Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a while. “Have you had lots of visions like the one I had yesterday?”

Damayanti nodded.

“Did Manika have any?”

She nodded again.

“A lot?”

Just then a male voice called out Damayanti’s name.

“That’s my father,” she said with alarm. “I’ve got to go.”

A middle-aged man appeared. He was wearing the garb of a devotee.

“There you are,” he said in a kindly yet firm voice. “I’ve been looking for you. Luckily someone thought they saw you coming down here.”

Casting a suspicious look at Facecream, he took his daughter by the hand and led her away.

Facecream returned to the residence hall and found her other roommates preparing to go to Haridwar to watch the evening aarti ceremony. She decided to join them.

Setting off in a local bus and singing devotional songs along the way, they reached the city at dusk. The population was emerging into the streets. Along the narrow, medieval lanes, the sounds of worship spilled out from countless temples. Small petrol generators rumbled. Beggars with amputated limbs wailed for alms and showed off their deformities to frightening effect. Hardware merchants sat amidst stacks of stainless steel tiffins, baltis and enormous cooking pots that looked like imports from Brobdingnag in Gullivers Travels .

Facecream’s group wove through the crowd, past holy cows, open sewers and dozens of stalls selling tacky religious memorabilia like om key rings, until they reached the Har ki Pauri ghat. Thousands had already gathered at the water’s edge – ordinary men and women who had traveled to the city to offer prayers of thanks to the river goddess Ganga; the odd bedraggled tourist; members of sects and cults, each in their own distinct outfit and occupying blocks of the steps like football fans in team stripes.

As darkness fell, diyas were lit and cast onto the water, floating off down the river – a miniature armada. Bells and gongs clattered. Speakers blared ‘Ganga Mantra’. Temple priests standing at the edge of the western bank lit oil lamps, circling them in the air, casting glimmering orange reflections in the water.

Sitting there, watching this timeless, bewitching spectacle, Facecream could understand the attraction life at the ashram held for her roommates. The camaraderie, the sense of a shared purpose, was no different here than it had been in the Maoist camps. But as she had learned to her cost in Nepal, such idealism was easily preyed upon.

She found herself wondering about Maharaj Swami – what kind of man was he really?

The nineteen-year-old Facecream, the one who had fled home to join the glorious Maoist cause, might well have perceived him as a Robin Hood type, robbing the rich to help the poor. But she had learned that such men were not motivated by generosity. Building wells, helping tsunami victims – that was all done to impress others, to build a saintly reputation. Power was the only thing that motivated such men. They were intoxicated by it.

Had Swami-ji come to believe his own lie?

Facecream hoped to get a better measure of him tomorrow evening. Before she had set out for Haridwar, word had been sent that she was to be given a private audience.

It was Saturday morning and Puri was at home. His daughter Jaiya’s godh bharai baby shower was due to start at eleven and everyone in the house was busy preparing for the festivities.

Rumpi seemed to be everywhere at once: in the kitchen overseeing the preparation of pistachio barfi and sweetened saffron milk; in the sitting room putting up decorations; and upstairs letting out Jaiya’s sari blouse so that it would accommodate her new proportions.

From the sanctuary of the rooftop where he was lying low, Puri could hear his wife giving orders. It was like listening to the head chef of a restaurant.

“Malika! Don’t overcook the khoya again!”

“Monika… Go buy one K-G of aloo… Then borrow some! Ask Deepak Madam. Hurry!”

“Sweetu! What are you doing? Stop being a fool and blow up the balloons properly… well, blow harder!”

Puri knew it was only a question of time before he was put to work himself. No excuse would be brooked: not a pressing clue that needed immediate investigation, not even a dead client.

First, though, he hoped to finish his tea and open his post.

He recognized one of the envelopes instantly. It was postmarked London: the latest catalogue from Bates Gentlemen’s Hatter in Piccadilly, suppliers of all his Sandown caps. There was another from the electricity company with whom he was in an ongoing dispute over his bill. Who in Delhi wasn’t? There was a circular from the Rotary Club as well.

“HIP HIP HIP HURRAY!” it read. “Rotarians of Delhi South celebrate their status as the PLATINUM CLUB OF THE ROTARY INTERNATIONAL DIST. 301. Cheers, cheers, cheers.”

It included pictures taken during the gala ‘installation ceremony’ of the incoming president and noted that ‘an array of Rotary District officials were present for the occasion who by their presence boosted our morale’.

The circular also included an update on all the community work done by the club, of which Puri and Rumpi were active members.

His mobile rang.

“Good morning. Mr. Vishwas Puri?”

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.”