The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

by Tarquin Hall

  How things had changed and in such a short period of time, reflected Puri as he walked along NW Avenue, feeling somewhat bewildered by it all. Now even the aunties had BlackBerrys, you couldn't throw a mango stone without hitting a BMW with a cool Punjabi dude in designer shades behind the wheel, and the black and white TVs that had stood in people's living rooms covered in knitted woollen cosies had been replaced by HD flat screens.

  There was no mistaking the new enthusiasm in the air, either. For the educated, English-speaking middle classes, there were well-paid jobs in the private sector. 'India Inc.', as it was often referred to in the press, had bought British Steel and Jaguar. A guy from Chandigarh had co-invented Hotmail. PepsiCo was now run by a Tamil woman called Indra Krishnamurthy Nooyi.

  The detective paused outside a cafe-cum-video-hall filled with teenagers dressed like the cast of an American high-school movie. They were eating plates of nachos coated in processed cheese, blasting aliens with laser pistols, addressing one another as 'dude' and 'bro' while catching up on Facebook on their Androids. Indipop spilled out on to the pavement. 'Just chill, chill. Just chill . . .'

  This was the stuff of Mahatma Gandhi's nightmares. 'Waste of human mind space,' Puri muttered as he turned away. Was he witnessing a passing fad or the future? With half of India's population now under twenty-five, where was society headed? Did this bindaas brigade know anything of their own culture?

  The thing that worried Puri most was the idea that the old extended family structure might break down. It was the glue that held Indian society together. And there were cracks showing in the system. Only last week, he'd come across a widower, a former engineer no less, living on his own at the age of seventy because his three children had taken up jobs in other cities. Had they no shame?

  He turned the corner and made his way into the Old Slum Quarters area, finding himself back in the tamasha. For all the tangles of wires hanging overhead and the treacherous uncovered manholes lying in wait like animal snares, he felt more comfortable here. There had always been many Indias, coexisting side by side - or perhaps one on top of the other - and there always would be, he reassured himself. Layer upon layer upon layer, like the very earth itself.

  Puri found the door he was looking for and opened it. He was about to descend deep into the nether regions.

  Concrete stairs and paan-stained walls led down into a faintly damp-smelling basement. Puri came to a heavy door. Behind it, he could hear voices, the sound of TV cricket commentary, male laughter. Its raucous nature caused him to hesitate.

  Puri's relationship with his childhood friend Rinku was a complicated one. From the age of six or seven, they had roamed the streets of Punjabi Bagh together and got into every kind of trouble - spied on Swati Dhatarwal and seen her boobies, stolen the guavas off old Bunty's prized tree, even nailed old Titoo Lathwal with their water balloons on Holi. But as adults they'd chosen very different paths. Puri had gone into the army and then in the late 1980s set himself up as a private investigator. Rinku on the other hand had never been out of trouble.

  The detective preferred not to know what his friend got up to. He was one of them, a part of the Nexus, the loose alliance of politicians, judges, bureaucrats, businessmen and mafias who were only getting richer and more powerful in the 'new' India. In the good old bad old days the likes of Rinku stuffed their black money under the mattress. Now he parked crores in remote rural branches of state banks and invested in agricultural land forcibly appropriated by the government at knockdown prices.

  In truth, they were enemies, the two old friends, although neither of them had really faced up to the fact. On major holidays, they still dropped in on one another. Last year, Puri, Rumpi and Mummy had attended Rinku's son's wedding, a wildly extravagant affair at Pisces Garden. And now, against his better judgement, the detective was going to ask Rinku for help. He had no choice. Puri didn't know the world of illegal cricket gambling and he needed to get close to Full Moon. If anyone would know how to get into his satta party tomorrow night, it was Puri's childhood friend.

  The door opened a crack and a man's grizzled face appeared, half hidden in shadow. He squinted and gave an upward, perfunctory nod. 'Kaun?'

  'I want to see Pappu.' Pappu was Rinku's nickname. 'Tell him it's Chubby.'

  The door was banged shut. A minute later it was opened wide.

  'Shit, yaar!' Rinku was moderately drunk, his eyes bloodshot. He put his arms around the detective. 'Long time, buddy,' he exclaimed, giving him a hug. 'What brings you round?'

  Puri stared at Rinku's hair. He had dyed it: black with streaks of henna.

  'What the hell you went and did, you bugger?' asked the detective, his tone suddenly different, almost loutish. It would not have gone down well in the hallowed corridors of the Gymkhana Club. 'What do you call this? Midlife crisis?'

  'Crisis bollocks!' bawled Rinku. 'Fifty's the new twenty, Chubby! I tell you my dick is getting more workout than ever. From Russia with Love! I tell you these gori girls really know how to--'

  'I need to talk,' interrupted Puri.

  Rinku's face showed startled dismay. 'Wow, buddy. Forget the foreplay, haa. Just get straight down to business! OK fine, have it your way. You'd better come in, Chubby. I'll introduce you.'

  He turned and addressed the other five men in the room. They were sitting in a haze of cigarette smoke watching the cricket on TV.

  'Gentlemen, this is the great Vishwas Puri. Best private detective in all India and chaser of housewives.'

  The others acknowledged him with sombre (but definitely not sober) nods before returning their attention to the game.

  'Those bloody Jaipur jokers are forty-eight for four, yaar,' said Rinku as he led the way to the back of the room past stacks of cartons of unopened Japanese cigarettes. 'Can you believe, Chubby? Worse than useless. I've lost a bundle of moola.'

  His office was nothing fancy: bare concrete walls, a couch, a desk and a gigantic fridge. On the desk sat a pile of cash. Wads of old notes, 500s mostly - more than Puri made in a year.

  'Chubby, watch this,' he said. 'You're not going to believe.' He took a glass and inserted it into the fridge's ice dispenser. Cubes started dropping out, clink, clink, clink. Rinku beamed. 'Bloody mind-blowing!' he bawled. 'It does crushed ice, also. Can you believe? Used to be only in America. Now everything's available in India!'

  He poured Puri a large Royal Challenge with soda and topped up his own.

  'How's Mummy? I heard she's ailing,' said Rinku, who still knew about everything that went on in the neighbourhood.

  'You know her, yaar. Fit as a horse. Yesterday a temperature. Today morning, only, she went gallivanting off to Haridwar with that Ritu Auntie.' Puri rolled his eyes.

  Rinku did the same and muttered, 'Bloody pain in the nuts that woman.'

  They spent a few more minutes catching up on family news and local gossip.

  'We should do this more often, you bugger!' exclaimed Rinku when they had exhausted their stock. His words engendered an uncomfortable silence, the reality of their situation suddenly forced upon them.

  'I'm investigating the murder of Faheem Khan,' said Puri eventually.

  'Why bother, yaar? Who cares? His butter chicken didn't agree with him. Let it go.'

  'Let it go is not in my vocabulary.'

  'And getting yourself killed is?'

  'What are you talking?'

  Rinku let out a sharp, irritated sigh. 'I've got to teach you bloody ABC or what?'

  'Not ABC. X, Y and Z, only.'

  'Fine. X is for Ex. As in former, used to be, dearly departed - as in buss! Want that before your name in the newspaper? Take my advice. Go back to assisting virgins. Didn't I read in the newspaper recently you rescued some doggie? Looked like a rat, no?'

  Puri bristled. 'It was a chihuahua - a very rare breed actually.'

  'Is that what it's come to, Chubby?'

  Puri donned an expressionless mask. 'Faheem Khan was up to his neck in it - match fixing and all,' he stated
.

  The smile faded from Rinku's face. 'What? I have to spell it out for you, Chubby? Just like old times, haa?'

  'Stop doing riddles, yaar. Tell me straight.'

  'Look, Chubby, there's no prizes for guessing who killed the Paki. Everyone knows who controls the Syndicate. He might be a special guest of our neighbours but every bookie, from the guy on the street corner to the khoka punter, answers to him. Step out of line and you're khatam, history.'

  'What's a khoka punter?' asked Puri.

  'Where've you been, yaar? In some cave? Means a guy who deals directly with Dubai - twenty-five lakh spots and over. And before you ask, Chubby, a spot is a bet.'

  Rinku picked up Puri's empty glass. 'Make it a single only,' said the detective.

  'Don't talk shit, yaar,' he said, filling the glass to the brim.

  'So tell me: how can I become a punter?'

  'You? Mister Chihuahua?' Rinku guffawed again.

  Puri had read recently that an economist called Galbraith had once called India a 'functioning anarchy'. He thought of this as Rinku outlined how the underground betting system operated. The Syndicate didn't maintain offices; the vast majority of the betting public never met their bookie in person; and 90 per cent of the bookies themselves had no direct contact with the chief bookmakers, who were believed to be based in Dubai. On a big match day, bets amounting to an estimated 10,000 crore rupees were placed across the city. In Mumbai it was double that.

  'The whole thing runs on trust, Chubby,' explained Rinku. 'Someone agrees to vouch for you, makes the introduction, you make a deposit and place your bet. All accounts are settled by day end - latest. Win and the boy makes delivery right to my door. Just like pizza.'

  'What if you lose?'

  'He collects.'

  'And if you don't do payment?'

  'Another guy comes round and gives you big kisses.'

  'Doesn't sound like trust to me.'

  Rinku pulled an exasperated face. 'What is it with you, Chubby? Always making judgement. Fact is the whole thing works. No need for any bloody oversight committee or regulatory board.'

  'Or tax to pay. Most convenient.'

  'Bloody right, yaar. And it should stay that way. Gambling's in our blood, Chubby. We Indians love to bet like no one else. It's in the Mahabharata, for God's sake. Pandava loses his kingdom and to gain his family's freedom has to play a game of dice, remember?'

  'Only the dice are loaded,' said Puri.

  'Right. That's India for you. Always count your cards.'

  Puri asked him how someone went about making a bet. He wanted to understand the mechanics of the process.

  'By phone, yaar. Used to be a separate line was required. But now any number will do.'

  'And you provide a password.'

  'These days it's computer generated. You get it over email.'

  'These days?' repeated Puri. 'These changes came when exactly?'

  'Six months back. Whole thing runs like clockwork, Chubby. Odds are updated by the second. Not like before.'

  'Tell me about Mohib Alam.'

  Rinku, who had his glass up to his mouth, hesitated.

  'He's having a satta party tomorrow night,' continued Puri. 'At his farmhouse. During the Goa versus Mumbai match. I plan to attend. Have some fun.'

  'Chubby, last time you had any fun you were still pissing in your chuddies. Look, I warned you before. Walk away. Think I'm a BC? This guy killed his own brother over an argument about a milkshake.'

  'Milkshake?'

  'He doesn't like chocolate.'

  Puri stared at Rinku with granite-hard eyes. 'Listen, you bugger, when I asked for your help, ever, haa?' he asked, switching back to English. 'This is top priority. I need to get close to this fellow.'

  'He'll see you coming, Chubby. You'll stand out like a white chick at a black orgy.'

  'You can make the introduction.'

  'What makes you so sure?'

  Puri made a gesture. 'To use your words, Pappu, "Don't talk bullshit."'

  'You'll need a lot of moola, buddy,' sighed Rinku. 'Where are you going to get it?'

  The detective eyed the wads of notes on the table.

  'What? Now you're wanting to borrow money, also?'

  'Don't do tension. I'll pay you back, you bugger.'

  Whoops of joy came from the other room. Rinku checked the match score.

  'Shit, yaar,' he complained. 'Two lakhs down the bloody crapper.'

  ELEVEN

  'YES, YES, QUITE all right,' Mummy told Puri when he called her at around nine that evening. 'Air is so fresh and sweet here, na . . . Pardon? What you said, Chubby? I didn't get . . . Want to talk about what? Pakistan? Hello? Hello? Bad reception is there. Your voice is absent. Must be mountains and all. You're hearing me? Oh dear, so much disturbance. Should be I'll be reverting day after. Don't worry, na! Everything is totally fine.'

  In fact things had not quite gone to plan. At five o'clock that morning, when Mummy went to pick up Ritu Auntie, her would-be travelling companion had announced that she didn't want to go to Haridwar because it was a Tuesday and it was inauspicious to start any new endeavour or venture on the second day of the week.

  It had taken ten minutes to persuade her otherwise and then, before setting off, Ritu insisted on performing a puja for Ganesh, friend of travellers. A further delay came after they got downstairs and bundled themselves into the waiting car and Ritu realised that she'd forgotten to eat a pinch of sugar before leaving the house. Five more minutes were lost while she remedied this oversight.

  Despite these delays, they might still have caught the train had it not been for Mummy's idiot driver, Majnu, who dropped them on the wrong side of New Delhi railway station. This meant they had to climb the steep stairs up to the pedestrian over-bridge, where they faced a tidal wave of pilgrims from Varanasi, all carrying bundles and big plastic containers of Ganga water.

  By the time they reached platform 4, the 0530 Haridwar Express was pulling out of the station. The next train left an hour or so later - a local that reached their destination at six in the evening.

  By the time they'd checked into the Good Luck Hotel, washed and eaten, it was almost nine o'clock.

  Mummy's quest was going to have to start tomorrow. And she was fine with that. Ritu's idiosyncrasies were infuriating at times, but her husband's ashes had provided the perfect cover story. Besides, who was to say they weren't supposed to leave on the later train? Perhaps some terrible fate would have befallen them on the Haridwar Express.

  Still, she would need to make an early start tomorrow - and find a way of splitting off from Ritu Auntie. There wasn't a lot of time: two days at the most. Bhuppi had already called three times to check up on her. And Chubby had sounded suspicious - wanting to talk about Pakistan.

  He was obviously thinking along the right lines. Not my son for nothing, Mummy reflected.

  Ritu had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Her mouth was wide open and she was snoring gently. The urn was on the side table next to her bed. Tomorrow evening they would need to find a priest to carry out the Asthi Visarjan scattering ceremony.

  Wrapping her shawl around her, Mummy stepped out on to the balcony of their room. Below lay a lawn lit by lollipop lights. A family was sitting around a brazier, three generations in all, eating their dinner and warming their hands. At the end of the garden flowed the British-built canal that carried the crystal-clear waters of the Ganges to the lush farmland of Uttarakhand. The lights of the old city on the far bank coloured the water's surface in liquid gold. The sounds of clanging bells and chanting reached her from temples dotted amongst the dense profusion of narrow buildings. Flags fluttered above tapered roofs. Down on the far bank, some pilgrims were taking a dip, washing away their sins.

  Mummy pulled up a chair and took a folded piece of paper from her handbag. There were three names written on it:

  Megha Dogra (wife of Ram Dogra, the Prince of Polyester).

  Harnam Talwar (wife of Sandeep Talwar, politician)
.

  Jasmeet Bhatia (mother of Satish Bhatia, 'Call Centre King').

  All three women looked to be in their late seventies to early eighties, roughly the same height and the same build. None of the three had any distinguishing marks, either. Indian government records being unreliable and easily doctored, the only sure-fire way of checking their past was to consult the genealogical records kept by the thousands of Pandas living in the city.