Tarquin Hall

by The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

  The fact that a Jat farmer could now live wherever he chose was progress of a sort, reflected Puri. Money now spoke louder than caste, at least in India’s “metros.” The new Indian suburbia was populated by people of different backgrounds, ethnicities and, to a lesser extent, religions.

  Not that there was much of a sense of community. Few of Puri’s neighbors knew one another. And even if they did, they rarely interacted. The high walls and gates of their mansions and villas were hardly conducive to neighborly chats.

  Puri certainly had no plans to welcome the family into the colony. They were not his type. Despite the luxurious pile they had built for themselves, the family (great-grandparents, grandparents, parents and a big brood of children) spent their evenings sitting on a couple of charpais outside the front gates of their home. They drank rotgut desi sharab, told raucous jokes, sang bawdy songs and picked lice out of one another’s hair.

  “Delhi hillbillies,” Puri called them. Most definitely not his type at all.

  He turned away from the edge of the roof and stepped into the small greenhouse where he kept his chilli plants during the winter. It was nice and humid inside, the perfect temperature, and his Naga Vipers were flourishing. Some of the fruit was already shiny and plump and he could hardly wait to pick them. The seeds had come from Cumbria in England, hardly chilli-growing country. However, the friend who’d smuggled them into India on his behalf claimed they produced the hottest chillies in the world. An incredible 1,381,118 SHU!

  The detective had yet to eat a chilli that was too hot for him; his taste buds were as anesthetized as an Indian bureaucrat’s conscience. The fact that these were Angrezi chillies made the challenge all the more appealing. Nothing short of national pride was at stake.

  The same could be said with regard to the Faheem Khan murder case.

  Former deputy commissioner Scott had called from London last night, concerned that another bookie had been murdered and wondering how he could have been poisoned while Puri was with him. The detective explained that the assassin was a professional—“not your average five-thousand-rupee-a-pop goonda”—and had disguised himself as a paan seller.

  “As in pots and pans or porn, Vish?”

  “Paan, Sir Jaams. It’s a kind of Indian snack with betel nut. We suck and chew on it, actually.”

  “Right. And the killer was serving it.”

  “Correct. The real paan wallah was himself found a few hours later, strangled.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not as of yet, sir. That one I’m leaving in the hands of Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh. He’s a most capable officer—that is, when it comes to straightforward tasks such as locating individuals.”

  “Right. Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Vish.”

  He didn’t sound convinced, however, and Puri hung up the phone feeling that sense of inferiority again—as if somehow the gora knew better, that as an Indian he was not to be altogether trusted.

  Seven hours’ sleep hadn’t cured him of this lingering feeling. Nor had his morning cup of bed tea. And so he had come up onto the roof, the one place where he could be alone—with his chillies.

  He spent a few minutes feeding his plants with his special blend of liquid feed, which was high in nitrogen and phosphorus with a few drops of the Indian elixir, neem oil, for good measure. Then he washed the leaves, spraying them with water and gently wiping off the thin layer of dust and pollution that had formed in the past twenty-four hours. Finally, Puri pollinated his Ghost Chilli plants, something he had to do manually during the winter because the local bees couldn’t find their way into his greenhouse. It was but a few minutes’ work rubbing the tip of a soft cotton bud inside one flower, then rubbing it inside another and so on.

  Soon he felt better, ready to face the full day’s work ahead of him, ready to prove his worth—and that of Indians in general.

  • • •

  That morning Rumpi had served pomegranate seeds yet again, so Puri decided to leave the house earlier than he’d intended to get a proper breakfast. As the Ambassador was heading through the outskirts of South Delhi, Handbrake noticed they were being followed by a silver sedan. Despite its tinted windows, he could make out two occupants.

  “Number plate has a missing digit,” the driver also reported in Hindi.

  “Very good. Don’t let him know you’ve spotted him,” instructed Puri.

  Twenty minutes later, they reached their destination: East Block Eight, Sector One, R. K. Puram, a government administrative complex. Handbrake turned in through the gate and found a vacant space in the car park. The silver sedan, meanwhile, stopped on the main road.

  Puri ignored it as he approached a banyan tree that grew to one side of the building. Beneath the tentacled roots hanging down from its branches, he found Lakshman, who made some of the best aloo paranthas in Delhi. His “kitchen” was comprised of a wooden platform mounted on the back of a bicycle with a small gas cooker and iron skillet, a little rolling pin and board, and a few stainless steel containers for the dough, potato mix, flour and ghee.

  The detective ordered three paranthas, watched Lakshman prepare them with a swiftness and efficiency that any five-star-restaurant chef would find hard to match, and ate the hot-potato-stuffed bread with some homemade garlic aachar while standing up.

  His appetite fully sated, the detective ordered a cup of chai, swallowed his diet pills and turned his mind to the murder case. Something was now clear to him. In the past six months, a dramatic change had come to the world of illegal cricket gambling. New technology had been introduced and two major bookies and a player’s father had been bumped off.

  Had the new technology made them redundant? Or was there a turf war raging amongst Aga’s “soldiers”?

  He started to refer back to his notes from the past couple of days, looking over the list of suspects. He was now down to seven, having decided to cross off foul-mouthed public relations woman Neetika Sahini (no fewer than eight witnesses confirmed that she hadn’t moved from her seat while Faheem Khan was away from the table).

  The remaining suspects were:

  Satish Bhatia—“Call Center King”

  Jasmeet Bhatia—elderly mother of Satish Bhatia

  Sandeep Talwar—politician, president of the ICB, crook

  Mrs. Harnam Talwar—elderly wife of above

  Kamran Khan—son of murder victim

  Ram Dogra—industrialist, known as the “Prince of Polyester”

  Mrs. Megha Dogra—elderly wife of above

  Puri had one lead to follow up: the piece of paper he’d taken from Full Moon’s farmhouse, which he planned to drop off at Brigadier Mattu’s later in the day. He’d also managed to arrange a viewing of the CCTV footage from the match day at Kotla stadium.

  What else? He was due to pick up his visa from the Pakistan High Commission. Not something he was looking forward to in the least.

  Puri’s phone rang. It was Aarish, the man in Haridwar he’d tasked with watching Mummy.

  “Very, very good morning to you, saar!” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Your dear mummy-ji and auntie have been doing time-pass in the city. Last night they scattered ashes at Har ki Pauri. Later, they reverted to their hotel. A nice establishment next to—”

  “You kept Mummy in your sights whole day, is it?” interrupted the detective.

  Aarish hesitated. “In the morning, sir. And evening, also.” Another hesitation, then a clearing of the throat. “See, unfortunately after lunch your dear mummy . . . well, sir, there were some monkeys and it was very much crowded . . .”

  “Monkeys?”

  “So many, sir. Very aggressive.”

  “How long she was gone from your sight exactly?”

  “One hour, sir.”

  “No more?”

  “Could be two maximum.”

  More like three, Puri thought.

  “After that I stuck to her like sticky toffee, saar!”

  “T
ell me: these monkeys, they came out of nowhere?” asked the detective.

  “No, sir, normally they’re hanging round the bridge making trouble and all. Yet somehow—how I cannot fathom or understand—one entire bag of peanuts got spilled and everything went for a toss.”

  Aarish was only a tour guide and occasional messenger with no formal training in the ancient Indian art of spycraft. Still, Puri had thought him capable of keeping an eye on a little old lady. Apparently he’d been wrong.

  “Sir, your dear mummy-ji and auntie—they’ve confirmed tickets for today. Train will be reaching Delhi at nine fifteen P.M.”

  Puri told him to stay on the job until they both left Haridwar, then headed back to the Ambassador. The silver sedan was still waiting on the main road. He couldn’t be sure yet who the occupants were working for (there were at least four possibilities), and decided the best course of action was to string them along.

  “Pull someone by the ears and the head will follow,” went the old saying.

  • • •

  No newcomer to Surat’s frenetic Varachha Road could ever have imagined that it was home to most of the world’s diamond-cutting and -polishing sweatshops—nor that these businesses each turned over tens of millions of dollars a year. The buildings were cheerless, their concrete façades marked with black stains as if the city itself were shedding self-pitying tears. The lack of signs above the entrances augmented the sense of anonymity.

  Even Tubelight couldn’t quite fathom it. “There’s no security,” he pointed out in Hindi as he and Chanel No. 5 followed Hawala broker Mihir Desai’s Range Rover down Varachha Road.

  “No need,” explained the local boy. “Everyone working in the diamond business comes from the same region—Saurashtra, on the coast. They all know one another. If an outsider tried to steal the diamonds, he’d be spotted before he got in through the front door.”

  “And where do you fit?” asked Tubelight.

  “Saurashtra’s my native place,” Chanel No. 5 said with a grin. “My father’s a pedi-worker. All my uncles and cousins are cutters and polishers.”

  Desai, who’d returned home from the river for a few hours before setting off again, parked in front of one of the buildings and entered through the main door. Chanel No. 5 pulled over on the other side of the road, got out and followed him inside.

  A staircase led past sweatshop floors where rows of barefoot men in sleeveless undershirts sat slaving at rudimentary machines. A repetitive whir of drills, lathes and spinning brushes underscored the monotonous nature of the work, as did the bored expression on the men’s faces.

  The sixth floor, however, was different. Here the employees wore smart shirts and trousers and sat at desks equipped with LED lamps. Little paper packets of diamonds lay in front of them. Like myopic pensioners they examined them through magnifying loupes.

  The owner, Acharya Bakshi, also had his office on the sixth floor. Chanel No. 5 got a look through the glass door. Desai was seated in front of Bakshi’s desk. The latter was examing a large rough stone.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The question came from one of the factory managers who’d come up the stairs behind him.

  “I’m looking for a job. Anything going?”

  “First floor. Ask for Sanghavi.”

  “Got it.”

  Chanel No. 5 took the precaution of picking up an application form and then rejoined his colleague.

  “What happens after Bakshi’s people have cut and polished the diamonds?” asked Tubelight as they sat in the car discussing their next move.

  “Smuggle them out of India and sell them on the world market.”

  “How?”

  “With the legitimate diamonds.”

  Chanel No. 5 went on to explain how most of the world’s raw diamonds, 92 percent to be exact, were shipped legally from places like South Africa and Namibia to India. They arrived in Mumbai, where their total weight was recorded by customs. The stones were then transported to Surat for cutting and polishing. From there they were returned to Bombay and went on to Antwerp.

  “The blood diamonds are mixed in with the other ones?” guessed Tubelight.

  “They’re untraceable.”

  “And customs clears them.”

  “Their counting skills can be weak.”

  Tubelight smiled; the old thief in him couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the system. “A foolproof way of laundering black money,” he said.

  “Everyone’s in on it. The coast guard catches a few every once in a while to keep the media persons happy, and our chief minister puts on his best kedia and denies India’s involved in the trade.”

  Desai was on the move again.

  “How will they be transported from here to Mumbai?” asked Tubelight as they followed him.

  “Angadias—special diamond couriers. They dress like ordinary people and carry the diamonds hidden on their persons—sewn into the inside of their trousers, down their crotch. Who knows? You won’t be able to spot them and they won’t be easy to follow. Believe me, they’re good—as good as you, chief.”

  • • •

  The express train bound for Delhi was scheduled to depart from Haridwar at 12:55. Five minutes ahead of time, Mummy got up from her seat to go to the WC.

  “I’ll not be long,” she told Ritu.

  She made her way to the end of the carriage. But instead of entering the toilet, Mummy carried on into the next compartment . . . and then the next.

  When she reached the front of the train, she waited by an open door until the engine shuddered into action and the train began to edge forward. Then she stepped out onto the platform and waited behind a stack of cargo.

  It was a couple of minutes before the train had pulled away. Puri’s man soon left as well. With the coast clear, Mummy proceeded to the front of the station, hailed an auto and headed back to the old city. En route she called Ritu Auntie.

  “Listen, na, just one small problem is there,” she said. “See I alighted the train to buy one magazine and it took off without me . . . Yes, yes, quite all right . . . Don’t do tension, ji. I’ve my purse. Just I’ll purchase one ticket for the next train . . . No, no, pulling of emergency cord is not necessary. You’ve my tachee, na? Take it home. I’ll pass by later. So sorry . . .”

  Mummy was soon delving into the past of Jasmeet Bhatia, mother of Call Center King Satish.

  After hours of searching, she discovered that Jasmeet’s maiden name was Chuggani.

  “Her father’s native place was Rawat in today’s Pakistan,” a helpful Panda told her, reading from an old ledger. “Rawat is close to—”

  “Rawalpindi,” said Mummy.

  She remembered the place, had passed through it many times. It was near the village of Bajal, where Faheem Khan had been living during Partition.

  The Panda turned the page, reading various entries made by Jasmeet’s father, brothers, cousins. Finally he found the details of her birth in 1932. The entry bore her father’s signature, indicating he’d been educated. Details in earlier entries also suggested that the family had been wealthy.

  Jasmeet Bhatia, née Chuggani, would have been seventeen in 1947, exactly the right age and from a good family.

  It was time to return to Delhi, to do follow-up.

  • • •

  Puri had passed the Pakistan High Commission on Shanti Path in Delhi’s diplomatic area countless times over the years, glimpsed the turquoise tiled dome and antenna array on the roof, and wondered what went on behind those high walls. Never had he imagined that he might one day enter inside—enter into enemy territory.

  At three o’clock, however, Handbrake dropped him in front of the enormous walled compound and he approached the front gate. He found four men sitting on a wonky bench to one side of it. They looked bored, as if they’d been there for days. One of them directed Puri to the small window in the gatehouse with a gesture that suggested he was about to embark on a hopeless task.

 
“Yes? What is it?” asked an old man with chiseled cheeks, peering out of the window.

  The detective explained that he had an appointment with a political officer by the name of Salim Afridi.

  “You’re from . . .?”

  Puri felt like answering “India” but instead handed the gatekeeper a copy of his card.

  “Wait there.”

  Puri sat down on the end of the wonky bench, registering the silver sedan parked down the road. The two occupants had been following him around town all day but were themselves now being shadowed by two of Tubelight’s boys, who, naturally, remained out of sight.

  Puri watched a wallah sweeping up leaves and a few laborers playing cards on the lawn that ran parallel to the road and wondered if they were with the India Intelligence Bureau—charged with keeping an eye on who came and went from the Pakistani mission.

  “Visa?” said the man sitting next to him.

  Puri gave a nod. “You?”

  The man was in the export business—“Wheat to Pakistan,” he said, then gave a shrug. “India bureaucracy, Pakistan bureaucracy, India corruption, Pakistan corruption—no difference.”

  The window opened again and the old man signaled to Puri to enter through the main gate.

  Beyond stood a large concrete fountain that had evidently been dry for many years. A driveway encircled it, weeds growing in the cracks in the tarmac, leading to the embassy’s main building. It looked just as lifeless. The main doors were closed; there were only a couple of lights on. But most striking of all was the absence of security. There wasn’t a guard in sight.

  It hadn’t been that long since the two countries almost went to war again—a full-blown war with nuclear weapons, Puri reflected as he was asked to sign a register. And yet here were Islamabad’s representatives living and working deep inside their enemy’s territory, and feeling so secure that they didn’t so much as check their visitors’ pockets.