Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Majnu mumbled an apology as he rubbed his sleepy eyes, took a slug of warm water from the bottle he kept up front and started the ignition.

Thirty minutes later, they reached Puri’s house.

After a quick change from the ordinary attire she had worn for her undercover work into something more appropriate, Mummy found the sitting room already packed with women, all of them dressed in their best saris and jewelry. A few elderly uncles had slipped in as well and sat on the periphery, but strictly speaking, godh bharai was a women-only affair.

Mummy was greeted with much feet touching, hugs, smiles, banter and laughter, and then Jaiya came down to join them. She was dressed in one of her wedding saris, a lustrous red and gold silk affair, and wore a full set of wedding jewelry as well – an elaborate necklace, mini-chandelier-like matching earrings and a nose ring fit for a maharani. Her hands and feet had been decorated with paisley henna patterns. Fresh motiya flowers were strung in her hair.

After greeting everyone, the mother-to-be sat on a chair positioned in the center of the room. Rumpi lit a brass diya, circling it in front of her daughter, and applied a smudge of vermilion to her forehead. Amidst much teasing and giggling, the other women gathered round and sang, “Sola sin-gaar karke, godhi bharaayi le. Chotu jo aawe ghar mein nani behlaawe… Payal pehenke nani naach dikhawe.” (“Beautiful in your jewelry and makeup, we fill your lap with blessings. When little one comes, his granny will entertain him. She’ll tie bells on her ankles and have to dance for him like a naach girl!”)

A yellow thread was tied around the expectant mother’s right wrist. And then an array of goodies was placed in her lap: fruit and sweets, betel nuts, one-rupee coins and tiny silver anklets for the babies. Blessings were also whispered in her ear.

“Jug jug jiyo,” said Mummy after smearing more vermilion on her granddaughter’s forehead and adding some pieces of coconut to the growing heap in her lap.

Jaiya was then hand-fed pieces of barfi and coconut, a table was placed in front of her and a feast of samosas and gulab jamuns laid out.

After everyone had eaten their fill and the singing and dancing had begun, Mummy caught up with Rumpi in the kitchen.

“Seems Mrs. Bansal’s not the one,” she said, keeping her voice down and explaining why. “Her husband is smuggling all the same.”

“Him? Smuggling what?” exclaimed Rumpi. But before Mummy could answer she said: “Actually, Mummy-ji, I don’t want to know. These revelations are proving far too depressing. Just tell me where you think this leaves us?”

“I was thinking, na. There is one lady we failed to do consideration of.”

“Who?”

“Lily Arora.”

“Lily? What motive could she possibly have for robbing her own house?” Rumpi shook her head. “With respect, Mummy-ji, I think this has gone far enough. It’s time we told Chubby.”

“Then those goondas will get away for sure,” she said stubbornly. “Chubby is doing investigation of this Dr. Jha murder, na? Kitty robberies are not his concern. So busy he is. It remains for us two.”

“No, Mummy-ji, I’m sorry, enough is enough. My duties are here at home. Now I’d better get back inside. I’m missing all the fun.”

The scene in Puri’s ‘den’ at the back of the house was a very different one, although no less rowdy. Twenty or so men, mostly middle-aged and dressed in cotton shirts stretched tight by potbellies, stood around drinking tumblers of Royal Challenge.

The center of attention was one of Puri’s brothers-in-law, who had a seemingly endless repertoire of ‘non-veg’ jokes and stood in the middle of the room telling them one after another.

“Santa Singh was talking to Banta Singh about his love life. ‘So, Santa, tell me, how’s it going with the girls?’ Santa answers: ‘Women to me are nothing but sex objects’. ‘Really?’ replies Banta. ‘Yes,’ says Santa, shaking his head, ‘whenever I mention sex, they object!’”

Before his audience could recover, he fired off another: “One doctor is examining a girl of admirable proportions. Holding his stethoscope up to her chest, he says, ‘OK, big breaths’. ‘Yes, I know,’ she replies, ‘and I’m only fifteen!’”

Raucous laughter followed Puri down the corridor as he went to the kitchen to tell Sweetu to bring more ice. On the way back, he bumped into his sister, Preeti.

She looked worried.

“Bagga has got himself into something again, I’m sure of it,” she said.

Puri sighed. “What now?”

“This deal he was talking about the other night. You remember? Something is not right. He says the construction company wants to buy his land to build a mall. But at the same time, he’s trying to borrow money.”

“What for?” asked the detective.

“God knows, only,” she said.

Later that evening, after all the whisky bottles had been emptied, the samosas had been eaten and the guests had finally departed, Puri received a call from Tubelight.

“Boss, you won’t believe this.”

He went on to explain how Pandey, dressed in a smart suit, had left his house at seven. His driver had taken him to Connaught Place, where he had stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne. From there he had proceeded to a flower stand and purchased a bunch of red roses.

“After, his driver drove up Pusa Hill and did a U-turn,” said Tubelight in Hindi. “First, I thought he was confused. But I came to know he was taking precautions. In case he was being followed.”

The driver’s ruse had not worked, however, and Puri’s operative had tailed him to Karol Bagh.

There he had pulled in through the gates of 32 B Block.

“That’s Dr. Jha’s residence!” said Puri.

“Yes, Boss. As the gates closed, I saw Professor-ji putting his arms around Mrs. Jha.”

The detective said nothing for a while.

“Think she’s involved, Boss?” asked Tubelight.

“Could be they are just good friends. He is going there to comfort her, no.”

“Or they both wanted Jha out of the way so they could be together.”

“Dr. Jha had no life insurance policy or savings. There must be further motive.”

“What if they’re just in love?”

“Love?” scoffed Puri. “No, love is never enough.”

Facecream’s second day at the ashram proved as regimented as the first. The lights came on at five. Meditation commenced at five-thirty. Breakfast consisted of papaya, apple and yogurt.

After lunch, she managed to get to a pay phone on the main road to call Puri. He brought her up to date on Flush’s efforts to hack into the Abode of Eternal Love’s computer system. Apparently, the security measures were extremely sophisticated – “Some kind of fiery wall or whatnot” – and might take days to crack. They talked about trying to access the system from the inside.

Then, late in the afternoon, Facecream made an important discovery.

The roll of donors posted on the wall in the main reception included the name of Professor Pandey.

A month ago, he had given the ashram fifty thousand rupees.

Further checking with the susceptible young man on duty at the front desk revealed that Pandey had made the donation in person and subsequently spent a week at the Abode of Eternal Love.

Facecream had not yet found an opportunity to communicate this information to Puri. From reception she had been frog-marched by Bossy to yoga and from there to an hour-long om-chanting session. Then at six Maharaj Swami had made an appearance on the balcony of his private residence, which was directly behind the darshan hall. A crowd, hundreds strong, had gathered beneath him, bowing, chanting and ringing bells with their usual enthusiasm.