Nury Vittachi - The Feng Shui Detective

‘Could it be the same people…?’ asked the banker, turning to Tan.

The Superintendent was speechless.

‘I don’t know,’ said Wong. ‘But, if I can remember right-it is hard for oldster like me, who is more than fifty years old-there are two machines in this electronic bank. One has an out-of-order sign on it. The other one, I think, has a sign, says: “High-speed deposits”. I only notice this because feng shui of the room so bad. I was hoping no one thinks I am responsible for it. Singapore is a small town. Not difficult for me to keep eye on the few branches of your bank.’ The geomancer shook his head in dismay at the memory of the ill-designed room.

‘So that’s how you knew about the deposit-at-this-machine sign,’ said Madam Xu. ‘You let us all think it was an inspired guess. I think that’s cheating, Mr Wong.’

Tan’s mouth dropped open. ‘If it’s got your bank’s name on it, but it’s not your bank, it’s got to be some sort of scam.’ He pulled out his pocket phone. ‘I hope to heaven it’s the same people, trying to do a similar trick in a different location. This may be an opportunity for us to do our part. Paydirt.’ He leapt to his feet.

‘What does paydirt mean?’ asked Wong.

‘I don’t know. Ask your assistant,’ said Tan, thumping the phone buttons.

Joyce blinked. The space between her eyebrows turned into a little grid. ‘Don’t know. It’s just what people say when they find something they’ve been looking for, for a long time.’

Old Uberoi appeared through the steam with two large dishes, one containing string hoppers, and one egg hoppers.

‘Oh, paydirt,’ said Madam Xu, clapping her hands.

The Chuang-tzu, chuan seven, says: ‘The mind of the perfect man is like a mirror. It does not move with things, nor does it anticipate them. It responds to things but does not retain them.’

The same feeling of detachment can be found in another ancient text. The Yi-ch’uan Chi-jang Chi, chuan fourteen. Here you read the words of Shao Yung. He said this:

The name of the Master of Happiness is not known.

For thirty years he has lived on the banks of the Lo River.

His feelings are those of the wind and the moon;

His spirit is on the river and the lake.

To him there is no distinction

Between low position and high rank,

Between poverty and riches.

He does not move with things nor anticipate them.

He has no restraints and no taboos.

He is poor, but has no sorrow.

He drinks but is never drunk.

He gathers the springtime of the world into his mind.

Blade of Grass, slowly-slowly you are becoming wise. But remember this. The strength of the mind is the strength of its detachment.

From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’

by C F Wong, part 131.

His journal tucked safely in the briefcase he clutched to his chest, C F Wong trotted briskly along the cracked and crowded pavements, his head held high.

A visit to Delhi is a very good reminder that one has a nose, he mused. Too often in visiting a city, the other senses prevail. One is visually entranced by the skylines of Singapore and Hong Kong; one’s ears are assaulted by the cacophony of construction in Shanghai and Kuala Lumpur; but here in old Delhi, you can conduct yourself by your nose alone. The tingling torrent of petrol fumes and dust tells you where the roads are, while the paved areas are marked by coriander, incense, spices, sugar, smoke, urine, new sweat, old sweat, plus some curious odour of burnt material which appeared peculiar to the oldest parts of the original part of India’s capital, although he had yet to identify what it was. Wong took a deep breath through his wide, flat nostrils to try out this theory, and immediately regretted it. The smells were so strong they hurt.

They jogged around a blind corner at speed and the geomancer was forcefully reminded of his other senses as he hit the side of some grey-brown monster-an elephant? No, a bullock. It turned baggy and infinitely sad eyes at him. He was repelled by the strangely inorganic way its rough, leathery skin hung like an ill-fitting cape off its angular bones. Aiyeeeah. Wong edged carefully through the small space between the fly-covered beast and a dusty, coughing bus that was dangerously nudging its way through a lane solid with human and animal flesh.

For the tenth time, Wong scanned the bewildering scene ahead of them and wondered if they had lost their guide. The boy slid through tiny, fast-closing gaps in the crowd so often that few observers would have thought he had any connection with the old Chinese gentleman and the young Caucasian woman following.

‘Jeez. Does he have to go so fast?’ cursed Joyce, who had trouble keeping up as she wanted to take photographs of what she called ‘characters’-old people with lived-in faces. ‘Has he like, totally forgotten we’re supposed to be following him?’ Her testy comments belied the fact that she was thoroughly enjoying her first visit to India. The feng shui master’s assistant found it totally seductive, with the sights and colours and smells and tastes combining to suck her almost into a state of trance.

They had arrived late the previous night, so she had only really taken her first good look at India in the morning light. The desolate tranquility of Rose House, the old colonial mansion in Uttar Pradesh where they were staying, had been wonderfully calming. The pleasant dry heat, too, was quite unlike the uncomfortable humidity of Singapore. She had rinsed out a thin cotton top and hung it on the balcony to dry before going down to breakfast. An hour later, after a wonderful breakfast of mangoes, pale-yoked eggs and homemade yogurt, the garment had been dry enough to wear.

Then they had gone into town. The old city of Delhi was equally mesmerising but in a different way. It was happy pandemonium. There was something hypnotic about being in this huge, hyperactive mob, surrounded by swirls of multicoloured silk, she decided. It wasn’t just the women who caught her eye. Many of the men appeared curiously fashionable, with their retro 1970s-style haircuts, Burt Reynolds’ moustaches and flared trousers. But were they truly wearing retro fashions? Or had the man in the old Delhi street simply not changed styles for thirty years?

‘I see him! Follow,’ said Wong, and thrust himself through a tiny opening between two motor-scooters, one of which was carrying a family of four, and the other a family of five, plus a monkey.

Joyce took one more photograph, this time of a bald spice-seller who looked at least 150 years old, and dived after her employer.

Five breathless minutes later, the pair were relieved to reach the commercial building which had been described to them in the briefing notes faxed to the office by Laurence Leong of East Trade Industries. The Associated Food and Beverages Delhi Manufactory Old Building was a crumbly, grey block on a busy corner. On first glance it appeared to be leaning to the left, but the careful observer soon realised this impression was the result of curious architectural design, featuring stepped overhangs. Joyce knew this would mean a heavy over-supply of something. She watched as Wong looked up to locate the harsh glare of the sun behind cumulus clouds. ‘Southwest influences. Maternal female ch’i,’ he said. ‘Difficult, difficult.’

Following a fleeting glimpse of their guide slipping past the uniformed security guards-who were holding hands, a sight Joyce had been told was common in India, but which continued to surprise her-they entered the building. Or rather they entered a time warp. She felt as if she was in the Edwardian era. The furniture was old, dark wood, with parts of it looking like genuine mahogany. The walls were panelled with some cheaper hardwood that someone apparently thought would match but didn’t. There was a dying plant on the receptionist’s desk and two old, black bakelite telephones, plus a small switchboard system of the sort favoured in early Clark Gable movies.