The Case of the Love Commandos (31 page)

Puri felt the urge to write a letter to the honorable editor of the
Times of India
on the subject and penned a few lines in his head.

Tradition and customs have their place and provide us with key reference points and a certain continuity. However, rigidity in thinking is the enemy of progress. Likewise, babies should not be thrown out with the bathwater. It is for young people also to act responsibly during times of change. A successful marriage is built on mutual understanding and compatibility. Love should also be there
.

As Puri watched the bride’s and groom’s hands being joined together, he was suddenly struck by an intense longing for his wife. It felt like an age since they’d spent any proper time together and he was glad that she would finally be home from Jammu in a few hours. Tomorrow he would take her to that restaurant she liked—the Chinese one in that godforsaken mall in Vasant Kunj. Then this weekend there was his birthday bash to look forward to. Their three daughters were all coming home and the house would be filled with grandchildren and laughter.

Ram and Tulsi recited their wedding vows and began to circle the flames. When they had completed four turns, Tulsi placed her foot on a stone while the groom repeated a mantra expressing his wish that their marriage should be built on firm foundations. The arya then filled Tulsi’s hands with puffed rice.

“You have grown in your parents’ home but, like a seed,
must be replanted in another home in order to blossom and mature,” he said.

Ram and Tulsi were now husband and wife. Only the paperwork remained. Two witnesses were required to sign the marriage certificate, and the happy couple asked Facecream and Puri to oblige.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, young man,” said the detective as he pinched Ram’s cheek hard in a show of pure Punjabi affection.

On the way back to his office, Puri watched the sky through the window of his Ambassador. A dark cloud was moving over the city like a menacing alien mother ship, casting Delhi in a gloomy half-light. Everyone out on the pavements or standing in the doorways of shops and businesses had their eyes cast upwards. But their expressions spoke only of joy and expectation. The monsoon proper had finally arrived. Relief was only minutes away.

When he reached Khan Market, Puri didn’t linger outside, however. He went straight up to his office and started dictating his notes on the Case of the Love Commandos to Elizabeth Rani. His executive secretary, who had finally enjoyed a couple of days off, typed his words on a laptop computer, stopping him occasionally to confirm a date, a time or the spelling of an unfamiliar name, like Justus Bergstrom.

“As for the killer himself, he was indeed an Afridi, as Tubelight had guessed—a descendant of Muslim Afghans who settled in Uttar Pradesh,” said Puri. “Vishnu Mishra has since been released and all charges dropped. He has offered a substantial reward for anyone who leads him to his daughter.”

The detective ended with the words “Madam Rani, it is without doubt one of the most challenging cases I have solved in my long and illustrious career ’til date.”

Usually this would have been Elizabeth Rani’s cue to marvel at his acumen. But fearing the evil eye as much as her employer, she restricted her congratulations to “Well done, sir, I don’t know how you do it.”

She then followed this up with a few questions about the case.

“Sir, Ram’s mother, Kamlesh, was violated by Dr. Bal Pandey at Lucknow General Hospital and Baba Dhobi, who in those days was an administrator, failed to file a case against him,” she said.

“Quite correct, Madam Rani,” said Puri as he sat back in his executive swivel chair with his fingers knitted together and hands resting on his belly.

“But then she—”

“You are wondering what benefit Baba Dhobi gained from turning a blind eye and not pressing charges against Pandey?” he asked with a hint of magnanimity in his voice.

“Actually, sir, that I understand. Being a man with no scruples, he turned the circumstances to his advantage. What I was wondering was—”

“Why Kamlesh Sunder continued to place trust in him?”

She gave a nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Madam Rani, a female such as she, coming from the village and all, never thought for one second that Baba Dhobi was playing a double role,” said Puri. “He presented the situation as
us
versus
them
—that being his forte so to speak. He was a fellow Dalit in a position of authority and yet he could appear to be powerless against the Brahmin oppressor.”

He paused. “Anything else is there?” he asked, knowing full well that more questions were to follow.

“Yes, sir. I don’t understand how Hari came to know that Ram escaped his captors.”

“That is an easy one, actually, Madam Rani. He was
working for Baba Dhobi, who in turn was in touch with Bergstrom, who was desperate to get back his data key with the research.”

“They had links beforehand—Baba Dhobi and Bergstrom?”

“ICMB could not build such a facility in Uttar Pradesh without the express permission of the chief minister, Madam Rani. So many kickbacks and all are required.”

“So it was Baba Dhobi’s goondas who went to the village and thrashed Ram’s father and the chowkidar in the village?”

“Not at all. That was the work of the two Gurkha gentlemen in the employ of Bergstrom. After coming to know that Dr. Basu leaked the research, they were charged with searching high and low for Ram.”

“I still don’t understand how Ram escaped, sir.”

“He revealed the details yesterday, only. After getting abducted, he was interviewed by Bergstrom at some undisclosed location in Agra. Some violence was used—beatings and all. Afterward, Ram was confined to a room and one ankle was chained to the wall. Later that night he pulled a few threads from his shirt and used them to tie three links in the chain together, thus shortening it and making it so tight that it dug into his skin. He then called to the guard and demanded to use the toilet. This was allowed and so the chain was removed. After Ram returned from the toilet, the chain was placed once again around his ankle. The guard, not noticing the threads with the links still tied together, made it a little loose. Once he had departed from the room, Ram snapped the threads, thus rendering the chain loose enough to slip it off his ankle. He then made his getaway out a window and went to ground once more in Agra while searching for Tulsi.”

“A remarkable young man,” said Elizabeth Rani. “I do hope he’s being properly protected.”

“What with all the publicity in the case, the CBI would not want to be found wanting,” said Puri. “Priority will be given to his safety, that is for sure. But he and his lovely bride will be forced to live with separate identities ’til the end of their days. For everything in this life there is a price to be paid, Madam Rani, is there not?”

“Yes, I suppose, sir,” said Elizabeth Rani, who didn’t sound altogether convinced.

She stood up from her chair and lingered in front of the desk with a puzzled look. Puri could see that there was still something on her mind.

“Tell me, Madam Rani?” he said with as much patience as he could muster given the hunger pains that were developing deep in his belly.

“Facecream, sir. You don’t think she would ever leave us, do you—go and work for the Love Commandos full-time?” she asked.

Puri’s mouth curled into a smile. “To be totally and perfectly honest, I have had my concerns, also,” he said. “What all she was doing mixed up with such an underground organization? I wondered. Where were her loyalties lying these days? But now all concerns are gone. I salute her commitment, actually. She identifies with the cause. It is heartfelt, that is for sure. Why …? I cannot tell you. Could be when she was younger, she was forced to marry. Or she was forbidden from marrying some boy. Frankly speaking, it is not for us to ask. She is a privately minded person. And I am proud to say, one of the most remarkable people I have had the honor to work with ’til date.”

The pitter-patter of rain drew the detective’s attention to the window. Streaks were starting to appear on the grimy panes.

“Aaah, at last Madam Rani—baarish!” he said as he stood up and went to get a closer look. “Better late than never, haan?”

“Yes, sir, the city certainly needs it.”

They stood by the window watching as the deluge grew in intensity and the surfaces of the road and pavement below began to effervesce as if the water gathering upon them was boiling.

Puri pushed open the window. The stale, fetid air that had been hanging over the city for weeks was dissipating. He found that he could breathe easily again.

“Madam Rani, we should celebrate,” he said. “Send the boy for some nice hot pakoras.”

“But, sir, the weather?”

He looked out the window again. The other side of the street was no longer visible. It sounded like they were standing at the bottom of a waterfall.

“Come now, Madam Rani,” said the detective, “it is only a little rain, no?”

At a few minutes to eight in the evening, Puri fixed himself a drink, sat down on the sofa in his sitting room and switched on the TV.

“News is coming!” he shouted to Rumpi, who was in the kitchen.

The detective could barely contain his excitement as he switched to
Action News!

Often when he solved a big case, he didn’t get the recognition he deserved. Either because some cop stole the limelight or, more often than not, out of a need to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation.

Occasionally, he also stayed away from the cameras for
fear of prejudicing the outcome of the trial. He and Hari had agreed to adopt such a policy with regard to the Case of the Love Commandos.

If the special court acted properly and Baba Dhobi and Dr. Pandey and all those associated with the murder of Kamlesh Sunder were convicted, then the two rivals would break their silence.

The Jain Jewelry Heist, however, was different.

Puri had finally solved the case that very afternoon after he’d found himself thinking about Baba Dhobi’s south Indian Vaastu practitioner.

Vaastu was becoming increasingly popular amongst India’s “creamy layer.” The wealthier they got, the more paranoid they became about losing everything, it seemed. Thus the thought had occurred to him that the Jains might have consulted with a Vaastu practitioner.

He soon discovered that they had.

His name was Gopal Jaipuria and he’d advised Jay Jain in the design, positioning and construction of the house.

Jaipuria, a specialist in astro-numerology and gem therapy, had also been given access to all of the Jain family’s birth dates, anniversaries and favorite numbers. With these, he’d been able to crack the combination to the safe.

“What part did the other thieves play—the ones you caught with the earrings and cash?” asked Rumpi as she settled onto the sofa next to him.

“The Vaastu practitioner set them up—gave them the job, so to speak.”

“So they arrived after he’d emptied the safe?”

“By a good hour at least. Must be he opened the safe with some ease, left them a token amount and made off with the mother lode. After, the gang came bungling in, blowing up the safe with dynamite. A bunch of jokers they were.”

At five this afternoon, Jaipuria had been arrested and the jewels recovered. Puri had thus concluded that his bad fortune was gone. The evil eye’s gaze was focused elsewhere. When
Action News!
arrived at the scene and asked him to comment, he hadn’t been able to resist taking credit for single-handedly solving the case.

Now, fifty million people were about to share his moment of triumph.

“Here it comes,” said Rumpi when the graphics rolled and the sensational music pumped from the speakers.

“Tonight—an
Action News!
exclusive!” announced the anchor.

Rumpi took Puri’s hand in hers. “I’m so proud of you, Chubby,” she said, and gave it a squeeze.

“Our reporter is live in Punjabi Bagh, Delhi, and we cross to her now. Vineeta, I understand the real hero of the Vaishno Devi heist has been revealed?”

Puri exclaimed, “What the bloody hell!” as a young woman appeared on the screen, standing in front of an apartment block.

“That’s Mummy’s house!” cried Rumpi.

“Yes, my dear,” mumbled Puri, who looked like he’d lost the will to live.

“It’s emerged tonight that an aunty in her seventies cracked the case single-handedly,” the reporter was saying. “Thanks to this heroic senior, the thieves together with the loot were apprehended by the police as they were making their getaway. Koomi Puri, known to one and all as Mummy-ji, is here with me now. Mummy-ji, the Jammu police have called you a national hero. How does that make you feel?”

Mummy glanced apprehensively at the camera. Staring down at the handheld microphone, she spoke into it. “Just I was doing my duty as a concerned citizen of India, na.”

“I understand the thieves masqueraded as yatris on the
pilgrimage, but you realized there was something fishy going on?”

“Pranap Dughal—sorry, Dhiru Bhatia—was a bad sort. So crafty he was. A daku through and through.”

“And you saw through the lady thief’s disguise?”

“At first, no. She was doing so much of abuse and all and eating everything in sight.”

“And I understand you identified the priest involved, also.”

“He was on the train from Delhi doing planning of the robbery with Pranap Dughal.”

“Now, I’ve come to know that sleuthing runs in the family, Mummy-ji. Is it true your son is a private investigator in Delhi?”

“My late husband Om Chander Puri was a police inspector, also.”

“And it was because you were trying to help your son that the thieves came to your notice on the train?”

Puri could hardly watch. He’d managed to contain news of the embarrassing pickpocket incident, and his professional reputation remained intact.

“Please, Mummy, don’t … I’m begging you,” he muttered.

But he was wasting his breath. She came straight out with it.

“See,” she said, “it all started when Chubby—that is my second eldest, the private investigator one—he got his wallet stolen on the train by that Pranap Dughal.”