and she was sitting next to Facecream.
“Most certainly we can,” agreed the detective. He repeated the details again: the Garodia family’s home address in Singapore, the name of the school Queenie had been expelled from, the names of her paternal grandparents and so on.
Mrs. Duggal, who was expected to do a good deal of crying during their visit to the ashram, tested the menthol stick she kept in her handbag for such situations. Rubbing it beneath her nostrils quickly brought on tears.
“Most convincing,” said Puri approvingly.
Mrs. Duggal patted her face dry with her handkerchief. “It is always a pleasure to work with someone as talented as yourself, Mr. Puri. I would never recognize you in all that getup,” she said.
“So kind of you,” replied the detective. “Actually, disguises have always been my speciality. Once I take on a role, Vish Puri is put aside and I become the character. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. So engrossed I become.”
Puri admired his disguise in his makeup mirror: stick-on henna-dyed moustache, eyebrows and wig – all a lurid orange-red – and a hawkish nose.
Mrs. Duggal and Facecream exchanged a playful glance.
The Abode of Eternal Love was spread over a vast estate in the foothills of the Himalayas. Had it not been for the bronze statues of the Hindu saints along the driveway and the comings and goings of the devotees dressed in white kurtas and sarongs, it might have passed for an American university campus. Manicured lawns dotted with shade trees and benches snuggled between new, utilitarian buildings. White picket signs pointed visitors in the right direction:
DARSHAN HALL; ANANDA RESIDENCE; ABODE OF KNOWLEDGE;
ATM. The well-tended flower beds around the edges of the car park were decorated with bark chips.
The main reception, with its sliding automatic doors, split air-conditioning units and computerized registration system, also contradicted all preconceived notions of modernity being at odds with spirituality.
Maharaj Swami, according to the stacks of free literature available to visitors, had attained samadhi after meditating naked in a cave high up in the Himalayas for seven years. His devotees could achieve the same while living in well-appointed dormitories, eating freshly prepared vegetarian food, attending pranayama yoga sessions in the marble-floored gazebo, listening to Swami-ji’s daily discourses and following a pancha karma detox system.
For those with ‘health issues’, the Abode of Health, a multimillion-dollar two-hundred-bed hospital, also offered treatments for every conceivable condition, including cancer and AIDS. An Ayurvedic cure was also offered for homosexuality, which Maharaj Swami considered a ‘sickness and disease’.
While waiting in line at the front desk, the Garodia family – of Marwari stock and currently visiting from Singapore, where Lakshmi Garodia ran a multi-crore textile business – found themselves in good, middle-class company. Behind them stood a young couple from Delhi working in IT who had come to spend three days at the ashram.
“We’re looking for something more to life beyond work and shopping and more work, like higher thought or something, you know,” said the husband, who had paid almost a thousand dollars for the Fast Track to Yourself package.
“Lakshmi Garodia up from Singapore only,” announced Puri in a sonorous tone to the young lady devotee behind the desk when it was his turn.
He placed a Garodia Enterprises business card on the counter. It listed a Singapore office address, a website and a number that Flush, Puri’s computer and electronics whiz, had rerouted to the Communications Room inside the Most Private Investigators offices.
“I called one day back only to enroll my daughter, Queenie,” said Puri. “We were invited to attend darshan at four o’clock.”
“Yes, Mr. Garodia, we’ve been expecting you,” the devotee said with a seraphic smile. She stood and pressed the palms of her delicate hands together in a namaste.
Puri reciprocated, as did Mrs. Duggal, aka Mrs. Garodia.
“That is your daughter?” asked the devotee.
Facecream was standing on the other side of reception with her back against the wall, listening to her iPod. It was turned up full volume. A thudding beat leaked from her headphones. She was mouthing the lyrics while looking suitably oblivious.
“Yes, that’s Queenie,” said Mrs. Duggal with a sigh.
The devotee regarded the young woman in the tight jeans and high heels with a curious, whimsical smile.
“Whaaat are you staring at?” squealed Facecream, pretending to have suddenly noticed the three of them staring at her. “Think I’m some kind of freak or something? Just leave me alone –
“That is the total limit!” shouted Puri. He stormed across reception and snatched the iPod out of her hands.
“God, Pa, what the hell’s your problem anyway?”
Everyone else in reception turned and stared.
“How dare you, young madam! Think we’ve brought you here for nothing, huh?”
“No one asked
“India is your mother country!” roared Puri. “You are here to learn about your heritage and culture, only! Think MTV can teach you anything, huh? Think you can just laze about all your life and go to so many of parties?”
Mrs. Duggal joined in: “Please, beta, try to behave. Your papa has your best interests at heart. He’s paying so much of money for you to stay here and get help. Why don’t you put away the chewing gum and come and introduce yourself?”
“Nooo waaay, Ma. This is all bullshit. You’re not getting me doing any yoga or stoopid crap like that. I want to go home!”
Mrs. Duggal burst into tears. “I knew we should never have gone to live in Singapore!” she wailed, addressing the devotee receptionist. “I blame myself. Had Queenie been brought up in the proper way, she’d have learned to appreciate her culture.” Mrs. Duggal let out a couple of loud sobs. “Instead, she goes to… to nigh… nightclubs and… and dan… dances with b… b…” Mrs. Duggal took a gasp of air before wailing, “Boyyyyyyys!”
Queenie had to be bribed with a promise of some new Ugg boots before agreeing to accompany her parents to the dar-shan hall, where Maharaj Swami was due to address ‘his children’.
Inside, chandeliers sprouted from dark pink lotus flowers, and wax effigies of the gods peered out from rows of glass cases along the walls. An enormous marble fountain spouting blue-tinted water stood in the middle of the auditorium floor, and at the far end was a stage.
Hundreds of devotees sitting cross-legged on mats were singing devotional songs accompanied by musicians on santoor, bansuri and tabla. Hundreds more were chanting Maharaj Swami’s ninety-nine names. Bells rang out. Handheld cymbals clashed. Clouds of incense wafted over the congregation. The Godman’s senior male disciples, recognizable by their off-white sarongs, silk stoles and intense, self-important miens, lit candles and distributed baskets of flower petals to be cast in front of their lord’s feet.
The Garodia family took off their shoes outside the elaborately carved wooden doors and were served cups of papaya juice. Then they were escorted to the front of the hall, where all the other guests and visitors were seated on padded yoga mats. Puri estimated they numbered about three hundred; by the looks of them, they were mostly drawn from India’s new middle class.
The man sitting next to him was in his thirties, an advertising executive from Mumbai. Like the detective, he was overweight and unable to manage the lotus position, so he sat with his short, chubby legs sticking out in front
