The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Twenty-One

Rumpi rose at five-thirty the next morning. She checked in on Jaiya, who was still sleeping soundly in her room, and then went downstairs to make herself the glass of warm water with lemon juice and black salt that constituted an essential part of her morning ritual.

The photographs from the godh bharai party had come back from the shop yesterday evening and for a while she had sat at the kitchen table looking through them again with a contented smile. Monika joined her from the servant quarters, admired the pictures herself, giggled about funny things people had done and said during the baby shower and started making the tea. While the milk, cardamoms and black Darjeeling leaves boiled, she talked excitedly about the Saif Ali Khan movie she had watched the night before. Naturally the plot sounded extremely convoluted and the actor had taken off his shirt at almost every opportunity.

Rumpi switched on the radio and listened to the headlines on All India Radio as she started to prepare aloo paranthas, Jaiya’s favorite.

First, she added jeera, chili and turmeric powder to the boiled aloo and then mixed the atta in a bowl with a little water until it turned into dough. Then, while Monika mopped the floor, Rumpi heated her tava and retrieved the ghee from the fridge.

Puri’s wife often found that she did her best thinking while cooking. She had never completely understood why – there was something about preparing food that was relaxing, therapeutic even – but often, while she stood chopping ginger or stirring the paalak paneer, some name she’d had trouble remembering earlier would suddenly pop into her head or a solution to a problem would miraculously bubble up to the surface.

This morning, it was the act of making little dough balls, stuffing them with a potato mixture and rolling them out into flat disks that led – not immediately, it should be said – to the identification of the mastermind behind the kitty party robbery.

When this eureka moment came, Rumpi stopped what she was doing, quickly washed her hands, told Monika to finish preparing breakfast and then reached for the phone.

First she called Arti of Arti’s Beauty Parlor and asked for Uma’s number, saying that she needed to ask her about some recipe.

It took Rumpi more than five minutes to get Arti off the line. Then she called her beautician.

“Uma? That’s you? This is Puri Madam this side. Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” She had to raise her voice. “I said this is Puri Madam. Yes, that’s right. Good morning. Sorry to call you so early. Tell me, you’ll reach work at what time? Hello? Hello?”

Practically shouting now: “Uma? You’ll reach work at what time, exactly? It’s your off? I see. Actually, something important has come up. You’ll be at home? What’s your address, Uma, I need to see you. No, no, nothing bad, I promise. Something I want to ask you. I would need only five minutes of your time…”

Next Rumpi called her mother-in-law.

Yesterday, Mummy-ji, who had refused to give up the investigation, had spent the day following Lily Arora around Delhi.

The kitty party hostess had lunched with a handsome young man who wore expensive shoes and had driven her to a luxurious farmhouse in Najafgarh, where the two had spent a couple of hours.

Expensive Shoes had turned out to be a party organizer who was helping Lily Arora plan her husband’s surprise sixtieth birthday party. The kind of money she was spending on the function was far in excess of the amount that had been stolen and Mummy had concluded that the Aroras could not be facing any kind of financial difficulties.

“Something we’ve overlooked is there, na,” she’d told Rumpi in the evening. “One lady is hiding something, that is for sure.”

Rumpi had reminded her mother-in-law that she was no longer involved in the investigation.

Now she had to backtrack.

“I think I know who it is,” she said. “Last night I was watching the news and there was a story about how an accountant who audits several big companies has been accused of profiting from insider information. Then this morning something Uma told me the other day suddenly clicked.”

“It came to you while cooking, is it?” asked Mummy.

“While I was preparing the paranthas.”

“That is always the way.”

Uma lived in Chhatarpur, a vast warren of three-story apartment blocks. Although ‘completed’ in the past three years, they looked half-finished – bare brickwork, missing window frames, loose cinder blocks in place of missing steps leading up to missing front entrances. The heat, humidity, pollution and monsoon rains, together with the streaks of paan spit and urine on the walls, also conspired to make the buildings look twenty years older.

Twenty-five hundred rupees a month, almost half her monthly salary, rented Uma three small rooms. The living room – all often feet across – doubled as a bedroom for her husband, herself and their three children. The kitchen was half that size and comprised a two-ring stove and a fridge that stood idle because the electricity supply was too sporadic and too expensive. There was also a toilet and a small washing area, but water had to be brought from a bore well in the street, which was shared by three buildings – twenty-seven families altogether.

The rooms, though, were clean, with the TV lovingly draped in a piece of fabric to keep off the dust and the family’s shoes stacked on a rack next to the door.

A metal cabinet with glass doors contained a few effigies and her three children’s school textbooks. Pride of place was given to a china tea set, a Diwali gift from a nice Swiss client who had been going to Arti’s Beauty Parlor for years.

As Mummy and Rumpi sat squeezed together on the two-seater settee, Uma carefully retrieved the teapot and, cradling it in one arm, carried it into the kitchen.

When she returned, the spout was steaming and she filled three cups with hot milky chai. A plate of biscuits was also placed on the small coffee table.

Uma sat down on a stool, making all sorts of apologies for not having something more substantial to serve them, or more comfortable furniture for them to sit on, and for how hot it was (the family relied on an overhead fan, which thankfully was on).

Recognizing Uma’s embarrassment and awkwardness at having to entertain well-to-do guests, Rumpi and Mummy sought to put her at ease, admiring the cups and saucers, complimenting the tea and repeating that it was they who were sorry for imposing upon her on her one day off.

Small chat ensued. Where are the kids? Off at school. Is that Doll in the picture? Yes, she’s already nine and very bright; recently she came in at the top of her class in English. How is the rest of the family? Everyone is well. And work? Ticking along.

But Uma was not her normal relaxed, chatty self. Clients never came to visit her at home. It had to be serious for one of them to suddenly turn up like this.

“Madam, I was very surprised to receive your call this morning,” she said in Hindi with a nervous giggle, replenishing their cups.

“The reason I came is because I believe you might be able to help us,” replied Rumpi.

“Of course, if there’s anything I can do…”

“We need some information,” said Mummy in Hindi. “It’s about one of your clients.”

“Uma, before we ask, I want you to understand that anything you tell us will remain” – here she used the English – “top secret,” added Rumpi. “We would never reveal you as our source of information. Please understand we don’t want to get you into trouble. You can trust us.”

“Our lips will remain totally sealed,” added Mummy in English.

By now, the beautician was looking extremely worried. “Did someone make a complaint about me?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Mummy with a reassuring smile. “Everyone is very satisfied with your work.”

Uma’s eyes widened as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Then it must be about her I” she declared. “Now I understand. Well, I don’t mind telling you that everyone’s been saying the same thing. That she was behind it. You are talking about the kitty robbery, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but – ”

“Arti said that it seemed strange she had all that money in her handbag. Big wads of notes and all five hundreds.”

“Who?” asked Rumpi.

Before Uma could answer, there was a loud knock on the door and a man’s gruff voice said: “Open up! I’m hungry!”

“My husband,” Uma said apologetically, getting up from her stool. “He’s working as an overnight security guard. His shift finished at seven.”

The beautician opened the door a crack, explaining to him in a whisper that she had guests and telling him to go and have breakfast at the dhaba.

Rumpi caught a fleeting glimpse of his unshaven face and bleary eyes and then the door was closed.

“So sorry,” said Uma.

“There was really no need to send him away,” said Rumpi. “The poor man must be tired and needs his sleep.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure he got plenty last night.” Uma offered them the biscuits. “Now where were we?”

“You were saying you thought you knew who was behind the robbery,” said Mummy.

“Oh yes, Bansal Madam. So what’s going to happen to her? Are you going to call the police?”

“Uma, Mrs. Bansal was not behind the robbery.”

“You’re sure, madam?”

“Quite sure,” said Mummy in English.

The beautician looked disappointed. “Then what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Your share dealing,” answered Rumpi. “I think one of the ladies has been giving you stock market tips. Or perhaps you’ve overheard her talking on her portable device. Either way, you have done extremely well out of it. And who can blame you? Believe me, I would have done the same. But while you have been sensible and not gambled all your winnings, greed has got the better of your client. She owned stock in InfoSoft – must have been a considerable amount – and as you told me during my last treatment, the company recently crashed.”

Rumpi took a sip of tea. Uma could not decide where to look.

“The lady in question is married to a senior accountant – he audits a number of big corporations, including InfoSoft, as I confirmed earlier this morning,” continued Puri’s wife. “So, she’s getting her insider information from him – possibly without him realizing. Perhaps he leaves his papers lying around or talks in his sleep. Who knows? The point is that after this lady lost so much, she could not go to him and confess. She had to find a way to cover her losses but without letting anyone know.”

There was a brief silence.

“Now, Uma, I’m going to say this lady’s name, and if I’m right and she is the one who has been giving you tips, I would like you to nod your head.”

Rumpi named the woman in question, but the beautician neither confirmed nor denied her theory. She sat staring at the wall in stunned silence, as if something terrible had just occurred to her.