And yet the arranged marriage remained sacrosanct. Even among the wealthiest Delhi families, few parents gave their blessing to a "love marriage," even when the couples belonged to the same religion and caste. It was still considered utterly disrespectful for a child to find his or her own mate. After all, only a parent had the wisdom and foresight necessary for such a vital and delicate task. Increasingly, Indians living in major towns and cities relied on newspaper ads and Internet websites to find spouses for their children.
The Singlas' advertisement in the Indian Express had read as follows:
SOUTH DELHI HIGH STATUS AGRAWAL BUSINESS FAMILY SEEKS ALLIANCE FOR THEIR HOMELY, SLIM, SWEET-NATURED, VEGETARIAN AND CULTURED DAUGHTER. 5'1". 50 KG.
WHEATISH COMPLEXION. MBA FROM USA. NON-MANGLIK.
DOB: JULY '76 (LOOKS MUCH YOUNGER). ENGAGED IN BUSINESS BUT NOT INCLINED TO PROFESSIONAL CAREER.
BOY MAIN CONSIDERATION. LOOKING FOR PROFESSIONALLY QUALIFIED DOCTOR/INDUSTRIALIST BOY FROM DELHI OR OVERSEAS. PLS SEND BIODATA, PHOTO, HOROSCOPE. CALL IN CONFIDENCE.
Ramesh Goel's parents had seen the advertisement and applied, providing a detailed personal history and a headshot of their son.
At twenty-nine, he ticked all the boxes. He was an Agrawal and was Cambridge educated. His family was not fabulously wealthy (Goel's father was a doctor), but for the Singlas, caste and social status were the main concern.
From the start, their daughter, Vimi, liked the look of Ramesh Goel. When she was shown his head shot, she cooed, "So handsome, no?" Soon after, the two families had tea at the Singlas' mansion in Sundar Nagar. The rendezvous was a success. The parents got along and provided their consent for Vimi and Ramesh to spend time together unchaperoned. The two went out on a couple of dates, once to a restaurant, a few days later to a bowling alley. The following week, they agreed to marry. Subsequently, astrologers were consulted and a date and time was set for the wedding.
But with less than a month before the big day, Sanjay Singla, acting on the advice of a sensible friend, decided to have Goel screened. That was where Puri had come into the picture.
During their initial meeting at Singla's office three weeks ago, the detective had done his best to assure the industrialist that he was doing the right thing.
"You would not invite a stranger into your house. Why invite any Tom, Dick or Harry into your family?" he'd said.
The detective had told Singla about some of the cases he had handled in the past. Only recently, he'd run a standard background check on a Non-Resident Indian (NRI) living in London who was betrothed to a Chandigarh businessman's daughter and discovered that he was a charlatan. Neelesh Anand of Woodford was not, as he claimed, the owner of the Empress of India on the Romford Road, but a second-order balti cook!
As Puri had put it to Singla: "Had I not unmasked this bloody goonda, then he would have made off with the dowry and never been heard of again, leaving the female in disgrace."
By disgrace he'd meant married, childless and living back at home with her parents-or worse: on her own.
Of course, the Anand case had been a straightforward investigation, a simple matter of calling up his old friend, retired Scotland Yard inspector Ian Masters, and asking him to head down to Upton Park in east London for a curry. Most pre-matrimonial cases that came Puri's way-there were so many now, he was having to turn them away-were simple.
The Goel investigation, however, had been far more involved. Singla had been persuaded to commission the Pre-Matrimonial Five Star Comprehensive Service, the most expensive package Most Private Investigators provided. Even Ramesh Goel's parents' financial dealings and records had been scrutinized by forensic accountants.
The file now lying on Puri's desk was testimony to the long hours that had gone into the case. It was thick with bank statements, phone records and credit card bills, all acquired through less than legitimate channels.
There was nothing in the family's financial dealings to raise suspicion. It was the photographic evidence that proved so damning.
Puri laid a series of pictures on the desk for his client to see. Together they told a story. Two nights ago, Goel had gone to a five-star hotel nightclub with a couple of male friends. On the dance floor, he had bumped into Facecream, who'd been dressed in a short leather skirt, a skimpy top and high heels. The two had danced together, and afterward, Goel had offered to buy her a drink, introducing himself as Romey Butter. At first she'd refused, but Goel had insisted.
"Come on, baby, I'll get your engine running," he'd told her.
The two had downed a couple of tequila slammers and danced again, this time intimately. At the end of the evening, Facecream, going under the name Candy, had given Goel her phone number.
"On the coming night, he set out for the female's apartment at two-oblique-twelve, A Block, Safdarjung Enclave," Puri told Singla. "Inside, he consumed two pegs of whisky and got frisky with the female. He said-and I quote-"Wanna see my big thing, baby?" Then he got down his trousers. Unfortunately for him, the female, Candy, had dissolved one knockout drug in his drink and, forthwith, he succumbed, passing out."
An hour later, Goel awoke naked and in bed, convinced that he had made love to Candy, who assured him that he was "the best she'd ever had."
Lying next to her, Goel confessed that he was getting married at the end of the month. He called his fiancee, Vimi Singla, a "stupid bitch" and a "dumb brat" and proposed that Candy become his mistress.
"He said, 'I'll soon be rich, baby. I'll get you whatever you want.'"
The detective handed the last photograph to his client. It showed Goel leaving Candy's apartment with a big grin on his face.
"Sir, there is more," said Puri. "We have done background checking into Goel's qualifications. It is true he attended Cambridge. Three years he spent there. But he never so much as saw one university lecture. Actually, he attended Cambridge Polytechnic and concerned himself with drink and chasing females."
The detective paused for breath.
"Sir," he continued, "as I intimated to you previously, my job is gathering facts and presenting evidence. That is all. I'm a most private investigator in every sense. 'Confidentiality' is my watchword. Rest assured our dealings will remain in the strictest confidence."
Puri sat back in his chair and waited for Singla's reaction. It came a moment later, not in English, but Punjabi.
"Saala, maaderchod!"
With that, the industrialist gathered up the photographs and roughly shoved them back into their file. "Send me your bill, Puri," he said over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
"Certainly, sir. And if I can ever be…"
But the industrialist was gone.
No doubt he was heading home to call off the wedding.
From everything Puri had read in the society pages, his client would be out of pocket by crores and crores. No doubt the Umaid Bhavan Palace in Jodhpur was already paid for. So, too, Celine Dion and the Swarovski crystal fountains.
The detective heaved a sigh. Next time he hoped the Singla family would consult with Most Private Investigators before they sent out four thousand gold-leaf-embossed invitations.
Three
The rubber soles of Puri's new shoes squeaked on the marble floors of the Gymkhana Club reception. The noise caused Sunil, the incharge, to look up from behind the front desk. He was holding a phone to his ear and murmuring mechanic ally into it, "Ji, madam, o-kay madam, no problem madam." He gave the detective a weary nod, placing the palm of one hand over the receiver.
"Sir. One gentleman is awaiting your kind attention," he said in a hushed voice.