The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

by Tarquin Hall

  When the Cowboys' captain hit another six, the whole place erupted in cheers and Bollywood songs - a feverish carnival of flags and banners and impromptu dancing. STUNNER! flashed across the stadium's giant screens, quickly followed by advertisements for mobile phone networks, fast food chains and popular skin-whitening creams - all this to the bone-shaking decibel level of Queen: 'WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!'

  'Very good, young man!' called out Rumpi's mother, who was sitting to the right of the Brigadier, patting her hands together in delight. 'Very good!'

  Down on the boundary, they could see India's latest cultural import from the West, American cheerleaders in little pleated skirts and tight halter tops, performing acrobatics with their sparkly pompoms and favouring the crowd with flashes of their cleavage and knickers.

  'Give us a D . . . E . . . L . . . H . . . I! GO COWBOYS!'

  The reaction from the almost exclusively male - and by the looks of it totally tulli - fans down in the bleachers was no less frenzied than it had been for Shastri's s-tunning shot. Like lewd punters at a strip club, they ogled the goris' ample proportions and howled and wolf-whistled.

  Thank the God Rumpi's mother, who was hard of hearing, couldn't make out the Punjabi obscenities being shouted, Puri thought.

  'Do you know, beta, I used to be able to do that?' the detective overheard her telling Rumpi as the girls performed a series of cartwheels. 'I was junior gymnastics champion. But I didn't wear uniforms like those. Must be very practical I suppose.'

  Practical was not a word Puri had come across in the reams of newsprint that had been dedicated to the cheerleader controversy in the Indian press over the past few days. 'Vulgar', 'obscene' and, perhaps most damning of all, 'un-Indian' had been the reaction from not only the religious right, but the liberal, self-appointed guardians of India's secular democracy as well.

  'All the organisers are doing by making scantily clad white women dance in front of huge crowds is to stoke the base, voyeuristic and sexual insecurities of the Indian male,' historian and cricket aficionado Ramachandra Guha had been quoted as saying in the Hindustan Times.

  Puri could not have agreed more. 'Why we are taking worst characteristics of Western world, I ask you?' he had written to the honourable editor of The Times of India last week. 'This is most certainly not cricket.'

  But as Puri well knew, the presence of the cheerleaders, who were on loan from major American football teams like the Washington Redskins, was in keeping with the new, highly commercial face of cricket. India had, in the words of one commentator, 'masala-ed' the sport of its former colonial masters. Pristine whites and tepid bitter and understated British 'I say!' applause had been subverted by garish uniforms blazing with advertising and raucous bhangra dancing.

  The sport's new Twenty-Twenty format was electrifying - fast paced and, at three hours long, tailor-made for TV. In India alone, the audience numbered in the tens of millions. Bollywood stars and billionaire tycoons ranked amongst the owners. And along with the deities of Indian cricket, the cream of Australia, South Africa and the West Indies had signed up.

  Perhaps most extraordinary of all, however, was the participation of eleven Pakistani players. The Kolkata Colts had bought Kamran Khan, the twenty-three-year-old fast-paced bowler, for the duration of the annual month-long tournament.

  It was Khan who now claimed the Delhi captain's wicket.

  Approaching from the Willingdon Pavilion end, he delivered a devastating yorker, clean bowling Shastri's off stump and sending the bails flying. 'SHAME!' flashed up on the screens as the crowd emitted a harsh sigh of disappointment. The American cheerleaders, for whom cricket was clearly a total mystery, launched into another series of cancan high kicks and the loss of Delhi's star batsman was soon forgotten amidst the male fans' leering and caterwauling.

  'Twenty-two off fourteen balls,' said the Brigadier as he updated his scorecard. 'I believe our boy is up next.'

  Soon, cheers greeted Rumpi's nephew Rohan as he stepped out on to the field, bat in hand. The entire Mattu clan rose to their feet, beaming with pride. Rohan was being touted as one of the country's new hopefuls. At just eighteen, he'd captained the Indian Juniors and, last month, been called up to the national squad for a friendly against New Zealand. Batting at number ten, he'd scored an impressive thirty-three not out.

  'Just look at him out there - so handsome and confident,' said Rumpi, eyes brimming with tears. 'I feel so proud.'

  Puri felt caught up in the moment as well. 'Little blighter's come a long way from knocking balls through my window,' he said with a smile.

  Rohan gave the pitch a thorough inspection, positioned himself in front of his stumps and, having made a considered survey of the field, readied himself for the first delivery.

  Kamrah Khan shone one side of the ball on the crotch of his trousers as he sized up the Delhi boy. His delivery began as a mere trot, a series of short, light steps. Then his long legs began to eat up the distance like a panther. His arms wound round in a fluid, graceful movement, and as he planted his right foot millimetres short of the crease, his six-foot frame arched back like a giant bow. The ball left his hand at a staggering 84 miles an hour, bounced short and shot upwards at a 45 degree angle.

  Rohan anticipated its trajectory and ducked as the ball whistled past his helmet. BOUNCER! appeared on the giant screens and a collective Boo carried through the stadium.

  'Isn't that illegal?' asked Rumpi, who knew little more about cricket than the cheerleaders.

  'No, no, perfectly legal,' answered her father. 'Invented by the British to thwart their old foes the Australians. Khan's just trying to put the frighteners on him.'

  'But it's dangerous!' exclaimed Rumpi. 'Rohan could get hurt!'

  The Brigadier chuckled. 'Not to worry. He can take care of himself.'

  Puri felt his heart racing as the Pakistani bowler made his second approach. This delivery was even faster, 89 miles per hour, and the length was perfect. Rohan misjudged the bounce. The ball deflected off the edge of his bat and was caught at gully.

  'Howzat!' screamed the delirious Kolkata players.

  The umpire's arm shot up, signalling a no ball. Khan had overstepped the crease. A sigh of relief passed through the stands.

  'That's Khan's second no ball today,' commented Brigadier Mattu as he updated his scorecard. 'And he's bowled one wide as well. Not his best form.'

  The next four balls saw Rohan score a total of six runs. He appeared to be finding his form. But as Khan prepared to deliver the last ball of the over, a commotion broke out on the boundary. The cheerleaders were screaming and pointing at something along the boundary. A moment later, they scattered in all directions. A few clambered over the barrier and into the stands. The rest sprinted across the field towards the clubhouse.

  At first the reaction amongst the crowd was a kind of bewildered amusement. But when the players started to run, too, everyone strained forward to try to get a glimpse of whatever it was that had invaded the field.

  A mangy pye-dog soon came into view - barking, snarling, frothy saliva dripping from its mouth. Like a wounded bull in an arena, it trotted around the field for a couple of minutes before stopping in the middle of the field, its long, grey tongue hanging out.

  Puri could see the animal in close-up on the giant screen now and could hear its painful whimpers courtesy of the miniature microphones hidden in the stumps.

  'Must have rabies, I suppose,' said the Brigadier with nonchalance.

  An announcement came over the public address stating that play would resume shortly while down down on the field, entertainment of a different nature began. Two groundskeepers set out from the East Hill gate with a length of netting stretched between them. They looked nervous, unsure of themselves. As they approached the dog, it took a few steps towards them, snapping and snarling. This was enough to cause the duo to turn on their heels and run, both getting their feet tangled in the net and falling over.

  Another few minutes passed in which the
dog's condition appeared to worsen. It started swaying from side to side. Blood ran from its nose. Then, three tubby jawans ventured out on to the field, brandishing their archaic bolt action Lee Enfield rifles. The dog didn't notice their advance; by now its head was hung low and it was trembling, as if in the grip of a fever.

  The police wallahs advanced, two slower than the first, until they were approximately thirty feet from the animal. They stopped, raised their rifles. Took aim.

  A hush fell over the stadium.

  A volley of shots rang out.

  Smoke drifted across the field.

  It cleared to reveal the pye-dog still standing, oblivious to its near execution.

  'Try it with your eyes open next time!' shouted a wag in Hindi amidst hoots of derision.

  Visibly embarrassed, the jawans took aim again. But before they could get off a second round, the dog keeled over, lifeless.

  'I think we got it,' one of the jawans was heard to say over the microphones.

  The groundskeepers soon appeared again, this time with a wooden barrow, and the dog was unceremoniously tossed on to it.

  Five minutes later, the players and the cheerleaders returned to the field. Rohan faced the next ball and sent it crashing over the boundary.

  THREE

  PURI'S MOTHER HAD opted to watch the match at home and join the family for the dinner afterwards. She was waiting in the lobby of the Delhi Durbar Hotel.

  In her yellow and green Punjabi pantsuit, she looked out of place amidst all the mirrors, marble and glamorous 'page three' types in their sequined dresses. Still, Mummy-ji had found a sympathetic (or perhaps patient) ear in the form of the young assistant manager who was standing attentively before the gilded divan upon which she was perched.

  'Aaah, finally, he's come, na,' she said as Puri approached. 'This is my second son - the investigator one I was telling you about.'

  'Honour to meet you,' said the assistant manager.

  'Just Rajneesh here was telling that the Maharani of Alwar would be coming to stay soon,' continued Mummy-ji with a glint of excitement in her eye. 'She's the one with the famous Golkonda Diamond, na? It's going on exhibition in coming days.'

  'Wonderful news, Mummy-ji,' said Puri as he bent down to touch her feet, his girth stopping him short. 'Now come. Rumpi and the rest went ahead to the banquet hall.'

  The assistant manager wished them both a good evening and withdrew.

  Puri offered his hand to his mother, but she insisted on standing up unaided. 'That Rajneesh has got a sweetheart, na,' she said as they made their way through the busy lobby, past shops selling western designer brands. 'That pretty Bengali girl over there. The hospitality desk one. Just they were making eyes back and forth. But his parents are marrying him off to another one.'

  The detective could not have been less interested in the marriage prospects of the hotel's assistant manager. He had, however, long ago mastered the art of appearing to be listening to his mother's trivial observations when his mind was engaged with more important matters. Besides, after the Delhi Cowboys' win and Rohan's impressive innings, he was in good humour.

  'You watched the match, is it?' he asked.

  'Load shedding was there,' she sighed. 'We caught ten minutes, only. Soon after that dog episode, the TV was going off. But what a thing to happen, na! How that pooch came to get there? That is the question!'

  'Never mind the dog, Mummy-ji,' sighed the detective. 'What about Rohan's innings?'

  'That I caught on my portable.'

  'Your phone?' asked Puri.

  'Why so surprised? FM is available these days, na.'

  It was not unusual for Mummy to be more up to date with technical matters than her son and this irked him. 'A wonderful performance by Rohan, no?' he said, trying to cover up his ignorance.

  'So impressive it was, Chubby. Nineteen was his total, na?'

  'A most respectable nineteen, one can say.'

  'Agreed.'

  They found the banquet hall where the after-match reception and dinner were being held packed with guests, paparazzi and waiters bearing trays of wine, hard liquor and hors d'oeuvres. Puri recognised tycoons, cabinet ministers, top bureaucrats, lobbyists, socialites and celebrities from the worlds of cricket, film and fashion.

  Over by the bar stood India's playboy Booze Baron in earnest conversation with the Cabinet Secretary said to be the most powerful man in the country. Neetika Sahini, who handled 'public relations' for India's biggest corporate houses, was huddled with A. Daaku, the telecoms minister, and Dwarka Butt, reporter and part owner of Action News! Next to the grand piano stood the Bharati Brothers and Sandeep Talwar, member of parliament for Indore. Popularly known as 'Sahib', he was currently Minister of Public Affairs, Food and Distribution and was said to have interests in sugar cane, pharmaceuticals, real estate and schools. He was also the president of the powerful Indian Cricket Board (ICB).

  If ever there was proof of how power in India still lay in the hands of a relatively small, incestuous elite, it was here, the detective reflected. The old cabal of dynastic politics and family-run business houses retained their grip on most aspects of Indian life - and that included the world of cricket. But such a sobering observation was hardly in keeping with the spirit of the day - and certainly not the festive mood of the Mattus, who had gathered at the far end of the banquet hall.

  By now, Rohan had arrived and was looking faintly embarrassed by his family's very public display of admiration. This didn't stop Puri giving the young man a big, congratulatory hug.

  'Oi, Cheeky!' he bawled, Cheeky being his nephew's nickname. 'So proud of you, beta! That sixer! What a shot! I tell you the whole stadium went wild!'

  'Even I went wild!' chimed in Rumpi's mother.

  Rohan's smile was gracious. 'Actually, I would not be here in this place if it was not for you and Auntie - all that support and encouragement you have given me over the years,' he said.

  'Not at all, beta,' said Puri. 'You've worked so hard, actually, you deserve.'

  'I mean it, Uncle. I'll always be in your debt.'

  'Nonsense, yaar! How there can be debt where family is concerned? Now let us have a toast, no?'

  Everyone helped themselves to drinks provided by a passing waiter.

  'To many more of those sixers, yaar!' announced Puri.

  The clink of their glasses coincided with a burst of camera flashes.

  'Oh my God look, it's him. It's Sanjay!' squealed Rohan's teenage sister, Mini, pointing to the main door.

  She meant Sanjay Sala, Bollywood action hero turned cheesy romcom star, and the Delhi Cowboys' 'brand ambassador'. Behind him and his wife, Bubbles, came the young, charismatic chairman of the ICT, Nilesh Jani, and finally, the man of the match, Kamran Khan.

  Spotting the young Pakistani bowler, Rohan shouted out, 'Kam! Kam!' and crossed the banquet hall to greet him. 'Over here!'

  Puri and the Mattus watched, astonished, as the two exchanged hugs and backslaps, and then turned and headed towards them.

  The detective found himself first in line to be introduced. As the young bowler offered him his hand, Puri hesitated. He'd never met a Pakistani in the flesh before and suddenly found himself at a loss as to how to react. His instincts told him Khan was one of the enemy, but good manners dictated that he greet him as he would any other guest.

  Manners held sway and he reached out and received Khan's firm grip.

  'Honour to meet you, sir,' said the bowler politely in English, towering over the detective.

  'Welcome to India,' Puri heard himself reply.

  Rohan's father and grandfather were introduced, both greeting the Pakistani in a respectful yet reserved fashion. Rumpi and her mother both raised their hands, palms pressed together, and said a pensive 'Namaste.' Mini blushed and squealed, 'Hi!'

  Only Mummy failed to greet the bowler. She just stood there, staring, disbelief writ large across her face. Khan didn't seem to notice. He looked nervous himself, his eyes moving around the room, se
arching.

  'So how you two know each other?' Puri asked the young cricketers, breaking the awkward silence that followed his mother's uncharacteristic behaviour.

  'Kamran and I used to play against one another in the juniors,' offered Rohan. 'We've had some epic battles, the two of us.'

  'Absolutely,' said Khan.

  Everyone nodded. Mummy was still staring. Rohan said hurriedly, 'Kamran's from Rawalpindi. Isn't your family from there, Uncle? I mean originally.' The question was addressed to Puri.

  'Well . . . um, long time back, only,' he replied.

  'You were born there, sir?' asked Khan.

  'Um, well, not exactly. I'm Delhi born, actually . . .' He cleared his throat. 'My parents came in '47, only.'