Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Whaaat are you staring at?” squealed Facecream, pretending to have suddenly noticed the three of them staring at her. “Think I’m some kind of freak or something? Just leave me alone – o-kaaayl ”

“That is the total limit!” shouted Puri. He stormed across reception and snatched the iPod out of her hands.

“God, Pa, what the hell’s your problem anyway?”

Everyone else in reception turned and stared.

“How dare you, young madam! Think we’ve brought you here for nothing, huh?”

“No one asked me if I wanted to come. I hate this place. India’s filthy and it smells. I mean, have you seen all the crap in the streets or what? Men just piss on the walls wherever. There are freaks with no arms begging at like every traffic light. India’s a total nightmare and I hate it!”

“India is your mother country!” roared Puri. “You are here to learn about your heritage and culture, only! Think MTV can teach you anything, huh? Think you can just laze about all your life and go to so many of parties?”

Mrs. Duggal joined in: “Please, beta, try to behave. Your papa has your best interests at heart. He’s paying so much of money for you to stay here and get help. Why don’t you put away the chewing gum and come and introduce yourself?”

“Nooo waaay, Ma. This is all bullshit. You’re not getting me doing any yoga or stoopid crap like that. I want to go home!”

Mrs. Duggal burst into tears. “I knew we should never have gone to live in Singapore!” she wailed, addressing the devotee receptionist. “I blame myself. Had Queenie been brought up in the proper way, she’d have learned to appreciate her culture.” Mrs. Duggal let out a couple of loud sobs. “Instead, she goes to… to nigh… nightclubs and… and dan… dances with b… b…” Mrs. Duggal took a gasp of air before wailing, “Boyyyyyyys!”

Queenie had to be bribed with a promise of some new Ugg boots before agreeing to accompany her parents to the dar-shan hall, where Maharaj Swami was due to address ‘his children’.

Inside, chandeliers sprouted from dark pink lotus flowers, and wax effigies of the gods peered out from rows of glass cases along the walls. An enormous marble fountain spouting blue-tinted water stood in the middle of the auditorium floor, and at the far end was a stage.

Hundreds of devotees sitting cross-legged on mats were singing devotional songs accompanied by musicians on santoor, bansuri and tabla. Hundreds more were chanting Maharaj Swami’s ninety-nine names. Bells rang out. Handheld cymbals clashed. Clouds of incense wafted over the congregation. The Godman’s senior male disciples, recognizable by their off-white sarongs, silk stoles and intense, self-important miens, lit candles and distributed baskets of flower petals to be cast in front of their lord’s feet.

The Garodia family took off their shoes outside the elaborately carved wooden doors and were served cups of papaya juice. Then they were escorted to the front of the hall, where all the other guests and visitors were seated on padded yoga mats. Puri estimated they numbered about three hundred; by the looks of them, they were mostly drawn from India’s new middle class.

The man sitting next to him was in his thirties, an advertising executive from Mumbai. Like the detective, he was overweight and unable to manage the lotus position, so he sat with his short, chubby legs sticking out in front of him.

“I’ve been watching Swami-ji on Channel OM and I’m hoping he’ll help me with my tension and high blood pressure,” he told Puri. “Nothing else has worked till date.”

The detective had watched Channel OM a few times; Rumpi sometimes had it on in the sitting room. Maharaj Swami’s broadcasts offered a bit of everything: Vedic wisdom, Ayurvedic health advice, yoga, meditation and Deepak Chopra-style self-help guidance on how to deal with issues associated with the challenges of modern-day life – in other words, stress, wayward children and extramarital affairs. A new brand of Hinduism was sweeping India. It was highly ritualistic and steeped in the kind of pseudoscience that helped the new middle classes reconcile their use of modern science and technology with their belief, as one social commentator had put it recently, “in supernatural powers supposedly embodied in idols, divine men and women, stars and planets, rivers, trees and sacred animals.” Most significantly, it also condoned materialism. “The Bhagavad Gita and Yoga Sutras have been turned into self-help manuals for making money and achieving success,” the same commentator had written.

It was not Puri’s cup of chai, nor that of most of his generation. Theirs was a more contemplative, philosophical Hinduism that frowned on ostentation. Besides, he hated all the appeals for donations and the slick marketing. Borrowing from the techniques used by American TV evangelists, Swami-ji sold his books, CDs and DVDs in the same cloying manner as soap powder.

“It’s like ‘new, improved Hinduism for the reaching of spots others can’t’,” the detective had commented to his wife recently.

Lakshmi Garodia, though, was an ardent fan of the Godman.

“One can feel his presence and power through the TV, actually,” he said. “I understand he’s healed so many of people.”

“So many!” agreed the advertising executive breathlessly. “You know, my cousin lives in Hong Kong and was dying of cancer. He was on the verge of death. Then Maharaj Swami came to him. He walked right through the wall of his hospital room and laid his hands on my cousin’s head. He said he could literally feel the cancer being destroyed. That day only my cousin left hospital!”

A chorus of trumpets announced the arrival of Maharaj Swami. He entered through the garlanded archway at the back of the hall and then proceeded along a path that led through rows of fawning, adoring disciples, many of whom reached out to touch his feet. The guru stopped now and again to lay his hands on bowed heads. And with a seraphic smile, he sprinkled vibhuti over the congregation, the holy ash materializing in his hands.

Puri and the other visitors remained seated on the floor as the Godman approached. With hands pressed together, they grinned at him like eager children pleading for his blessings. A chosen few received reassuring, almost pitying, pats on the head.

“Swami-ji! Swami-ji!” called out the advertising executive with tears running down his cheeks. “Bless me, Swami-ji!”

The devotional singing, chanting, bell ringing and cymbal clashing reached fever pitch as Maharaj Swami walked up onto the stage, where temple priests greeted him with flaming brass diyas.

With his black beard and moustache parting to reveal a row of perfect white teeth (according to the literature Puri had read in the entrance hall, they were kept in perfect condition by Abode of Eternal Love-branded neem dental sticks), he sat down on a large silver throne. Suspended by wires behind him was a circle of blinking fairy lights that formed a halo. He held up his left hand to silence the congregation. A hush fell over the hall, and his deep, orotund voice sounded over the speakers.

“My children,” he said in Hindi, “today we will consider the word ‘I’, which refers to the ego born out of an attachment to the body…”

For thirty minutes, Puri listened attentively to Maharaj Swami’s discourse, impressed by his oratory skills. Mrs. Duggal, too, appeared captivated. Facecream looked a little off color, but the detective thought nothing of it.

When he was finished giving his sermon, the Godman stood again and walked to the front of the stage.

“None of you here are yet capable of comprehending my reality,” he explained. “Although I appear as flesh and blood, I exist in multiple dimensions. Time has no meaning for me. Past, present, future are but one.”