by Vaseem Khan
Having identified himself to the security guards Chopra trundled his van through the studio’s wrought-iron gates, and followed a gravel path past the lavish seven-storey studio building to an equally opulent bungalow set to one side of the compound, the private residence of the studio’s owner.
P. K. Das was in his home gymnasium, wheezing on a treadmill beneath the gimlet eye of his personal trainer, a burly man with a kabaddi wrestler’s physique, a boulder-like gut bulging inside a tight-fitting vest. An impressive mat of fur clung to the wrestler-trainer’s shoulders, and he snarled at P.K., “Five more minutes, you sonofabitch!”
Ganesha, trotting behind Chopra, looked on, startled. As Das stepped off the treadmill, he quickly scampered on, only to be scooted straight off into an undignified heap beside the dumbbell rack. He immediately sprang to his feet, curled his trunk around a dumbbell, and attempted to lift it. It proved too heavy. He moved along the rack, testing each dumbbell, until finally finding one he could flourish above his head. He turned to Chopra with a look of triumph, but found that his guardian was occupied.
Das, sagging with relief at having his ordeal cut short, wiped his neck with a towel and led them to his office, where he fell heavily into a chair behind his desk.
An assistant delivered a glass of watermelon juice, which revived the great producer until finally he could focus on his visitor.
If a man’s temperament was written on his features then P. K. Das was born to the role of village elder. He reminded Chopra of Indian cartoonist Laxman’s Common Man, with an avuncular face, white wings of hair on either side of a bald dome, a bristling white moustache, and round spectacles perched on a round nose.
He considered again the words of Poonam Panipat.
There had to be a mistake. How could this man be a thug?
“Mr. Das—” he began.
“Call me P.K.,” said Das. “You say ‘Mr. Das’ and I look over my shoulder for my dear departed father. Now… tell me what this is about. You informed my PA you were here representing some wealthy clients interested in financing a movie.”
“P.K.,” nodded Chopra, savouring the secret thrill of addressing one of his heroes in such a familiar manner. He elaborated on the ruse he had concocted to gain a meeting with the producer at such short notice. He did not wish to reveal that he was here on behalf of Bijli Verma. Panipat’s words, though hard to believe, were enough to encourage him to beware of trusting Das. “The people I represent wish to remain anonymous at present but rest assured they are serious about entering the movie business.”
Das nodded as if he had heard it all before. “Yes. It is all the rage these days. As soon as one of our new economy tycoons makes it big, the first thing they wish to do is dip a toe into the glamour of Bollywood. Little do they realise that there are crocodiles lying in wait for those who do not know what they are doing.”
“Precisely,” said Chopra. “Which is why they have employed me to find out more.”
“Are you in the movie business?”
“No,” said Chopra. “I am a private detective.” He handed Das his card.
“The Baby Ganesh Detective Agency. Ah. That would explain your little elephant,” said Das, glancing at Ganesha who was inspecting a poster of a Bollywood hero catching bullets in his teeth, a feat which seemed to greatly impress the elephant calf.
“My clients wish to follow in the footsteps of your current movie, The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva, by employing your studio to make a film and casting Vicky Verma as the lead. I believe he is under contract to you. But they have heard some disturbing things about Vicky, and so I’m afraid I must start by asking you some difficult questions about him.”
Das seemed to deflate into his chair. “I must admit, the boy has been a challenge to work with.”
“Is it true that you insisted the director hire him for the lead in The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva?”
“That is correct. I saw—see—great potential in Vicky.”
“But you knew that he was not Agarwal’s first choice?”
“Directors like to think they know best. But they are not always right.”
“Surely a more established actor would have better suited such a project? After all, it is the biggest production in the history of Bollywood.”
Das sighed again. “Look, I will tell you something, Chopra, strictly off the record. I did approach some very big names for this picture. But as soon as they heard that it was a quadruple role that would tie them up every day for over a year, and that our budget was limitless, they thought they could hold me to ransom. Why, if I told you some of the demands these prima donnas made, you would fall off your seat! Do you know one of them actually asked me to purchase him Mike Tyson’s tiger, the one they used in that Hollywood movie? And this was before we even discussed salary!” Das shook his head. “It was simply not practical. The established stars these days are used to doing three or four movies at once, with myriad advertising commercials, celebrity TV shows, concerts, and foreign marketing trips in between. It is a miracle if I can get one shoot a month out of them. But young stars like Vicky are hungry.”
“And yet my understanding is that he has not lived up to the trust you placed in him.”
Das frowned. “It is bad form to listen to on-set gossip, Chopra. And worse form to spread it. What goes on in a movie production should stay behind closed doors. We are a family and like any family we have our disagreements, our vagaries of personality and mood.”
“Forgive me, sir, but is it true that you recently had cause to, ah, discipline Vicky?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, did you have him beaten?”
Das looked astonished. “Have you lost your mind? Why would I do that? It’s simply unthinkable. I am a pacifist by nature. I don’t believe I have ever struck anyone in my whole life. Except Raj Kapoor once, but that was at his request. He asked me to punch him as hard as I could, just so he could prove to Nargis how tough he was. He was quite smitten with her, you see. Sadly, I underestimated my own strength and knocked out one of his teeth. He had to have it replaced, but it was a rush job as we were shooting the next morning. If you look closely you can see it in some scenes towards the end of Shree 420. It’s the crooked one on the right side of his mouth when he smiles.”
Chopra was momentarily silent. Why would Poonam Panipat have lied? Or was it Das who was lying? Yet he seemed genuinely mystified.
“Tell me, Chopra,” said Das, “what are you really doing here? I am no fool. Bijli called me this morning to tell me Vicky was indefinitely indisposed. I was most disappointed as we are already greatly behind schedule. Now you come here asking questions about the boy. Who are you really representing?”
Chopra shifted in his seat.
He had known, of course, that by questioning the veteran producer, he might ultimately be forced into revealing his motives. It had been a risk to come here, and one that Bijli Verma would not have approved of. But Chopra had long ago decided that his role as a private investigator would be based on the same foundations upon which he had built a successful career in the police service, namely his own judgement and the weight of his accumulated experience. He had followed his instincts for longer than he cared to remember and they had rarely let him down.
“As I said, I am merely here on behalf of certain parties interested in working with your studio and with Vicky.”
Das stared at Chopra long and hard, forcing the detective to strike out in another direction. “I took the liberty of visiting the set of Mote. Just to get a feel for your production, you understand. There was a man on set, tall, burly, wears sunglasses all the time, it seems. A Mr. Pyarelal. I was told he works for you. Can you tell me what he does?”
Das’s face stiffened. “I am afraid I have no idea who you are talking about. But then, this production has literally hundreds of staff members. I couldn’t possibly keep account of them all.”
“Is there someone I can talk to, to find out who
he is?”
“Personnel records are confidential,” said Das, rising stiffly to his feet. “And now I really must go. Raju will see you out.”
As Chopra left the compound, he reflected on the abrupt end to the meeting.
He had not learned a great deal about Vicky from Das that he did not already know. In truth, he had not expected to. But, after Poonam Panipat’s testimony, he had wanted to get the measure of the producer, and he needed to discover more about the shadowy Pyarelal, a topic that was seemingly off-limits. Why? Who was this man that everyone seemed so afraid of?
Afraid. That was the right word.
And where there was fear, Chopra knew, intrigue was rarely far behind.
THE MAD WOMAN
In the kitchen of Poppy’s Bar & Restaurant, preparations for Holi were proceeding apace. Azeem Lucknowwallah, the restaurant’s head chef, had prepared a special eight-course menu for the occasion, one that would capture the essence of the festival of colours: a celebration of the arrival of spring, a time to forgive debts and forget past indiscretions, and a marker of the ultimate victory of good over evil.
Lucknowwallah, once renowned in the city’s premier restaurant circles, had emerged from retirement to work at Poppy’s, driven by the fact that his own father had been a policeman, killed in the line of duty. Lucknowwallah’s arrival was a notable coup for the restaurant, yet sometimes Chopra couldn’t help but wish that he was a less highly strung personality. The man was in constant need of reassurance.
Take today for instance.
Chopra had returned to the restaurant to catch up with Rangwalla. It was then that he had learned of the strange request made by the Queen of Mysore, a request that gave him pause for thought.
He had always treated the eunuch community with respect, but the thought of working for the Queen bothered him—he had no wish to align himself to a small-time kingpin. And yet, considering the matter, he wondered how he would feel if the Queen’s suspicions ultimately proved correct—what if her girls came to harm? In a society so strongly prejudiced against them, the eunuchs needed someone to look out for them. Chopra had always endeavoured to do so, and found that he could not abandon them now.
Setting aside his personal misgivings he agreed that the agency should take the case. He asked Rangwalla to handle the matter.
“But what do I do?” protested Rangwalla, aghast at the possibilities.
“I leave that to you,” said Chopra firmly. “My hands are full with this Verma business.”
After the meeting Chopra had been summoned to the kitchen for a tasting.
Chopra had resigned himself to the trial ahead. The chef rarely did anything by halves, and his angst over a new dish could lead a perfectly sane man to drink. But such were the sensibilities of the artiste, Chopra reflected. In all good conscience, he could not complain. The man was a miracle worker and his efforts on behalf of the restaurant had afforded Chopra the time to devote to his detective agency. He did not wish to lose Lucknowwallah, and so he did his best to accommodate the chef’s occasional bouts of creative neurosis.
Now, as he stood at the kitchen counter, flanked on either side by the assistant chefs, Ramesh Goel and Rosie Pinto, with Irfan and little Ganesha looking on, he found himself sweating with nervousness. He knew, from past experience, that the chef took rejection very personally.
He picked up the spoon of umber-coloured pickle from its bowl, placed it inside his mouth, and swallowed. A few moments of nothing… and then, without warning, a grenade exploded between his cheeks.
Chopra yelped and ran to the sink. Thrusting his face under the tap, he allowed the water to roar into his mouth.
Behind him Ganesha dipped his trunk into the bowl of pickle and scooped some into his mouth, Irfan watching him carefully. Ganesha’s eyes widened, and then he bugled a shrill note of alarm, trotted to the sink, butted Chopra out of the way, and stuck his trunk under the tap, before shooting water into his mouth.
Finally, man and elephant turned back to their waiting audience, Chopra’s face scarlet, Ganesha’s ears flapping in agitation.
“Well?” asked Lucknowwallah, practically swaying.
“What was that called again?” Chopra wheezed.
“That is my special Rocket Fuel pickle,” said the chef. “Guaranteed hottest pickle in the city!”
“It’s certainly hot,” coughed Chopra, wondering what further punishments the pickle would inflict on him as it corroded its way through his system.
The chef looked pleased. “By the way, Poppy called. Irfan, she wants you to go to the bazaar and buy some Holi powder. And Chopra, she said to remind you that she expects you home for dinner with the Malhotras.”
Chopra scrunched his brow. He had completely forgotten.
Poppy had invited over a colleague from the St. Xavier Catholic School for Boys, where she had recently begun teaching classical dance and drama. She had been reminding him for weeks, but he had paid little attention. Social engagements did not interest him; yet he did not wish to disappoint her and had, reluctantly, agreed to be there.
Cursing and grumbling, he headed home.
As Irfan and Ganesha swam along the Cigarette Factory Road in Chakala, breasting the foot traffic, they couldn’t help but peer in at the row of hole-in-the-wall shops that lined the street on both sides. Streams of shoppers hurtled past, buzzing around each other as they flitted from vendor to vendor likes bees seeking the most fragrant flower. Negotiations were fierce—the voices of steely-eyed housewives could be heard above the din, beating down canny vendors who swore that if they reduced the price any further they would be put out of business and their children sold into slavery.
With Holi around the corner everyone—from vendors of coloured powder, water balloons, sparklers and windmills, to street-painters and rangoli artists—was enjoying a brisk trade.
Apu’s Sweet Emporium, with its mouthwatering display of Indian sweets, was besieged.
Ganesha stared longingly at a steel tray piled high with yellow, ball-shaped ladoos, but Irfan, perhaps sensing that the little elephant was about to help himself again, tapped him admonishingly on the top of his head. They passed a fruit-seller with pyramids of melons and pomegranates; a bangle-seller whose neatly laid out boxes of bracelets and glass bangles reflected, in a million colours, the hanging festival lights criss-crossing the street; the spice merchant with sacks of chillies and powders and tar-like blocks of tamarind pulp; the idol-maker carving marble figurines of Lord Krishna; the boiled-egg-seller vying with the papaya vendor as they hollered for customers.
Ganesha paused outside a dimly lit pottery workshop, breathing in the great belches of hot air gusting from the entrance. A trio of potters in dirty vests were sitting cross-legged before their wheels, shaping red clay into tiny earthenware lamps for the upcoming festival. Irfan knew that the spinning wheels fascinated the elephant, and he would stop each time they passed this way.
The eldest potter looked up and grinned through blackened teeth. “Ho. It is you again, Ganesha Sahib.” He beckoned the elephant forward. “I think perhaps you were a potter in a former life, yes? Here,” he said, “why don’t you try?”
He sat back and waved a hand at the spinning wheel.
Ganesha glanced up at the smiling man, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck, then stepped forward and dipped his trunk into the ball of unshaped clay, watching in astonishment as it flared into a crude bowl shape.
The potter plucked off the misshapen artefact, and set it to one side. “Not bad,” he said. “It’s better than half the things Ramu here produces. Come by and pick it up tomorrow when it is dried.”
At the mouth of a narrow alleyway that led off the Cigarette Factory Road, Irfan and Ganesha ran into the Mad Woman.
Two weeks ago the Mad Woman had taken up her station in between the public latrines and an enormous mound of rubbish. Together the two created a smell that no ordinary human could tolerate for more than a few seconds, yet the Mad Woman appeared to b
reathe it in as if it were the perfume of the legendary Valley of Flowers on Mount Nanda Devi.
To Irfan this was ultimate proof of her madness.
He had asked his friends about the Mad Woman.
“She is so mad, even the lepers shun her,” said one.
“If you go near her she spits on you and then you become just like her,” revealed another.
“They say she is a witch,” the postman Gopal had told him authoritatively. “She was stoned out of her village for turning children into pye-dogs. Now she sits there all day eating cockroaches and sucking the blood from rats. Be careful she doesn’t curse you. She cursed Nandu last week and he grew a boil on his backside so big he hasn’t been able to sit down since.”
Irfan and Ganesha approached cautiously.
The old woman appeared to be dozing, sitting cross-legged against the baked brick wall of the toilet hut in her rags, her uncombed mass of grey hair ballooning about her head, her face caked in layers of dirt and grime. Even in the odiferous setting a strong stench emanated from her, though this did not seem to put off the trio of wild pigs rooting around in the rubbish nearby.
Suddenly, loud voices sounded from around the corner.
Irfan shrank back instinctively into the lee of a burnt-out bullock shed opposite the latrines, Ganesha following him automatically.
As they watched, three boys in school uniform emerged into the plot.
Irfan recognised the uniform—it belonged to the International Baccalaureate school that had just opened locally, attracting the children of the newly wealthy to its roster.
“What did I tell you?” said a tall boy who seemed to be leading the pack. “There she is.”
“Is she really mad?” asked the pudgy specimen bringing up the rear.
“You bet she is. You know she’s a witch, don’t you?”
The pudgy boy gulped, and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Then shouldn’t we leave her alone?”
“Grow a backbone, you mouse,” muttered the tall boy. He looked around and picked up a bamboo cane. Stepping forward, he poked the woman in the ribs. “Hey, get up, you!”
