well to study. But he had drawn their attention to the section on running a secret service and read an excerpt:
''Secret agents shall be recruited from orphans. They shall be trained in the following techniques: interpretation of signs and marks, palmistry and similar techniques of interpreting body marks, magic and illusions, the duties of the ashramas, the stages of life, and the science of omens and augury. Alternatively, they can be trained in physiology and sociology, the art of men and society.''
Chanakya, Puri explained, had recommended numerous disguises to be adopted while conducting clandestine operations.
'Brothel keepers, storytellers, acrobats, cooks, shampooers, reciters of puranas, cowherds, monks, elephant handlers, thieves, snake catchers and even gods, to name just a few,' he said. 'For agents planning to infiltrate a city, Chanakya suggested adopting the cover of a trader; those working on the frontiers should pose as herdsmen. When a secret agent needed to infiltrate a private household, he urged the use of-and I quote-'hunchbacks, dwarfs, eunuchs, women skilled in various arts and dumb persons.''
Nowadays of course, dwarfs were no longer easy to recruit since many of them had found work in Bollywood. The wealthy classes were no longer inclined to hire hunchbacks as servants. Disguising yourself as a nun was no longer a guaranteed way of gaining access to the home of a high official. And, ever since one-rupee shampoo sachets had become available at paan stalls, shampooing had ceased to be a viable profession.
But the
In all that time, human character had changed little.
'Nowadays,' he'd concluded, 'a man can fly from one end of the planet to another in a few hours only. Achievements in science are at a maximum. But still, there is more mischief going on than ever before, especially in overpopulated cities like Delhi.'
Puri believed this was because the world was still passing through Kali Yuga, the Age of Kali, a time of debauchery and moral breakdown.
'More and more, people's moral compass is turning 180 degrees. So you must be vigilant. Remember what Krishna told Arjuna at the battle of Kurukshetra. 'The discharge of one's moral duty supersedes all other pursuits, whether spiritual or material.''
With Facecream now inside the Kasliwal household, Puri decided to turn to Brigadier Kapoor's case.
He spent a few hours on the phone checking into the prospective groom's background and soon learned that Mahinder Gupta was to be found at the Golden Greens Golf Course most evenings.
The club was in NOIDA, the North Okhla Industrial Development Area to the east of Delhi, which, despite its clumsy acronym, had become one of the most elegant addresses for Delhi's wealthy, image-conscious elite. To reach it, Handbrake took the road that passed the magnificent Humayun's Tomb and frenetic Bhogal market with everything from toilets and bamboo ladders to cotton mattresses for sale on the sidewalks.
At around seven o'clock the Ambassador passed east on the toll bridge that spanned the Yamuna River.
Handbrake had recently overheard Puri bemoaning the fate of the holy river to someone. Apparently, he and his friends had swum in its waters when they were young. On summer weekends, they had crossed by ferry to buy watermelons from the farmers on the other bank. But now, as the terrible stink that filled the inside of the car attested, the Yamuna was a giant sewer-three billion liters of raw waste went into it each year.
On the other side, Handbrake found himself in unknown territory; he had never been to NOIDA before. He had hoped there might be 'signage' to point the way to the golf course, but none appeared. Risking a telling-off, he told Puri he didn't know the way.
'Sir, any directions for me?'
Such honesty did not come naturally to Handbrake. His instinct as a former Delhi taxi driver was never to admit ignorance of an address. Partly, this was an issue of pride. Behind the wheel was the one place in the world where he felt like a king. And what king likes to show weakness?
But mostly it was because his former boss, Randy Singh, owner of the Regal B Hinde Taxi Service, and Handbrake's mentor, had always insisted that if a passenger didn't know the way to their chosen destination, then it was a driver's God-given right to fleece them royally.
This philosophy had been instilled in Randy Singh by his father, old Baba Singh, who'd made his fortune rustling water buffalo. Thus the Singh family credo ran: 'They have it; why should we not take it?' Indeed, Randy Singh believed that it was the duty of every taxi driver to find ways and means of ripping off all his customers. In his office, he kept an up-to-date map of the current roadworks and diversions across Delhi. Every morning, he briefed his boys on the hot spots where they were sure to run into long delays. He also bribed the men from the Department of Transport whose duty it was to install the government-issued fare meters, which were meant to protect passengers from fraud, to charge an extra three paisa for every mile. This extra profit he split with them seventy-thirty in his favor.
Not surprisingly, Regal B Hinde Taxi Service received a good many complaints from its customers. But Randy Singh never showed remorse. And he prepped his drivers on how to react to disgruntled passengers. Play the dumb villager newly arrived in the big city, he instructed. 'Sorry, sir! No education, sir! Getting confusion, sir!'
Handbrake's new employer saw things very differently. If you weren't completely honest and tried to bluff your way around; if you set off in any old direction hoping for the best and then stopped to ask the way from ignorant bystanders only to find yourself performing half a dozen U-turns, the detective was liable to get extremely hot under the collar.
'Oolu ke pathay! Son of an owl!' he'd shouted recently when Handbrake had pretended to know his way around Mustafabad and they'd ended up going round and round in circles in Bhajanpura instead.
Given the respect Handbrake was developing for Boss, such cutting insults hurt. But for all his great deductive powers, Puri was just as lost in many areas of New Delhi's newest suburbs. His map, which was the most up-to- date available in the market, had been printed two years earlier and did not include many of the roads and developments that had 'come up.'
It didn't help that, throughout Delhi, 'signages' were rare. Or that the many 'sectors'-which sounded like planetary systems in a Hollywood science fiction film-were just as mysterious as new galactic frontiers. A driver might reach Sector 15 expecting to find Sector 16 nearby, but to his frustration turn a corner and find himself in Sector 28 instead.
Recently, when Handbrake had been sent to Apartment 3P, Block C, Street D, Phase 14, Sector 17 in Gurgaon, it had taken him well over an hour to find it.
As for the Golden Greens Golf Course, Puri had never been there either. So when Handbrake came clean about not knowing the way, the detective told him to ask someone for directions. But not just anyone.
Migrant laborers were a no-no. According to Puri, they weren't used to giving directions because they came from villages where everyone knew everyone else and roads didn't have names.
'Ask them where anything is and they will tell you 'over there.''
As for fellow drivers, they were not to be relied on, because half of them were probably lost themselves.
Puri sought out real estate brokers and bicycle-rickshaw-wallahs as good sources because they had to be familiar with the areas in which they worked. Pizza delivery boys could also be trusted.
Soon after turning off the NOIDA expressway, Handbrake spotted a Vespa moped with a Domino's box on the back and pulled up next to it at a red light.
'Brother, where is Galden Geens Galfing?' he shouted in Hindi to the delivery boy over the sound of a noisy, diesel-belching Bedford truck.
His question was met with an abrupt upward motion of the hand and a questioning squint of the eyes.
'Galden Geens Galfing, Galden Geens Galfing,' repeated Handbrake.
The delivery boy's puzzlement suddenly gave way to comprehension. 'Aaah! Golden Greens Galf Carse!'
'Ji!'
'Sectorrr forty-tooo!'
