Senior advocate N.K. Gupta added: “There is no doubt in my mind it was the goddess Kali. Today we have witnessed a supernatural occurrence. No one should be in any doubt.”
The article continued: “Many Delhiites have started flocking to temples across the city to seek protection, while hundreds of Kali worshippers have converged on Rajpath to celebrate the goddess’s appearance, which they believe is a divine event.”
SKEPTICS SKEPTICAL read the headline of another article on page two, which quoted a Mumbai-based rationalist as saying that he was certain Dr. Jha had been murdered not by the goddess – “How could she have done it when she does not exist?” – but by someone masquerading as her.
“The rationalist was unable to explain, however, how a murderer could have carried out the crime in broad daylight in front of so many witnesses,” the article continued. “He noted that last month, during a live altercation between Dr. Jha and Maharaj Swami, the Godman had promised a miracle to prove his powers. When asked for comment this morning, one of Swami-ji’s aides said off the record that His Holiness was certainly capable of summoning Kali. But so far the Godman himself has been mute on this point.”
Puri pushed the paper aside with a look of anger and disgust.
“Madam Rani, you remember this deceased fellow?”
“Of course, sir, he’s – ”
“Dr. Suresh Jha, the Guru Buster,” said the detective, finishing her sentence for her. “I did one investigation for him a few years back. You remember?”
She did indeed and indicated as much with a nod. But Elizabeth Rani had worked for Puri long enough to know that he was going to recount the details of the Case of the Astrologer Who Predicted His Own Death regardless.
“It started when one astrologer by name of Baba Bhola Ram predicted the time and date of his very own death,” he began. “Twenty-four-hour news channels, forever chasing eyeballs, got hold the story and turned it into a national spectacle.”
Elizabeth Rani remembered watching the live coverage on the
“Vedika, is there any indication yet of how he’s supposed to die?” the anchor had asked a young lady reporter standing outside the astrologer’s front door before the appointed hour.
“There’s been a good deal of speculation on that point,” the reporter had answered without the slightest hint of irony. “One local tarot card reader is claiming she’s foreseen that something will fall out of the sky and hit him on the head. Baba Bhola Ram himself says he knows only when he’ll die, not how. Will his prediction come true? Certainly he has a lot riding on the outcome, not least his reputation. Back to you in the studio.”
“Millions tuned in to find out whether this fellow Baba Bhola Ram would live or die,” continued Puri. “Minutes after the predicted hour, only, the astrologer’s wife came out and, in floods of tears, announced that her husband ‘by grace of God almighty went to great abode in sky’.”
Dr. Suresh Jha visited Most Private Investigators Ltd. the following morning. His charity-cum-foundation, DIRE, labored to ‘explain the unexplained’ and the rationalist wanted to hire Puri to disprove the so-called miracle performed by Baba Bhola Ram.
“The wool is being pulled over our eyes,” he’d told the detective at the time. “If people carry on believing in this kind of thing, they will remain blind.”
“Through deductive reasoning and the most thorough examination of evidence at hand, I came to know Dr. Jha’s suspicions were quite correct,” recounted Puri. “The astrologer had indeed been murdered. The evildoers were Baba Bhola Ram’s most trusted and dedicated disciples themselves. Fearful of their guru’s reputation getting ruined, they took it upon themselves to make certain his prediction came true. Knowing of his weak heart, they put some ground castor beans into their master’s chai and thus he expired.”
Puri lapsed into a contemplative silence. By now, he was leaning forward with his elbows planted on his desk.
“Naturally I saw to it justice was done,” he added. “But one thing about the case has always been there – one thing that frankly and honestly to this very day troubles me.”
“What is it, sir?” asked Elizabeth Rani, although she could anticipate what he was going to say.
“Would Baba Bhola Ram have died at that hour had he not predicted his own death?”
“I believe that is something we will never know in this lifetime, sir,” said Puri’s secretary.
“Undoubtedly, Madam Rani!” said the detective, shaking off his mournfulness. “As usual you are quite correct. Only the God can know, isn’t it?”
Puri’s mobile phone rang and he looked at the name on the screen: JAGAT. He answered it.
“Inspector! Kidd-an?”
The call lasted no more than two minutes. It ended with the detective saying: “I will be reaching in one hour.”
He glanced at the clock on his desk, a gift from the Federation of Automobile Dealers Associations (India).
“Mr. Sam Rathinasabapathy would be here any moment,” he told Elizabeth Rani. “Thirty minutes maximum is required. After, my presence is requested on Rajpath. Not for the first time, Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh would be needing my expert guidance.”
“You’re going to investigate Dr. Jha’s murder, sir?” asked his secretary, sounding hopeful.
“Nothing is confirmed, Madam Rani. But I can hardly be expected to stand by and watch this crime go unpunished, no? Myself and Dr. Jha were not in agreement on all matters, that much is certain, but he was a most upstanding fellow all round.”
Elizabeth returned to her desk, fully confident that her employer would be taking on the case, even though it would mean working without pay.
The idea that Vish Puri could resist getting involved in such a tantalizing murder was preposterous. There was as much chance of him going without his lunch.
Sam Rathinasabapathy was fifteen minutes late. A traffic ja-wan had issued him a challan on Panchsheel Marg.
“The cop said I failed to signal when I turned right! Can you believe that? I mean, Mr. Puri, have you ever seen
“Correct, sir,” said Puri patiently, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
“I can’t
“Sir, no need to do tension,” said Puri, motioning Rathinasabapathy into one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. “Allow me to give you some advice. Most definitely you will thank me for it later.”
“Sure, Mr. Puri,” said the nuclear physicist with a sigh as he took a seat.
“An educated, well-to-do gentleman such as yourself should not go round hither and thither without a good driver. Frankly speaking, sir, it does not look right. Just you should sit in the backseat, only. That way you won’t be facing this type of harassment. Police wallahs will know you’re someone of importance and not a part of the riffraff.” Puri rolled his Rs with gusto.
“But I’m used to driving myself,” protested Rathinasaba-pathy.
“Believe me, sir, I understand. You value your independence. But allow me to find a suitable driver. He should be of good character and naturally not a drunkard. Those from hill states are best. Such types have to learn to control their vehicles on all those tight bends. Otherwise they’d go right off the edge.”
“Yes, well, I suppose that would be an advantage,” said Rathinasabapathy.
“Very good! Later, I’ll get my man to revert with some candidates. You need pay five, six thousand per month max-i-mum.”
“OK, Mr. Puri, whatever you say. Now are you going to tell me what happened last night at the Food Village place? Where’s my money?”
Puri reached down behind his desk and picked up a sports bag, setting it down on his desk.
“It’s in here, sir. Two lakhs exactly.”
