by Tarquin Hall
Both men dug in, eating with their hands and talking with their mouths full.
'Full Moon's got a farmhouse in Chattarpur,' said Tubelight. 'You should see this place, Boss. The Mughals never knew such luxury.'
'Give me round-the-clock surveillance,' ordered the detective in English, a trickle of curry running down his chin. 'Phone tapping, home tapping, car tapping. Garbage analysis, also. I want to see the dark side of Full Moon.'
The joke was lost on the operative, whose English was rudimentary. 'Right, Boss,' he said. 'One other thing: he's having a satta party tomorrow. During the Goa Beachers-Mumbai Bears match.'
'Pukka?'
'The tent wallah told me.'
Puri gave Tubelight a mischievous look to indicate what he was thinking.
'Tight security, Boss. Invitation only,' Tubelight warned.
'We'll manage, no?' said the detective with a flick of his hand. 'Always remember, yaar: will-and-way, will-and-way.'
Their salty lassis were brought to the table, straws protruding from both glasses. Puri sucked on his as he passed a piece of paper across the table: a list of the guests who'd sat at the centre table during the dinner. He had already scratched out six names. These were:
Nilesh Jani, Chairman of the ICT, and his socialite wife, Mini, who were the only guests who hadn't risen from the table during the meal (this having been corroborated by the hotel staff and all the other witnesses).
Sanjay Sala, the actor, and his wife, Bubbles, who hadn't left the stands once during the match at the Kotla Stadium and therefore could not have deliberately or inadvertently poisoned the dog.
And J.K. Shrivastav, the cabinet secretary, and his wife, who had only attended the dinner.
'That leaves ten total,' said Puri. 'Give me background checking on each and every one of them - top to bottom, inside out, no stone unturned.' Background checking meant dirt, rumour, word on the street.
The operative cast his eye over the list, tilted his head to one side and said, 'Bilkul.'
'Also, should any of these individuals have any connection with Pakistan, past or present, I would want to be knowing,' added Puri.
'No problem, Boss.'
Shyam Sweets were open to the narrow, dirty street, which was getting busier by the minute. Bedraggled labourers pushed handcarts piled high with every kind of merchandise - fans, engine parts, great packages swathed in muslin cloth. A bicycle rickshaw appeared with a teetering mountain of hose pipes balanced on its passenger seat. Motorised three wheelers weaved past honking like irritated geese. A wandering holy man in patched garb held up a steel tin soliciting donations.
'You suspect Kamran Khan?' asked Tubelight, pointing out his name on the list.
'His father was doing match fixing - no doubt about it at all. For that Kamran Khan would most definitely be involved. Who knows what all went on between them? There is no honour amongst goondas after all. It has come to my attention also his father stood in the way of his marrying one Noor Sultana.'
At the mention of the actress's name, Tubelight puffed out his cheeks and blew out the air like a wolf baying at the moon.
'Beautiful, haa?' asked the detective, who'd never seen an image of her.
By way of a response Tubelight started to sing from a 1960s Bollywood hit made famous by singer Asha Bhosle: 'Man has prayed to me; The angels have bowed their heads to me.'
This drew smiles from the customers standing nearby: 'Under my veil there is such a beauty; Lifting it you will be mesmerised!' one of them chimed in, prompting smiles all round.
'Kamran Khan had motive for sure,' said Puri as everyone returned to their business.
'But he's in Pak,' said Tubelight.
'That indeed presents something of a problem,' said Puri, who was still hoping that he could avoid travelling to Rawalpindi to interview him.
His operative started cleaning between his teeth with a toothpick. 'My money's on Full Moon's godfather, Sandeep Talwar,' he said. 'Remember few years back his son ran over two Jats, killed them? Witnesses vanished. I tell you, Boss, his mother mated with a jackal.'
Puri gave a loud, dismissive tut. 'I've told you before, no? Leave stargazing to stargazers. Now tell me: where is Flush exactly? He's reverted or what?'
The young electronics and computers whizz had gone to visit his family in his 'native place'.
'In that hole he calls home,' answered Tubelight. 'Eating Domino's and reading adventures of Savita Bhabhi . . .'
Puri looked up from his food and frowned; he considered pornography to be immoral, even in the land of the Kama Sutra.
'. . . I meant Spider-Man,' added Tubelight, hastily. 'Reading Spider-Man comics.'
'I'll give him call,' murmured the detective. 'We would be needing him.'
After they'd finished their food, Puri phoned Satya Pal Bhalla and broke the news that the arrest of his nemesis, Gopal Ragi, was imminent.
'Excellent work, Puri!'
The detective tried to explain that it was Inspector Thakur's decision, but to no avail.
'I knew it was that bastard,' he kept saying. 'Let him rot!'
Next, Puri rang Elizabeth Rani and explained that he needed the goose and two snakes licence plate traced.
'Only a partial number, sir? That will be difficult,' she said.
'I'm quite aware, Madam Rani. Please just do the needful.'
From Chawri Bazaar, Puri set off on a fool's errand: trying to question some of Delhi's most powerful and wealthy individuals. The likelihood was that few of them would deign to see him. And there was a good chance that he'd be reported for harassment and arrested on some trumped-up charge. At the very least, it wouldn't be long before the Chief and the murderer would know of his involvement in the case.
Yet as an outsider, this was often how he was forced to work. He took pride in calling his approach 'jugaad investigation', 'jugaad' being a useful Hindi term that meant 'to improvise'. To the detective, as to many an Indian, it was a fine concept, the idea that they could make do with anything and come up with a solution.
His first stop was the Lutyens bungalow on Janpath in British-built New Delhi where the politician Sandeep Talwar and his family resided. It was the detective's understanding that the MP for Ghaziabad and President of the Indian Cricket Board was usually to be found at this hour sitting on his veranda consulting with his astrologer.
Handbrake pulled up outside the main gate, where three Special Protection Group soldiers stood guard. Puri sent in his card. It drew out an obsequious minion in a kurta and sleeveless Nehru jacket.
'You've an appointment?'
Puri explained that he was investigating the murder of Faheem Khan and was eager to know from Sir and Madam whether they had seen anything at the dinner that might assist in the successful identification of the murderer.
'Saheb has engagements all day.'
'Perhaps Madam could spare five minutes?'
That was out of the question. As the patron of a number of charities, she couldn't possibly spare the time.
The minion turned and headed back in through the gate.
One of the soldiers gave a flick of his hand as he might have done to a fly.
'Out for a duck,' said the detective.
NOIDA, the New Okhla Industrial Development Authority, Delhi's sprawling eastern suburb, lay across the giant sewer where the sacred Yamuna River once flowed. A pristine eight-lane highway, better known as the Flyway, swept past the colossal, Disneyfied Akshardham Temple complex to a cityscape of luxury tower blocks and shopping malls wreathed in the ubiquitous golden arches.
Satish Bhatia's company, Outsourcing Consultants, was housed in a glass tower off Knowledge Boulevard. The foyer was all shiny marble, leather furniture and giant canvases splattered in colourful paint. A row of clocks above the reception displayed the time in seven cities.
'You would be having an appointment, sir?'
In this instance, Puri was able to answer in the affirmative; he had called ahead and Satish Bhatia, t
he Call Centre King, had agreed to give him ten minutes of his time.
'Please follow me, sir.'
A security guard led the detective to a glass elevator activated by an electronic pass. Puri glided up the side of a towering atrium, past open-plan floors where rows of young Indians wearing headsets stared into computer screens. He'd visited many a call centre before and always found them surreal places - filled with people with names like Palaniyappan Kurukulasuriya passing themselves off as Robert or Steve and selling car insurance to people in Newcastle.
A young secretary was waiting for the detective on the top floor. She led him down a long, impersonal corridor that led to Bhatia's office. A double door opened on to a large room furnished with a conference table, a treadmill positioned in front of a wall-mounted plasma screen and a seating area with a glass coffee table.
The Call Centre King was standing behind his desk, looking out over the panoramic view of NOIDA beyond. He was talking on the phone; to California, according to the secretary.
Puri couldn't make heads or tails of what he overheard. What the hell was 'dynamic content'? And how could a computer eat cookies? But he was fluent in body language and as he waited, he was able to gain a good measure of the forty-seven-year-old. Bhatia was the embodiment of the Indian IT nerd, right down to the glasses and the oversized collar in which his thin neck looked like a straw protruding from a bottle. His concave stomach, not much wider than the span of a man's hands, suggested a vegetarian diet; while the kalava around his right wrist spoke of religious belief.
Two other things evidently mattered to the Call Centre King: recognition - framed covers of prestigious business magazines featuring his profile were prominently displayed around the office; and family, in particular his mother. Hers was the largest portrait of all on the wall, even dwarfing the image of Bhatia's young wife.
'So you're a real private detective, Mr Puri?' he asked as soon as he put down the phone.
His accent was Americanised - like one of those voices in TV advertisements that tried to make toilet cleaner sound exciting. Puri was reminded that Bhatia had spent a considerable amount of time outside India - in Silicon Valley, mostly.
'Most Private Investigators at your service,' said Puri, producing a copy of his card and handing it to the young man.
'So you go after bad guys? Like bank robbers and kidnappers?'
'All sorts, sir. Murderers, also.'
'Wow, you know, I grew up reading detective stories. Couldn't get enough of them. Feluda was my favourite. I used to lie in bed reading his adventures under the covers with a torch.'
'Feluda is fiction whereas I am fact,' said Puri rather drily.
'Right. So I'm told you're looking into this Khan business. Any ideas who did it?'
'That is a work in progress, shall we say.'
'Am I a suspect? I was sitting right next to the victim.'
'Putting it bluntly, sir: yes, you are on the list.'
Bhatia put up both arms in a playful gesture. 'I did it, Mr Puri!' he announced, with impish, crinkled eyes. 'You got me! Take me away!'
The detective's mouth twitched into a smile. 'Sorry to disappoint, sir, but I've not the power, actually. You would have to make a full confession to the police.'
'You can't make a citizen's arrest?'
'In India there is no such thing, sir.'
'Then I guess I'm off the hook. Phew!'
'Not quite, Sir. Few questions are there.'
'Do you mind telling me who you're working for?'
'That I cannot say.'
'Wow, mysterious! You're a dark horse, Mr Puri. But it kind of makes it hard to know whom I'm talking to here. How do I know this conversation is going to stay confidential?'
'Sir, confidentiality is my watchword. Furthermore I'm a member of the World Federation of Detectives and winner of the Super Sleuth Award. I am more than certain you searched my name on your wifee prior to my arrival also.'
Wifee was how Puri referred to the Web.
'Well, a man in my position has to be careful,' said Bhatia. 'So what is it you want to know? Did I see anything suspicious? Like the guy who spiked Khan's butter chicken? I'm afraid not.'
Puri decided to use the scatter approach - random questions, see if he could catch him off guard. 'You've ever been to Pakistan, sir?' he asked.
'Pakistan?' Bhatia frowned. 'No, Mr Puri, I can't say I have.'
'You've contact with any Pakistanis?'
'Contact?' He let the word hang and made a face. 'I've some Pakistani friends, if that's what you mean. In the US, mostly. I guess that makes me a traitor, right?'
'I would not say that, sir.'
'No, but it doesn't sit comfortably with you, does it, Mr Puri? Pakistan's the enemy, right?'
'Isn't it, sir?'
'Not from where I'm sitting. Know what I see when I look at Pakistan? Potential. We have a lot of what they need and vice versa. It's time for some detente, Mr Puri, time to bury the hatchet. I tell you, the best remedy to all this hostility is trade. We should open up our borders, engage with our neighbour, help the Pakistani middle class grow. All this sabre rattling gets us nowhere. We need to put all the suspicion aside.'
'With all respect, sir, I think you are forgetting Pakistan is a fundamentalist state, founded on religion, only. Its military and intelligence community is suffering from total paranoia with regard to India. The Generals will never make peace. Nowadays they're having nuclear weapons pointing at us even as we speak.'
'We have a few pointing at them, too, Mr Puri.'
'As a deterrent, only.'
Bhatia smiled indulgently. 'Well I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree. But you know they're not as bad as you might think. Pakistanis, I mean. They're really no different than us - same language, same corruption, same love of cricket.'
'You said "guy", sir.'
Bhatia gave a quizzical look. 'Sorry, Mr Puri?'
The detective read from his notebook. '"Like the guy who spiked Khan's butter chicken." Your words a few minutes ago.'
'Just a figure of speech. A guy can be a girl, if you know what I mean. The word's not gender specific. You really shouldn't read anything into it. Guess I've spent too long in America.'
'I take it cricket and not baseball is to your taste, is it?'
'Guilty as charged.'
'Ever gamble on a game?'
'Not in this country; it's illegal. Something that should be changed, in my view.'
'Why is that exactly?'
'For one thing, the government's losing a hell of a lot of revenue. Thousands of crores a year. And the whole business breeds corruption.'
Puri made another entry in his notebook and Bhatia looked playfully over his desk to try to see what he was writing. 'What is that, my biography?'
The detective ignored the question. 'You grew up in Delhi, is it?' he asked.
'Born and bred, Mr Puri. I moved to the States when I was twenty-four, but all my schooling was here.'
'And your parents - Dilli also?'
'Dad's family hails from Amritsar. Mom came from what you'd call enemy territory. A village called Rawat in Pakistan.'
The detective wrote down the name while asking, 'She came over in 1947, is it?'
'That's right. But she's never really spoken of it.'
'Sir, my own mother lost her brother, actually, but not once in all my entire life has she talked about his death.'
One of Bhatia's phones rang.
'Excuse me a minute, will you?' he said as he picked up the receiver. He listened for a second before placing one hand over the mouthpiece and saying, 'Mr Puri, if there's nothing else I need to take this.'
'One thing is there, actually. I would be needing to speak with your mother.'
'Well, if you wanna hang on, she'll be here soon. I'm taking her to lunch.'
The detective, having indicated his willingness to wait, sat back listening to Bhatia talk more jargon for what seemed like an interminable period.
Whe
n Jasmeet Bhatia arrived, Puri recognised her immediately from the Durbar dinner. Despite her age - mid-seventies at a guess - she was wearing the same Chanel sunglasses with diamond-studded frames. A considerable amount of gold glistened on her fingers as well, and the manner in which she carried her bag in the crook of her arm with her hand held out as if she was presenting it to someone to be kissed made it hard to miss.
Beneath all the glam, however, stood a typical auntie type - at least that's how Puri would describe her later in his notes. Around five feet four inches tall with an unbalanced gait (she lurched from side to side like a boat caught in a storm, thanks to her worn-out hips), Jasmeet Bhatia had clearly come to wealth late in life. Her withered hands and pockmarked complexion betrayed a lifetime of work. Indeed there was an inherent toughness about her. Puri could picture her fighting to be first at the village well.
