– the drunkard husband, the roof that let in the rain, the in-laws who demanded money, the abysmal standard of teaching at her three children’s schools. Her job paid just enough to feed and clothe herself and her family. When the price of cooking gas and vegetables rose, she quickly felt the pinch.
In recent months, though, things had begun looking up and Uma was wearing a smile on her face.
Today was no exception.
“I take it your shares are doing well?” said Rumpi in Hindi as she changed into a clean but worn sleeveless smock.
“Bharti Airtel is up twenty rupees on last week!” she replied.
For weeks now, Rumpi had been hearing about the beautician’s success playing the stock market. Initially, Uma had invested half her savings, roughly 10,000 rupees, in a company called InfoSoft. Only a week or so later, the company had been bought by an American firm and her shares had trebled in value. The beautician had cashed in her 20,000-rupee profit and used it to buy shares in an Indian gas company named – appropriately enough – India Gas. Less than a month later, it was awarded a contract by the Delhi government to lay domestic pipelines throughout the city. Within hours, Uma’s shares were worth 35 percent more than she had paid for them.
Rumpi suspected that the beautician was getting tips from one of her clients. But Uma claimed to have made her canny investment decisions based on what the experts were saying on the TV business channels.
“So, any more good tips for me?” asked Rumpi, genuinely interested, given Uma’s success.
“Yesterday, madam, I bought two-thousand-worth shares in Dr. Reddy’s Laboratories. It’s a very strong company. But whatever you do, don’t buy any shares in InfoSoft!”
“Why?”
“You didn’t see on the news what happened, madam? Two weeks back, the shares plunged seventy percent.”
“How much did you lose?” asked Rumpi, suddenly concerned.
In the past, she had cautioned Uma to bank her profit in a savings account.
“A few thousand, madam. But I’m still ahead. I took your advice and put fifteen thousand in the bank.”
The beautician emptied a tin full of sticky honey-colored sugaring wax into a small electric warmer.
“So you heard about the robbery?” asked Rumpi, knowing full well that it would have been the main topic of conversation in the beauty parlor since yesterday afternoon.
“Mrs. Devi was here earlier and told me all about it,” said Uma breathlessly. “It must have been frightening!”
“Yes, it was. The head dacoit had a gun. He was very threatening.”
“I hear they arrested the servants – and some physical trainer called Babbi from a local gym? The police think he masterminded the robbery.”
Rumpi scoffed.
“You don’t think it was him, madam?”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible,” she answered, remembering that Mummy had warned her not to tell any of the beauticians about her suspicions. “Perhaps the police know something we don’t.”
Rumpi sighed. “I just hope they get the cash back,” she said. “Not all of us are made of money. Not like Mrs. Azmat. Her husband is a dentist from what I understand. His practice must be flourishing. Recently he took her on a luxury cruise of the Great Lakes. I saw the photographs. It must have cost a packet.”
“Great Lakes, madam?”
“In Canada.”
“Oh yes, that’s where my cousin lives,” said Uma as she spread wax on Rumpi’s left leg. “She says it’s a very friendly place. Lots of Indians.”
Rumpi steered the conversation back on track: “Mrs. Jain is never short of money either.”
“Of course not,” interjected Uma. “Her husband is a high court judge. I hear he owns properties all over Delhi and a beach house in Goa as well.”
After a short interruption by the tea boy, who knocked on the door asking for empty glasses and was given short shrift by the beautician, Rumpi said: “Poor Mrs. Bansal. She was very upset. She never seems to have much money.”
“Ha! That one’s cheaper than a Marwari!” sneered Uma. “She never tips me more than five rupees.
“Really?” Rumpi said, all innocence. “How much is it?”
“Four thousand plus. Arti Madam was talking about it only yesterday – saying how embarrassing it’s getting. Mrs. Bansal keeps saying she’s going to settle up but never does.”
“I wonder what the problem is?”
By now Uma was finishing Rumpi’s right leg, expertly spreading the warm wax with a butter knife and then whipping it off with muslin strips. She lowered her voice and said: “Last time she was here I heard her talking on the phone. Sounds like her husband is in some kind of trouble.”
“Any idea what kind?”
“Where men are concerned, it’s not hard to guess.”
Back in the car, Rumpi told Mummy about Mrs. Bansal’s unpaid bill.
“Arti was telling she paid the total amount this morning, only,” said Mummy, who had got chatting with the proprietor while having her treatments in another private room.
“It could be a coincidence,” suggested Rumpi, still holding out hope for another explanation for the crime.
“Assumption should not be made,” agreed Mummy. “But Mrs. Bansal is suspect nonetheless.”
Puri’s mother then outlined what else she had learned. Arti had told her that Mrs. Devi, another member of the kitty party, was ‘doing hanky-panky with some toy boy’.
“Anita? But she’s twice my size!”
“Seems she and he meet thrice weekly.”
Rumpi sat in stunned silence for a while and then said: “I suppose it just goes to show that you never really know some people. But I can’t see her masterminding a robbery, Mummy-ji. Her husband’s swimming in money.”
None of the other women seemed to be having any kind of financial or marital difficulties.
“So what’s the next step, Mummy-ji?” asked Rumpi, looking at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock, time for her to return home and start preparing the evening meals for herself, Jaiya and Chubby, who had called earlier to say that he was on the way back from Haridwar.
“Some background checking is required.”
“Of Mrs. Bansal? What did you have in mind?”
“We’ll do interrogation of servants. These types see and hear everything that is going on, na?”
Twelve
Inspector Singh was not in the best of moods. When his aloo paranthas were placed in front of him, he scowled at the plate and growled, “Where’s the aachar?”
The Gymkhana Club waiters, a slothful bunch, had long since grown immune to the complaints of the club’s members, many of whom were professional whingers. Puri had often watched people yell at them with the contempt and abrasiveness of drill sergeants, to little or no effect. In Singh, though, they had met their match. The combination of his size, police uniform and menacing snarl had them flapping around like penguins.
In double time, a bowl full of mango pickle was fetched and placed on the table before him. The inspector did not look up or say thank you, but with an ill-disposed murmur ripped off a piece of parantha, scooped up a large lump of aachar, dunked it in his curd and then crammed the food into his mouth. As he began to chew, apparently satisfied, the waiters drew a collective sigh of relief, keeping a wary eye on him from behind their serving station.
Puri, who had arrived home from Haridwar late Thursday night and then set off at seven this morning for
