teenager, he had graduated to locks, ignitions and safes. And in his mid-twenties he had started robbing banks. But after he was caught emptying the safe of the Faridabad branch of the Punjab National Bank and subsequently confined to a rat-infested cell for five years, he had decided to do the unthinkable and go straight. Papa Pawar had been devastated. It was his son’s destiny to rob and cheat; dacoity was in their blood, he’d argued. But India was changing. Just because you were born into a certain caste, tribe or clan didn’t mean that you had to stick to the job description of your forebears, Baldev had argued.
How Baldev, aka Tubelight, had become one of Vish Puri’s operatives was a story in itself. Suffice it to say, it was not one he would ever share with his father or his brothers, all of whom were still in the family business and living nearby. Better that they believe him to be a lowly auto rickshaw driver than find out the truth, that he worked for one of their natural enemies: a jasoos.
Besides, a rickshaw wallah was the perfect cover for the type of work Tubelight was now engaged in – tailing grooms, spying on errant husbands, befriending servants and milking them for their employers’ secrets. He didn’t have to account for his whereabouts to anyone; he could hang around on any street corner or in front of any chai stand without raising suspicion; and – requisite bribes demanded by the police aside – the three-wheeler was an economical and agile means of transport.
Refusing fares was not a problem, either. Dilli wallahs were well accustomed to gruff, unaccommodating auto rickshaw drivers forgoing their custom whenever a requested destination did not suit them.
Still, as Tubelight crisscrossed the city, he sometimes took on board paying punters. Besides making a few extra rupees, it was an excellent way of keeping his finger on the pulse of the city.
This morning, en route to his rendezvous with Puri, all the talk from the backseat had been about yesterday’s sensational murder. An elderly couple had described Kali as if they’d seen her themselves. Towering a hundred feet tall, she had slain dozens of people, hence the police cordon around the area, they said.
“Let us hope she rids us of our politicians!” the old woman had declared.
A fertilizer salesman from Indore believed Kali was going to cleanse the world of sinners. Judging by his terrified expression, it seemed the man had sinned a good deal.
As Tubelight waited for Puri on the backseat of his auto rickshaw, he read a description of how, last night, “in the interests of national security,” the police had cleared the streets around India Gate of thousands of Kali worshippers.
“Thus far,” the editorial pointed out, “Hindu nationalist politicians have not sought to exploit the situation. Doubtless because of the site’s proximity to Parliament and key ministries, not to mention their own residences, they have appealed for calm.”
“Think Swami-ji did it?” Tubelight asked Puri in Hindi after the detective finally arrived.
The two were standing in front of one of their favorite breakfast dhabas that served kokis. The aroma of onions, green chilies, cumin seeds and fresh coriander frying in ghee wafted over them. They both ordered one of the Sindhi-style pancakes and sipped their cups of chai. The drink seemed to perk up Tubelight, who was still groggy, early mornings being anathema to him.
“If he is the guilty one, proving as much will be a challenge, that is for sure,” said Puri. “We would need someone to get on the inside of his ashram. That is the only way.”
On the hot tawa, the koki mixture spat and sizzled.
“How did you get on last night?” asked the detective in Hindi.
Puri had charged Tubelight with tracking down Constable R.V. Dubey, the first police wallah to have reached the murder scene, to find out if he had seen or heard anything that had not appeared in the offical panchnama.
This was Most Private Investigators’ standard procedure given that constables often failed to report key information to their superiors – either through sheer incompetence (anyone with the ability to sign their own name could become a beat cop and they received no investigative training whatsoever) or deliberately (usually because someone bribed them to keep their mouth shut or they were just plain scared).
“I befriended Constable Dubey at the liquor store,” answered Tubelight, who combined a gift for getting people to talk with an ability to hold his liquor like few men could. “We enjoyed some Old Monk rum together.”
“And?”
“Approaching the scene, he passed an ice cream wallah pushing his cart. He was with a rag picker. Male, twenties, black skin.”
“Paagal!” bawled Puri. “That was the murderer! He just let him walk away, is it?”
“Of course, Boss.” Tubelight shrugged.
Their kokis were served with a dab of fresh butter and some curd and garlic pickle on the side.
As they greedily tore them apart with their fingers, the detective asked: “Did this prize Charlie see the murder weapon?”
“Didn’t see it, Boss.”
“You believe him?”
“Yes, Boss. By the end of the evening he was chattering away like a parrot. Believe me, I learned all his secrets. Most of them I’d have preferred not to have heard.”
“Now I’ve another assignment for you,” said Puri, adding in English: “No rest for wicked, huh?”
Tubelight did not reciprocate Puri’s mischievous smile. He had been working long hours over the past few weeks, and thanks to the heat and constant ‘load shedding’, or power cuts, he and his family had taken to the roof of their small house at night. Sleep had been in short supply, what with the mosquitoes and the incessant arguing of the husband and wife next door. The operative badly needed a few ‘offs’. But now did not seem the time to broach the subject; Boss had that unstoppable look in his eye.
“You know any magicians?” asked Puri.
“Jadoo wallahs?” Tubelight’s eyes widened. “You want to stay clear of them.”
“Why exactly?”
“They’ve got powers. I’ve known them to put curses on people.”
Puri could not help but smile at his operative’s superstitious nature.
“All the same I would need to talk to them,” he insisted.
Tubelight regarded him warily.
“They live in Shadipur Depot, in the slums,” he said. “Have their own language – a magician’s language passed down father to son. No one else understands it. Not even me. But there is one old babu who might help. Calls himself Alcbar the Great.”
Puri’s task for the day was to call on the surviving members of the Laughing Club. Before that, he planned to break into Dr. Jha’s office at DIRE. The detective was certain the institute would be closed and wanted to take the opportunity to snoop through the Guru Buster’s desk and files without anyone else knowing he had done so.
This was typical of Puri’s approach to detective work. ‘Less everyone knows what I know, the better’ was one of his credos.
Handbrake drove him to Nizamuddin West, once a self-contained village abutting the tomb of India’s most revered Sufi saint, but now a South Delhi colony. The India of narrow alleyways filled with Muslim pilgrims, beggars cradling drugged babies and the smoke of sizzling lamb kebabs gave way to well-swept residential streets lined with houses and apartments owned by wealthy Muslim merchants, lawyers and the odd gemstone dealer.
DIRE HQ was a 1950s bungalow. There were rusting bars on the narrow windows and buddleia growing from cracks in the grime-stained walls. A poster on the gate read:
DO YOU HAVE SUPERNATURAL POWERS?
CAN YOU CURE A TERMINALLY ILL PERSON?
REPAIR A TRANSISTOR WITH USE OF REIKI?
WALK ON WATER?
READ OTHER PEOPLE’S MINDS?
FLY TO THE MOON AND BACK WITHOUT AID OF
SPACESHIP?
IF SO YOU COULD WIN 2 CRORE RUPEES!
