The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

by Tarquin Hall

  One of Chanakya's sayings came to mind: 'Learning is like a cow of desire. It, like her, yields in all seasons. Like a mother it feeds you on your journey.'

  The experience had certainly humanised Pakistan in Puri's mind. It was no longer an abstract entity, one that generated only bad news, but a country populated by ordinary people no different from ordinary Indians. They were labouring under many of the same difficult conditions, in fact. And no doubt the vast majority wanted nothing more than to live in peace.

  Puri's distrust of the military, however, was unshakable. And he couldn't bring himself to trust Aslam. That story about Aga being taken by the Americans was pure fiction. 'Cock and bull,' he kept telling himself.

  And yet as he waited for the border to open he found himself reasoning the thing out. Could there be some truth to it? The Pakistanis would certainly be loath to admit that Aga had been found on their soil. As for the Americans, they could be equally duplicitous, one minute training Islamic militants, the next spending billions of dollars to hunt them down.

  One thing was certain: if Aga was being waterboarded in a CIA interrogation cell (quite a pleasant thought, incidentally), then it helped explain the murder of the bookies and possibly the poisoning of Faheem Khan as well. Aga's deputies or a rival outfit were vying for control of the Syndicate.

  Aslam had been adamant that it was someone in India and not Pakistan. 'Someone who knows that Aga is no longer in charge and has taken advantage of the vacuum. Someone under the radar.'

  But then he would say that, wouldn't he?

  Puri removed his Aviator sunglasses and massaged his eyes. He had a strong aversion to this kind of conjecture. It always led to two things: the wrong conclusion and a headache. Cold, hard facts were the only antidote.

  Thirty minutes to go before the border opened. Another fifteen to twenty before he'd be able to use his phone again. He hadn't dared contact any of his people from Pakistan, certain that his conversations would be recorded. But last night he'd called his elder brother and told him to put Mummy under 'house arrest'.

  Bhuppi had informed him that their mother wasn't at home. She had been out all day, apparently, but not left word of her plans.

  It was then the detective had lost his temper: 'Call her, yaar! Tell her to revert! No delay! Enough of this bloody nonsense!'

  The detective regretted having raised his voice; it was his mother with whom he was furious. She'd been playing detective again. Worse, she withheld information vital to the case from him.

  As soon as he reached Delhi, he'd confront her and demand to know what she knew about Faheem Khan's past. Then he would get on with solving the case.

  There could only be one detective in this family.

  'I've met my match, Boss,' admitted Tubelight.

  By now Puri was heading back down the GT Road towards Delhi, the silver sedan once again following behind.

  'You lost the trail?' asked an incredulous Puri.

  His operative took up the story again at the point where he had jumped on board the Pune Express.

  In need of a new disguise in which to search the train and ascertain whether the diamond couriers were indeed onboard, Tubelight had reverted to his old trade: thievery. He waited until the lights in the carriages were switched off and most of the passengers were asleep, and then went in search of new clothes. From beneath a berth where a sardar-ji lay snoring, he helped himself to a change of clothes and a freshly laundered turban.

  Tubelight then entered the toilet a Muslim and walked out a Sikh.

  'What did you do for a beard?' asked Puri in Hindi.

  'Beard net,' replied the operative. 'Cut a clump of hair off my head, stuffed it inside.'

  He came across the Angadia couriers in one of the front carriages in confirmed berths. Tubelight managed to find a spare seat a few rows behind them and kept watch through the night.

  By the time the train pulled in to Mumbai Central at 05.17, Flush and Chanel No. 5 had managed to reach the station by road, and Tubelight had called ahead for more help - four Mumbai boys with whom he'd worked in the past.

  'You were seven in all?' asked Puri. He could count only a handful of occasions when he'd had cause to use such a large team.

  'I tell you those old jackals were cunning,' said Tubelight.

  But not cunning enough. After a pursuit across Mumbai on the city's busy local commuter trains, both couriers were followed successfully to their final destination: the city's Diamond Bourse, the largest exchange in the world. There Desai's blood diamonds were delivered to a firm called Shah and Partners.

  'Couriers kept the packets well concealed. Even now I can't tell you where exactly.'

  Tubelight's voice was thick with admiration as he continued: 'These Angadias carry nearly all the world's diamonds back and forth, but without any security. Could have been more of them on the train for all I know.'

  'An unparalleled parallel system, one might say,' said Puri.

  'Only in India, Boss,' replied Tubelight with a certain pride.

  Satya Pal Bhalla had left no fewer than eleven messages while Puri had been in Pakistan, demanding to know what progress had been made and threatening to find himself another detective.

  The detective felt inclined to wash his hands of the whole affair. He might have been the best detective in all India, but he wasn't a magician. A couple of Tubelight's boys were making enquiries around the city about a six-foot-tall Punjabi barber with white blotches on his hands and a scooter with a licence plate that ended in 288. For the time being there was nothing more to be done.

  'Tell him I'm doing undercover work on the case,' he said. 'Anything else Madam Rani?'

  'Another call from the chief's office - demanding you explain your involvement in the murder case.'

  Puri just chuckled. 'Must be he's getting nowhere with the case,' he said.

  Puri reached Delhi at lunchtime, made a quick stop at his father-in-law's house to drop off the copy of the Koran and then continued on to Punjabi Bagh, mentally preparing himself for battle.

  Yet when he came face to face with the smiling, diminutive figure of his mother, he could muster none of the anger he'd felt since yesterday's encounter with Major General Aslam.

  'Everything is quite all right, Chubby?' she asked. 'Looking so tired, na. Come, sit. You should take chai vai. Then rest. Such big eye bags are there. Black and blue. Must be sore, na. I'll bring some cucumber slice. And your favourite iron tonic, also.'

  'No need, Mummy-ji. I'm fit and fine, believe me. Never better, actually . . .'

  Mummy disappeared into the kitchen, to emerge a few minutes later bearing a tray groaning with cups of chai, a plate of macaroons, a plate of cucumber slices and a bottle of the iron tonic that she had fed him every day throughout his childhood and teenage years. The sight of it made him feel instantly nauseous.

  'That Radhika didn't come today - can you imagine?' she complained as the detective cleared space on the dining table. Radhika was the maid. 'Some nonsense about ingrowing toenails. Such an idle one I tell you. Always taking offs. Just she's doing chit chat and ignoring her duties--'

  'Mummy-ji, I've been in Pakistan these past days,' Puri interrupted, adding, pointedly, 'Rawalpindi.'

  She was in the middle of pouring the tea. For a second, the pot in which she had boiled the leaves, milk, sugar and cardamoms hovered motionless above the tray.

  'Oh,' she said. 'That explains it, na.'

  'Explains what, exactly?'

  'Those eye bags, Chubby. Tension is there, na.' Mummy sighed. 'Not to worry. Some iron tonic will do the trick.'

  'I met an old friend of yours,' Puri continued. He gauged his mother's reaction as he said, 'Khalid Muhammad Aslam.'

  Mummy finished pouring the tea and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Her smile was full of tenderness as she asked, 'He's well, na?'

  So it was true.

  'Very much fine, Mummy-ji,' replied Puri, who thought it better not to mention how her so-called friend
had arranged for him to be abducted at gunpoint.

  'Aslam is retired, Mummy-ji, but being a former Major General he is one fellow who keeps his fingers firmly on the pulse.'

  'Major General you say? In those days, he was Captain, na. So dedicated to his duty he was. A proper gentleman all round.'

  A terrible thought suddenly struck Puri, something he could never have dreamed of considering before. Had she been in love with Aslam? Was this the reason why she had kept her time in Pakistan a secret all these years?

  'Must be you're wondering why I never told you, na? About that time,' asked his mother, who had a canny way of knowing what he was thinking.

  Puri didn't answer; he braced himself for the truth.

  'In those days it was not done,' continued Mummy. 'Things I got up to, na? Not for young girls. Such different times.'

  Puri felt like putting his hands over his ears to blot out her voice.

  'See, so many women got left behind, Chubby. Thousands and thousands in fact. That is after the Britishers chopped up India. So much violence and chaos and all was there. Total one thousand lakh women could not be traced. Hindu and Sikh girls held back in Pakistan. Many Muslim girls grabbed here in India, also. Each and every one of them got abducted. Most were converted and married by force and all. Thus Premna Auntie said it was our duty to save our poor mothers and sisters, and invited me to join.'

  The detective had heard his mother talk of Premna Auntie in the past, an aunt on Mummy's maternal side. A former head teacher, she'd been a feisty, determined woman by all accounts.

  'Mummy-ji, wait,' said Puri, holding up a hand. 'Allow me to understand one thing: you're telling me you reverted to Pakistan to rescue abducted women?'

  'Hundreds of them, Chubby,' she said with a broad smile. 'I did volunteering, na. For Indian Recovery and Relief Operation. Premna Auntie said it was women's work. "Men cannot be relied upon. It is they who created such a mess in the first place," she said.'

  The detective couldn't fathom what he was hearing.

  'But why you kept it secret all these years, Mummy-ji?' he asked.

  'We two agreed - that is, Premna Auntie and my good self - to keep it all hush hush. See, Chubby, people are always doing gossip and making utmost mischief, na. Had neighbours and all come to know I'd reverted to Pakistan, tongues would do so much of wagging. "That one's going round," and such. Then what? No marriage proposals would come.'

  'Everyone must have wondered where you and Premna went off to, no?'

  'Just we told them we were doing holiday in the hills, na. No one person offered objection. So much pain and anguish and all we'd suffered. Ma said rest was required. To forget all what I'd seen.'

  Puri took this to be a reference to the murder of Mummy's brother, Anil. His next question was a few seconds in coming.

  'Did Papa come to know - about your going to Pakistan, that is?' he asked.

  'This was before marriage, na?'

  'Yes but after did you tell him?'

  Mummy shook her head. 'With marriage new life begins, na? After my shaadi, I packed away those times. My duty was to my husband - and my three boys, also. Past is past.'

  'But it's never entirely forgotten, is it, Mummy-ji? It came back to haunt you when you met Kamran Khan at the durbar. You were totally thunderstruck, actually. He's his father's carbon copy.'

  'Agreed,' said Mummy. 'But come, Chubby. Where's your appetite?' She picked up the plate of macaroons and offered it to him. 'It's your favourite, na?'

  Puri took the plate and placed it back on the tray. 'Mummy-ji I want to know what all you know about Faheem Khan's past.'

  'First thing is first, Chubby,' she replied. 'Must be Aslam found you and not the other way round. That means he told you something.'

  'No more games, Mummy-ji,' replied Puri sternly. 'This is not some small matter like which servant stole the daal.'

  The pallu of her sari had slipped forward. She pulled it back over her shoulder, her demeanour indignant. 'Why you shouldn't share what all Aslam told you first? It's my case after all,' she said.

  'Your case, Mummy-ji! How exactly? I'm the detective, is it not!'

  'Your voice is getting raised, na. Come. Take iron tonic. One spoon. Will make you calm.'

  'I am very much calm!' he erupted.

  The words penetrated into the next room where Bhuppi was watching TV. He put his head around the door. 'All OK, Chubby?'

  Puri made a gesture as if to say 'as well as can be expected' and his brother gave a sympathetic nod before retreating.

  'Mind telling me why all this is your case, exactly?' asked Puri. He was standing behind his chair now, hands gripping the top.

  'It began in 1948, na. That is when she went missing.'

  'Who?'

  Mummy gave a tut. 'Saroya. Aslam didn't tell you?'

  'He mentioned her but gave a different name, also.'

  Mummy sat forward in her chair. Her face was alight with expectation. 'Tell me, Chubby.'

  'You'll give me what I want, also?'

  'It's my case, na. Since sixty years I've been waiting. It is only right and proper I be allowed to do conclusion.'

  'Mummy-ji, how many times I've told you: detective work is for professionals, not mummies. Years of experience are required.'

  'Case will not get solved without my know-how.'

  The detective heaved a great sigh. 'Very well,' he said. 'Let us put our two heads together.'

  He took out his notebook and read aloud the information Aslam had given him: 'Her name is Kiran Singh, daughter of Manjit Singh. Came from a village named Mandra. Aslam said you would remember it.'

  Puri handed her the photograph Aslam had given him. Mummy gasped at the sight of it. 'So long I've been trying to picture her face, na,' she said. 'Yes, that is she. No doubt about it. Aslam said how long ago he found out her real name?'

  'Some years, I believe. He wanted to pass on the information but didn't know where to find you.'

  Mummy was still staring at the picture. A tear fell and splashed on to it. She quickly wiped it away with a napkin, embarrassed.

  'Clumsy of me, na.'

  'Please, Mummy, no need to apologise.' Puri's tone was soft, understanding now. 'So many memories and all.'

  He held her by the hand. 'This Kiran Singh, known as Saroya, also - she is who exactly?' he asked.

  Mummy wiped her face, still clutching the photograph.

  'Faheem Khan's wife.'

  TWENTY-TWO

  MUMMY WENT UPSTAIRS to her room and returned with a small collection of tatty old notebooks: her diaries from 1948. She'd kept them hidden in a padlocked trunk all these years, something of an achievement in a busy Punjabi household in which personal space was an abstract concept.

  'Here, Chubby,' she said, handing them to her son. 'You'll find what you want. All written down.'

  'You're certain about this, Mummy-ji?' asked Puri. He had often seen his mother scribbling in her daily diary, but had never dared so much as peek inside. Their pages were the one place that had always been out of bounds, even to Papa.

  'Hard for me, what with my eyes,' she answered. 'You go ahead. Just I'll take rest. Some tiredness is there.'

  Puri stood as she left the room and headed upstairs.

  'I'll be here only,' he called after her, staring down at the cover of the first notebook, marked in English in faded ink: 'February 1948'.

  With a sense of guilt, as if he was trespassing, the detective turned back the cover.

  Mummy had written in the Perso-Arabic script, which Puri had studied at the Military Intelligence Training School in Pune. But he was rusty and could only make sense of certain sentences by saying the words out loud.

  The first entry was for February 8. It described the journey back to Pakistan, retracing the route Mummy and her family had taken in the opposite direction when they had fled to newly independent India only a few months earlier.

  At Wazirabad, she had wept bitterly, reliving the scenes of men being drag
ged from the refugee train and vanishing beneath a ferment of bloody fists and weapons.

  Reached Pindi at seven in the evening. As we decamped from the train I fainted - memory of those eleven terrifying hours when we were stuck in the station with a handful of jittery British soldiers holding back the mob too much to bear. Premna Auntie comforted me. But I felt embarrassed. God knows she has suffered more than me. Husband, son, father all gone.