Puri heaved a drawn-out sigh and looked affectionately at the TV like a lover bidding his sweetheart a reluctant adieu. He switched it off and pushed himself off the couch. As his mother entered the room, he bent down and touched her feet.
"Thank God you are all right, my son," she said, tears welling in her eyes as she raised him up by the shoulder. "As soon as I came to hear, then directly I called your number. But the line was totally blocked. Must be there is commotion here and such. So I rushed right away. Of course, I felt certain everything would be all right. But Ritu Auntie was in agreement I should come. This shooting person must be found and I've little else to do."
The fact that Ritu Auntie, an insatiable gossip, had encouraged Mummy to drive over came as no surprise to him. Nor did the fact that his mother had learned about the shooting so quickly. Although recently retired and living with the detective's eldest brother twelve miles away, Mummy-ji had a staggering number of mostly female friends and acquaintances who acted as her own intelligence network across the city (and often well beyond).
Puri was in little doubt that the leak had emanated from his servants. One of them had told the subzi-wallah about the shooting and he in turn had passed on the news to one of his other customers, more than likely one of the drivers working for a household a few doors down. This driver had told his mistress, who in turn had informed her cousin-sister, who in turn had called up the auntie living next door. In all likelihood, this auntie was a bridge player who had paired up with Mummy at a recent kitty party and they had swapped telephone numbers.
Puri had learned from hard experience that it was impossible to hide dramatic developments in his life from his mother. But he would not tolerate her nosing about in his investigations.
True, Mummy had a sixth sense and, from time to time, one of her premonitions proved prescient. But she was no detective. Detectives were not mummies. And detectives were certainly not women.
"Mummy-ji, there is no need to come all this way," said Puri, who always sounded like a little boy when he addressed his mother. "I am fine. Nothing to worry about. No tension."
She made a disapproving tut. "Tension is there most definitely," she replied firmly. "Quite a bad bump you've got, na."
Mummy found the armchair nearest the door and perched on the edge of the seat, her back perfectly straight. Despite the abruptness of her departure from home and the race through Delhi's pollution and traffic, she was calm and composed. The former headmistress of Modern School, she wore her silver hair, which had only been cut once in her life, pulled back from her face into a sedate bun. Her cotton sari was a conservative green and matched her emerald earrings.
"For tension, bed rest is required. Two days minimum," she continued.
"Mummy-ji, please. I don't need bed rest," protested Puri, who was sitting back on the blue leather couch. "Really, I am fine."
A silence fell over the room. Puri noticed the Most Usual Suspects file still lying next to him and hoped that his mother wouldn't notice it.
"There are clues?" asked Mummy, suddenly.
Puri hesitated before answering. "No clues," he lied.
"Empty cartridges?"
"No, Mummy-ji."
"You've made a thorough investigation of the scene?"
"Of course, Mummy-ji," he said, sounding as stern as he could when addressing his mother. "Please don't get involved. I have told you about this before, no?"
Mummy replied impatiently, "Peace of mind will only be there once this goonda is behind bars. He may be absconding, but he will revert. Meantime, there is one other matter I wish to discuss." She hesitated before continuing. "Please listen, na. Chubby, last night, I was having one dream…"
The detective let out a loud groan, but his mother ignored him.
"Just I see you walking through one big house," she said. "Lots of rooms there are, and peacocks, also. I believe it is in Rajasthan, this place. You're entering one long passage. It is dark. One flashlight you are carrying, but it is broken. At the end, there is one young girl. Just she's lying on the ground. She is dead. So much blood, I tell you. Then from behind comes one goonda. Most ugly he is. And he's carrying a knife and…"
Mummy stopped talking and looked confused.
"And what, Mummy-ji?" interrupted Puri.
"Well, see, at that moment I was waking."
"So you don't know the end?"
"No," she admitted.
"OK, Mummy-ji, thank you for telling me," he said to appease her. "Now, let's have no more talk of knives or goondas or shootings. We'll take tea and then, you are right, I should take bed rest. Tension is most definitely building."
The detective called out to Sweetu, who was in the kitchen. In double time, he appeared in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically alert.
"Bring masala chai and biscuits," instructed the detective.
"Sir, what to do with Auntie's tachee?" he asked.
"Tachee?" repeated Puri.
"My trunk case," explained Mummy. "I'll be staying for some days. It's my duty to remain, to make sure you are all right, na? I'm your mummy after all. When you are safe, then I will revert. Meantime, don't go to Rajasthan, Chubby. I forbid it. There is grave danger and such awaiting you there."
Six
The following morning, Puri left the house at the usual time, saying good-bye to Mummy and Rumpi on the doorstep. He took with him his briefcase, stainless steel tiffin and a cardboard box holding files and papers.
The detective was not heading for the office, but he did not tell anyone his destination, not even Rumpi, for fear of having to listen to another of Mummy's lectures.
Handbrake only found out where they were headed once he had pulled away from the gate.
"We are going out-of-station," said Puri, nursing the bump on his head, which was less sore than the night before but had turned a dark purple.
He addressed the driver in Hindi peppered with the odd English term and phrase.
"Where to, Boss?" asked a surprised Handbrake, regarding Puri curiously in the rearview mirror.
"Jaipur."
"No bags, Boss?"
"I have packed my overnight things in that cardboard box. It was not possible to explain all this to you at home." Puri reverted to English: "Everyone is doing gossip."
Handbrake decided not to pry further; he knew it was not his place to ask questions about his employer's business or to complain about the sudden departure and the fact that he had not been given the opportunity to bring along a change of clothes. Such was the lot of the Indian chauffeur. Still, he could not help wondering why Puri was being so secretive about his plans. Surely it must have something to do with the shooting yesterday?
Working for the detective was certainly proving exciting. Handbrake had started the job almost a month ago, a busy month in which he had found himself tailing errant spouses and working alongside undercover operatives. On one occasion, Boss had asked him to follow a client whom he suspected of keeping two wives. Last week, he had driven his employer to South Block for a meeting with the defense minister. Yesterday, someone had tried killing him. And now, it seemed, they were on the trail of a hit man.
Handbrake still couldn't quite believe his luck. For the past five years, he had worked at the Regal B Hinde Taxi Service behind the Regal Hotel. Home had been a dirty tarpaulin erected by the side of the road, where he'd slept on a charpai shared on a shift basis with two other drivers. The hours had been grueling and the owner, "Randy" Singh, had been a miser who exacted a punishing percentage of all fares.
To add to Handbrake's woes, he had rarely been able to visit his wife and new baby girl, who remained in his father's house in the family's "native place," a village in the hills of Himachal Pradesh, a ten-hour drive north of the capital.