The Case of the Love Commandos (12 page)

A few yards from the periphery of the village proper, they came across three boys engaged in the same activity as the womenfolk, albeit with less regard for their own privacy. Here, Atif suggested a detour so that he could show her his house and they set off east along a narrow pathway. The caretaker soon stopped beneath a neem tree, which he promptly began to climb with the dexterity of a teenager, his sinewy legs scaling up the trunk. When he returned, it was with a young twig snapped from the topmost branches.

“No need for toothpaste,” he said as he peeled back the brown skin and handed it to her.

She smiled, working the end against her incisors, and they continued on to the Muslim area of the village. Here the houses were separated from their nearest Hindu neighbors by a no-man’s-land some ten meters wide. In spite of this age-old segregation, the Muslims were prospering. Many of
them were traders and owned shops in the nearest town, Atif explained.

“My nephew supplies spare parts for tractors,” he said with pride. “He has money like none of us has ever known.”

Atif led on past an area inhabited by Kumhars, or potters, who, judging by the state of their dilapidated homes, were not faring well in the new Indian economy. Tupperware containers had supplanted clay storage vessels across the country and chai stands were gradually doing away with the traditional biodegradable terra-cotta cup.

“These people have no land and they’re not adapting,” explained Atif.

Ironically, the same could be said for the village’s Brahmin families. “They refuse to do manual work and their fields have been divided up by all their sons, so they’re not profitable,” he explained. “Also, there are no government jobs reserved for them.”

The power of the Thakurs, too, had waned in the area, despite the fact that they remained in possession of roughly 50 percent of all the agricultural land in the state. This had allowed the Yadavs, who’d risen from laborers to landowners in the past half century, to gain dominance. The pradhan ranked amongst their number and had ensured that they were all in possession of highly prized government-issued “Below Poverty Line” cards. The cards entitled them to around thirty-five kilos of cut-price rice a month and five liters of subsidized fuel. Outside one Yadav house that enjoyed such concessions stood a brand-new hatchback with a red ribbon stretched across the hood and plastic covering the seats inside.

“Since they’ve become wealthy, they treat Dalits like slaves,” said Atif. “They don’t allow them to own land or even spend time in the middle of the village. And they’re still prevented from visiting the temple by the high castes.”

“Are the Dalits allowed to vote?” she asked.

“In the state and national elections, yes. The big parties make sure security is in place so their people can get to the polls. Every Dalit votes. But when it comes to village elections, they can’t set foot in the booth.”

They came across the pradhan himself, Rakesh Yadav, standing outside the village shop with a few hangers-on, smoking a cigarette. He was in his fifties with a chin of graying stubble, bulbous cheeks and abnormally large ears. Atif greeted him with a friendly “Ram, Ram!” and introduced Facecream.

“Welcome, madam,” said Yadav, whose gums were stained red with gutka and whose hands and fingers were blemished white, as if he’d been handling strong chemicals. “You are comfortable?”

“I’m excited to be here, sir,” she told him, striking an enthusiastic, innocent tone.

“If you need anything, you need only ask,” said Yadav with largesse. “I am here to serve.”

“Actually, there is one thing, sir,” she said. “The children’s food: I’m concerned about the quantity. It seems like they’re not getting enough. The daal yesterday was very watery. Who’s responsible for the supply?”

“That duty falls to me, madam,” said Yadav.

“I believe the school should receive one kilo of lentils per day and two kilos of atta, sir,” said Facecream.

The pradhan sucked on his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “I will make sure everything is in order, madam, don’t worry. That is my work. Now there is one thing from my side. Such a young and beautiful woman as yourself should not be outside after dark.”

He’d come to know about the incident last night, she realized. “It’s not safe?” she asked.

“Men should not be tempted” was his cryptic reply.

“I saw some young men bullying a boy last night. They knocked him to the ground. I think they’d been drinking.”

“Madam, let the school be your concern and I will look to my responsibilities. And please, it is better you don’t go wandering around at night. Your safety is my concern.”

Facecream set off back to the school in no doubt that if she tried to rectify the food situation, it would put her in direct confrontation with the most powerful man in the village.

About halfway, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an auto spluttering past. It was packed with squealing schoolchildren all dressed in the uniform of one of the private schools on the highway—the girls in green salwar kameez, the boys in white shirts and shorts.

A scruffy-looking boy with disheveled hair and tattered clothes followed behind on a bicycle, two wooden blocks attached to the bottom of his feet so that he could reach the pedals. Facecream recognized him as the Dalit kid she’d rescued the night before. He stared back at her without the slightest hint of acknowledgment or recognition and pedaled on.

“Who is he?” Facecream asked Atif.

“A dhobi, I think.”

“He’s seven, eight maybe? He should be in school.”

“I’ve seen him working at the chai stand on the highway.”

“Is there anyone you don’t know in the village, Uncle?”

“I see them all passing my gate!”

“Did you see that murdered woman?”

“I did. She came just after dark, walking on her own.”

“She was on her way to the highway?”

“Where else?”

“Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

“I told you last night, it’s dangerous to be out at night.”

“You mean someone from the village might have killed her?”

The question went unanswered as Atif called out to some Muslim neighbors walking toward them.

“Salaam alaikum!” (“Peace be upon you.”)

The children began to arrive at seven. Facecream could see right away that she’d inherited a mixed bunch. The majority belonged to the Shudra laborer caste and wore an array of ill-fitting hand-me-downs. There were half a dozen Yadav kids, those whose parents had not escaped the toil of unskilled labor; two Brahmin boys easily identifiable from the holy threads visible beneath their white cotton shirts as well as their distinctly lighter skin tone; and Facecream counted three Muslim girls in head scarves.

When Facecream, aka Miss Padma Jaiteley—or “Jaiteley Madam,” as she came to be known—told all twenty-eight children to gather beneath the banyan tree, they arranged themselves into caste groupings. Schisms became apparent even amongst the Dalits, with the Chamars, who’d traditionally been condemned to collect dead animals and cure skins, automatically separating themselves from the rest.

This was only one of the challenges she faced. There were also big age differences within the group. The youngest of the children was three or four, while the eldest, a Yadav boy, was developing facial hair and was a disruptive influence with no regard for her authority.

And who could blame him? The school’s “official” teacher, Mr. P. Joshi, had by all accounts spent his days sitting around drinking tea—that is, if he’d bothered to turn up at all. This served to explain why none of the children—not one—had learned to read or write.

Standing there at the head of the “class,” it occurred to Facecream that she might have bitten off more than she could chew. Her task, after all, was to retrace Kamlesh’s
movements in the hours before her murder. In order to maintain her cover, all she needed to do was take down the attendance record and call it a day. This was as much as they and hundreds of thousands of other children in government schools across the country expected.

But she found the urge to make a difference too strong to resist. How could she live with herself if she didn’t try to set a good example? These kids had never been given a chance and she wasn’t about to let them down now.

She would need to tread carefully, of course. Sending home the underage children would only create ill will. And if she started lecturing on universal equality, not to mention common humanity, she’d be tossed out of the village on her ear.

There were other means, however.

Once she’d achieved a semblance of order, she told the children to stand up and began to sing the national anthem.

“
Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people, / Dispenser of India’s destiny
.”

Taken aback at first, her class hesitantly joined in.

“
The saving of all people waits in thy hand
, /
Thou dispenser of India’s destiny
.

“Victory, victory, victory to thee,”
they sang more or less in unison.

Puri’s hotel in Lucknow was an old British establishment with high ceilings and musty bed coverings. He slept through his alarm and woke with a start at ten past eight. By the time he’d washed and gotten dressed, breakfast had been brought up to his room on a tray. The masala omelet appeared to have been cooked in motor oil, the toast was so white it was hard to imagine it contained any nutrition, and the jam, an alarming bright red, looked like it might glow in the dark.

He took the unprecedented step of pushing the food to
one side, opting only for a cup of tea. Then he reached for the
Lucknow Gazette
, journalist Vijay Tewari’s rag.

The headline on page one brought a broad grin to his face.

EX-SPOOK IN CITY—SUSPECTED WORKING FOR ACCUSED VISHNU MISHRA.

“Hari Kumar of Spycatcher Private Investigators, Delhi, was last night putting up at Grand Hotel,” read the article beneath. “Well-placed sources said Kumar, formerly of Indian intelligence, or RAW, and infamous for busting a Chinese spy ring some years back, is working on behalf of Vishnu Mishra, accused in the murder of a Dalit woman. It is believed the private investigator is working to clear his client’s name and locate his absconding daughter, Tulsi. Kumar himself was not available for comment late last night. Repeated calls to his room went unanswered.”

Puri clapped his hands together with glee at the thought of Hari being harassed by a pesky journalist. Oh, how that bugger must be wondering who shopped him, he thought with a guffaw before cutting out the article for his scrapbook.

Puri decided to head out of the hotel in search of a proper breakfast. In the elevator, he made a mental list of the tasks ahead of him. Top priority was a call to Tulsi, who was still lying low with the Love Commandos in Agra. Despite having been under her father’s guard for the past three months, there was a chance she might be able to shed some light on how Ram had made his money. If not, she would at least be able to provide him with a list of Ram’s friends who might be able to help.

After that, Puri needed to call Flush, his young electronics and computer whiz, whom he’d already assigned to hacking into Ram’s mobile phone account. And at eleven o’clock, he was due to pick up Tubelight from Lucknow train station and give him a full briefing. Puri was setting him the task
of doing “background checking” into Dr. Bal Pandey, the Brahmin politician, and finding out whether any six-foot-one, left-handed killers ranked amongst his coterie.

He reached the lobby, still chuckling to himself about the story he’d planted in the paper about Hari, and took his key to the front desk.

“Sir, it is a great honor to have such a famous detective as your good self staying as a guest in our hotel,” said the receptionist. “Anything we can do to make you comfortable. The restaurant is always open.”

Puri was used to being recognized, given his occasional appearances on television, and thought nothing of it.

“Just I left some laundry on the bed,” he said. “One trouser leg has got mud on it.”

“Pleasure, sir.”

Puri headed across the lobby toward the front door, but the words “Best of luck with the murder case” stopped him in his tracks.

He turned around slowly and shot the receptionist a quizzical look. How could he possibly know about the investigation?

“Sir, it is in the newspaper—front page!” said the now beaming receptionist, brandishing a copy of the
Uttar Pradesh Herald
, the
Lucknow Gazette
’s competitor.

Puri grabbed it from him. His own image stared out from the front page. Beneath it, the copy read: “Private Eye Vish Puri arrived in Lucknow yesterday morning. His presence here and the murder of a Dalit woman whose body was discovered yesterday in the canal can hardly be considered a coincidence entirely. However, the identity of Mr. Puri’s client remains a mystery. His agency, Most Private Investigators Ltd., which was once one of Delhi’s premier private detective firms, is said to have hit hard times. Mr. Puri has been
scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to cases. Most recently he was involved in retrieving a kidnapped pet dog from a Delhi gang, handing over lakhs in ransom. But though Mr. Puri might have entered the twilight of his career, his appetite remains legendary and the city’s restaurateurs can expect a brisk trade, according to sources.”

The detective mashed the paper between his hands.

“Bloody bastard!” he bawled at the dismayed receptionist before tossing the paper aside and storming out of the lobby.

While he waited for his hire car, Puri paced up and down the car park, kicking loose stones across the tarmac, muttering, “Hard times, is it? I’ll give you hard time, by God!” and trying to fathom how Hari had found out he was in Lucknow.

Had someone recognized him at the station or perhaps the hospital?

Another, stronger possibility came to mind: if Hari was working for Vishnu Mishra, the latter would have told him about running into a purported police officer by the name of Lal Krishna, one of Puri’s old aliases.

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Hari. He waited a moment or two, steeling himself before answering in a gruff voice, “Puri this side.”