The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Fourteen

It was Saturday morning and Puri was at home. His daughter Jaiya’s godh bharai baby shower was due to start at eleven and everyone in the house was busy preparing for the festivities.

Rumpi seemed to be everywhere at once: in the kitchen overseeing the preparation of pistachio barfi and sweetened saffron milk; in the sitting room putting up decorations; and upstairs letting out Jaiya’s sari blouse so that it would accommodate her new proportions.

From the sanctuary of the rooftop where he was lying low, Puri could hear his wife giving orders. It was like listening to the head chef of a restaurant.

“Malika! Don’t overcook the khoya again!”

“Monika… Go buy one K-G of aloo… Then borrow some! Ask Deepak Madam. Hurry!”

“Sweetu! What are you doing? Stop being a fool and blow up the balloons properly… well, blow harder!”

Puri knew it was only a question of time before he was put to work himself. No excuse would be brooked: not a pressing clue that needed immediate investigation, not even a dead client.

First, though, he hoped to finish his tea and open his post.

He recognized one of the envelopes instantly. It was postmarked London: the latest catalogue from Bates Gentlemen’s Hatter in Piccadilly, suppliers of all his Sandown caps. There was another from the electricity company with whom he was in an ongoing dispute over his bill. Who in Delhi wasn’t? There was a circular from the Rotary Club as well.

“HIP HIP HIP HURRAY!” it read. “Rotarians of Delhi South celebrate their status as the PLATINUM CLUB OF THE ROTARY INTERNATIONAL DIST. 301. Cheers, cheers, cheers.”

It included pictures taken during the gala ‘installation ceremony’ of the incoming president and noted that ‘an array of Rotary District officials were present for the occasion who by their presence boosted our morale’.

The circular also included an update on all the community work done by the club, of which Puri and Rumpi were active members.

His mobile rang.

“Good morning. Mr. Vishwas Puri?”

No one ever called him Vishwas, the full version of his first name, apart from salespeople. Puri had developed a deep hatred of such types. They were like a plague of leeches or locusts (or any other number of other slippery, creepy, crawly, sucking creatures that he could think of), harassing people at all hours of the day and night with offers of phone usage plans, bank loans, credit cards. Some idiot had even called him recently to ask if he was interested in buying a yacht.

“Don’t call me ever!” barked Puri, anticipating another sales pitch, and angrily hung up.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again. It was the same voice. “Sir, the line got disconnect. I’m calling from – ”

“Listen, bloody bastard. Why you’re calling me so early, huh? Don’t you know decency?”

“Sir, I’m happy to report you’ve – ”

“Khotay da puthar! Son of a donkey!” he swore in Punjabi. “Ik thapar mar key tey moonh torr dan ga! I will break your face with one slap!”

“Sir, no need for anger. See, just I’ll explain, sir. You’ve been preapproved for – ”

The detective hung up again.

Not ten seconds elapsed before the phone rang for a third time.

“Saala maaderchod! Give me your supervisor this instant!”

“Chubby, is that you?”

Puri recognized his elder brother’s voice.

“Bhuppi? Sorry, huh. Just getting some bloody sales call. Bastard doesn’t understand a straightforward threat when one is made.”

‘Bhuppi’ was how everyone referred to Bhupinder in the family.

“Do what I do, Chubby. Tell them you’ve got a criminal record. International credit card fraud. Very serious. They’ll never call again.”

“And what exactly I should tell people selling yachts?”

“Yachts? Like boats? What to do with a yacht in Delhi?”

“That is what I said only.”

“And?”

Puri mimicked the sales wallah: “‘Please, sir, you don’t understand, sir. You can keep the yacht in the sea, sir’. ‘Bloody fool,’ I said, ‘you’ve noticed any sea round these parts lately?’”

They both enjoyed a good laugh.

Then Bhuppi said: “Chubby, sorry, huh, by chance you can pick up Jassu? I’ll be reaching late.” Jassu was Bhuppi’s wife.

“Most certainly. Any excuse to get away. I should pick up Mummy also, no?”

“Mummy’s gone out. Left the house at crack of dawn.”

“Where to, exactly?”

“No explanation. Last few days she’s been coming and going at all hours.”

“Don’t tell me. She’s doing more investigation, is it?”

Puri reminded him of the strict ban they and their other brother had placed on their mother getting involved with detective work.

“What to do, Chubby? Ever since Papa died, Mummy-ji’s a loose cannon. No stopping her. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Just be thankful you don’t have to listen to her going on about her dreams each and every morning.”

Puri hung up and called his mother.

“Mummy-ji, where are you?”

“Chubby? Everything is all right?”

“World-class. You’re where, exactly?”

“I’ll be reaching shortly, na. Just…” Her voice was drowned out by the clanging of temple bells and a pandit’s voice chanting over a loudspeaker.

“Mummy-ji? Hello? Hello…”

“Chubby? Just I’m at the temple. So crowded it is. Nothing wrong, na?”

“No, Mummy, but – ”

“You ate your breakfast, I hope? Tell Rumpi I’ll be there soon, not to worry.”

And with that, the line went dead.

Mummy was not at the temple. She just happened to be standing close to one while waiting at a bus stand in Pooth Khurd in northeast Delhi.

It was from there that Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant, Naveen, took the 012 to work six days a week.

Mummy knew this because she and Rumpi had spent a few hours yesterday reconnoitering the Bansal residence.

They had also discovered that Naveen was a talkative, feisty woman who was less than enamored of her employers. At least that’s what the local press wallah had said.

The plan, therefore, was for Mummy to catch the same bus, ingratiate herself with the maidservant and try to find out all she could about Mrs. Bansal’s financial situation.

While Mummy waited for Naveen, a succession of battered Blue Line buses tore into the stop, the passengers all rushing for the doors and fighting their way up the steep metal stairs. Mummy began to wonder if her daughter-in-law had not been right after all. Perhaps she should have waited until Monday, when they could have traveled together. Her knees had been ‘paining’ a lot recently and it had been a long time since she had taken one of Delhi’s notoriously dangerous killer buses.

Standing there, she was reminded of how privileged she had become, what with her own car to take her around. It was certainly a far cry from the terrible conditions of the refugee train that had brought her and the surviving members of her family to safety from Pakistan in 1947.

By the time Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant finally turned up, there were fewer passengers at the stand and she decided to proceed with the plan.

“I want to go to Defence Colony,” she said politely in Hindi, hobbling up to the maidservant on a cane that Bhuppi had given her but that she ordinarily refused to use. “Does the bus go from here?”

Naveen, who was short and plump, said that this was indeed the right stop and that she was heading to Defence Colony herself.

“Shukkar-ey! Perhaps we could ride together? I’ve not been on this route before and I would hate to miss my stop. I’m on my way to a job interview – a wealthy family is in need of an ayah. They want a woman my age to look after the children and teach them proper Hindi.”

The maidservant regarded her curiously, as if she didn’t altogether believe her story. Mummy went on regardless. “Six months ago my husband died and left me with nothing and now I have no choice but to work,” she explained.

“Your children don’t look after you, Auntie-ji?”

“They don’t have room,” she said mournfully with eyes cast down. “Young people are so busy these days.”

A bus servicing a different route roared up. One side of its front was crushed from an accident; the bonnet was peeled back like the snarling lip of a wolf.

“Super Bazaar, Sabzi Mandi, Nai Dilli station!” shouted the conductor, banging on the side of the vehicle as hapless passengers already on board stared out of the grubby windows.

“Where are you staying, Auntie-ji?” asked Naveen as the vehicle tore away with clusters of people still standing on the stairs and in the doorways, holding on for dear life.

“I’m staying with my sister. But her husband complains all the time how much it costs to feed me. That’s why I’m looking for a live-in position.”

The 012 bus pulled into sight.

The two women managed to get on board before it raced off again. They found all the seats occupied.

“Have you no respect?” Naveen scolded a man in the front who was eating a piece of roast corn and failed to give up his seat when he saw Mummy. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Get up this instant!”

Soon they were sitting together and discussing the foibles and failings of Indian men.

“What layabouts they are,” said Naveen. “My husband sits around at home every night watching TV while I cook and clean up and look after the kids. Never lifts a finger. The other day he had the cheek to call me fat. Fat! You should see him! His face is like a giant greasy poori.”

A mother of three, she lived with her family in one room and shared the toilet down the hall with four other families.

“You’re lucky to have a job, so many people are without work,” said Mummy.

“Ha! Lucky, am I, Auntie-ji?” she replied with a laugh. “Working six days a week, minimum ten to twelve hours every day, three-thousand-rupees-a-month salary? Our rent alone is fifteen hundred. And everything else is getting more expensive every day. How are we supposed to survive?”

“Three thousand rupees a month is not enough,” agreed Mummy.

“And meanwhile, Madam” – she was referring to her employer – “is complaining that things are tight! She has no idea!”

“They’re having money problems themselves?”

“Sahib’s been facing difficulties the past few months.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he was charged with smuggling.”

“How shocking! Was it diamonds or something?”

“Nothing like that. Actually he sells… hmm… you know that ink inside those machines that make photocopies? Turns out he’s been importing it into the country disguised as something else… something used for making tires, which can be imported duty free. Anyhow the customs people finally got wise and seized his shipment.”

“Is he out of business?”

“Nothing of the sort, Auntie-ji. He paid a big bribe and got the shipment released. Now everything is back to normal. The night before last he was out celebrating. He didn’t get up until twelve yesterday. But then there’s nothing new about that.”

“Perhaps you should ask for a salary increase?”

Naveen laughed out loud. “Not a chance, Auntie-ji. If anything, Madam will try to reduce my salary. Then she’ll go and buy herself more jewelry. She hoards it like a cow-wah. You wouldn’t believe how much she has hidden away. Several crores’ worth. She’ll never starve, that one, that’s for sure…”

Her mission complete, Mummy got off the bus at Defence Colony, where her driver, Majnu, was waiting for her in a prearranged spot in the shade of a tree.

He was sleeping soundly on his fully reclined seat. All the car’s windows were wound down and his door was open.

“Wake up, you duffer!”

The shrill rebuke from his employer and a couple of prods from her cane woke him with a start.

“How many times I’ve told you, na? Responsibility for the vehicle is on your head. How you can be responsible when you’re dozing, I ask you?”

“But, madam – ”

“Don’t crib! Now sit up and drive me to Gurgaon.”

Majnu mumbled an apology as he rubbed his sleepy eyes, took a slug of warm water from the bottle he kept up front and started the ignition.

Thirty minutes later, they reached Puri’s house.

After a quick change from the ordinary attire she had worn for her undercover work into something more appropriate, Mummy found the sitting room already packed with women, all of them dressed in their best saris and jewelry. A few elderly uncles had slipped in as well and sat on the periphery, but strictly speaking, godh bharai was a women-only affair.

Mummy was greeted with much feet touching, hugs, smiles, banter and laughter, and then Jaiya came down to join them. She was dressed in one of her wedding saris, a lustrous red and gold silk affair, and wore a full set of wedding jewelry as well – an elaborate necklace, mini-chandelier-like matching earrings and a nose ring fit for a maharani. Her hands and feet had been decorated with paisley henna patterns. Fresh motiya flowers were strung in her hair.

After greeting everyone, the mother-to-be sat on a chair positioned in the center of the room. Rumpi lit a brass diya, circling it in front of her daughter, and applied a smudge of vermilion to her forehead. Amidst much teasing and giggling, the other women gathered round and sang, “Sola sin-gaar karke, godhi bharaayi le. Chotu jo aawe ghar mein nani behlaawe… Payal pehenke nani naach dikhawe.” (“Beautiful in your jewelry and makeup, we fill your lap with blessings. When little one comes, his granny will entertain him. She’ll tie bells on her ankles and have to dance for him like a naach girl!”)

A yellow thread was tied around the expectant mother’s right wrist. And then an array of goodies was placed in her lap: fruit and sweets, betel nuts, one-rupee coins and tiny silver anklets for the babies. Blessings were also whispered in her ear.

“Jug jug jiyo,” said Mummy after smearing more vermilion on her granddaughter’s forehead and adding some pieces of coconut to the growing heap in her lap.

Jaiya was then hand-fed pieces of barfi and coconut, a table was placed in front of her and a feast of samosas and gulab jamuns laid out.

After everyone had eaten their fill and the singing and dancing had begun, Mummy caught up with Rumpi in the kitchen.

“Seems Mrs. Bansal’s not the one,” she said, keeping her voice down and explaining why. “Her husband is smuggling all the same.”

“Him? Smuggling what?” exclaimed Rumpi. But before Mummy could answer she said: “Actually, Mummy-ji, I don’t want to know. These revelations are proving far too depressing. Just tell me where you think this leaves us?”

“I was thinking, na. There is one lady we failed to do consideration of.”

“Who?”

“Lily Arora.”

“Lily? What motive could she possibly have for robbing her own house?” Rumpi shook her head. “With respect, Mummy-ji, I think this has gone far enough. It’s time we told Chubby.”

“Then those goondas will get away for sure,” she said stubbornly. “Chubby is doing investigation of this Dr. Jha murder, na? Kitty robberies are not his concern. So busy he is. It remains for us two.”

“No, Mummy-ji, I’m sorry, enough is enough. My duties are here at home. Now I’d better get back inside. I’m missing all the fun.”

The scene in Puri’s ‘den’ at the back of the house was a very different one, although no less rowdy. Twenty or so men, mostly middle-aged and dressed in cotton shirts stretched tight by potbellies, stood around drinking tumblers of Royal Challenge.

The center of attention was one of Puri’s brothers-in-law, who had a seemingly endless repertoire of ‘non-veg’ jokes and stood in the middle of the room telling them one after another.

“Santa Singh was talking to Banta Singh about his love life. ‘So, Santa, tell me, how’s it going with the girls?’ Santa answers: ‘Women to me are nothing but sex objects’. ‘Really?’ replies Banta. ‘Yes,’ says Santa, shaking his head, ‘whenever I mention sex, they object!’”

Before his audience could recover, he fired off another: “One doctor is examining a girl of admirable proportions. Holding his stethoscope up to her chest, he says, ‘OK, big breaths’. ‘Yes, I know,’ she replies, ‘and I’m only fifteen!’”

Raucous laughter followed Puri down the corridor as he went to the kitchen to tell Sweetu to bring more ice. On the way back, he bumped into his sister, Preeti.

She looked worried.

“Bagga has got himself into something again, I’m sure of it,” she said.

Puri sighed. “What now?”

“This deal he was talking about the other night. You remember? Something is not right. He says the construction company wants to buy his land to build a mall. But at the same time, he’s trying to borrow money.”

“What for?” asked the detective.

“God knows, only,” she said.

Later that evening, after all the whisky bottles had been emptied, the samosas had been eaten and the guests had finally departed, Puri received a call from Tubelight.

“Boss, you won’t believe this.”

He went on to explain how Pandey, dressed in a smart suit, had left his house at seven. His driver had taken him to Connaught Place, where he had stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne. From there he had proceeded to a flower stand and purchased a bunch of red roses.

“After, his driver drove up Pusa Hill and did a U-turn,” said Tubelight in Hindi. “First, I thought he was confused. But I came to know he was taking precautions. In case he was being followed.”

The driver’s ruse had not worked, however, and Puri’s operative had tailed him to Karol Bagh.

There he had pulled in through the gates of 32 B Block.

“That’s Dr. Jha’s residence!” said Puri.

“Yes, Boss. As the gates closed, I saw Professor-ji putting his arms around Mrs. Jha.”

The detective said nothing for a while.

“Think she’s involved, Boss?” asked Tubelight.

“Could be they are just good friends. He is going there to comfort her, no.”

“Or they both wanted Jha out of the way so they could be together.”

“Dr. Jha had no life insurance policy or savings. There must be further motive.”

“What if they’re just in love?”

“Love?” scoffed Puri. “No, love is never enough.”