No one ever called him Vishwas, the full version of his first name, apart from salespeople. Puri had developed a deep hatred of such types. They were like a plague of leeches or locusts (or any other number of other slippery, creepy, crawly, sucking creatures that he could think of), harassing people at all hours of the day and night with offers of phone usage plans, bank loans, credit cards. Some idiot had even called him recently to ask if he was interested in buying a yacht.
“Don’t call me ever!” barked Puri, anticipating another sales pitch, and angrily hung up.
A few seconds later, the phone rang again. It was the same voice. “Sir, the line got disconnect. I’m calling from – ”
“Listen, bloody bastard. Why you’re calling me so early, huh? Don’t you know decency?”
“Sir, I’m happy to report you’ve – ”
“Khotay da puthar! Son of a donkey!” he swore in Punjabi. “Ik thapar mar key tey moonh torr dan ga! I will break your face with one slap!”
“Sir, no need for anger. See, just I’ll explain, sir. You’ve been preapproved for – ”
The detective hung up again.
Not ten seconds elapsed before the phone rang for a third time.
“Saala maaderchod! Give me your supervisor this instant!”
“Chubby, is that you?”
Puri recognized his elder brother’s voice.
“Bhuppi? Sorry, huh. Just getting some bloody sales call. Bastard doesn’t understand a straightforward threat when one is made.”
‘Bhuppi’ was how everyone referred to Bhupinder in the family.
“Do what I do, Chubby. Tell them you’ve got a criminal record. International credit card fraud. Very serious. They’ll never call again.”
“And what exactly I should tell people selling yachts?”
“Yachts? Like boats? What to do with a yacht in Delhi?”
“That is what I said only.”
“And?”
Puri mimicked the sales wallah: “‘Please, sir, you don’t understand, sir. You can keep the yacht in the sea, sir’. ‘Bloody fool,’ I said, ‘you’ve noticed any sea round these parts lately?’”
They both enjoyed a good laugh.
Then Bhuppi said: “Chubby, sorry, huh, by chance you can pick up Jassu? I’ll be reaching late.” Jassu was Bhuppi’s wife.
“Most certainly. Any excuse to get away. I should pick up Mummy also, no?”
“Mummy’s gone out. Left the house at crack of dawn.”
“Where to, exactly?”
“No explanation. Last few days she’s been coming and going at all hours.”
“Don’t tell me. She’s doing more investigation, is it?”
Puri reminded him of the strict ban they and their other brother had placed on their mother getting involved with detective work.
“What to do, Chubby? Ever since Papa died, Mummy-ji’s a loose cannon. No stopping her. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Just be thankful you don’t have to listen to her going on about her dreams each and every morning.”
Puri hung up and called his mother.
“Mummy-ji, where are you?”
“Chubby? Everything is all right?”
“World-class. You’re where, exactly?”
“I’ll be reaching shortly, na. Just…” Her voice was drowned out by the clanging of temple bells and a pandit’s voice chanting over a loudspeaker.
“Mummy-ji? Hello? Hello…”
“Chubby? Just I’m at the temple. So crowded it is. Nothing wrong, na?”
“No, Mummy, but – ”
“You ate your breakfast, I hope? Tell Rumpi I’ll be there soon, not to worry.”
And with that, the line went dead.
Mummy was not at the temple. She just happened to be standing close to one while waiting at a bus stand in Pooth Khurd in northeast Delhi.
It was from there that Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant, Naveen, took the 012 to work six days a week.
Mummy knew this because she and Rumpi had spent a few hours yesterday reconnoitering the Bansal residence.
They had also discovered that Naveen was a talkative, feisty woman who was less than enamored of her employers. At least that’s what the local press wallah had said.
The plan, therefore, was for Mummy to catch the same bus, ingratiate herself with the maidservant and try to find out all she could about Mrs. Bansal’s financial situation.
While Mummy waited for Naveen, a succession of battered Blue Line buses tore into the stop, the passengers all rushing for the doors and fighting their way up the steep metal stairs. Mummy began to wonder if her daughter- in-law had not been right after all. Perhaps she should have waited until Monday, when they could have traveled together. Her knees had been ‘paining’ a lot recently and it had been a long time since she had taken one of Delhi’s notoriously dangerous killer buses.
Standing there, she was reminded of how privileged she had become, what with her own car to take her around. It was certainly a far cry from the terrible conditions of the refugee train that had brought her and the surviving members of her family to safety from Pakistan in 1947.
By the time Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant finally turned up, there were fewer passengers at the stand and she decided to proceed with the plan.
“I want to go to Defence Colony,” she said politely in Hindi, hobbling up to the maidservant on a cane that Bhuppi had given her but that she ordinarily refused to use. “Does the bus go from here?”
Naveen, who was short and plump, said that this was indeed the right stop and that she was heading to Defence Colony herself.
“Shukkar-ey! Perhaps we could ride together? I’ve not been on this route before and I would hate to miss my stop. I’m on my way to a job interview – a wealthy family is in need of an ayah. They want a woman my age to look after the children and teach them proper Hindi.”
The maidservant regarded her curiously, as if she didn’t altogether believe her story. Mummy went on regardless. “Six months ago my husband died and left me with nothing and now I have no choice but to work,” she explained.
“Your children don’t look after you, Auntie-ji?”
“They don’t have room,” she said mournfully with eyes cast down. “Young people are so busy these days.”
A bus servicing a different route roared up. One side of its front was crushed from an accident; the bonnet was peeled back like the snarling lip of a wolf.
“Super Bazaar, Sabzi Mandi, Nai Dilli station!” shouted the conductor, banging on the side of the vehicle as hapless passengers already on board stared out of the grubby windows.
“Where are you staying, Auntie-ji?” asked Naveen as the vehicle tore away with clusters of people still standing on the stairs and in the doorways, holding on for dear life.
“I’m staying with my sister. But her husband complains all the time how much it costs to feed me. That’s why I’m looking for a live-in position.”
The 012 bus pulled into sight.
The two women managed to get on board before it raced off again. They found all the seats occupied.
“Have you no respect?” Naveen scolded a man in the front who was eating a piece of roast corn and failed to give up his seat when he saw Mummy. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Get up this instant!”
Soon they were sitting together and discussing the foibles and failings of Indian men.
