Outside Jaipur's District and Sessions Court, rows of male typists sat at small wooden desks bashing away at manual typewriters. The tapping of tiny hammers on paper punctuated by the pings of carriage bells was constant-the very sound of the great, self-perpetuating industry of Indian red tape.
Hovering behind each typist stood his clients: complainants, defendants, petitioners and advocates, all watching to ensure their affidavits, summons, wills, marriage applications, deeds, indentures and countless other types of form were completed accurately. A rate of ten rupees per page was charged for this service, an unavoidable fee given the court's stipulation that all official documents should be typed (and one exploited to the full by the typing mafia, who ensured that there was not a word processor in sight).
In front of the courthouse sat rows of advocates whose "offices" were out in the open. Each had a desk with his name prominently displayed on a plaque, a few chairs and a metal filing cabinet packed with bulging files tied with string.
Schools of hangers-on circled the lawyers, like symbiotic fish feeding off the parasites on sharks. Chai-wallahs moved between the rows of desks with trays of small glasses of sweet milky tea, calling "Chaieee, Chaieee!" Grubby little urchins carrying wooden boxes with brushes, rags and tins of polish offered to shine shoes for four rupees.
Hawkers sold roasted peanuts in newspaper cones.
Various businesses had also set up under a banyan tree. There was a barber-a mirror attached to the gnarled trunk and a high chair-catering to those requiring a haircut or a shave before making their appearance in court. A table with a phone and a meter hooked up to a car battery also served as a "telecon center."
Like any place in India where people gathered, the courts attracted beggars and a collection of wildlife as well. A man with no legs rolled around on a makeshift skateboard, holding his hand up in hopes of a handout. Rats and crows competed for discarded peanut shells. Pye-dogs lazed in the winter sun.
Puri passed through this throng with disdain written large across his face. His aversion to India's courts had developed long before he became a private detective. In the mid-1970s, his father had been falsely accused of bribery and become embroiled in a court battle to clear his name, which had dragged on for nearly fifteen years and had sullied his reputation forever. As a teenager, the young Puri had spent many a morning or afternoon waiting patiently outside the Rohini courts complex, where he had seen for himself how corrupt and inefficient the system was. Often he would meet his cousin Amit there, trying to settle a property dispute that had started between his grandfather and great-uncle some twenty years earlier and embroiled the next two generations in pointless quarrelling and exorbitant legal fees.
According to one newspaper article Puri had read recently, it would take half a century to clear the backlog of cases pending in India. And there were hundreds more being added every day.
The detective passed some of the system's victims in the corridors of the main building as he searched for the courtroom where Ajay Kasliwal was arguing a case. Many of them were poor and illiterate, unable to afford proper representation or the bribe money necessary to grease the palms of the countless gatekeepers to justice. They crouched on their haunches, resigned and helpless in the face of endless adjournments, incomprehensible legal jargon and unchallenged violations of their fundamental rights.
A jostling crowd of advocates, defendants and their families blocked Puri's entrance to Court 19. He found a space on a bench outside and waited for Kasliwal to emerge. Next to him sat an old man with the dry, cracked heels of a farmer who had spent long years plowing parched fields.
Puri asked him what he was doing there and soon the farmer was telling him about his case. It had begun with a dispute over a water buffalo.
"My neighbor stole the animal at night," he said. "When I complained to the police, they beat me. The court said there was no evidence and I was ordered to pay my neighbor's legal fees. Now I am in dispute with his lawyers because I cannot pay and my own lawyer is also charging to represent me. When I come here to appeal, either the lawyers do not appear or there is no time given to me in the court. Meanwhile the bills grow larger and still I cannot pay. In the end I will be bankrupt, they will take my land and I will have no choice but to take my own life."
Puri asked him how much he owed. The amount was two thousand rupees.
"And how long have you been coming here?"
"Three years."
It saddened him to think that in today's India, sixty years after the nation had won its independence, a man's future and that of his family hung in the balance over an amount equivalent to a restaurant bill. He felt inclined to take out his wallet and give the farmer the amount he required. But he knew cash handouts were not the answer; the money would just get swallowed up. What was needed was reform. Perhaps by defending Ajay Kasliwal, he could help achieve it.
"Case adjourned," said Kasliwal, squeezing through the swell of people clambering to get inside Court 19. "That's the third time this week."
"On what grounds?" asked Puri.
"The key witness was supposed to be deposed before the judge, but it seems His Lordship has been bought by the opposition."
The two men left the building and drove over to the Rajasthan High Court, where Kasliwal had his office.
"The problem with the system is such that it is almost impossible to remain honest," said the lawyer. "So much temptation is there, I tell you. Everyone is involved. All these bastards are looking after one another's interests. If you get one good apple, then they're worried it will spoil the batch. They don't want honest fellows like me around who aren't ready to do match fixing.
"It is a great conspiracy of interests," he continued. "I'm fighting the entire system, Puri-ji. My enemies are surrounding me on all fronts. But we must root out this evil. How can India expect to reach superpower status with all this corruption around? It is like a great hand around our throats. I, for one, am prepared to fight it with every bone in my body."
Kasliwal's office was plainly furnished with just a desk, a few chairs and picture of Gandhi on the wall. In the bottom drawer of his desk, he kept a bottle of Royal Challenge.
"It's good for bad purposes." He chuckled, pouring Puri a small glassful, then adding some soda.
The two men clinked glasses and sat down on either side of Kasliwal's desk, facing each other.
"Puri-ji, you are a good man," said the lawyer. "That is as clear as day. Come what may, we will be friends! That is for sure."
The detective drank to his client's health but looked troubled.
"Too much soda?"
"No, no, badiya!"
"Something is wrong?"
"Yes, there is something," answered Puri. "Before I proceed further, one thing should be understood. A detective must be thorough. He must leave no stone unturned. To reach the truth, he must go about where he's not wanted, asking questions people don't want to answer. He must pry into the darkest shadows. Sometimes he will discover skeletons hiding away in closets. Sometimes in trunks, also."
"You've found something already, Puri-ji?"
"Nothing yet. But this is an old friend." He touched the side of his bulbous Punjabi nose. "It is as good as radar. Better, in fact! And it is telling me something terrible has happened. The circumstances surrounding Mary's disappearance are most peculiar. No way a maidservant leaves without taking her salary. However small an amount, such a female will want it."
The detective stared into his whisky, deep in thought.
"If you want me to find out what happened, I must examine your affairs and those of your family. From top to bottom, inside and out."
"We have nothing to hide," said Kasliwal.
Puri drained his glass and placed it on his client's desk. His countenance was grave. "Let us suppose for a moment you were making mischief with this Mary," he said.
Kasliwal sat up straight. "What kind of question is that?"
"Sir, I need to know everything or no good will come," answered Puri, staring at him across the desk.
"Nothing happened between us, I swear it."
"But you tried to make friendship with her?"
"Listen, I admit she was good for window shopping, but I never touched her. My father taught me never to do hanky-panky with servants."
"And with others?" probed Puri.
The lawyer stood up, looking agitated. He started to pace up and down.
"Sit. It is no good hiding the truth from Vish Puri," prompted the detective.
"My private life is not open for discussion," said Kasliwal firmly.
"Sir, I'm working on your behalf. What is said will remain between us."
Kasliwal stopped by the window of his office looking out on the inner courtyard of the High Court. There was a long silence and then he turned his back on the window and said, "I admit I'm not a man to always eat home-cooked food. Sometimes, I like something extra spicy."
His words were met with a blank look.
"Come on, Puri-ji, you know how it is. I'm only human. Married to the same woman for twenty-nine years. Arranged marriage and all. After so many innings, a man needs some extracurricular activity."
"But not with servants?"
"Life is complicated enough, Puri-ji."
The detective took out his notebook, referring to his notes from his conversation with Mrs. Kasliwal.
"How about Kamat, cook's assistant? He and Mary got involved?"
Kasliwal shrugged. By now, he was standing with his hands on the back of his chair, leaning over it. "I wouldn't know. With so much workload, I'm not around the house much."
Puri flicked back to the notes taken during his first conversation with his client in the Gymkhana Club.
"The night Mary vanished, you were working, is it?" he asked.
The lawyer looked down and exhaled deeply. "Not exactly," he confessed. "I was…"
"Making friendship?"
There was a pause. "Something like that."
"Anyone can verify?"
Kasliwal looked torn by the suggestion. "Puri-ji, that could be awkward," he said hesitantly.
The detective referred to the list compiled by Mrs. Kasliwal of everyone who was supposed to have been in the house at the time of Mary's disappearance.
"What about your driver, Munnalal? He was with you?"
"He dropped me at the address, yes."
"I'd like to talk with him."
"I'm afraid one month back, he got drunk and abusive, so I fired him."
"You know his address?"
"No, but he's round about. I pass him in one of those new Land Cruisers from time to time. Must be working for another family. I doubt it will be difficult to track him down."
The detective checked his watch. It was already four o'clock.
"By God, where does the time go? I'd better get a move on, actually," he said.
Kasliwal saw him to do the door.
As they shook hands, Puri asked, "Sir, is your wife aware?"
"Of what? Munnalal's address? Possibly I can ask her."
"I was referring to your like of spicy food."
Kasliwal raised a knowing eyebrow and replied, "I never bring home takeout."
After he left the High Court, Puri asked Handbrake to take him to a hole-in-the-wall cash dispenser, where he took out a wad of new hundred-rupee notes.
Their next stop was Jaipur's Central Records Office, where the detective wanted to check if any unidentified bodies had been discovered in Jaipur around the time of Mary's disappearance.
The building matched the blueprint for most Indian government structures of the post-1947 socialist era: a big, uninspiring block of crumbling, low-quality concrete with rows of air-conditioning units covered in pigeon excrement jutting from the windows.
At the entrance stood a walk-through metal detector that looked like a high school science project. Made out of chipboard and hooked up to an old car battery, it beeped every ten seconds irrespective of whether anyone passed through it.
The foyer beyond was dark with a half-dead potted plant on either side of the lift and several panels hanging precariously from the false ceiling. Two busybody male receptionists sat at a wooden desk cluttered with rotary-dial telephones and visitors' logbooks. A sign on the wall behind them read:
Puri did not have an appointment and, since he could not lay claim to being any of the above, had to part with a few minutes of his time and three of his new hundred-rupee notes.
Thus armed with the requisite entry chit, all properly signed and rubber-stamped, the detective made his way up the stairs (the lift was undergoing construction), passing walls streaked with red paan spit and fire buckets full of sand and cigarette and bidi butts.
On the fourth floor, little men with oiled hair wearing the semiofficial uniform of the Indian bureaucratic peon-grey polyester pant suits with permanent creases, and black shoes-made their way up and down the corridor. Coming face-to-face with the sheer size of the Indian bureaucracy never failed to amaze Puri. The system still employed hundreds of thousands of people and, despite the recent rise of the private sector, it remained the career of choice for the vast majority of the educated population.
Puri doubted this would change any time soon. India's love of red tape could be traced back centuries before the British. The Maurya Empire, India's first centralized power, which was founded around 2300 BC and stretched across most of the north of the subcontinent, had had a thriving bureaucracy. It had been a uniting force, implementing the rule of law and bringing stability. But now, the endemic corruption in India's administration was severely hampering the country's development.
Room 428 was near the far end of the corridor. As he strode purposefully inside, Puri took his fake Delhi police officer badge from his wallet, adopting the role of Special Commissioner Krishan Murti, Delhi Crime Branch. At the counter where all requests for records had to be made, he told the clerk that he wanted to see the file for unclaimed bodies found in Jaipur in August.
"Make it fast," he said.
"Sir, request must be made. Procedure is there. Two days minimum," replied the clerk.
At that moment, Puri's phone rang. He had preprogrammed the alarm to go off thirty seconds after he'd entered the office. He pretended to answer it.
"Murti this side," he said, pausing as if to listen to a voice on the other end of the line. He allowed his eyes to widen. "Bloody bastard!" he bellowed. "What is this delay? Where are my results?"
The clerk behind the counter watched him with growing unease.
"Don't give me damn excuses, maaderchod! I want results and I want them yesterday! Top priority! I'm answering directly to the home minister himself. The man doesn't take no for an answer and neither do I! If I don't see action within one hour, you'll be doing traffic duty in Patna!"
Puri hung up the phone, muttered "Bloody bastard" and turned on the clerk.
"What were you saying? Something about two days minimum, huh?"
"Yes, sir." The clerk quivered.
"What bullshit! Get me the incharge. Right away. No delay!" bawled the detective, thoroughly enjoying himself. Oh, how he loved watching bureaucratic types squirm!
Puri was ushered into a partitioned cubicle, the domain of C. P. Verma, whose seniority was denoted by the fact that he wore a jacket and tie.
"I want the record for unidentified bodies discovered in August," Puri told the bureaucrat, who had stood up. "It's of national importance. Top priority."
C. P. Verma, who had overheard the exchange between the desk clerk and Puri, hadn't risen through the ranks without learning how to respond to authority and recognizing when to jump.
"Of course, sir! Right away, sir!" He called for his secretary, who swiftly presented himself in front of his boss's desk. C. P. Verma ordered the man to bring him the file, his tone no less abrupt than Puri's. "Jaldi karo! Do it fast!" he added for good measure, his face contorted with displeasure.
The secretary scampered off to dispense orders of his own to the subordinates ranked below him. The incharge's expression melted into an unctuous smile.
"Sir, you'll take tea?"
The detective brushed away his offer with a motion of his hand, busying himself with his phone.
"Just get me the file," he said flatly, pretending to make another phone call, this time to his assistant, whom he accused of mismatching a set of fingerprints.
Less than five minutes later, the secretary returned with the file. Puri snatched it out of his hands and began searching through the pages. Nine unidentified bodies had been discovered in Jaipur in August alone. Of these, two were children, both suffocated and dumped in a ditch; four were hit-and-run victims found dead on the sides of various roads; one was an old man who fell down a manhole and drowned (he was not discovered for a month); another was a teenager whose headless torso turned up one morning on the railway tracks.
The ninth was a young woman.
Her naked body had been found on the side of the Ajmer Road on August 22.
According to the coroner's report, she had been raped and brutally murdered and her hands had been hacked off.
A grainy, out-of-focus photograph showed extensive bruising around her face.
"Why only one photograph?" Puri asked C. P. Verma.
"Sir, budget restrictions." It was evidently a phrase he was used to parroting.
"What happened to this woman's body?"
"Sir, it was held in Sawai Mansingh Hospital for the requisite twenty-four hours, and after no claim was made upon it, cremation was done."
"Give me a photocopy of this report and the photo, also."
"Sir, I'll need authorization." He ventured a smile.
"Authorization is there!" shouted Puri, showing him his badge. "Don't do obstruction!"
Within a matter of minutes, the photocopies were in Puri's hands.
C. P. Verma saw the detective to the door personally.
"Sir, anything else from me?" he asked.
"Nothing," snapped Puri as he left.
"Thank you, sir. Most welcome, sir," C. P. Verma found himself saying to the detective's back.
The incharge then returned to his cubicle, pleased with himself for having assisted such a highly ranked detective. He was even more senior than the other investigating officer Rajendra Singh Shekhawat, who had asked to see the same file the day before.