'll get-"
Just then Mummy felt a searing pain in her head.
The waiter had returned and asked to take her order. The effect was like having a screaming megaphone put up to her ear.
"Madam, are you all right?" asked the waiter.
Again his words boomed through her head and Mummy flinched in pain, managing to turn her hearing aid down to normal before he could ask anything else.
"Yes, yes, quite all right," she said a little breathlessly. There was a loud ringing in her right ear and she felt dizzy. "I think I'd better step outside. Some air is required."
Gathering up her handbag, Mummy made her way out of the restaurant and the hotel.
She found Majnu lying back in his seat fast asleep.
"Wake up, you duffer!" screeched Mummy, banging on the window. "What is this, huh? Dozing off on the job. Think I'm paying you to lie around? You're supposed to be keeping an eye out and such."
"For what, madam?"
"Don't do talkback! Sit up!"
Mummy got into the back of the car and waited.
Forty minutes later, Red Boots and Fat Throat came out of the hotel, shook hands and parted ways. The latter got into a black BMW.
"You follow that car," instructed Mummy. "And pay attention, na!"
Soon they were heading through Sector 18. But Majnu had grown overly cautious and stayed too far back. When the BMW turned left at a light, he got stuck behind two trucks. By the time the light changed and the trucks had given way, Fat Throat's car was nowhere in sight.
"Such a simple thing I asked you to do, na! And look what happens! Ritu Auntie is doing better driving than you and she can't do reverse!" cried Mummy.
Having his driving compared to a woman's was the worst insult Majnu could imagine and he sulked in silence.
"Now, drive me back to my son's home," she instructed. "Tomorrow we'll pick up the trail. Challo!'"
Thirteen
"Mr. Puri, they've taken him!" shouted Mrs. Kasliwal without so much as a hello when the detective answered his phone the next morning. She sounded more irate than panicked. "Fifteen minutes back they came knocking without warning. There was such a scene. Media persons were running around hither and thither, invading our privacy and trampling my dahlias!"
"Please calm yourself, madam, and tell me who it is who is taking who!" said Puri, never at his most patient or sympathetic when dealing with a hysterical or melodramatic woman (and even less so at 7:45 when he was in the middle of shaving).
"My husband, of course! The police arrested him! Never could I have imagined it could happen here! Some upstart police-wallah arresting Chippy like a…a common criminal for the whole world to see."
"On what charge?" asked the detective. But she was still talking.
"Have these people no respect for privacy, Mr. Puri? I've seen animals at the zoo behaving with more dignity!"
Mrs. Kasliwal started berating someone in the room with her. One of the servants, evidently. Puri wondered if it could be Facecream. Then suddenly, she was back.
"How this can happen, Mr. Puri? Is it legal? Surely the police can't just go around arresting respectable people and casting clouds over family reputations whenever they fancy? There has to be some cause."
It was true that before the age of 24-hour television news, the police would never have made a show of arresting a man of Kasliwal's status. But nowadays, high-profile arrests were public spectacles. This was the cops' idea of PR-to give the impression that they were doing something other than extorting bribes from drivers.
"Madam, please tell me, with what is he charged?" asked Puri again. But Mrs. Kasliwal still wasn't listening.
"I want to know what you're going to do about this, Mr. Puri," she continued, barely pausing for breath. "Thus far, I must say the quality of your service is most unsatisfactory. I can't see you're getting anywhere. You came here for a few hours, asked some questions and then did a disappearing act. Have you made any progress at all?"
"Madam, will you please tell me with what your husband's charged?" said the detective.
Mrs. Kasliwal let out an irritated tut. "Pay attention, Mr. Puri. I told you already. Chippy has been charged with murder. Police are now saying he killed that silly servant girl Mary. But it is all lies. They're trying to cook the case."
"Have they a body?" asked Puri calmly.
"They're saying she and the bashed-up girl in your photograph are one and the same. But it's not her. I know it."
"Forgive me, madam, but you were not so certain when I showed it to you before," said Puri.
Mrs. Kasliwal tutted again. "Most certainly I was!" she said. "I told you categorically it was not Mary. Your memory is faulty. Now, I'm going to ask K. P. Malhotra to represent Chippy. They are old friends and he's one of the best lawyers in India. He'll get him off for sure. The charges are all spurious. I'll talk to him about whether your services are still required. It could be he has his own detective."
&nb
sp; Puri kept the phone up to his ear, saying, "Hello, Hello," but realized she had hung up and that the dial pad of his mobile was now covered in shaving foam.
The detective hastily finished his ablutions and got dressed.
Had he let his client down, he wondered? Should he have seen this development coming?
Puri searched his conscience and found it clear. It was quite normal for people to lose confidence in his abilities in the middle of an investigation. To be fair, their lack of faith was understandable.
From the Kasliwals' perspective, Puri appeared to be doing nothing. They hadn't seen him down on his hands and knees scrutinizing the floors with a magnifying glass. He hadn't threatened and cajoled the servants as most other private investigators and police detectives would have done. He hadn't even stuck around in Jaipur.
But Puri's methodology, suited as it was to the Indian social environment, had always proven infallible. And it could not be rushed. As he often told his young proteges, "You cannot boil an egg in three minutes, no?"
Nonetheless, the situation was urgent. If convicted, Kasliwal would face life imprisonment.
The detective considered an air-dash to Jaipur, but given his fear of flying and the fact that it would gain him at the most an hour, he opted instead for the "highway."
By eight o'clock, he and Handbrake were on the road again.
Puri sat on the backseat calling his contacts to find out more on the charges brought against his client.
A source inside the Chief Prosecutor's Office (one of his uncle's daughter's husband's brothers) told him that the arresting police officer was called Rajendra Singh Shekhawat.
Shekhawat was a "topper"-one of the most successful detectives in the state. He was said to be young, bright, ambitious and highly adept at keeping his superiors happy.
"So where did he find the body?" Puri asked his uncle's daughter's husband's brother.