But after visiting the Sai Baba temple on Lodhi Road, Handbrake had seen his fortunes change for the better.
That very afternoon, Puri's former driver had suddenly resigned due to ill health, and Elizabeth Rani had had to call the Regal B Hinde Taxi Service and ask for a car. Handbrake had been first in line for a fare, and after picking up the detective from Khan market, he spent the day driving him all over the city.
That evening, Boss had complimented him on his knowledge and asked him four questions.
Did he have a family? Yes, Handbrake had replied, telling Puri about little Sushma, whom he missed so much it hurt.
Did he drink? Sometimes, he admitted, feeling ashamed because of the many times since he'd come to Delhi that he'd gotten drunk on Tractor Whisky and blacked out.
Next the detective had asked him whether he knew what color socks he was wearing.
"Yes, they are white," Handbrake had replied, mystified by the question.
"And which newspaper have I been reading today?"
"Indian Express ."
Without further ado, Puri had offered him a full-time job with a monthly salary double his usual earnings. He had thrown in one thousand rupees to buy some new clothes and go for a haircut and shave, and advanced him a further five hundred to rent a room in Gurgaon.
The job came with certain conditions.
Handbrake was not to discuss Puri's business with anyone, not even his wife. To do so was a sackable offense. So, too, were drinking on duty, turning up for work with a hangover, cheating on petrol, gambling and visiting prostitutes.
The driver was banned from sleeping on the backseat of the car during the day. And he was expected to shave every morning.
Handbrake had accepted all these conditions willingly. However, there was one proviso to which he had taken exception: his employer's insistence that he obey Indian traffic rules. Incredibly, Puri expected him to keep to his lane, indicate before he turned, and give way to women drivers. When he attempted going around roundabouts anticlockwise, cutting off autorickshaw drivers or backing the wrong way down one-way streets, he was severely reprimanded. Furthermore, when he exceeded the speed limit on the main roads, he was told to slow down. This meant that he often had to give way to traffic, which was humiliating.
Handbrake found the drive to Jaipur that morning particularly frustrating. The new tarmac-surfaced toll road, which was part of India's proliferating highway system, had four lanes running in both directions, and although it presented all manner of hazards, including the occasional herd of goats, a few overturned trucks and the odd gaping pothole, it held out an irresistible invitation to speed. Indeed, many of the other cars travelled as fast as 100 miles per hour.
Handbrake knew that he could keep up with the best of them. Ambassadors might look old-fashioned and slow, but the latest models had Japanese engines. But he soon learned to keep it under seventy. Time and again, as his competitors raced up behind him and made their impatience known by the use of their horns and flashing high beams, he grudgingly gave way, pulling into the slow lane among the trucks, tractors and bullock carts.
Soon, the lush mustard and sugarcane fields of Haryana gave way to the scrub and desert of Rajasthan. Four hours later, they reached the rocky hills surrounding the Pink City, passing in the shadow of the Amber Fort with its soaring ramparts and towering gatehouse. The road led past the Jal Mahal palace, beached on a sandy lake bed, into Jaipur's ancient quarter. It was almost noon and the bazaars along the city's crenellated walls were stirring into life. Beneath faded, dusty awnings, cobblers crouched, sewing sequins and gold thread onto leather slippers with curled-up toes. Spice merchants sat surrounded by heaps of lal mirch, haldi and ground jeera, their colours as clean and sharp as new watercolor paints. Sweets sellers lit the gas under blackened woks of oil and prepared sticky jalebis. Lassi vendors chipped away at great blocks of ice delivered by camel cart.
In front of a few of the shops, small boys, who by law should have been at school, swept the pavements, sprinkling them with water to keep down the dust. One dragged a doormat into the road where the wheels of passing vehicles ran over it, doing the job of carpet beaters.
Handbrake honked his way through the light traffic as they neared the Ajmeri Gate, watching the faces that passed by his window: skinny bicycle rickshaw drivers, straining against the weight of fat aunties; wild-eyed Rajasthani men with long handlebar moustaches and sun-baked faces almost as bright as their turbans; sinewy peasant women wearing gold nose rings and red glass bangles on their arms; a couple of pink-faced goras straining under their backpacks; a naked sadhu, his body half covered in ash like a caveman.
Handbrake turned into the old British Civil Lines, where the roads were wide and straight and the houses and gardens were set well apart.
Ajay Kasliwal's residence was number 42 Patel Marg, a sprawling colonial bungalow purchased by his grandfather, the first Indian barrister to be called to the Rajasthani Bar. The house bore his name, Raj Kasliwal Bhavan, and sat back from the road beyond two red sandstone pillars crowned by stone Rajasthani chhatris. A driveway led through a well-tended front garden where a mali stooped over the beds, planting marigolds.
Handbrake pulled up in front of the grand, columned entrance and got out to open Puri's door. The detective was stiff after the long drive and grimaced as his knees creaked under his weight.
"I'll be some time," he told the driver, handing him thirty rupees. "Take lunch and then come back. Also, don't call anyone in Delhi and tell them where you are."
Puri mounted the three steps that led to a veranda with its cane furniture and rush blinds, and yanked the brass bellpull. There was a ringing somewhere deep inside the house, and before long, the door was pulled ajar by a young maidservant.
"Ji?" she said, her eyes darting over the top of her chunni, which obscured half her face.
"I am here to see Ajay Kasliwal," explained Puri in Hindi.
The girl nodded and let him inside, her head bent shyly. She closed the door behind them and, without another word, led the detective down a hallway lit by an antique smoky-brown Manoir lamp. The inside of the bungalow was cool thanks to its thick granite walls and stone floors. The sound of the maidservant's chappals scuffling over them was accompanied by the soft squeaking of the detective's shoes. When she came to the second door on the left, the girl indicated it as if something frightening lurked inside.
"Is Mr. Kasliwal inside?" asked Puri.
She shook her head slowly. "Madam," she whispered with lowered eyes.
Puri opened the door and stepped into a large sitting room of diminished grandeur. It was furnished with dowdy couches and armchairs draped in crocheted throws. On the floor lay a twenty-foot Persian rug that was faded and, in places, threadbare. Overhead hung a sooty crystal chandelier that gave a feeble light.
The decor did not detract from Mrs. Kasliwal's regal bearing. She sat on a thronelike armchair next to the fireplace in a priceless silk sari. Although no great beauty, she benefited from strong bone structure, which suggested strength of character. The gold and black mangal sutra necklace, large red bindi on her forehead and the sindoor in the parting of her hair also indicated a certain piety.
"Namashkar, Mr. Puri," she said, putting aside her knitting. Her tone was inviting but also slightly imperious. "Such an honor, no? Not every day a famous detective visits. The Sherlock Holmes of India, isn't it?"
Puri did not like being compared to Sherlock Holmes, who had rather belatedly borrowed the techniques of deduction established by Chanakya in 300 BC and never paid tribute to them. But he hid his irritation well and sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace to the left of Mrs. Kasliwal.