Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Where to, exactly?”

“No explanation. Last few days she’s been coming and going at all hours.”

“Don’t tell me. She’s doing more investigation, is it?”

Puri reminded him of the strict ban they and their other brother had placed on their mother getting involved with detective work.

“What to do, Chubby? Ever since Papa died, Mummy-ji’s a loose cannon. No stopping her. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Just be thankful you don’t have to listen to her going on about her dreams each and every morning.”

Puri hung up and called his mother.

“Mummy-ji, where are you?”

“Chubby? Everything is all right?”

“World-class. You’re where, exactly?”

“I’ll be reaching shortly, na. Just…” Her voice was drowned out by the clanging of temple bells and a pandit’s voice chanting over a loudspeaker.

“Mummy-ji? Hello? Hello…”

“Chubby? Just I’m at the temple. So crowded it is. Nothing wrong, na?”

“No, Mummy, but – ”

“You ate your breakfast, I hope? Tell Rumpi I’ll be there soon, not to worry.”

And with that, the line went dead.

Mummy was not at the temple. She just happened to be standing close to one while waiting at a bus stand in Pooth Khurd in northeast Delhi.

It was from there that Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant, Naveen, took the 012 to work six days a week.

Mummy knew this because she and Rumpi had spent a few hours yesterday reconnoitering the Bansal residence.

They had also discovered that Naveen was a talkative, feisty woman who was less than enamored of her employers. At least that’s what the local press wallah had said.

The plan, therefore, was for Mummy to catch the same bus, ingratiate herself with the maidservant and try to find out all she could about Mrs. Bansal’s financial situation.

While Mummy waited for Naveen, a succession of battered Blue Line buses tore into the stop, the passengers all rushing for the doors and fighting their way up the steep metal stairs. Mummy began to wonder if her daughter-in-law had not been right after all. Perhaps she should have waited until Monday, when they could have traveled together. Her knees had been ‘paining’ a lot recently and it had been a long time since she had taken one of Delhi’s notoriously dangerous killer buses.

Standing there, she was reminded of how privileged she had become, what with her own car to take her around. It was certainly a far cry from the terrible conditions of the refugee train that had brought her and the surviving members of her family to safety from Pakistan in 1947.

By the time Mrs. Bansal’s maidservant finally turned up, there were fewer passengers at the stand and she decided to proceed with the plan.

“I want to go to Defence Colony,” she said politely in Hindi, hobbling up to the maidservant on a cane that Bhuppi had given her but that she ordinarily refused to use. “Does the bus go from here?”

Naveen, who was short and plump, said that this was indeed the right stop and that she was heading to Defence Colony herself.

“Shukkar-ey! Perhaps we could ride together? I’ve not been on this route before and I would hate to miss my stop. I’m on my way to a job interview – a wealthy family is in need of an ayah. They want a woman my age to look after the children and teach them proper Hindi.”

The maidservant regarded her curiously, as if she didn’t altogether believe her story. Mummy went on regardless. “Six months ago my husband died and left me with nothing and now I have no choice but to work,” she explained.

“Your children don’t look after you, Auntie-ji?”

“They don’t have room,” she said mournfully with eyes cast down. “Young people are so busy these days.”

A bus servicing a different route roared up. One side of its front was crushed from an accident; the bonnet was peeled back like the snarling lip of a wolf.

“Super Bazaar, Sabzi Mandi, Nai Dilli station!” shouted the conductor, banging on the side of the vehicle as hapless passengers already on board stared out of the grubby windows.

“Where are you staying, Auntie-ji?” asked Naveen as the vehicle tore away with clusters of people still standing on the stairs and in the doorways, holding on for dear life.

“I’m staying with my sister. But her husband complains all the time how much it costs to feed me. That’s why I’m looking for a live-in position.”

The 012 bus pulled into sight.

The two women managed to get on board before it raced off again. They found all the seats occupied.

“Have you no respect?” Naveen scolded a man in the front who was eating a piece of roast corn and failed to give up his seat when he saw Mummy. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Get up this instant!”

Soon they were sitting together and discussing the foibles and failings of Indian men.

“What layabouts they are,” said Naveen. “My husband sits around at home every night watching TV while I cook and clean up and look after the kids. Never lifts a finger. The other day he had the cheek to call me fat. Fat! You should see him! His face is like a giant greasy poori.”

A mother of three, she lived with her family in one room and shared the toilet down the hall with four other families.

“You’re lucky to have a job, so many people are without work,” said Mummy.

“Ha! Lucky, am I, Auntie-ji?” she replied with a laugh. “Working six days a week, minimum ten to twelve hours every day, three-thousand-rupees-a-month salary? Our rent alone is fifteen hundred. And everything else is getting more expensive every day. How are we supposed to survive?”

“Three thousand rupees a month is not enough,” agreed Mummy.

“And meanwhile, Madam” – she was referring to her employer – “is complaining that things are tight! She has no idea!”

“They’re having money problems themselves?”

“Sahib’s been facing difficulties the past few months.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he was charged with smuggling.”

“How shocking! Was it diamonds or something?”

“Nothing like that. Actually he sells… hmm… you know that ink inside those machines that make photocopies? Turns out he’s been importing it into the country disguised as something else… something used for making tires, which can be imported duty free. Anyhow the customs people finally got wise and seized his shipment.”

“Is he out of business?”

“Nothing of the sort, Auntie-ji. He paid a big bribe and got the shipment released. Now everything is back to normal. The night before last he was out celebrating. He didn’t get up until twelve yesterday. But then there’s nothing new about that.”

“Perhaps you should ask for a salary increase?”

Naveen laughed out loud. “Not a chance, Auntie-ji. If anything, Madam will try to reduce my salary. Then she’ll go and buy herself more jewelry. She hoards it like a cow-wah. You wouldn’t believe how much she has hidden away. Several crores’ worth. She’ll never starve, that one, that’s for sure…”

Her mission complete, Mummy got off the bus at Defence Colony, where her driver, Majnu, was waiting for her in a prearranged spot in the shade of a tree.

He was sleeping soundly on his fully reclined seat. All the car’s windows were wound down and his door was open.

“Wake up, you duffer!”

The shrill rebuke from his employer and a couple of prods from her cane woke him with a start.

“How many times I’ve told you, na? Responsibility for the vehicle is on your head. How you can be responsible when you’re dozing, I ask you?”

“But, madam – ”

“Don’t crib! Now sit up and drive me to Gurgaon.”