temptation.
The two had come face-to-face on Day One of the operation, when Puri had entered number 76, the Goel family residence, disguised as a telephone repairman. That encounter, however brief, had told the detective all he needed to know. Ramesh Goel, who had spiky hair and walked with a swagger, lacked moral fiber. It was the same with so many young middle-class people these days. Infidelity was rife, divorce rates were on the up, elderly parents were being abused and abandoned in old people's homes, sons no longer understood their responsibilities to their parents or society as a whole.
'Many thousands of males and females are working in call centers and IT sector side by side and they are becoming attached and going in for one-night stands,' Puri had written in his latest letter to the
American influence was to blame with its emphasis on materialism, individuality and lack of family values.
'A fellow is no longer happy serving society. Dharma, duty, has been ejected out the window. Now the average male wants five-star living: Omega watch, Italian hotel food, Dubai holiday, luxury apartment, a fancy girl on the side,' Puri had written. 'All of a sudden, young Indians are adopting the habits of goras, white people.'
Sixty years after Gandhi-ji sent them packing, Mother India was, being conquered by outsiders again.
'Boss, Flush this side, over.' The voice broke into the detective's private lament.
'Boss this side, over,' replied the detective.
'Mouse made contact, Boss. Leaving shortly, over.'
'Mouse' was code for Goel.
The detective made his way as quickly as he could down into the street and, a little short of breath after his exertion on the stairs, joined Flush in the back of the waiting Ambassador.
Tubelight folded his hand of cards, made a hasty apology to the other drivers, collected up his winnings (nearly sixty rupees; not bad for an hour's work) and revved up the three-wheeler he had rented for the day from his cousin Bhagat.
A few minutes later, the gates to the Goel residence swung open and a red Indica hatchback pulled out. The vehicle turned right. Tubelight waited five seconds and then followed. Puri's Ambassador, with Handbrake at the wheel, was not far behind.
The team kept a safe distance as Goel sped along the old Ring Road. There was little doubt in the detective's mind where his mark was heading.
'This Charlie might be having Angrezi education, but he is like a moth to Vish Puri's flame,' he said with a grin.
Flush, who held his employer in high regard and had learned to tolerate his boastfulness, replied, 'Yes, Boss.'
The Ambassador and the auto took turns tailing the Indica through the streets of south Delhi, the rush hour traffic helping the team remain inconspicuous. Cars, motorcycles, scooters, cyclists, bicycle rickshaws, trucks, hand-pushed carts, bullock carts, sacred cows and the occasional unroadworthy hybrid vehicle that defied description vied for space on the road. Like bumper cars at a fairground, vehicles cut across one another, drivers inching into any space that presented itself, making four and a half lanes out of three. Horns blared constantly, a clamor as jarring as a primary school brass brand. Loudest of all were the Blueline buses. Driven by charas-smoking maniacs who were given financial incentives for picking up the most passengers, even if they ended up killing or maiming some of them. 'Bloody goondas,' Puri called them. But he knew that the harshest penalty these men would ever face was a few hours in a police station drinking chai. Politicians and babus owned all the buses and had the police in their pockets. The going rate for expunging the record of a 'manslaughter' charge was about three thousand rupees.
The detective watched one of these battered Blueline buses lumbering through the traffic like an old wounded war elephant, its sides scarred by previous battles. Faces peered down from the scratched windows-some with curiosity, others with envy and perhaps contempt-into the plush interiors of the many thousands of new luxury sedans on Delhi's roads. For the have-nots, here was a glimpse of the lifestyle that hundreds of thousands of the nouveaux riches had adopted. For Puri, the scene was a reminder of the widening economic disparity in Indian society.
'Mouse is turning right, Boss,' said Handbrake.
Puri nodded. 'Tubelight, keep ahead of him,' he said into his walkie-talkie. 'We'll keep back, over.'
Goel's Indica passed over the new spaghetti junction of 'overbridges' in front of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences and continued in the direction of Sarojini Nagar. Had it not been for the occasional ancient tomb or monument-echoes of Delhi's previous incarnations, now jammed between all the concrete and reflective glass-Puri would not have recognized the place.
In his childhood, Delhi had been slow moving and provincial. But in the past ten years, Puri had watched the city race off in all directions, spreading east and south, with more roads, cars, malls and apartment blocks springing up each day. The dizzying prosperity attracted millions of uneducated and unskilled villagers into the capital from impoverished states across north India. With the population explosion-now 16 million and rising-came a dramatic increase in crime. The vast conglomeration of Old Delhi, New Delhi and its many suburbs had been officially renamed the National Capital Region-or the 'National Crime Region,' as most newspapers wrote mockingly.
For Puri, this meant more work. Most Private Investigators Ltd. had never been busier. But the business was not all welcome. There were days when the detective found his natural optimism waning. Sometimes he would battle home through the honking gridlock wondering if perhaps he should turn his hand to social work.
His dear wife, Rumpi, always reminded Puri that India was making great progress and talked him out of throwing in the towel. She would point out that he was already doing the public a service. His current investigation was but one example. He was on the brink of saving a young woman from a terrible fate and bringing an unscrupulous individual to account.
Yes, it would not be long now before Ramesh Goel was brought to book. Puri would have him in another ten minutes or so.
The detective made sure Handbrake remained three cars behind the Indica on the last leg of his journey down Africa Avenue to Safdarjung Enclave. Predictably, the young man turned into A Block.
Unbeknownst to Goel, as he pulled up outside A 2/12-'Boss, he's at A-two-oblique-twelve, over'-he was being filmed with a long lens from a nearby vantage point. It made no difference that he was wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses and a dark raincoat in an effort to disguise himself. Nor that he was using the alias Romey Butter.
Vish Puri had got his man.
The detective was not looking forward to the conclusion of the Ramesh Goel case. It rarely gave him any satisfaction to convey bad news to a client, especially such a successful and powerful man as Sanjay Singla.
'But what to do?' Puri said to Elizabeth Rani, his loyal secretary, who had worked for him since Most Private Investigators had opened above Bahri Sons bookshop in Khan Market in south Delhi, in 1988.
'I tell you, Madam Rani, it's a good thing Sanjay Singla came to me,' he added. 'Just think of the bother I've saved him. That bloody Ramesh Goel would have made off with a fortune! A most slippery fellow if ever I met one. Undoubtedly!'
Elizabeth Rani, a stolid widow whose husband had been killed in a traffic accident in 1987, leaving her with three children to provide for, did not have a head for mysteries, intrigue or conspiracies, and often found herself lost in all the ins and outs of his many investigations-especially given that Puri was usually working on two or three at a time. Her job required her to keep Boss's diary, answer the phones, manage the files and make sure Door Stop, the office boy, didn't steal the milk and sugar.
