by Vaseem Khan
‘Excuse me.’
Chopra waited for the two men to look up.
‘May I help you, sir?’ asked Tiger Singh eventually.
Singh had once been a big man, but seemed to have lost weight. His beard was black, with a single white stripe down the middle. His turban was a deep midnight blue and he wore a flowing black kurta pajama sashed at his waist with a bright red tasselled rope. His face was deeply lined with a map of crevices… and something else. A weariness that had nothing to do with age or infirmity.
Chopra flashed his identity card. ‘My name is Chopra. I am investigating the disappearance of the Crown of Queen Elizabeth.’
‘I thought they already found that,’ said the dwarf. ‘It was on the news.’
‘They did. But the Koh-i-Noor had been removed.’
The dwarf raised a bottle of cheap whisky to his mouth and took a swig. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘It is my understanding that Bulbul Kanodia has engaged your services for a birthday party at his Bandra residence tomorrow afternoon.’
Tiger Singh’s expression was curious. ‘How does this concern you?’
‘Please. It is important,’ said Chopra.
Tiger Singh stared at him. A shadow passed over his face. ‘The things we must do to survive,’ he sighed eventually. ‘Do you know that this circus has been running for over a hundred years? Once upon a time we toured the length and breadth of the subcontinent. We had the very best acts in the land, better than the Jumbo, the Gemini, or even the Great Royal. Thousands flocked to see us. Now, all we get are the uninterested and the drunks. I cannot blame them. What reason have children to come to the circus any more? Look at me… I am a Tiger Singh without a tiger. Ever since the animal welfare people tightened the regulations, our acts have been decimated. I fear for the next generation. Who wants to send their children to join the circus now? Who wants to break every bone in their body learning the trapeze when they can sit in an air-conditioned office and sell sand to the Arabs? Who wants to burn their mouths hurling flame or lie down beneath an elephant’s foot? The only ones we get now are the borderline criminals, the girls without dowries, and the dwarves. No offence, Vinod.’
‘None taken,’ said the dwarf mildly.
‘Vinod is our general manager,’ explained Tiger Singh. ‘I do not know what I would do without him.’
‘The birthday party,’ said Chopra, steering the conversation back to the reason for his visit.
‘Ah, yes. What about it?’
‘It will take you inside Kanodia’s home?’
‘Yes. We are not street performers, sir.’
‘In that case I wish to go with you. As part of your act.’
Vinod and Tiger Singh exchanged glances.
‘Sir, I know that we must not look like much,’ said Singh eventually. ‘But we take pride in what we do. I cannot permit an amateur into my troupe. Our private clients pay us well. I will not compromise the integrity of our performance.’
‘This is a matter of life and death.’
‘Each day in the circus is a matter of life and death. I am afraid I cannot help you.’ Singh looked back down at his crate and began to spin the remaining two balls.
Chopra thought fast. He had to get inside Kanodia’s residence. It was the only avenue of investigation he could think of.
‘I have an elephant.’
Singh looked up. ‘What?’
‘I have a baby elephant. He is very smart. I will bring him with me. That will be my contribution to your act.’
Singh’s eyes were suddenly far away. ‘It has been many years since last we raised a young elephant in the traditions of the circus. Now we have only Aurangzeb, the old bull. He is very temperamental. Also I think his mind is going. He forgets his acts. I have told the mahouts not to give him drink, but they do not listen. They say without alcohol he cannot function at all.’ Singh shook his head. ‘It will be good to see a young one again.’
‘Ganesha is no ordinary elephant,’ Chopra said, repeating the words that his uncle had written.
Tiger Singh smiled. ‘No elephant is ordinary, sir. They are the king of beasts.’ He exchanged glances with Vinod. Something unspoken passed between them.
‘Can you juggle, sir?’
Chopra resisted the temptation to lie. ‘No.’
‘Can you swallow a sword?’
‘No.’
‘A goldfish, at least?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been fired out of a cannon?’
‘No.’
Singh stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘We will have to find something for you to do. Vinod?’
The dwarf blew more smoke from his cigar and sized Chopra up. ‘I am sure we can manage something. Be here with your elephant early tomorrow morning. We will rehearse.’
Chopra nodded. ‘I will be here. Thank you.’
He turned to leave, then looked back.
‘One more thing… where did the ball go?’
Tiger Singh smiled thinly. ‘Once upon a time I used to put my head into the mouths of tigers, but now… now Tiger Singh has been reduced to a mere conjuror.’
He reached up to take off his turban. Chopra realised that rather than being a long strip of cloth wound around the skull, the turban was in fact a solid mass, glued together to form a sort of hat.
This was how the illusion worked. Misdirection and sleight of hand: the twin tools of the prestidigitator.
Singh lifted the ball from his head and twirled it around his fingers. ‘It is a hard life and not the one most would choose,’ he said. ‘But that is karma, yes?’
TWO STRANGERS IN THE RESTAURANT
The air-conditioner, newly repaired, thundered away in the corner of the office. In spite of its best efforts, the atmosphere had become decidedly heated.
‘Poppy, the boy has a mind of his own,’ said Chopra, who had returned to the restaurant to find his wife waiting for him, and not in the best of moods. ‘You cannot tell him what to do.’
‘I am not telling him what to do,’ huffed Poppy. ‘It is in his best interests if he attends school and learns to read and write properly.’
‘I agree. But he must make the decision himself.’
‘He is a child. What child wants to go to school? We are looking after him now. It is up to us to guide him.’
‘We have no legal claim over him. He is free to make his own decisions.’
‘You are working him too hard,’ said Poppy, folding her arms.
Chopra sighed. His wife had the annoying habit of changing the subject, without actually changing the subject, whenever she found herself losing ground in an argument.
‘I am not working him at all. Whatever he does, he does because he wishes to. He is a very hard-working and bright boy.’
There was a knock on the door and Irfan entered holding a stack of manila folders.
He beamed as he saw Poppy, whose irritated expression immediately melted away. She bent down and gave him a hug. ‘Put those things down,’ she said. ‘I have a gift for you.’
She watched as Irfan unwrapped the shirt she had purchased for him. ‘Wow!’ he said, eyes shining. ‘It’s just like the one Shah Rukh Khan wore in Chennai Express.’
Poppy clapped her hands. ‘But you look even more handsome than him!’
Irfan sneezed.
An expression of alarm overcame Poppy’s face. ‘My goodness, you are ill!’
‘It’s just a sneeze, Poppy,’ said Chopra.
‘What would you know, Mister Slavedriver?’ she snapped, rounding on her husband. ‘The poor boy is clearly overworked.’ She cradled Irfan’s head as he struggled to escape. ‘Come, I will take you to the doctor right away.’
‘But really, I am quite fine!’ said Irfan, wrenching himself loose.
‘Come and stay with us for a few days,’ begged Poppy. ‘At least until you are better.’
‘I like it here,’ said Irfan. ‘All my friends are here. Plus Ganesha is here.’ He saw
that Poppy seemed crestfallen and went back to give her a hug. ‘Maybe you can take me to EsselWorld next week, like you promised?’
‘Of course!’ said Poppy, brightening up. ‘It will be a day out for us.’
After Irfan left, Chopra looked at his wife, at the softness illuminating her features.
He would have to choose his words carefully.
After twenty-four childless years Poppy’s heart was overflowing with affection for their two wards Ganesha and Irfan. It was as if a dam had burst inside her and now a great torrent of maternal love was sweeping all before it. He knew that deep within the folds of his own heart he had grown as fond of Irfan as she had. Although the thought remained unspoken there was no doubt in his mind that in Ganesha and Irfan his wife had found an outlet for her long-suppressed mothering instincts, that, in some sense, they had both circumvented Chopra’s diktat against adoption.
And it was enough. For him, if not for Poppy.
‘Poppy, if you smother him, you will drive him away.’
‘I am not smothering him!’ said Poppy indignantly.
Chopra regarded his wife, standing with arms folded and chin jutting out, an unequivocal display of hostility. He thought of all the things he could say, and then he waved his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK. I have enough on my plate as it is without fighting with you about Irfan.’ He turned to leave.
‘Just you wait a minute, Mister Bigshot.’
Poppy had not finished with him yet. With a sudden sinking premonition he realised what she was going to say.
‘Poppy, I am tied up wi—’
‘Yes, yes, I know. You have a big case for the Queen of England. Well, let me ask you this: is the Queen paying you? Did the Queen ask for your assistance? Does she even know that you exist?’
‘Poppy—’
‘Don’t you Poppy me! Augustus Lobo is my boss. He specially requested my help. What is the point of having a private detective for a husband if he cannot locate one silly little statue?’ Poppy’s glare would have melted stone. ‘Is it too much to ask that you spare some time for a paying client?’
‘A man’s life is at stake, Poppy,’ Chopra said through gritted teeth.
‘What man?’
He hesitated, considering the wisdom of telling his wife everything, and decided that Poppy had a right to know.
Chopra explained about Garewal.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ Poppy finally exhaled. ‘Poor man. And two children, you say?’ She shook her head again. And then a thought seemed to occur to her. ‘And you are sure he is innocent?’
He hesitated. ‘No, I am not sure. I have only my own instincts to guide me. They have served me well for thirty years. Right now, they are telling me that this is not the work of Garewal. That he is being set up. I cannot just stand by. I worked with the man – I owe it to him.’
Poppy’s expression softened. She walked around the desk and laid a gentle hand on his cheek. ‘Always the hero,’ she sighed. ‘Well, I would rather you were a hero than a villain.’
Chopra found Ganesha horsing around with Irfan in the rear courtyard.
Earlier that morning, he had made the decision to leave the elephant behind, hoping he would recover from his sombre mood. He was delighted to discover that Ganesha did indeed seem his usual self.
The little calf was playing cricket with the boy. His trunk was curled around the handle of a cricket bat. Irfan ran up and hurled a tennis ball at him with his good hand, in imitation of Irfan’s favourite fast bowler. Ganesha’s trunk whirled around and – smack! – the ball went arcing over the wall and into the neighbouring compound.
Irfan leaped up and clapped his thighs delightedly. ‘Wah, Ganesha! Good shot!’
Chopra smiled. ‘Indeed it was. If Ganesha keeps playing like this we will have to consider replacing Sachin Tendulkar as India’s number four.’
The boy and the elephant turned to watch him approach. Irfan’s face was flushed, and even Ganesha seemed happy to see him.
Chopra was aware that a special bond had sprung up between Ganesha and Irfan. Baby elephants and human children were, after all, similar in so many ways.
For one, they both grew to maturity at almost the same rate. This was not surprising given that elephants and humans had similar lifespans. Elephant calves and human children also shared the same sense of play and fun. And, as he had discovered to his occasional cost, the same sense of mischievousness.
Chopra was relieved that Ganesha had found a friend. It sometimes bothered him that the elephant had been sundered from his own species. Elephants were extremely social animals. He often dreamed of how Ganesha might enjoy a different life if he was with his own kind out in the jungle. But orphaned male calves were not always welcomed into a strange herd. In the wild, elephant bulls were aggressive and unpredictable beasts. An outsider, even a calf such as Ganesha, might easily be shunned or even injured. He could not take that chance.
And then there was the simple fact that Ganesha was now a creature of the city, as much a Mumbaiker as Chopra. He had not been trained in the ancient jungle crafts by a caring mother and fussy aunts. He did not know the first thing about how to survive outside the concrete jungle.
But there was another reason that Chopra was glad that Irfan and Ganesha had become companions. He had read that any young elephant raised in a human environment ran the risk of becoming over-reliant on a single carer. There had been a calf in Africa reared by a white woman. For years the woman was the calf’s sole carer, to the extent that the calf would allow no one else to feed him. And then the woman had been called away for a protracted period. Without her the calf pined, refusing to take his feed. He died shortly before the woman could make her return.
Now, when Chopra arrived at the restaurant in the early mornings to find Irfan hosing down Ganesha in the little elephant’s favourite game, he would feel a gladness blooming inside him. If anything ever happened to him, there would be others who Ganesha loved and trusted and who, in return, loved him.
His stomach growled suddenly and he realised that he had hardly eaten all day. ‘Irfan, can you ask Chef to prepare me a plate? I will eat in my office.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you want butter chicken? Chef is also doing special mutton karahi today.’
‘Did he put ginger in it?’
Irfan scratched his head. ‘I will ask him.’
Chopra watched the boy scurry away.
Then he knelt down beside Ganesha and patted him on the head. ‘I am so happy to see that you are feeling better.’
Ganesha blinked and swished his ears.
‘I need your help, boy. An old friend of mine is in trouble. He has been accused of a crime that I do not think he committed. I am trying to clear his name. For that I will need you by my side tomorrow. Do you think you can help me?’
Chopra knew that if a stranger were to see him talking in this way to an elephant they might think that he was becoming addled. But, irrational or not, he had come to believe that Ganesha understood everything he said. And there was also that insidious voice at the back of his skull that he couldn’t quite shake – the voice that told him that somewhere behind those wet elephant eyes was his Uncle Bansi.
And yet Chopra had never subscribed to the notions of rebirth and reincarnation that so many of his countrymen took for granted. He did not believe that human souls could be transmigrated into the bodies of animals once they passed from this world. He had no idea where the human soul actually went, but he was fairly certain that he was in no danger of being reborn as a cockroach.
The journey of the human soul post-death was the greatest mystery of all, and one that he intended to solve only when he shuffled off this mortal coil.
Ganesha blinked again as if considering the request.
Then he lifted his trunk and patted Chopra’s face.
‘Thank you, boy.’
Rangwalla was waiting for him in the office. The room was redolent with the fragrant aroma of mutton
karahi. Chopra eased himself into his seat and stirred the thick curry base of spiced tomatoes and fried chillies. The karahi was one of Chef Lucknowwallah’s signature dishes and one of Chopra’s favourites. He ladled himself a generous measure from the copper serving bowl and then ladled out another bowl for Rangwalla, who was drooling quietly.
‘Sit down and eat,’ he commanded.
‘That’s OK, sir. I will eat at home later.’
He looked up at Rangwalla.
Rangwalla appeared as uncomfortable out of uniform as Chopra had first felt when he had been forced to shed the khaki. He was wearing a short black kurta with embroidered buttons, a pair of heavily starched and creased navy blue trousers, and closed-toed black sandals. His beard had been trimmed and his hair was pomaded with an Arabic perfume.
‘Rangwalla, let’s get something straight. We are now partners. I am your boss but I am also your friend. Perhaps I should have said this years ago. Well, better late than never. Now sit down and share a meal with me. And besides, I cannot hear myself think over the rumbling of your belly.’
As the two men ate, Rangwalla described his day.
While Chopra visited the circus the former sub-inspector had been travelling to all corners of the city tracking down the employees of the Prince of Wales Museum from the list that his new-old boss had given him.
Rangwalla removed a sheaf of papers from his postal bag and smoothed them out on the table, instantly smearing them with curry.
Chopra gave his new associate detective a black look and then took the papers.
There were eleven people on the list. Of the eleven, one, a junior curator, had died early into his tenure at the museum, a victim of the so-called Malabar Hill leopard attacks.
The leopard had terrorised the affluent Malabar Hill area for weeks. Another refugee from the city’s relentless growth, the big cat appeared to have decided that enough was enough. Its unprecedented boldness had made headlines. It had even been caught on CCTV entering the lobby of an apartment building to attack the security guard as he dozed behind his counter.
The leopard had not actually killed the young curator. It had merely chased him out of a parked taxi and into oncoming traffic. The terrified fellow had been run over by a truck.
