Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

During the thirty-three years that had passed since then, Bagga-ji – whom Puri privately referred to as ‘Baggage’ – had proven a constant embarrassment to the family. The detective dreaded inviting him to any family function, especially since his performance at Jaiya’s wedding. Tipsy on whisky, he had tried to ingratiate himself with the minister of chemicals and fertilizers and asked him for a job for his eldest son. Despite receiving a sharp rebuke, Bagga-ji had spent the rest of the evening trying to worm his way into all the photographs taken of the MP from Chandigarh.

Anecdotes about Bagga-ji’s business dealings abounded. His deceased father’s transport business was long gone. And acre by acre, he had sold off most of the land he had inherited, sinking the proceedings into harebrained schemes. At one point he’d even invested in a Nepali yak-burger joint. But like all his enterprises, the Big Yak had gone under.

Now, it seemed, he had something else brewing. No doubt it was ‘foolproof’ and was going to make him the richest man in all Punjab.

“Lakshmi has finally smiled on me!” he said in Punjabi with a grandiose sweep of his hands once he was off the phone.

The detective cast him a weary look. “What’s the plan this time?” he asked, switching to Punjabi as well. “Camel-milk ice cream again, is it?”

“Actually that was not such a bad idea,” interjected Preeti. It was rare for her to come to her husband’s defense; usually she suffered in silence. “The ice cream itself was quite delicious.”

“Problem was milking those bloody camels!” Puri chuckled.

“Laugh all you like,” said Bagga-ji. “But you’ll soon be congratulating me. A construction company wants to build a shopping mall on my land. They’re offering me one crore.”

“Which company?” asked the detective, sounding dubious.

“A big, respected one. I visited their offices. Very modern. They’re offering Western-style contract.”

Preeti added: “It all seems pukka, Chubby.”

Another horn sounded at the gate. Puri looked outside in time to see Jaiya being helped out of the car by her husband.

Her belly had grown large and round.

“Hi, Papa!” she said, waddling over to him with a big smile.

“Nikhee, beta, so wonderful to see you. Just look at you! How many you’ve got in there?” he joked.

“Well, actually, we’ve been waiting to surprise you, Papa,” she said with a grin, rubbing her bump.

His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yes, Papa, we’re having twins.”

“By God! My dear, you heard the news?” he called to Rumpi. “Nikhee has got two in the tandoor!”

“What wonderful news!” she replied, trying to sound surprised, although it was obvious she already knew. “All I can say is it’s a good thing we’re well prepared. Isn’t it, Chubby?” She gave Jaiya a mischievous wink.

“Yes, my dear,” intoned Puri.

No one spotting the auto rickshaw driver who parked his three-wheeler down Basant Lane behind Connaught Circus would have guessed that he was a sattri – in ancient Chana-kyan terminology, a spy. Nor that he knew every brothel, illegal cricket-gambling den and cockerel-fighting venue in the city – not to mention most of its best forgers, fencers, smugglers, safecrackers and purveyors of everything from used Johnnie Walker bottles to wedding-night porn. Blind in one eye, with henna-dyed hair and tatty, oil-stained clothes, he blended into the cityscape as seamlessly as Delhi’s omnipresent crows.

Not even his family knew about his secret life.

Perhaps one day, when his three children were old enough, Baldev Pawar would tell them. But for now it was too risky. If word of his true identity ever leaked out, his life would be in jeopardy and his ability to operate seriously compromised.

Worse, he would be disgraced in the eyes of his father.

Papa Pawar had, in the best family tradition, spent his life working as a professional thief. And like his father and his father’s father, he had worked diligently to ensure that his sons became proficient, capable crooks themselves.

From the age of seven, Baldev had been trained to pick pockets and relieve aunties of their handbags. As a teenager, he had graduated to locks, ignitions and safes. And in his mid-twenties he had started robbing banks. But after he was caught emptying the safe of the Faridabad branch of the Punjab National Bank and subsequently confined to a rat-infested cell for five years, he had decided to do the unthinkable and go straight. Papa Pawar had been devastated. It was his son’s destiny to rob and cheat; dacoity was in their blood, he’d argued. But India was changing. Just because you were born into a certain caste, tribe or clan didn’t mean that you had to stick to the job description of your forebears, Baldev had argued.

How Baldev, aka Tubelight, had become one of Vish Puri’s operatives was a story in itself. Suffice it to say, it was not one he would ever share with his father or his brothers, all of whom were still in the family business and living nearby. Better that they believe him to be a lowly auto rickshaw driver than find out the truth, that he worked for one of their natural enemies: a jasoos.

Besides, a rickshaw wallah was the perfect cover for the type of work Tubelight was now engaged in – tailing grooms, spying on errant husbands, befriending servants and milking them for their employers’ secrets. He didn’t have to account for his whereabouts to anyone; he could hang around on any street corner or in front of any chai stand without raising suspicion; and – requisite bribes demanded by the police aside – the three-wheeler was an economical and agile means of transport.

Refusing fares was not a problem, either. Dilli wallahs were well accustomed to gruff, unaccommodating auto rickshaw drivers forgoing their custom whenever a requested destination did not suit them.

Still, as Tubelight crisscrossed the city, he sometimes took on board paying punters. Besides making a few extra rupees, it was an excellent way of keeping his finger on the pulse of the city.

This morning, en route to his rendezvous with Puri, all the talk from the backseat had been about yesterday’s sensational murder. An elderly couple had described Kali as if they’d seen her themselves. Towering a hundred feet tall, she had slain dozens of people, hence the police cordon around the area, they said.

“Let us hope she rids us of our politicians!” the old woman had declared.

A fertilizer salesman from Indore believed Kali was going to cleanse the world of sinners. Judging by his terrified expression, it seemed the man had sinned a good deal.

Dainik Jagran , the bestselling Hindi newspaper (readership 56 million), was also preoccupied by the same news.

As Tubelight waited for Puri on the backseat of his auto rickshaw, he read a description of how, last night, “in the interests of national security,” the police had cleared the streets around India Gate of thousands of Kali worshippers.

“Thus far,” the editorial pointed out, “Hindu nationalist politicians have not sought to exploit the situation. Doubtless because of the site’s proximity to Parliament and key ministries, not to mention their own residences, they have appealed for calm.”

“Think Swami-ji did it?” Tubelight asked Puri in Hindi after the detective finally arrived.

The two were standing in front of one of their favorite breakfast dhabas that served kokis. The aroma of onions, green chilies, cumin seeds and fresh coriander frying in ghee wafted over them. They both ordered one of the Sindhi-style pancakes and sipped their cups of chai. The drink seemed to perk up Tubelight, who was still groggy, early mornings being anathema to him.