The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Seven

As Puri headed off to interview the surviving members of the Laughing Club, his wife was sitting down in Lily Arora’s five-bedroom house in Greater Kailash Part Two, a posh South Delhi colony.

This month’s venue for Rumpi’s kitty party club, the living room had been appointed with furnishings ‘inspired’ by the ancient world. The mahogany coffee table in the middle of the room was built like a Grecian altar. The Italian sofas, with their gold arms fashioned like great curling leaves, were suggestive of Roman licentiousness. Black and gold pharaoh heads and sphinxes purchased in the gift shop of a Las Vegas hotel adorned both the side tables and the marble mantelpiece with its decorative Zoroastrian winged lions. Bunches of plastic sunflowers in replica Phoenician vases were dotted around the place – along with Chinese dragon napkin holders filled with pink paper serviettes.

The sofas’ hard, slippery upholstery and curvy backs did not make them conducive to reclining or lounging. Rumpi and the fourteen other kitty party members – all housewives, most of whom she had known for years – had to sit on the edge of their seats. This suited Mrs. Nanda, who, with a straight back, a level chin and a sprinkling of gold jewelry, was a model of poise and elegance. Petite, bespectacled Mrs. Shankar, who practiced yoga and meditation and always dressed in long, loose capris and block-printed achkans, perched gracefully as well. But for the likes of Mrs. Devi, who by her own admittance had a ‘sweet tooth and a salty one, also’ and took up a much greater portion of seating space than the aforementioned ladies, Lily Arora’s furnishings were both an uncomfortable and unflattering proposition.

“What I wouldn’t do for a beanbag right now,” Mrs. Devi murmured to Rumpi.

Still, as the servants circulated with platters of ‘ready-made’ chai, spicy chiwda, peanut chili salad and veg samo-sas, the room was thick with conversation – not to mention Lily Arora’s heady perfume. On one side of the room, the recent plunge in the Mumbai stock market was being discussed. In the middle, the talk was of the upcoming end-of-year school exams. And a clutch of ladies nearest the mock fireplace were making plans to attend a concert by Anoushka Shankar in Nehru Park.

Soon, though, news spread through the room that Mrs. Bina Bakshi’s daughter-in-law had ‘fled the coop’ – in other words, her in-laws’ house.

Mrs. Nanda, whose husband was a high-powered accountant, had heard that ‘the boy’ drank a lot. “Apparently he reverts tully each and every night,” she reported. “Mrs. Bakshi’s daughter-in-law was under depression.”

Mrs. Devi, the wife of a top bureaucrat, eagerly grasped the gossip baton, passing on that she had been told by an undisclosed source that Mrs. Bakshi and ‘the girl’ had ‘not hit it off from the moment she came home’.

Mrs. Bansal, the only woman present to have attended the fabled Bakshi wedding at the Hyatt, spoke up next.

Mrs. Bakshi’s daughter-in-law, she said disapprovingly, had ‘modern ideas’. Not being a ‘domesticated person’, she was trying to put off having children in order to further her career in marketing ‘or some such nonsense’.

“Her parents must feel so ashamed,” commented another woman. “Personally I can’t imagine.”

“Has she no respect?” another voice chimed in.

It was then that Puri’s gray-haired mother, who at Rum-pi’s invitation had joined the kitty party for the first time, spoke up. “So much change in society is going on, I tell you,” she said. “Relationships are getting all in a twist, na? Boys are mostly to blame. One minute wanting educated girls, next demanding stay-at-home wives. So much confusion is there, actually.”

As she was the eldest in the room by some fifteen years, her words engendered a chorus of approval.

“Very true, Auntie-ji.”

“Quite right.”

“I totally agree.”

But by the end of the discussion, the majority view still held.

“Men are not perfect, that is for sure,” concluded Lily Arora, whose hot pink kurta, churidar and high heels with glittery silver straps were set off by more makeup than all the other women wore put together. “But it’s a wife’s role to manage. Look at what I’ve had to put up with. Sanjeev is a rascal, quite frankly. But running away was unthinkable. It would have brought so much pain to both families, mine and his. In these situations one has to think of others.

“As for husbands,” she continued, “my dog trainer, Arti, always says to reward your pooch when he does what you ask and give appropriate correction when he doesn’t. Same has worked with Sanjeev.”

After the laughter had died down, Mrs. Deepak announced the birth of a fifth grandson. Amar, weight nine pounds, had been born at the Happy Go Lucky Maternity Home.

“By cesarean,” she added, beaming proudly.

Mrs. Azmat then shared her news. Since the ladies had last got together a month ago, she and her husband had gone on a cruise around the Great Lakes.

“They are really great in every sense,” she said, showing the other women some of the dozens of photographs her husband had taken of her obscuring a series of dramatic landscapes.

The conversation drifted on – the events on Rajpath were discussed, the astronomical price of gold and news of a fresh dengue outbreak in the city.

“Even the president’s son got it.”

“Just imagine.”

“No one is safe.”

At around one o’clock, Lily Arora finally brought the group to order and made various announcements. Next month’s get-together was to be held at Chor Bizarre, which offered a kitty party lunch special for 500 rupees per head. Her son and daughter-in-law, who were members of one of the new ‘couples kitties’, had been there and found it ‘quite satisfactory’.

Next, this month’s guest speaker, a physical exercise trainer called Bappi, entered the room. A diminutive but muscular young man with dyed yellow hair, he took Lily Arora’s place in front of the fireplace with the portrait of Sanjeev Arora’s stern-looking grandfather looming behind him. As the ladies continued to munch on deep-fried chiwda, he asked if any of them had diabetes. Eight hands went up.

How many of them exercised properly?

Again there was a strong show of hands.

“Ladies, casual walking does not count,” admonished Bappi.

Most of the hands went down.

Bappi then turned to a flip chart that he had set up on a stand. The first page depicted a dumpy middle-aged Indian woman. Next to her stood an extremely athletic-looking Western lady in a leotard, GO FROM AUNTIE-JI TO MISS WOW! read a message underneath.

“You, too, can look like this with just thirty minutes’ training every day at Counter Contours,” announced Bappi. “Our training program is tailor-made for all ages.”

He spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating some simple exercises. When he was finished, the ladies gave him a round of applause.

“I’m sure we agree that we can all do more to stay fit and fine and Mr. Bappi has made some wonderful suggestions,” said Lily Arora as the trainer packed up and left.

It was now time for the most eagerly anticipated moment of the party: the kitty draw.

Traditionally, each member of a kitty party brings a fixed sum of cash every month. The total pot is then awarded to the member whose name is drawn from a hat. Each member can only win once, so essentially the kitty is an interest-free loan system.

Lily Arora’s kitty reflected the more modern values of India’s middle classes in that some of the cash was given to charity and some was put aside for group vacations, like the one to Corbett National Park the ladies were planning for later in the year.

This was their fifth draw.

“Ladies, it’s time to get out your cash,” said Mrs. Arora, holding up a plastic bag. “I’m adding my five thousand rupees. Please, ladies, all do the same. Only exception is Mrs. Puri, who is joining us for the first time and is therefore required to add five months’ total amount. Admittedly this is an unusual practice, but we are delighted to have Auntie-ji joining us.”

The ladies all unclasped their handbags and took out wads of notes. These were placed in the bag.

“Today’s kitty is eighty thousand. Of that, ten thousand we are donating to charity. This month Mrs. Azmat has nominated one NGO assisting slum children called Smile Foundation. Twenty goes into the holiday fund. That leaves sixty. All those ladies who have not collected their share in past months are eligible to draw.”

A ripple of anticipation ran through the room as twelve of the ladies, including both Rumpi and Mummy, wrote their names on little pieces of paper. Once folded, these were dropped into a small plastic bucket.

Lily Arora gave it a good shake, stirred the papers and, with closed eyes, picked a name.

“And the winner is,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect like Shahrukh Khan on Kaun Banega Crorepati? “Neeru Deepak! Congratulations!”

Mrs. Deepak, the one with the abundance of grandchildren, let out a squeal of delight and collected her money.

“Tell us. What all are you going to do with it?” asked the hostess as she handed over the winnings.

“I promised my eldest grandson a new Xbox. His birthday is coming up,” she said.

“Very good,” said Lily Arora, smiling. “So as per the rules you will make your contribution next month but not be eligible for the draw. Also at our next meeting you are the one responsible for providing going-away presents.”

The ladies returned to their tea and gossip as they waited for lunch to be served.

About ten minutes later, Lily Arora’s poodle started barking in one of the back rooms. There came a crash from the kitchen. Raised voices could be heard. Rumpi thought it was likely a servant dispute of some sort. But then two men burst into the living room wearing women’s stockings over their faces.

“This is a robbery!” the taller of the two shouted in Hindi, stating the obvious. He was brandishing a country-made weapon. It looked like a poor imitation of an English highwayman’s pistol. “Everyone stay sitting and do what you’re told and no one will get hurt!”

A few of the women shrieked. Lily Arora stood up and shouted: “How dare you invade my home like this! Who do you think you are? Do you know who my husband is?”

“Shut up, woman!” interrupted the gunman, pointing his weapon at her. “Sit down!”

Lily Arora glared at him contemptuously with her hands on her hips. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”

“Sit down or I’ll shoot!” The gunman cocked his pistol.

The click caused some of the women to scream again and bury their faces in their hands.

“Please sit down,” insisted a frightened-sounding Mrs. Nanda, tugging on Lily Arora’s churidar. “It’s not worth it. Do as he says.”

With an icy glare of contempt, the hostess resumed her place on the sofa.

“That’s better,” said the gunman, standing with his back to the fireplace, the most commanding position in the room, while his accomplice guarded the door. By now, most of the ladies were holding their hands up in the air although they had not been told to do so. “I want the kitty fund. Where is it? Hand it over.”

“It’s here, I have it,” blurted out Mrs. Deepak, who was shaking. “Take it. Just don’t hurt us!”

The gunman grabbed the money and sized it up. The other women exchanged confused looks but kept quiet.

“There’s only fifty or sixty here. Where’s the rest?” he demanded.

A calm, quiet voice spoke up. It was Puri’s mother. “No need to shout, na,” she said. “It’s here with me.”

The gunman crossed the room.

“Where?” he demanded.

“In my purse, only.” By ‘purse’ she meant handbag. He picked it up and started rummaging through the contents. Although of average size, it contained a considerable amount of stuff: her wallet, a mobile phone, a makeup kit, a bulging address book, a little plastic bag of prasad, a miniature copy of the Gita and a small canister of Mace. The gunman dropped half the items on the floor in his search for the cash.

“There’s nothing here!” he exclaimed eventually.

“You’re sure? Strange, na? Let me see.”

As Mummy took her handbag back from him, she scratched his left hand with the fingernail of her right index finger. The gunman yelped.

“Hey, what are you doing, Auntie?” he hollered, nursing his hand.

“So clumsy of me, na,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You’ll be needing one bandage. Mrs. Arora must be having one.”

“Forget that! Just give me the money or I’ll shoot!” He raised his clunky weapon again. This time he pointed it directly at Mummy’s forehead.

“It’s over here! It’s over here!” interrupted Lily Arora urgently. “I’ve got it. Leave her alone!”

The hostess picked the plastic bag up off the floor and threw it to him.

“OK, let’s get out of here,” said the accomplice by the door. He was evidently young; his voice sounded like it was breaking.

“Shut up! Salah! Go start the engine!”

The teenager hesitated and then backed out of the living room.

The gunman started toward the door himself, his weapon still trained on the group.

“I want all of you to get down on your knees and face the ground. Do it now!”

One by one, with varying degrees of success, the ladies did as he instructed.

“Now stay where you are for five minutes and don’t call the cops! Remember, I know where you live!”

The gunman glanced around the room at the array of bottoms sticking up in the air. Then he was gone.

The ladies breathed a collective sigh of relief. All of them stayed put apart from Mummy.

“Call the police and don’t touch my things,” she whispered to Rumpi.

“Mummy-ji, where are you going?” asked Puri’s wife, sitting up on her knees. “It’s dangerous!”

Ignoring her, the elderly lady put her head around the sitting room door in time to see the gunman escaping out the back of the house.

She headed outside to the front gate, where all the ladies’ drivers were sitting on the pavement playing teen patti.

“Some goondas have done armed robbery of our kitty party!” she announced. “Where’s my driver, Majnu?”

“Toilet, madam,” answered one of the men.

“Typical! But we’ve got to give chase, na? One of you must drive. Come. Don’t do dillydally.”

The drivers all put down their cards and stood respectfully, but none of them jumped into action. They needed permission from their respective madams before they could leave their posts, one of them explained.

Mummy went back inside and fetched Lily Arora. But her Sumo was penned in behind four other vehicles.

By the time they had been moved, the thieves had got clean away.

The police reached the house in record time and in record numbers, thanks to Mrs. Devi, whose husband was a childhood friend of the chief.

Two servants were soon discovered in the pantry, bound and gagged. Once untied, they were summarily taken away on suspicion of being accomplices to the crime.

Lily Arora’s poodle was also found lying on the kitchen floor unconscious and was immediately rushed to the vet’s.

A young assistant subinspector then took the ladies’ statements in the living room. He was dismissive of Mummy, so she sought out his senior.

Inspector I.P. Kumar was standing by the front gate along with three gormless constables, giving the hapless drivers a grilling.

“Madam, you gave your statement?” he asked her wearily when she insisted on talking to him.

“What is point? So stupid he is, na? Got rajma for brains seems like. Now, something is there you must know. So listen carefully, na? I’ve some vital evidence to show.”

Mummy held up her right hand; she had wrapped it in a plastic freezer bag.

“You’re hurt, madam?” asked Inspector Kumar.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Just I scratched the gunman most deliberately.”

“Why exactly?”

“For purpose of DNA collection, naturally,” she said impatiently. “That is what I have been telling. Fragments of that goonda’s skin and all got under my nail. Just his fingerprints are on my compact, Gita and hand phone, also.”

Mummy held up another freezer bag, which contained the other evidence she had collected.

“Madam,” Inspector Kumar said with a weary sigh, “this is not Miami, US of A. For everyday robberies we’re not doing DNA testing. That is for big crimes only. Like when non-state actors blow up hotels and all. Also, your fingernail does not constitute evidence. Could be you scratched yourself or petted the dog. How are we to know?”

Mummy bristled. “I will have you know my late dear husband was himself a police inspector and I was headmistress of Modern School – ”

“Then better you stick to teaching and leave police work to professionals, madam,” interrupted Inspector Kumar before turning away and continuing with his interrogation of the drivers.

Mummy felt Rumpi’s hand on her arm.

“Come, Mummy-ji, we should be getting home,” she said.

“But police are being negligent in their duties,” she complained, still brandishing the evidence she had collected.

“I know. You can lead camels to water but not force them to drink. Come.”

The two women walked out into the street where their cars were parked.

Behind them Kumar and the constables were chortling conspiratorially.

“Seems Miss Mar-pel is here,” one of them joked.

“Bloody duffers,” cursed Mummy. “No wonder so many of crimes are going unsolved.”

“Perhaps we should call Chubby,” suggested Rumpi.

“Why we should ask for his help, you tell me? He’s no better. Just he’ll do bossing and tell us don’t get involved. Mummies are not detectives and all that. No need for him, na?”

“What do you mean ‘us’, Mummy-ji?”

“We two. We’ll solve this case together, na? Who better? It’s an insider job for sure.”

“You think the servants were involved?”

“Those poor fellows? Most unlikely.”

Rumpi’s eyes widened. “Are you saying it was one of the other ladies?” she asked, lowering her voice.

Mummy nodded gravely.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Simple, na? Those goondas were knowing how much our kitty would be. Today with my share there was some extra bonus. Also they failed in their duty to do robbery of our jewelry. So many bangles, earrings and mangal sutras and all were present. That Mrs. Azmat was wearing platinum worth lakhs and lakhs. But not one single item they took. Why?”