beforehand? Perhaps in a way that had not been obvious to him when he had inspected the crime scene? Had he overlooked something? Something hidden?
Puri decided to return to Rajpath and take another look.
Just as soon as his long-standing brunch date with Shubho was over.
Dr. Subhrojit Ghosh had returned from his annual two-week walking holiday in Shimla.
“What news of Shorn?” asked Puri. Shorn was the eldest Ghosh son, studying in Chicago.
“World-class. He’s loving his internship. Getting all As. Dali thinks there’s a girl, but who knows?”
“What kind of girl?” asked Puri with a disapproving frown.
“Presumably of the female variety.” Dr. Ghosh laughed.
They sat down together in the dining room where the brunch buffet was laid out – upma, poha, French toast, the works.
“How is Mummy-ji?” asked Dr. Ghosh.
“Up to her usual tricks. Such a handful, I tell you. Seems she’s doing investigation again.”
“Investigating what?”
“Who knows, Shubho-dada? I’ve not got time nor inclination to find out.”
‘Dada’ meant older brother in Ghosh’s native Bengali.
“And Rumpi?”
“Very fine. Jaiya’s having twins, did I tell you?”
“Wonderful! Many congratulations, Chubby.”
They made a first pass of the buffet. Puri returned to the table with an unlikely selection of poha and baked beans. From his pocket he produced a red chili carefully selected earlier from one of his plants on the roof. It was a Naga Jolokia, better known as the Ghost Chili, the hottest in the world.
The detective dipped the end in salt, bit into it and began to chew.
“These ones are not for fainthearted,” he said, looking satisfied. He offered Dr. Ghosh a bite.
“You must be joking,” he said. “Those things are lethal. I was reading recently they’re thinking of using them in crowd-control grenades!”
A waiter filled up his chipped Gymkhana Club cup with strong, acidic black tea from a silver pot that leaked onto the tablecloth.
“So, Chubby, tell me, I’m dying to know: How’s your investigation into Dr. Jha’s murder going? I keep reading such conflicting things in the papers. Seems the whole country’s talking about little else.”
“Most certainly, it is one of the most extraordinary cases I’ve come across till date,” said Puri, outlining the case and his trip to Haridwar and how Maharaj Swami had conjured the rishi oracle onstage.
“Most remarkable it was. Is it any wonder people are fooled by this fellow?”
“It’s certainly a very realistic trick,” said Dr. Ghosh. “But by no means original.”
“You’ve seen it before, is it?”
“When I was fourteen or fifteen. Old Professor Biswas demonstrated it in our physics class. ‘Pepper’s Ghost’, he called it, after the Britisher who perfected it.”
Puri’s enthusiastic nod was encouragement to go on.
“All that’s required are a couple of silvered mirrors and a strong light source. Your subject stands hidden and his image is reflected off… I think it’s a couple of mirrors… and then through a pane of glass. The image appears behind it, translucent like a spirit.”
Puri slapped his thigh with a festive cry.
“Shubho-dada,
“But then I would miss all the free trips to international conferences on things like recent advances in inflammatory bowel disease!”
They made a second pass of the buffet. Puri went for the French toast this time.
“Time for a quick game?” asked Dr. Ghosh when their plates were clear again.
“Actually, Shubho-dada, I had better make a move, huh.”
“Come now, old pal, we see so little of each other. What’s an hour between friends?”
“So much work is there, actually,” insisted Puri, looking at his watch.
“You’re sure work is not just a convenient excuse?”
“Certainly not…”
“I’d understand if it was. Especially after the thrashing I gave you last time.”
“Listen,” said the detective good-humoredly, “you are ahead by one game, only.”
“I didn’t know we were counting. But if you put it like that…”
Five minutes later, they sat facing one another across a low coffee table in the colonnaded ballroom where tea and cucumber sandwiches were served. Some of the other armchairs were occupied by elderly guests whose rheumy eyes perused the Sunday edition of the
Before Puri and Dr. Ghosh lay a chessboard. They arranged the pieces but ensured that the rajas, or kings, didn’t face one another – this being one of the rules of modern chess’s ancient Indian precursor, chaturanga, which they’d started playing for fun in the past year or so.
The detective, whose pieces were white, opened by moving a sippoy, or pawn, and his opponent matched his move. Puri then put one of his kuthareis, or horses, into play.
As Dr. Ghosh made his second move, they began to swap Gym gossip. There was a fierce battle underway for the club’s presidency. The air marshal of the Indian air force was up against the army chief.
“It’s warfare of a different nature,” commented the detective, who joked that it probably wouldn’t be long before trenches were dug across the lawns by the opposing sides.
Dr. Ghosh put his mantri, or counselor (the equivalent to a queen, but the piece can move only one square at a time and diagonally), into play. The move puzzled Puri; it was a hugely risky one and not in character with his opponent’s usually cautious tactics. But he decided to continue with his strategy nonetheless and positioned one of his yaaneis, or elephants, to strike.
The conversation strayed back to the topic of the murder.
“What saddens me is to see these Godmen types muddying the name of Hinduism,” said Puri.
“The clergy is always crooked in any religion,” said Dr. Ghosh.
“Hardly makes it right, Shubho-dada. They keep society hostage to superstition and nonsense. There’s nothing spiritual about them. Bloody goondas, the lot of them.”
By now, the detective had taken nine of his opponent’s pieces and had ten remaining. But Dr. Ghosh was far from beaten and quickly launched a counterattack on Puri’s left flank, taking his remaining iratham, or chariot (the equivalent of a rook). Puri’s defenses suddenly crumbled and within a few moves he found his raja standing alone, signaling the end of the game. He had lost again.
“You were bluffing, is it?” asked Puri.
“Forgive me, Chubby. I’ve been playing with my nephew. He’s brilliant, only eleven – going to give that Viswanathan Anand a run for his money one fine day. He bluffs a lot – often sets up the illusion that he’s losing.”
Puri stared at him blankly.
“What’s wrong, Chubby?” asked Dr. Ghosh.
No reaction.
“Chubby?” prompted his friend, looking worried.
“By God!” exclaimed the detective. And then louder: “What a bloody fool I’ve been these past days! Of course! It is an illusion within an illusion!”
He stood up. The geriatrics lowered their newspapers and stared.
“Finally I know! I tell you, this thing has been driving me mad!”
“Know what, Chubby?”
“Who it was who knocked me for six!”
“You were knocked unconscious? When? You didn’t tell me. Have you been examined?”
“Shubho-dada, I must go. No delay!”
