Story writing is such a catharsis!

1. Hocus Pocus: an Indian Murder Mystery
By
Ajay Pratap
Author’s note: Nothing like a long-winded story for taking-away the
day’s stresses and strains.
Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar had a tough night ahead. He was
chewing madly on his cigar as channels were jammed with details of
four dead bodies found in Khatampur on the same day and the media
offered nary a clue. This does not happen very often in Khatampur he
thought, as he knocked back the remainder of his latest glass of milk.
And before tucking in at his humble lodgings the thought did cross his
mind that the morning’s papers may provide what was lacking in the
evening’s news. He slept very fitfully.
True to their calling, the next morning, the two main newspapers of
Khatampur, the Khatampur Times and Khatampur Herald, were blaring
huge 25 point Calibri headlines announcing these ghastly murders. The
first victim in terms of the respective time of the murders, at 7:50 P.M.,
was Sarla Jhingorani. Her published details were Female, 52, owner of
the Sarla Apartments, in the upmarket Naubatpur locality of Khatampur.
1

2. Cause of death, and very startlingly, an enormous 5 carat blue diamond
stuck in her windpipe. Murder weapon, none, other evidence, none. The
body and the diamond were both now in police custody and the official
postmortem report to be issued by Khatampur Civil Surgeon was still
awaited. Having read this much and deciding that this was enough to
chew upon Indrajeet Talwadekar put the papers down on his breakfast
table, and left for his morning constitutional, having decided to read the
rest of the papers upon his return from his walk. His dog, Crawford, a
Golden Retriever, accompanied him as usual, wagging its happy tail.
The maid wouldn’t be in until 8:00 A.M, and, as it was only 6:00 A.M.
in the morning, he and Crawford had plenty of time.
As he returned from his constitutional and was unlocking his doors, he
heard his phones ringing ever so loudly. At a pinch, he quickly tied
Crawford to a hook outside the house, and rushed in to attend to the
phone, assuming it was a call from a client. And a client it was. None
less than Mr. Jhingorani, The husband of the now deceased Sarla
Jhingorani.
“Mr. Talwadekar,” barked Mr. Jhingorani, “Where indeed have you
been? I have kept your phones ringing for the past half-hour or so.
Something really terrible has happened.”
“Oh. Kacharu. Is that you? What’s happened? I was away walking.”
2

3. “Hell’s Bells, Man. Somebody killed Sarla.”
“What? Is that true?”
“Yeah, Man. The brute even thrust a 50 carat blue diamond down her
throat. She asphyxiated.”
“So. What would you like me to do?”
“Well, you don’t read palms do you? I want you to look into this.”
barked Kacharu.
“Pay my fee?”
“How much?”
“The usual.”
“Okay. You’re on.”
Ruminating over this sudden call from his associate and friend Kacharu
Jhingorani, himself an eminent lawyer, but happy at the thought of some
money in the bank, Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar went outside
his house again to untie his dog Crawford. A part of his morning ritual,
he fed Crawford some cold milk and pedigree, and let him prance
around afterwards, as he settled down again with the morning’s
3

4. newspapers. His eyes moved down the front-page and the second
victim’s name had also been announced – Phokat Lall Billgrammy,
Male, 54, Trader of Chewing Betel ingredient Zarda, details, very rich,
residence, Chaupatpur-Lehasiasarai locality of Khatampur City, cause of
death an insufferable amount of Zarda in his lungs, throat, mouth and
some parts of his face, murder weapon, none, cause of death unknown,
this body too was in police custody and the cause of death was still to be
confirmed through postmortem by the city’s Civil Surgeon. Time of
death, 8:00 P.M.
As he popped a couple of slices of bread into his toaster he glanced at
the details of the remaining victims of this night’s ghastly murders.
Nalpat Mulchandani and Ravishankar Parsai. The details were
respectively as follows, now he began jotting rapidly in his little diary:
Nalpat Mulchandani: repairer of radios, assets, owner of a road-side
kiosk, financial value – negligible, assets displayed – some small pencil
cells, small torches, key-rings, fiber-optics cheap goods, and nail-
cutters. Cause of death, unknown, reason of death, two hundred dry-cells
thrust down his throat; location of the body, next to his kiosk, time of
death, 11:50 pm. Body, Civil Surgeon, post-mortem, results awaited!
Ravishankar Parsai: Musician, assets, two sets of Tablas, some cheap
awards, 5 sets of Dhotis, Lungi 1, Pajama 1, Ganji 1, Cause of Death – a
4

5. Gamcha stuffed into his windpipe, time of death 12:00 p.m.
Then Talwadekar moved to crunch his toast plastered copiously with
marmalade, and dug into a four-egg Omelette, done with anchovies,
olives, mint-leaves, green chillies, and a nice coating of pepper, lathered
with generous layers of Kissan Tomato Sauce. Then, very naturally,
followed a Litre-tumbler of pure cold white milk. The breakfast done he
moved to his living rooms to adorn his attire for this morning.
Crisp starched clothes, cufflinks, tie, and a blue-striped suit, for he had a
long-day ahead with officials, relatives, and in the case of the final two
murders, with the Riff-Raff. Just the slightest thought occurred before he
revved his car engine before leaving his humble abode – Please, God,
Please, Don’t, Please – this time don’t make me play Sir Charles
Laughton even if he produced the Lovely Marry Golds. And as he
backed his Chevy out of the garage and the gates to his humble-abode,
he recollected that Sir Charles Laughton…well, it didn’t bear
mentioning.
Indrajeet Talwadekar’s next stop was the offices of the Editor of
Khatampur Times. A nice spacious bungalow, painted in pink, the name
emblazoned boldly, and next, a digital display of 1, 00,000 million
copies sold on this day, Friday the 12th of September, ticking, as this
notable newspaper was claiming further victims…or so he thought. He
5

6. noted the time of his visit or rather the time of parking his vehicle in the
Time’s Parking Lot…11:00 a.m.
Faluda Mistry, an enormously Anglicized Editor of the Khatampur
Times, was also given to drinking milk, in great proportions, and
greatly…especially, before a breaking news. His milk was by custom,
which his employees of Khatampur Times, well-understood, had to be
necessarily served in a Red Tumbler! As Talwadekar entered his offices,
Mistry Ji had his legs crossed on top of a heap of very important
correspondence upon his work table and was in the middle of a huge
gulp of his daily dose of milk. he stopped quite abruptly as he saw
Indrajeet enter his offices and even managed to spill some of his half-
toned milk. So great was his surprise, “what brings you here, old boy?”
“Murder…” said Indrajeet.
“What? Attendant. Attendant.” Faluda started banging his desk-bell,
shaking like a twig in a violent storm.
“Heck’s sake, Man. You didn’t let me finish my sentence. Calm down. I
mean the Khatampur murders of yesterday.”
“Holy Smoke. Give my glass of milk, will you. Old Boy. I thought you
were talking about doing me in.”
6

7. “Here you Are!” said Indrajeet, extending a well-muscled arm, with
sinews rippling and conspicuous like very expensive price-tags. He
extended his old associate his red-glass of milk, as a sly grin twisted his
lips.
Faluda and Indrajeet’s stories went a long-long way back. They were
once at college together. However, here on this fateful meeting was
some twenty years later… that they were meeting for the first time.
“So”, said Faluda, “what exactly brings you here after twenty years, old
chap?”
“The selfsame four murders of Khatampur of yesterday, old chap…And
I am here to quiz you a bit”
“Quiz, me? What on earth for? How am I to know anything about that
subject?” heaved Mr. Mistry, wiping some beads of sweat which had
started to appear on his forehead.
“Hold your horses, pal” said Indrajeet. “You haven’t changed a bit…in
the last twenty years, have you?”
“So what if I haven’t? This is a free country, mate”
“Of course it is. Yet, we are not here debating the level of the
7

8. democratization of the country? Are we, Mate?”
Faluda Mistry, here take a swipe off his red tumbler of milk…and looks
Indrajeet eyeball to eyeball, in pure puzzlement. Saab Faltu Hai, he
thinks, and says, “No, Sir. Indeed, We Are Not? And, you have a point
there, mate? Go on, ask me your questions”
Indrajeet Talwadekar leaned back in the leather upholstered furniture
that was provided in Mistry’s chamber, loosened his tie; letting his
sinews relax a bit, as the hum of the air-conditioners and their chill
began to bite deep into him. These newspapers chaps have it good, don’t
they, thought he, as he fished-out his little note book and a very sharp
and short 2HB Nataraja Lead Black Pencil, and started writing swiftly.
“O.K., Dear Falu. Where were you around 7:50 p.m. last night?”
“Heh. Heh. Right here in this chair, Old Chap.”
“What exactly, were you doing?”
“Drinking Milk.”
“Just, That?”
“No.”
8

9. “What, else?”
“Making news, for the likes of you.”
“What about?”
“Oh. This and that…”
“More precisely…”
“Brother, For such purposes as supposed by your query we have such
things as crime-beat reporters...Shall I call Shri Magal Singh…?”
“”I am sure, Dear Falu, you mean Mangal Singh, if you hadn’t so much
cream of the milk choking your throat!”
“Okay, Tal, so it is Mangal….”
“Heck. Don’t get worked up, just call him…Mugger Singh?”
Falu was now nearly as heated-up as he could be hence he chimed his
bell as he would, in short sharp peals, very soon, an attendant showed-
up, and gave a very obsequious look like a cat that just had had a go at
the milk and had in the hurry forgotten to quite lick its whiskers clean.
“Heh, Heh…Jee Huzoor…”
9

10. Falu spluttered, choked a bit, at mustachioed insouciance, but
maintained his poise as best he could.
Falu said, “What were you doing? I was ringing the bell, for so long.
Drinking Milk? Just go and Call Ma, Mu, Ma, Magal Singh?”
Harischandra Purohit, “Sahib Ji..heh..heh..heh…surely you mean that I
should call Shri Mugger Singh Ji, Sub-Editor, from the sixth-floor, room
number 605? Heh… heh…heh?”
Falu, “Hari, just hurry”
In just the meanest of whiles, as they sat taking-in the hum of the air-
conditioner their eardrums perceived just the slightest hint of a nimble
footfall. A slightly balding, slight-set, man wearing a Hawaii-Shirt and
flannel pants, and quite weathered ordinary chappals entered Faluda
Mistry’s chamber without knocking. He courtesied Faluda with just the
slightest shake of his very well-rounded cranium and then again quite
without asking he located a comfortable chair and eased himself into it.
He fished-out a little note book from his shirt-pocket and a very sharp
short 3HB Natraj Lead Black Pencil. Just as casually as he had entered
this room, he looked at Mr. Mistry for a short, sharp while, then
swivelled his head toward Indrajeet, and took a look at him, for an equal
duration and then quickly turning back to Mistry he said
10

11. “Yes, Sir?”
Faluda Mistry, “Mugger Sigh. Here is Indrajeet Talwadekar. A Private
Detective. He would like to ask you some questions…dig?”
“Sir.”
Indrajeet, “Mr. Singh. I hear that you do the crime-beat reporting for the
Khatampur Times. Is that true?”
“Sir.”
“Good.”
“Sir.”
“And, Sir, in that case, I have a few questions for you?”
“Sir.”
“Did you hear any tell of the Khatampur murders of yesterday?”
“Sir.”
“Sir? How do you mean, Sir?”
11

12. “Sir.”
“May I have an answer, or is this an army-drill?”
“Sir?”
Here, quite exasperated with the talents of Mangal Singh, Private
Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar turns to Faluda Mistry, his very old
associate, and gives him a very long look.
“Well Falu. With that sort of testimony indeed my inquiry will indeed go
a very long way, wont’ it?”
A wee bit crest-fallen Mistry replies
“Well Indu. Take it a step at a time. We are journalists and are used to
asking questions of others and not exactly have others doing the same to
us? Try a softer approach.”
Indrajeet does a quick think, as he slyly glances at his watch, the thought
of a very hungry Crawford flashes by in his mind, as he adjusts himself
to the time remaining in the light of his old associates caveats about his
approach.
“Well, Son. Look at it this way. Do you actually cover the streets, very
12

13. typically at nights, with your cameras, and informants’ tips, as to where
the next piece of action is being staged? Action. Action!!! You know
what I mean, Heh? Heh?”
“Yes, Sir. heh, heh, heh. That’s exactly how I do it. How did you know,
Sir?”"
“That’s much, better. O.K. Let’s take that again…on the night of Friday
the 12th of September, were you on your beat?”
“Yes, Sir. Indeed I was. How indeed did you guess? Heh. Heh.”
“Very good. Was there any action that night? Heh?”
“Heh. Yes, indeed there was. How did you know, Sir? Heh.”
“Well since you ask, I have no problems at all, in revealing to you, that it
is indeed from the television that I first learnt about it?”
“Heh. And what exactly did you learn there from, Sir?”
“The same as you did Mr. Mangal Singh, Hah!”
“You mean that there were no less than four murders in Khatampur in a
single night, the night of 12th September?”
13

14. “Yes. I did not know that there were any more…though.”
“So what exactly are we discussing?’
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“Exactly, the four murders.”
“Ah. I get it now. You would like to know from me what I know of those
murders. Right?”
“Right. Exactly Right. Heh? However, Dear Mangal, I have to be
scooting now to another quick interview with another respondent, and,
then homewards, and then, I think I shall have just a slice of time to
return here tomorrow to talk to you just a bit more. Heh, Heh?”
“Heh, Heh!”
Indrajeet walked out of the Khatampur Times Office, and into their
parking lot. He seated himself into the very comfortable and very
spacious driving seat of his Chevy, started its engine, gave the clutch a
downward press, eased the gears into the right place and gently, very
gently, cruised-out of the parking lot.
14

15. Indrajeet’s car almost as if on auto-pilot cruised past the Gullies and by-
lanes of Khatampur and quite into Ballan’s Lot or Laat where the
deceased and quite erstwhile family of Mr. Parsai resided. Indrajeet then
parked his rather new motor, double-locked it, and then proceeded
toward a house from which it could be heard that a lot of musicians of
the Hindustani Tradition were busy. Tanpuras twanging their monotonic,
but rhythmic, notes, Tablas, what have you.
But the wailing, the cries of mourning, predominated the music. papa.
papa. papa…papa. Indrajeet being a Private Detective and a seasoned-
one at that could well surmise from the ranting and raving that the Papa
in question had had the very good fortune to have reached a very ripe
old age before this heinous atrocity was committed on the night of the
12th September at 12:00 p.m. He was offered a modest chair to sit down
by one of the many Kurta-Pyjama-ed men in the house, as a woman
wiping her scanty tears approached him and in a sobbing voice inquired
if he would like a glass of milk. Indrajeet accepted the proffered glass of
milk with due deference. One of the pajama-clad individuals then
approached him to enquire after the purpose of his visit; he was
apparently the son of Ravishankar Parsai, now deceased, a victim of a
very ghastly deed. Manishankar, he introduced himself as, and found
himself a chair next to Indrajeet after learning about who he was and
what indeed was the purpose of his visit. That is, further to imbibing that
full glass of full-cream milk.
15

16. Manishankar, “Na Dhin Dhin Na, Na Dhin Dhin Na, Na Tin Tin Na, Na
Dhin Dhina Na, Na.”
Indrajeet, “That is Teen Taal my friend.”
Manishankar, who is suffering from a sort of cough, which, as Private
Detective Talwadekar well-understands, comes from persistent Bidi-
smoking. Mani pushes ahead, nevertheless.
“Sir that was the Mandra. The Madhya, and the Drut Taals, still await
your indulgence; if I may only get my voice alright…”
Indrajeet, “Yes. Yes. Sir. I am waiting….just do it.”
Manishankar, “Na, dhindhinna, Na, dhindhinna, Na tintinna, Na,
dhindhinna, Na.”
Indrajeet, “Mani. I do have other ways to resolving the mandra, madhya
and drut layas of the teen taal Tabla. However, here I am here, presently,
for another purpose.”
Manishankar,”Sir. Yes, Yes. Would you like another glass of milk, before
we start? Are a Vasudha? Tanik ek gilas garam dudh le aihah ta!”
And as Manishankar’s voice travels inwards into Ravishankar Parsai’s
16

17. modest lodgings:
Indrajeet,”Aha. Milk. Mani, this is very funny.”
Manishankar, “Aha. Very Funny, I say? Then, Sir, have kindly two
glasses of it…”
Presently a steaming glass of fresh milk arrives and Indrajeet quaffs it
quickly so that the matter at hand would be quickly and very precisely
discussed.
“What exactly did your deceased Father Do?”
“Oh. He played the Tabla.”
“I see. Did he do just that?”
“No. No exactly “just that”. Indeed, he tutored many students as well in
this Art.”
“Okay, Sir. I may, I mean if I may have that second glass of milk that
was proffered right now?”
“Are a Vasudha…tanik ek gilas garam doodh aur le aihah ta.”
Indrajeet Talwadekar drinks this glass of milk, a sip at a time, mulling
17

18. somewhat, over the very profound revelations concerning this very
strange case. Then as a matter of deductive reflex action he reaches into
his fly-shirt pocket and pulls out his little diary into which he had made
his notes on the fateful night, the night before. As per 2HB Nataraja
black lead-pencil, one item caught his notice – 1 Ganjee, 1 Pajama….as
was entered in his very-small notebook, on that fateful-night, the T.V.
channels of Khatampur, had very first announced the very ghastly four
murders, of this Khatampur City.
Good heavens! He thought. Good heavens. It’s all so simple. Why didn’t
I think of it before? Then as a twisted grin-spread across his face, Mani
smile till then wide and radiant watching this most famous, even
legendary, of private detectives of Khatampur City drink not one but
more than one glasses of milk, shrank by the same quantum, that
Indrajeet Talwadekar’s had expanded. Both in perfect ratio and
proportion.
Then, Indrajeet, after this very thoughtful hiatus eventually spoke:
“Did your father own a clothes store too?”
“Yes. Yes. Indeed he did…”
“And do you write?”
18

19. “Yes. Yes. But, write what?”
“Stories, very, obviously!!!”
“Yes. Yes. I am working on one now…”
“Which one?”
“The Premature Inoculators.”
“Hah. And what’s the story of it?”
“Well if you so put it. You see, in my novel the protagonist is a guy who
communicates with the dead.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Quite just like everyone, nearly just everyone in Khatampur does.
Why does that surprise you Mr. Talwadekar Sahab? Haven’t Indian
Peoples forever and ever communicated with their ancestral spirits, and
quite eloquently too, and made offerings to them to placate them get
oracles and such like? Do you, Sir, find that extraordinary in any way?”
“No. Not at all. Do go on.”
“But this guy, he, and I refuse to reveal his name until my novel is
19

20. published, he speaks to the dead of unknown peoples.”
“What rubbish. If the people themselves are not known then how their
dead may be known or even spoken to or with? Hanh?”
“Heh, heh, Talwadekar Sahab. That is a good question. Mercifully,
everything, every act of imagination, every literary work in this world is
with a very good reason.”
“Reason. Now what do you know about reason. You invoke such a very
high principle of human rational thought for an absolutely
phantasmagorical tale?”
“Behold there are worlds within worlds and all types of logic too,
Talwadekar Sahab! And, I haven’t even started on my story, even
minimally. Have you, Sir, any very important errands to run, for the
moment. And, if that is the case….”
“Certainly, Manishankar Ji. I must rush. My dog has been hungry and
waiting for me for the past five or so hours.”
“Sir. Then, at the moment. that is indeed your fate, I mean…Heh…
Heh…your calling!”
Indrajeet Talwadekar arrived at his modest lodgings just in time to stop
20

21. Crawford from chewing-up, among other things, his case-diary. He
retrieved Crawford from the Aangan of his house where he was usually
left open to protect the only exposed part of this house. He was given a
more than usual supply of fresh warm milk, plenty of pedigree, and that
most unusual and infrequent of treats two of the best of fresh Khatampur
Rosogullas.
Indrajeet woke up, very fitfully, at 5:00 a.m. to the Cuckoo-bird’s call.
Staccato. In staccato bursts. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Like so
many shots from a repeater-rifle. There was cold-sweat, breaking,
already, from his meaty shoulders, which were twined-up in the meanest
of coils. A raw reflex. He reached for his handy flashlight. Full-shot, its
beam onto a nearby alarm-clock, which functioned only seldom, to read
the time. 3:00 a.m. Hells Bells. What does this forebode? Where have I
been? And, thus his thoughts meandered very ultimately, as very early
morning Indian thought, go after long-chases Indian for answers to
complex problems of the worst sort – especially, on cold winter’s
mornings – who the hell, am I? And, a corollary, what in the heaven’s
name am I up to?
The sound of local tomtom drums going full-beat, the temple-bells
clanging, the holy chants of the Khatampur's religion industry going
full-blast wafted-in, to remind him very squarely that whatever he may
have dreamt or sort of dreamt that this was still Khatampur where he
21

22. was parked and that perchance this is where he would be parked…till
kingdom come.
Of such great thoughts are composed a normal night of a Khatampur
Private Detective. Hence, and therefore, Private Detective Indrajeet
Talwadekar extended a sinewy arm and reached for his tumbler of the
early morning drink of milk…a full litre of it. He downed it in a flash.
Wiped his whiskers clean, and threw-off the blankets. Phokat Lall
Billgrammy and Nalpat Mulchandani, he thought, I have to do them both
today, but then how do you do people who have in a manner of speaking
already been done-away with?
O.K. Done. Done. I’ll do them both quickly and then be back in time to
give Crawford his dinner a mite earlier than yesterday. As in any other
murder investigation there is absolutely no telling how and for how long
might the respondents’ narrative unfold. And then, after-all, this was the
famous city of Khatampur, where each man and woman has a unique
narratology at their marshal.
Crawford who always slept by his bedside was already awake, and,
wagging his tail, ready for this morning’s walk.
Talwadekar donned his track-suit, walking shoes and a balaclava, and
some gloves, as it was still cold, then he caught Crawford by the leash,
22

23. and, after locking firmly the doors to his humble-abode…he sallied forth
into the dimly-lit night, which was, indeed the, early Khatampur
morning.
Back from his morning constitutional he flipped the morning’s papers
and caught sight of two names in particular, the Vocal Cord, and, The
Names and Numbers. Two of the very famous restaurants on Khatampur
and indeed his very own favourites. Nothing much on sports and
politics, a few scamsters and scalawags behind the bars, another landing
on the moon, oil prices falling-down, a new species of mud-nest building
bird has been discovered by the university of Timbuktu which really
proves that we humans should start learning from nature and that such
birds are not individuals of any sort.
Phokat Lall Billgrammy lived by the riverside. Zarde Walon Ki Galli.
The very famous mohalla of the equally famous Zarda wallas of
Khatampur. Talwadekar parked his Chevy way away from this Galli
alongside the main road letting a few wayside shop owners know that it
was his car and to keep an eye on it. He would be in and out of the Galli
from Phokat’s residence. The shop-owners asked for his introduction.
That done and the shop owners satisfied that he would actually be
looking into the Phokat residence, they gave him that sort of Khatampur
look which says…okay, okay…..all that’ll happen to your very British
car is that a few curs would piss copiously but randomly on its tyres
23

24. after sniffing them profusely….a few urchins would write the worst of
abuses moving their fingers on the dust of the windscreens…and the
local juveniles would leave long and wavy scratches on his car using
their keys. But otherwise all else would be fine. That done, in a matter of
minutes, Indrajeet loped-away toward and through the Galli asking this
one and that the way to the Lall’s residence.
The Lall residence was a very imposing multi-storied affair speaking of
untold wealth of the Lall’s. No doubt therefore, Indrajeet quickly
concluded that this family must have been in the Zarda Trade for a few
generations at least. The building did have a sort of worn-out look
having seen many seasons. Indrajeet approached the chime at the gate
intrepidly and gave it a few pushes of his thumb.
Soon a very servant-y looking head popped-out of the house and took
awhile eyeing him through the grills from a distance of some hundred
yards.
Indrajeet, “Are Suno Bhai. Yeh kiska ghar hai?’
Servant, “Apko kon mangta?’
Indrajeet, “Are koi hai?”
Servant, “Hum Hai Na? Pheen bolta apko kon mangta?”
24

25. Indrajeet, “Phokat Sahab Ka Yeh Residence hai ki nahi?”
Servant, “Hanh Hanh, Sahab, hai na. Aap kisko mangta?”
Indrajeet, “Hum suna hai ki Phokat Lall Ji parlok sidhar gaya. Ye theek
hai?”
Servant, “Han Han Sahab, Bilkul Theek Hai.”
Indrajeet, “To Hum Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar hai. Isi
Khatampur City Ka.”
Servant, “Oho. Heh. Heh. Aaiyee, Aaiyee.”
Thus speaking Rajbahadur Gosain opened the mighty gates of the Lall
residence. Amidst the entire questions flooding his mind and he thinking
this one and that one very randomly Private Detective Talwadekar
registered very slightly the sudden and very wailing sort of creak sound
the gate gave as Rajbahadur Gosain closed the gates to the Lall’s
residence. Then led by him Indrajeet was taken through the very ample
Mahogany Doors, the entrance to the Lall Residence per se. And then
shown into a study which would put to shame a Maharaja’s. Gosain
beckoned toward a Nizam of Hyderabad type of chair for him to recline-
on, and gave a sign that he would soon summon somebody suitable to
talk to him.
25

26. Very soon a very middle-aged but also a very urbane pepper-haired gent
strolled into the very plush study filled with very antique and, thought
Indrajeet, very very elegant and very comfortable furniture. He seated
himself at a distance from Indrajeet. And then, having been suitably
briefed by his servant, Rajbahadur Gosain, before he made this entry
into his study, about the guest of the morning, this gent fished-out his
Blackberry Phone, and tapped it's key-pad gently with one of his very
long and nimble fingers to resume what was very obviously a call put on
the hold, in the light of Indrajeet Talwadekar’s sudden arrival.
“Yes Paramjeet. See Mr. Pukhraj, you have to work on your attitude.
This winning all the time sort of thing doesn't really work in Khatampur.
Your colleagues are all very mediocre, I shall concede that. But we are
making a profit nevertheless. So that works. Now, if you really think
about it closely then you would see that your constantly upbeat attitude
is actually demoralizing our workers who are actually very good at what
they do….What? I see. What? What? I see, Hmmm, you will try to
change yourself! Good. That is the sort of thing we are looking for.
Adaptability, my boy, I mean Mr. Paramjeet Pukhraj…O.K. That’s
sorted-out then. Let’s call it a day. Thanks. Talk to you later. Ciao.”
Leaving the assistance of his peripheral vision aside this gent very
obviously a member of the Lall Family then turned his gaze squarely
upon the guest.
26

27. “Yes. Mr. Indrajeet Talwadekar Ji. How very nice of you to drop-by. I
think we had dinner together, at the Khatampur Club. Why, that must
have been years ago. How time passes!”
“Yes.”
“So what exactly brings you here, Sir?”
“The mysterious death of Phokat Sahab, very obviously. I understand
that the Khatampur Police is already apprised of this matter. However, a
lot of people prefer my services to find the culprits of various misdeeds,
including murderers such as this, for I have on offer a large array of
client-services and perks and incentives to have the investigation done
by my team.”
“Exactly what sort of perks and services, Sir, do you have on offer for
your clients? May I ask? If you don’t mind, that is…?”
“Sir. Well. Well. Well…Just since you asked….and given my profession,
I wouldn't at all be offering chocolate-chips would I? Now, let’s see what
sort of a package I would offer you, Sir? You may not get shot
accidentally by a .303 bullet, which to tell you the truth, is a lot more
painful than a shot from my very own PPK Walther. You will not get
kidnapped in the middle of this investigation. I have a team of highly
trained bodyguards. And, most importantly, Sir, you will not die any sort
27

28. of accidental death, poison included. This is all, assuming that you are,
Sir, in some way, related with the departed soul. God bless. Here take a
look.”
So saying Indrajeet, slipped his right arm under the left-lapel of his coat
and pulled-out a shining and very silvery and a mean looking handgun.
It had a black palm-grip. He proffered it to until now the unknown Lall,
holding the barrel of the gun, so that it faced himself, rather than his
prospective client.
As the gun changed hands, and still was almost in mid-air transfer,
Rajbahadur Gosain walked in, bearing a large silvery-tray, with two tall
glasses of what looked like Cold Coffee. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Indrajeet, sotto voce, “Rajbahadur. idhar aao.”
Rajbahadur, “Yes, Sir.”
Indrajeet Talwadekar palmed the very inviting tall glass of cold coffee,
and then, very sotto voce:
Indrajeet, “Tumhara saheb ka naam kya hai?”
Rajbahadur, “Hanh Sir.”
28

29. Indrajeet, “Kya?”
Rajbahadur, “Kya, Sir?”
Indrajeet, “Kya? Kya Sir matlab, Kya?”
Rajbahadur Gosain, very sotto voce, “Han Jee Sir. Shto Shaab ka naam.
Matlab Hunka Naam Hanji Lall Billgrammy Hai.”
Indrajeet Talwadekar, “Voh Tumhara Sahab Ka Kya Lagta Hai…”
“Shota Bhai, Sahab”
“Shota ya Chhota?”
“Hanji Shir. Ch…ch…ch…chota bhai, sahab. Aaaaaaa, Shab Ji.”
“Chota Bhai, Sahab?”
“Bilkool, Shar Zee.”
Indrajeet now well-supplied with some personal information on the gent
before him, now turned his gaze upon Hanji Lall Billgrammy, who was
yet on another phone call. Even as he did this the image of a very restive
Crawford kept leapt into his mind, as it was nearly time for Crawford’s
Lunch. Like all big pets Crawford would be very furiously hungry for
29

30. the time it had taken Private Detective Talwadekar to have reached the
Lalls’ residence and for the time Indrajeet had already spent over there,
with no clear line of enquiry showing its barest of tracks. He didn’t at all
wish that Crawford should make mince of his case diaries and files.
“So Hanji Lall Ji, if you have finished with my gun may I please have it
back. Not something to be held all as casually as you have. Even if the
safety is on.”
Hanji Lall was quick to murmur very inaudibly something into his
Blackberry Phone which promptly terminated that call. Then he took a
final contemplative look at the piece and stretched his longish arms to
hand the gun back.
Indrajeet, “So. Where were you on the night that Shri Phokat Lall met
with this dastardly, shall we say accident?”
Hanji Lall, “That was almost two days ago, wasn't it. My wife Mrinalini,
son and daughter Vitamin and Quramin, and my servant Rajbahadur, we
were all away attending a charity-event at the Khatampur Club. We had
dinner there. Then we returned here. It must have been close to
midnight. Bhai Sahab was all by himself, all evening. When we entered
our house we did not expect anything at all to have happened. Then
gradually as Mrinalini started warming up dinner for Bhai Sahab. Then
30

31. went on to call him. There was a sudden shriek. That was Mrinalini upon
seeing Bhai Sahab lying in his bed. Very dead. That’s when I called the
Police.”
“Well Done. Hanji Lall Ji. Sir. I would like to meet your wife for a bit,
Er, I mean if you do not mind, I would like to ask her a few questions as
she, and not you, shall we say, encountered the body first. Her account
of the events as they unfolded that night, all the way from the
Khatampur City Club until she entered this house and then via the
kitchen…”
“Okay, okay, Sir. I catch your drift.”
So saying Hanji Lall Ji whipped-up his Blackberry and swiftly dialled a
number, presumably his wife Mrinalini’s and very politely asked her to
join them in the study. However, Indrajeet spoke even before his
Blackberry had hit the sofa-set on which it had been resting previously.
Indrajeet, “Sir. I shall not tarry around here for long. My questions of
you are nearly over. I do not propose to ask any question whatsoever of
your wife. There is something, however, that she must do for me. This is
imperative to my investigation.”
Hanji Lall, “Something she must do for you? Imperative? What indeed is
this imperative thing that you wish of her?”
31

32. Indrajeet, “The Scream. That night’s scream. I want to hear it.”
And just as the men are talking in low notes Mrinalini makes her entry.
Hair dishevelled and a brow which is sweaty evidently from kitchen-
duty and she is still wearing her cooking-apron. Some flour is smeared
upon her forehead. She walks in through the curtains gives both the men
a long-look and then walks up to her husband and stands beside him
with a quizzed look writ large upon her very elegant countenance.
“Han. Mujhe kyun bulaya. Abhi raat ka sara khana banana bakee
hai...aur abhi to breakfast ya lunch bhi taiyaar nahin hua hai.”
Hanji Lall, ‘Mrinalini. Jara baith jao.”
Mrinalini sits herself by her husband very demurely.
Hanji Lall, "Yeh Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar sahab hain.
Daddu ki maut ke investigation main hame help karne ke liye aye hain.”
Mrinalini Lall, “Hain, Bhai Sahab. Puchiye. Agar koi swal ho to?”
Indrajeet, “Han, Behen Ji. Swaal to nahin hai…lekin…”
Mrinalini, “Lekin?”
Indrajeet Talwadekar, “Heh. Heh.”
32

33. Mrinalini, “Yeh, kaisa swal hai?”
Indrajeet Talwadekar, "Jara mujhe zor se chilla ke bataiye.”
Mrinalini Lall, “Chilla ke kya bataun?”
Indrajeet Talwadekar, “Naheen, naheen. Mera matlab hai ki apko sirf
khub zor se chillana hai.”
Mrinalini, “Kyun?”
Indrajeet, “Isliye ki hum sunana chahaten hain?”
Mrinalini Lall, “Kyun?”
Indrajeet Talwadekar, “Vahi To. Ye hamare Investigation Ka Part hai.”
Mrinalini, “Lekin Bhai Sahab Chillahat to kai prakar ki hoti hai”
Hanji Lall, “Are nahin, Saubhagyavati. Us raat Ki Baat yaad karo.”
Mrinalini, “Kis Raat Ki?”
Indrajeet, “Jis raat aap…aap...”
Mrinalini, “Main…Main…kya?”
33

34. Hanji Lall, “Jjjjjis rrrrrat daaaaa…”
Indrajeet, “Duuuuu…”
Hanji, “Kiiiiiii…”
Indrajeet, “Ki Maut Hui Thi.”
Mrinalini, “Kya. Nahiiiiiiiiiin!”
She was at once in shambles weeping hysterically, clawing her hair,
wiping her tears, and casting reproachful glances at the two men. There
were even moments when she shifted from hysterical crying to sudden
bursts of laughter.
The two men looked at each other in a way which surmised that there
was nothing out of the ordinary here. Indeed, this was a most ordinary
sort of wailing practice among Indian women.
"You are not headed somewhere overseas just yet, are you?" asked
Indrajeet, as a final query, to which Hanji Lall muttered a most inaudible
sort of reply.
That performance over Indrajeet in his mind’s eye at once beheld the
image of a very hungry and ill-tempered Crawford prancing about in his
34

35. house. He bade farewell to the Lalls and at once headed for his Chevy.
Rajbahadur held the gates firmly open and gave him a very smart salute.
Indrajeet Talwadekar made an exception to his daily routine. The
following morning, after his morning constitutional with Crawford
firmly on his leash, he made a breakfast of six eggs, no less. Crawford
also got a double serve of pedigree and two quarts of cold milk. For the
previous day had been a very taxing one. For the both of them. Then, as
was practice, he settled-down with the morning’s newspapers, on garden
chairs by the front, and Crawford was nearby now very tamely tied
down by his leash, barking randomly at what seemed to him suspicious
passer-byes.
And then very suddenly a smallish news item tucked away very
unwisely, thought Indrajeet Talwadekar, by Mr. Faluda Mistry the
illustrious editor of the Khatampur Times, between Mega-Mega Ads of
Luxury Sedans from Birmingham and Microwave-ovens from
Saskatchewan caught his interest full-force. It was an advertisement in
Calibri Size 11 font requesting applications from prospective
housekeepers. For Khatampur there was nothing at all unusual about this
very small ad. But Indrajeet heard certain bells of alarm ringing. It was
yet early for the maid to come in. However, not too early to give a wake-
up call to his old friend, the editor, to query him more closely for who it
was that had put this ad in the newspaper and why.
35

36. It was about time for Police Inspector of Khatampur City, Shri Baburao
Chowgule, to also to be waking-up. He twisted and turned his swarthy
and very bulky and muscled frame in his bunk-bed, and then slowly
raised his bulk to a standing position beside his bed. Another day. He
thought. And this blasted Quadruple-Murder-Mystery yet to be solved.
He did not at all look forward to the day. Yet, as they say in India: duty
is duty!
That thought alone drove him quite effortlessly through his morning
ablutions, followed by his morning’s prayer session, that done, he
showered, and dressed in his office Khaki, smart leather shoes from Bata
Shoe Company, donned his epaulettes and a weighty buckled belt, and
then strapped on his service revolver. He was now ready to walk into his
sizeable study where he kept his case files to look at the reports of the
beat constables posted at the houses of the four victims from the day the
murders had come to light; the Civil Surgeon’s post-mortem reports of
the victims which had now arrived, the forensic reports from experts
who had checked the site of the murders for any traces of fingerprints
and such extraneous clues which might comprise tell-tale evidence or
clues to tracking down the culprit. It was his habit to partake of his
morning meal only after an hour or two devoted to work in his study. His
home-work so to speak.
Inspector Baburao Chowgule believed in the easiest first principle and
36

37. so he reached for the forensics file. The diamond from Sarla Jhingorani’s
throat had some fingerprints but the dermatoglyphics would take the
forensic department some further time to ascertain as they had been
washed down somewhat by her saliva. The Gamcha and the dry cells
were also bearing some fingerprints and in this case too the
dermatoglyphics would take some further time. The Zarda in Phokat
Lall’s throat was however another matter. It has been sourced by the
forensics very successfully to a major Zarda Manufacturing Concern in
Khatampur City.
A nearby loudspeaker in the lane in which Inspector Chowgule lived
suddenly burst into life with this old number. “Voh Jhutha Hai Vote Na
Usko Dena, Note Bhi De To Vote Na Usko Dena, Hum Karte Hain Seva,
Voh Khata Hai Mewa, Toba Naam Na Uska Lena…” As a matter of fact
such early morning rants and raves of the local loudspeakers didn’t
bother him much at all for he had since his very childhood got grown up
in such a midst and therefore was entirely accustomed to such glorious
inputs to his thought process. He was only grateful that it wasn’t that
other number which always had him in splits whenever he would hear it
“Phulauri Bina Chatnee Kaise Banee…”
Now that he had the current file on forensics as a police man’s thought
process should move, Baburao’s next thought was about the motive
behind these murders. In other words, what is in common between a
37

38. diamond, a Gamcha, some dry cells and a lot of Zarda?
His days of training and re-training at the Police Academy had ingrained
in him very thoroughly a sense of deductive logic: here was a sample of
the material recovered from the throats of all the victims of these ghastly
murders, ipso facto they then constituted the murder-materials. No
murder-weapon, strictly speaking, however if these objects were the
instruments with which this ghastliest of crimes had been perpetrated,
whether by single-person, and which contingency or possibility would
lead to the situation of an infinite regress insofar as the issue of murder-
motive was concerned, Baburao was then certainly constrained to
considering how he should be classifying these objects recovered in situ
from the victims’ bodies, and treating them as a common-set to be
classified as the murder-materials, seems to him, at this early hour of this
fateful-morning, was the best recourse! The other deductions, right or
wrong, would follow from this most fundamental of his premises.
Before proceeding to his breakfast of ample Dal and Rice with lots of
vegetables of three different kinds and a large tumbler of full-tone milk,
he left his study where the conclusion at the end of an hour of perusing
the case-files was by itself a shaky one: Murder Materials? From whence
did this absolutely strange classificatory term pop up? I shall have to
think that category further mulled Baburao as he switched-off the lights
and the fan of his rather spacious study.
38

39. Indrajeet, “O.K. Falu. Let’s start again from where we left-off? Shall
we?”
Faluda Mistry, “My pleasure. Old Chap. Fire away.”
Indrajeet, “Have you been in touch with a Police Inspector by the name
Baburao Chowgule?”
Faluda, “My Dear Indu. The Editor of the Khatampur Times never ever
meets any Police Officers of any type or description. Just protocol. My
reporter Mr. Mangal Singh is presently entrusted with such duties when
the contingency arises. Next question?”
Indrajeet, “Where is Mangal Singh?”
A considerably perked Editor of the Khatampur Times then leaned
forward and reached for the red tumbler with his milk even as he gave
his old friend Indrajeet Talwadekar a look that said that at last he Falu,
or Falu the Great, as he often called himself when no one was around
and he could speak to himself as loudly as he could, had socked this
private detective a sweet punch on his chin. That was a matter of some
great satisfaction for a much belaboured Editor who had to face
numerous curious customers asking all sorts of weird questions in the
course of a working day every day.
39

40. Faluda Mistry, ‘My Boy Indrajeet. Mangal Singh or no Mangal Singh, it
is my firmest of hunches that you are going to lose this investigation.”
Indrajeet, “Indeed I am. And, how My Boy can you predict such a
thing?”
Faluda, ‘For one, I have taken Mangal off the beat. He is to proceed no
further in this regard.”
Indrajeet, ‘That is inconsequential.”
Faluda, ‘Secondly, Baburao Chowgule, is hot on the heels of an Austrian
Scientist, who it is reported has been in this city for the past week, and
who may have had a hand in these murders.”
Indrajeet, “that is just say-so.”
Faluda, “That indeed it is.”
And then, the Editor of the Khatampur Times, still holding the glass of
milk, leaned back in his chair with a self-contented smile. Indrajeet
Talwadekar, who had also cracked some very hard nuts in his career as a
private detective, stretched himself in the posh chairs in this air-
conditioned room thinking about his next move. He clenched his fists a
little and said to himself that for sure he would make this meeting the
40

41. longest one he had ever had with Old Falu. With that resolve he
launched towards Faluda Mistry his latest query.
“Dear Falu. Are you sure you really understand the purpose and the
ways and means of crime detection? Eh? Old Boy!”
Faluda Mistry was quick on the uptake and with his reply, “Well. It does
involve forensics. I may swear by that much knowledge which it may be
said is what I minimally possess about your most eminent profession.”
Indrajeet, “Forensics. Ah. So you know about forensics. Well. Now let’s
see. How exactly, Dear Falu, do you figure that forensics plays an
important role in my most eminent profession?”
Faluda Mistry, ‘On the face of it. if Baburao has used this arcane system
of inference of yours to better you by getting after the Austrian visitor to
Khatampur…”
Indrajeet, ‘Hold your Hosses, Boss. Care to tell me who this gentleman
is and where he may be found?”
Faluda, “Now, then. Wouldn't Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule be the
right person for you to be putting that question to, Old Chap?”
Indrajeet, ‘Righty, right. I’m off for the day, that is. See Ya Later!”
41

42. And then Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar was out of Faluda
Mistry’s editorial office like a bullet. Just out of his door, waiting a
minute for its very impressive Mahogany doors to swing-shut
completely. He fished out his very sleek mobile phone, scrolled the
directory to where Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule’s number was
listed and then gave the brightly glowing green switch a gentle but quick
press.
Baburao Chowgule was well supplied with good humour.
“Hello. Hello. Hello. Is that Indy? Hello.”
“Yes, indeed, Baby. How are you?”
“Well, well. Aren't you asking telling questions now? I suppose it is just
as should be. Now then. Why indeed did you call?”
“About the four murders of Khatampur, naturally, Dear Boy!”
“Aha. So you are in need of a lead, Sir? Am I right?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well. Let me put it to you as a puzzle, the way you like it. A hotel
owner called me last night that one of his residents, an Austrian Gent,
42

43. wishes to file a First Information Report to the effect that somebody
stole his time.”
“Did I hear that properly? Stole his time?”
“Yes. Indeed that is what the Hotel Owner told me. And he is very
distressed too about it. This is why I am on my way to take his
statement. Would you like to come along and sit and listen to him as I
take his statement?”
“Yes, indeed. Thank God for Small Mercies!”
Without any further ado Indrajeet Talwadekar said a hasty thank you and
a good-bye to his old friend Faluda Mistry for this new and most
interesting lead and then walked-ran the several flights of steps and the
numerous mezzanines within the Khatampur Times Building to emerge
from this building into its parking-lot. He got into his Chevy fast
enough, keyed the engines to a start, and then gunned his vehicle to this
new rendezvous.
Hotel Dronacharya International. Very upmarket, was abuzz with visitors
checking in and out, the pavement facing it, opposite which Indrajeet
Talwadekar parked his vehicle was greatly alive with street vendors.
Most of them selling Made in China goods, from very familiar Ganapati
Idols, Firecrackers, radios to fiber-glass show-pieces which were made
43

44. luminescent from an undetectable battery.
Inspector Baburao Chowgule true to his promise had been waiting on the
side-walk for a few minutes that it took Indrajeet to make his way to the
Hotel Dronacharya, and through the very congested streets leading up to
the rather broader street in front of it.
“Hello, Indy. Let’s move.’
“Baby, just show the way.”
Both of them walked into the hotel’s foyer and then walked-up to the
reception. The receptionist, an man of some years, understood a cop
when he saw one whichever guise he may have been in, bowed very
politely and gave Indrajeet Talwadekar a mischievous smile, which
really only implied that he, that is the receptionist did think Mr.
Talwadekar to be nearly a cop but not really so!
“Yes, Inspector Chowgule Ji. How may I help you, Sir?”
“Ïs there a foreign gentleman, an Austrian by nationality, staying at your
Hotel?”
“Your lucky day, Inspector Sahib. Indeed, there is one such guest.”
44

45. “What name does he go by?”
“Well, Sir. Now, Let’s See. He is actually signed in as Mon. H.U. Laut. I
believe that he pronounced it as Monsieur Herr Umlaut. Or it could be
Monsieur Herr Um Laut. Is that alright?”
“Alright?, “, said Private Detective Talwadekar, “Man. You have no idea
what you have been saying! Absolutely a Jackpot!”
“Thank you. Thank you, Sirs! At the Dronacharya International our
motto is that We Aim to Please, Sir!”
“Good for you. Let me know when you need another favour. Now
quickly let us know his room number, then call him and let him know
that Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule, assisted by a Private Detective
of very high repute Mr. Indrajeet Talwadekar, are here to see him, in
connection with the statement he wishes to make regarding the theft of
his time. And just in case you were wondering what this was all about,
that should also explain to you, the gravity of this situation. Call him
right-away, will you?” said Inspector Chowgule.
“Right-away, Sir”, said the night-clerk, and punched a few numbers on
the desk phone, and then lifted the receiver.
“Room 507? Is that you Sir? Mr. Umlaut, Sir?”
45

46. “Yes. That is correct” said a faintly discernible voice.
“Okay. Sir, the Police Inspector and a Private Detective are here to
register your complaint.”
“Zehr Gut! I mean Danke!”
“Sir, would you like to receive the in your room or prefer to come down
to the reception?”
“Ach so. Let me think. Actually, do send them up, will you, if that is no
trouble. Also, I would like you to let the Room-Service know that they
should serve all of us some fresh Brazilian Coffee, if you have any?”
“Yes sir! We can do that. I shall send them up to your rooms right-away,
Sir.”
The receptionist then wiped a bead of sweat from his massive forehead,
put down the receiver on its hook, and then after catching his breath, he
turned to face the duo.
“Sir” he said, after a gap of a few minutes to catch his breath, “You may
kindly go up to Room 507 where Herr Umlaut is waiting for the two of
you.” The rest of the conversation had been heard by the two sleuths so
they did not tarry.
46

47. Once inside the lift, Indrajeet Talwadekar took the lead and pressed the
glowing button for the fifth floor and then asked Inspector Baburao
Chowgule sotto voce, ‘hey man? Are you carrying your piece?’
At this juncture and with the lift still on the ascent, up to the relevant
floor, both the sleuths quickly pulled-out their automatics, and double
checked its clip of bullets, their supplementary clips, and then put their
PPK Walther pistols, back on the safety. There were still a few minutes
remaining to the rendezvous on the fifth floor.
In the meanwhile, and the preparation to welcome his guests, Mr. M.H.
Umlaut was busy making some swift changes to the order of things in
his room in Hotel Dronacharya. He was very quickly re-arranging the
very many paintings displayed on the walls.
And just as he was nearly finished, the door-bell rang on a very jarring-
note.
Indrajeet and Chowgule had by then already holstered their revolvers in
discretely disguised holsters under their coat-lapels, and wore a very
amiable grin, as Mr. Umlaut opened the Mahogany doors to his very
comfortable and very spacious rooms at the Hotel Dronacharya
International.
“Guten Morgen! Meine Herren.”, He said equally amiably to Talwadekar
47

48. and Chowgule.
Talwadekar and Chowgule, “Guten Morgen, Herr Umlaut. And how are
we this morning?”
Umlaut, “Very well. Very well indeed. Meet my wife Christine Onassis.”
Looking inside of Herr Umlaut’s suite Indrajeet Talwadekar and
Inspector Baburao Chowgule are both very quick to courtesy, as soon as
they beheld a very fine looking, and tall and stately European Lady who
Mr. Umlaut presently introduced to them as his wife Mrs. Onassis.
Umlaut,” Christine Dear. Meet The Police Inspector and the Private
Detective who shall be taking our statements. Sirs she is a musician,
mostly of western classical music but she has also a great interest in ziss
oriental music…how do you say the Sitar, Veena and the Tabla. I am a
painter by profession. Now, Zehr Gut Zehr Gut, Meine Herren. Please do
take some seats.”
With that round of quick introductions Mr. Umlaut extended his arms
and threw a grand flourish around this super-deluxe-luxury suite of his.
And presently all of them found different places around the room and sat
themselves down.
Mr. Umlaut, “Dear Sirs. I have taken the liberty of ordering some very
48

49. nice coffee, as we speak. Is that alright?”
Indrajeet, “Yes. That is wonderful.”
Baburao, “Now then, Sir. What exactly of yours was stolen?”
“Time.”
Mrs. Umlaut confirmed his husband’s story, “Yes Dear Sir it was his
time which was stolen.”
Baburao, “Madam. That makes it a matter for Cognitive Psychologists, I
would think, and not the Police, doesn't it?”
Indrajeet, “Yes. And indeed such a sort of theft is indeed covered under
Indian Jurisprudence.”
Presently the coffee arrived. And, over their pleasantries exchanged over
very tasty and most aromatic Brazilian Coffee served with some creamy-
munch-crunchy biscuits of seven different kinds and while the statement
was recorded by Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule and heard most
intently by Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar, the proposition
emerged from Detective Talwadekar that they would be taking action in
due course, mainly through seeking legal advice and then inviting the
couple on a day suitable to both to the local Khatampur Central
49

50. University’s Department of Cognitive Psychology to meet with
Professor Govindan, also known as B.G.B. Govindan, The Head of this
Department, to engage the couple in a casual conversation about this
most traumatic experience of theirs. Inspector Chowgule added that such
an encounter would also help them overcome their trauma of having had
their time stolen.
This done, the two detectives, one of the Indian Police Force and the
other an entirely private one, took leave of the couple. Each then headed
for their next assignment. However, Indrajeet Talwadekar most certainly
headed to his house to feed his dog Crawford who was surely very
hungry by now. He arrived there late into the evening when it was
already dark and to find that indeed Crawford his most fond pet had
done justice of sorts by chewing-up and destroying entirely at least some
of his most important case-diaries. he was quick to feed him. To have his
own dinner and then to tuck in for that night.
Professor B.G.B. Govindan was in the middle of a class:
“…Thus, and therefore, Heh Heh…when I say that to understand
contemporary cognition among human beings that we must first try to
follow what went inside the minds of our prehistoric ancestors, that
whatever that was, how it should have been at least very qualitatively
different from ours, then and only then, Dear Students, would we be on
50

51. some sort of a firm ground, to understanding the stuff of contemporary
human cognitive parameters, and it’s nature and it’s processes, it’s
capabilities on date, and it’s possibility for future cognitive evolution.
However, Dear Students, I must here be very quick to remind you all,
that the mind of our prehistoric ancestors is itself a great puzzle. It is a
puzzle because we have to use the parameters of contemporary cognitive
approaches to dig-out what may have been an altogether a different set
of parameters of cognition. But we have to start somewhere…this is
where Jean Piaget’s Theory of Cognitive Development among
contemporary humans derived largely from his studies of contemporary
children and their cognitive development comes-in…However, I did
recently read the journal Daedalus and it carried a very interesting article
on how our brains work like a neural network. This theory, in my most
limited view, may well upstage the older theories regarding the human
brain as comprised of distinct areas, entities, or components having
discrete functions.”
It was at this point of his lecture when Professor B.G.B. Govindan was
about to conclude his lecture for the day that there was a most gentle
knock on the door and when he looked to see who it was that had
knocked in the middle of his lecture that he could cognize very quickly
the ever so familiar and chubby and most cheerful face of the secretary
of office of the department of cognitive psychology., Mr. Chandra
Bhushan Singhania, looking and smiling in quite his direction.
51

52. “Yes, Chandu? What is it?”
“Sir. Sorry to interrupt your lecture. However there is actually a pressing
matter which needs your attention, Sir.”
“Nothing is so pressing, Dear Chandu, than teaching. I feel sure
whatever this pressing matter is it may wait there for another fifteen
minutes. However do show it the waiting parlour to my office. I shall be
right over.”
Of course it was M.H. Umlaut and his wife, Christine Umlaut who had
been shown into Professor B.G.B. Govindan’s waiting parlour by the
cheerful secretary Chandu. And, the most eminent Professor of
Cognitive Psychology used just his peripheral vision to surmise the
barest outlines of the pressing-matter as he breezed past them into the
anterior-chamber which was his office.
He spoke rapidly on his direct line with his secretary Chandu that he had
just a few seconds to go through his morning’s correspondence which
Chandu should bring to him right-away, Chandu should thereafter re-
assure the guests that they would be dealt-with in just a few seconds and
that Chandu should supply them with hot piping tea and the best of
Khatampur Biscuits, meanwhile.
Presently, the Umlauts were shown into his office and Professor B.G.B.
52

53. Govindan gesticulated towards some sofa-sets in his chambers for them
to seat themselves. Then he leaned back in his chair and took a very
long-look at the very dapper couple in front of him. Then he smiled very
politely.
Govindan, ‘Meine Herren Und Frauleine. Welkom, Welkom. Guten
Morgen, Guten Morgen! And how are we this morning?”
Christine, ‘Zehr Gut. Guten Abend Shri Govindan.”
H.M. Umlaut, “Zehr Gut. Guten Abend Herr Professor B.G.B. Govindan
Sahab. I wanted also to say…”
Govindan, “Hold it, Monsieur. I have very little time before my next
lecture! So pardon me my interrupting you. My good friend Police
Inspector Baburao Chowgule Ji had called me about your most traumatic
experience. Baburao and I, we have been friends for a long time indeed
and it is practice for him to call upon me in cases of this type, which are,
very frankly speaking, most frequent in this city of ours. So I do hope
that you would cooperate with me to the fullest as I propose to ask you
just a few questions in the direction of assuaging your and your wife’s
trauma. Gut? I mean would that be alright?”
Christine, “Oui Monsieur. That would be Zehr Gut!”
53

54. H.M. Umlaut, “Gut?”
Govindan, “Thus, and therefore, now that our niceties are over let us get
down to the brass-tacks. Now what I do propose to do, being entirely
aware of the nature of the mental disorder or shall we say a slight mental
imbalance which you both are currently suffering from…a sort of
Phantom-Time-Experience…I shall just have to ask a few questions of
you both, or rather the both of you, in order to understand your
personalities better, and the precise nature of your trauma. Is that all-
right?”
Christine, “Yes Doctor. That would be wonderful!”
H.M. Umlaut, “Sure. Just a minute. Which is the way to the
conveniences? I shall be right-back!”
Then Professor B.G.B. Govindan put down upon his office desk his
books, a blue coloured whiteboard marker and the keys to his car. Soon
Mr. H.M. Umlaut was back and then this discussion resumed in the
Professor’s study.
Govindan, “Welcome Monsieur. I believe that you are a painter of
landscapes? Is that true?”
M.H. Umlaut, “Ach So!”
54

55. “Who is your favourite painter, Sir?”
“Oh. Salvador Dali.”
“Isn't it?”
“Yes, indeed it is.”
“Good. About landscapes then.”
“Ach so.”
“What about Dali’s Landscapes? Is that what you like best about his
paintings? Sir?”
“That’s a strange question Herr Professor. Are you asking a question or
putting a suggestion to me?”
“Well, let’s see now. Hmm. First off…well…um…I would think. Well,
yes, I think I have it! Well all questions are suggestions of a kind,
wouldn't you say, Herr Umlaut?”
And even as this conservation was in progress, Mr. Indrajeet Talwadekar
received a phone-call which jarred him to full wakefulness.
“Indy, Were you asleep?” Inspector Baburao Chowgule rasped in his
55

56. unmistakable guttural accent on the phone.
“Yes, Baby. Sleep. The divine sleep. The best of all things god ever
made.Tell me, what wakes you?”
“Actually, it's that 5 Carat Diamond from Sarla Jhingorani's gullet. The
forensics had run a few tests on it and have sourced it to Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong?. Did you say Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong it is Guvnor.”
“I see.”
“No you don't.”
“Let me have the juice...”
“It's a blood-diamond, kid.”
“I see. From Africa, Eh?”
“Not necessarily, Indy, in this day and age...!”
“I see Mr. Chowgule. Prithee, then what else might be the case?”
56

57. “You see, isn't it, Indy, in the absence of better light which we may
throw upon this issue, the Crime Branch suggests that we have both to
travel together to the dhis Hong Kong...Comprende Senor?”
“Si Senor, Muchas Gracias.”
“Then kindly pack your essential, which is really to say pack, your
bags...”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Well...well...now that is asking, isn't it? Silly Fool, the Crime Branch
has already approved and booked our tickets for the flights, booked us
into the famous Sunderland Patton Estate International Hotel, where
they shall be picking the tabs of all our expenditures, that Sir, is why you
pack your bags, Pronto. Dig?”
“Dig, you Moron, Dig! Send me your vehicle to the airport within an
hour so so. I haven't even had my customary breakfast as yet! You see,
Sir, our maid, she has deserted us without any sort of notice!”, said
Indrajeet emphatically.
Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule and Private Detective Indrajeet
Talwadekar were soon aboard their Quantas Airline flight to Hong Kong,
scheduled to arrive early evening the following day. The flight was most
57

58. ordinary and both of them busied themselves variously with various
nondescript in-flight magazines, newspapers and various aerated drinks
until they touched down safely at Hong Kong's premier Airport.
At the airport thy made their own way to the Taxi-stand and with pre-
paid billets in hand they soon boarded a class Mercedes-Benz taxi and
told the local driver their destination.
"Ha. You must be well-paid in your jobs at India, Monsieurs to be
staying at the last Governor's private residence. It is really a Late
Victorian Gothic Palace. Very difficult to photograph, you know?"
Inspector Chowgule, "Difficult to photograph? Why is that?"
Fu Chien, "Difficult because photography hadn't really got going at that
time in this part of the the world so the architect Parry Billingsgate didn't
really take that into account while designing that building. It is all
minarets, turrets, stairways and full of what would then have been
regarded as very secret passage-ways. It is just impossible to totally
capture the totality of this building even if you were shooting in it for a
year!"
Detective Talwadekar, "Drive on Old Chap! We aren't really here to be
taking photographs, although it is odd that you should be guessing as to
why we are here in the first place, Huh?"
58

59. Fu Chien, "Huzoors. Fu Chien an Old Man. Long Time Taxi Drive.
Know Detectives and Police Officers from the fact that they never wear
Cologne. Ha Hah Ha Ha...There, Sirs, do you see the lights on top of
that hill, that be the Sunderland Patton Hotel. We shall be there in the
next five minutes or so."
As soon that classy Merc cruised into the spacious lawns of the
Sunderland Patton Estate and the two bleary-eyed sleuths de-cabbed and
found their way into the foyer of the hotel with their meagre baggage as
the Crime Branch had sanctioned for the purpose just a briefest of visits.
It was still very early in the morning and the night-shift Hotel Clerk was
still on duty yawning now and then as he saw these latest of his visitors
making their way to the Check-In Desk.
"Hello Monsieur!!", he said, "Welcome to the Sunderland Patton
International Hotel."
Police Inspector Baburao Chowgule was quick on the uptake. he said,
"You have two single-rooms booked for us, isn't it?"
"May I see your Passports, Please?" said the Night-Clerk.
On receiving the necessary identity documents, he booted his computer
up and checked the names.
59

60. "Aha. So that's taken care of Monsieur. My name is Lao Chuan. Here are
your rooms keys, Monsieur!"
Indrajeet and Baburao made their way up gingerly to their third-floor
and adjacent single-rooms, both eager for a quick shower and shave
followed by a sumptuous meal of this fantastic hotel.
Before parting ways before Dinner and as he was about to plunge his
key into his lock Baburao Chowgule said something almost as a mutter
to himself, but loud enough for his colleague Indrajeet to hear, and to
worry about it lots and lots until much much later.
"Methinks. We have here to find a Mole first!"
Very soon the two co-workers descended via a high-speed elevator to a
magnificent diner on the ground floor. They were quick to find a table
from where they had a magnificent view of the plains down below the
hills rolling away from the Sunderland Patton Estate Hotel.
Very appetizing, all this.
Thereafter, Indrajeet Talwadekar reached for a very large and an equally
elegant menu card, to take a look at what was on offer. The menu card
was in chaste English which surprised him mildly.
60

61. Baburao Chowgule, "Its all about tourism these days, Mate!"
Indrajeet, "It is, isn't it?"
Baburao, "Well. In a manner of speaking, that is."
Indrajeet, "What manner, precisely?"
A waiter elegantly suited and watching them from the corner now
decided to intervene.
For the time of the night that the duo had reached the waiter to be
precise was precise.
"Would you Sirs prefer some alligator-burgers with dumplings peas
carrots tomato chutney and frog's legs in tropical mango, Sir?"
Indrajeet, "What's the Sweet?"
"Er Sooshee done with Demerara sugar and honey honey."
Baburao, "and the Tab?"
"Nothing you can't afford Sir, given the exchange rate of the INR!"
Indrajeet, "You got it! Let's do this!!!"
61

62. Jim Young, "That's Jolly Nice of Your Sir! Gimme a minute."
As the steaming hot food was served both of these ageing detectives
gave Jim Young, the waiter that is, a look which was a blessing and a
thank you, two in one, sort of look, before nosediving into the fare for
the night.
Their bellies to the bursting, they sauntered to the elegant elevators in a
blissful daze and uploaded themselves into their respective rooms before
the happenings of the following day!
Which was to prove to be one of the longest days of their entire careers.
It started, with a bus ride to the Hong Kong Docks.
Before parting for the night as they slipped young Jim an Indian
Thousander a piece, he all but whispered, before he was away quickly
giving them a look that there was more where it came from.
"Your Mole, Sirs, awaits you at the Docks! More later. Over and out.
Guten Abend. Gute Nacht, Monsieurs!"
...
At around the same time that is 3:00 A.M in the morning as our Indian
62

63. Detectives were reaching their rooms, a wayward loudspeaker at the
Hong Kong docks got going after some awful rasping.
"The New Age of this Universe is here, here, here...hey adjust those
Mikes Goddammit (heard plainly)...here here here..let us wake up.
My name is Dadh Ichi. I am from Taiwan. My forbears are from Taiwan.
Long Live Taiwan...!
Long Long Long before Dis universe was da created...Lord Buddha was
already born...the sentient one...the Tathagata..Lead kindly light..tamso
ma jyotirgamaya...awl one and de same.
Friends, Romans and Countrymen, let us not quibble with mere words,
for it is da ultimate knowledge which matters. Buddham Sharanam
Gacchami, Dhammam Saranam Gacchami, Sangham Saranam
Gachchami...
In contemporary China, far beyond the constraints of Da colonial boxer
rebellion and dis rebellion and that rebellion, we know that we are
converging toward capitalism, plain and da simple..how dis does digest
with our communist philosophie?...let us think da dis dem thought-
out...Spirogyra, I say, my friends, Spirogyra...Dus. Therefore and
hereafter... Lord Buddha said...let no religion follow me...then here we
have some contradictions coming up?
63

64. For the path of the unenlightened converges inevitably towards
accumulation, profit and misery. As da moola becomes the new
mantra...nobody is really following Buddha...the only Buddha we are
following is our 'Self'...
Thus said my forbears from Taiwan and I Dadh Ichi reiterate their
vision."
In my first lecture, here on the amply spacious docks of De Hong Kong I
shall try to resolve for your this contradiction in contemporary China,
Taiwan and Formosa, the complimentary conflicts between spiritualism
and money. Broadly speaking, Tao or the Path or The Path is basically
and most fundamentally a way or the Path. Okay?
However, as always History intervenes with everything!
Most people think that it is all about Economics! Well, Well. Does
Economics not also rely at taking a Historical View of Things? Human
life is all also about time! Historians then typically consider which
society and peoples did what with their time. There may be an escape
from Economics from one sort of another, however,is there really an
escape from History? I think not, Dear Friends. The time for reckoning
is here. You have to decide which side of history you wish to be?
My forbears from Formosa or the erstwhile Formosa espoused a
64

65. Positivist view of things, influenced as they were by the draconian
dreams of Modernity and its promises of an ordered and all providing
country, world and ultimately the universe. Time proved that dream to
have been a non-starter...!
The question now is, can we here in Hong Kong, in this day and age, eve
n begin to think of a space in which things are
organized in a way which is radically different from an order which see
ms to pervade things similarly in most human societies whichever cultur
e or time they may belong to? Much much before we may proceed towar
d that unenviable and ultimate
condition of being able to imagine a full universe, in which things, thing
s of any kind, are in a conspicuously different sort of arrangement..."
Listening to the discourse of Dadh Ichi, thus far, Inspector Baburao Cho
wgule said, "My Man Talwadekar!
What sort of a mole might this be."
Indrajeet, "A very original one, I guess. A bit of philosophy never ever d
id any harm to Easterners, innit?"
A little later on in the Dadh Ichi lecture it was now time for a surprise of
65

66. sorts for the two sleuths. As Indrajeet Talwadekar turned his neck in a ve
ry customary fashion to take a look at the rest of the crowd listening, he
caught sight of the
Lalls, that is Mrinalini and Hanji Lall Ji. They were both sitting at the far
back, smartly attired, wearing paper hats as a shade from the Hong Kong
sun, dark glasses and fanning themselves vigorously with what looked li
ke books or at least very slim books or pamphlets! He turned at once to h
is colleague Inspector Baburao Chowgule and gave him a nudge and whi
spered quickly about their presence.
“What!?”, said Inspector Chowgule emphatically. “That is impossible.”
"What precisely? Is impossible Dear Old Chap?", said Indrajeet.
"Well, well.", said Inspector Chowgule rising from his seat most
awkwardly after an hour of sitting. "Well, I shall have to go over to them
and see about that, won't I?"
He thought he heard Indrajeet chuckling.
Meanwhile having detected Inspector Baburao Chowgule heading in his
direction, Hanji Lall was quick to jettison the book he was actually
reading and as it fell on the Hong Kong docks with a plop, a few of the
onlookers in his immediate vicinity looked towards him. He was quick
to pick up this book and fielded his neighbours on the Hong Kong
66

67. docks, with a wan smile. The book was called “How to Spend a Year
with the Worst Sort of Morons and Live to Tell the Tale.” This book was
written by one Christopher Peckinpah.
For he knew Baburao very well from the Khatampur Club fraternity to
be an upright officer, who could be downright rude while investigating a
case. Indeed the entire Khatampur gliterrati was in complete awe of the
colourful language which could be at Baburao’s marshall, at a moment’s
notice. Mrinalini, quite engrossed in the Dadh Ichi lecture, cast an
irritated glance in his direction, on account of his fidgeting, and then
continued as before.
None of this escaped eagle-eye Chowgule. Indeed, one of his service
colleagues had joked nicely that Baburao Chowgule’s promotions in
police service would go great guns, if apart from forensics, ethnographic
field methods were also to become part of police academy training!
Indrajeet Talwadekar was busy listening to the remarkable elocution of
the preacher Dadh Ichi.
It continued somewhat like this.
"Science and Technology, Science and technology, Reason and
Rationality. Dear Friends, by towing such enterprises as these Friends,
we have managed to save our world, isn't it? Or have we? Ha. Ha. Ha.
67

68. You answer me! And if not then why not? Why did you come for this
lecture. You could have all stayed home watching the Idiot-Box or the
Television, isn't it? No, you felt compelled to take in some reality today?
And that too perhaps after a week or so? Isn't it? Why? Why is
simulation not enough? After all the thousands of years it has taken us to
take the concepts and practices of simulation to its apex? Karl Marx
called it alienation.
When we get divorced from the products of our labour, when we cannot
enjoy their fruits, when we cannot find ourselves in what we have
created, when all we create is like all modern factory-products nameless,
regular and unidentifiable as to which human hands created them, the
personal signature of the worker is no longer reflected in what he
creates.
When we stop being producers and start thinking that the purpose of the
entire creation is consumption, rather ceaseless consuming, then we lose
track of ourselves, which gets buried under a sea of concepts, as encoded
in each product which we consume, which serve to define and redefine
us, ceaselessly and much to our detriment, until we pass into the
netherworld of a ceaseless simulation, which is totally divorced from
reality. This is the alienation.
68

69. Friends, I have recently revised the ancient calendar, which with good
reason was populated with animals, replacing them with humans. I shall
come to this shortly.
This is the Age of the Midwife! One trauma shall follow another, as if it
were all ordained, when what in other circumstances would have been
called laziness, shall be called lifestyle. Rather than working properly
and whole-heartedly, to enjoy the fruits of our labour, in this Age of the
Midwife, we shall all turn infinitely lazy, and shall, by the virtue of our
wealth, serve each other with daily traumas, instead of bread! Instead of
waking each morning, we shall be born! And then, throughout the day,
and while going through a variety of small and large traumas, caused by
civilizational dysfunctions, we shall get born and re-born, several times
a day, and only in order to realize our full potential.
Thus Friends, The Age of the Midwife is preceded by The Age of
Wrestler, which was again totally lacking in logic of any kind
whatsoever! It is said that the cyclic order in which such ages would
succeed, that the Age of the Wrestler shall be filled with loathing!
Loathing of all kinds. Everyone shall learn to loathe everyone else.
There shall be all kinds of loathing. The Age of the Landlord shall
precede. Everyone must covet the possessions of others. Be rapacious to
the nth degree. Have no satisfaction. Beg, borrow, steal the possessions
of others. Break all laws to do so.
69

70. Dear Listeners, nobody is perfect, the world is not perfect, and I too
have had trouble recasting some of the animals. However, let us say that
preceding The Age of the Landlord, is the Age of the Alligator. An age
marked by reckless consumption of all kinds, leading to a variety of
diseases, some even fatal ones! This is preceded by the Age of the
Family. This is the best of all or nearly so! Everyone shall want a family
and shall try to make one. For the purposeful sharing of food. Human
beings shall all be altruistic, food-wise, as it is humans alone that share
food lifelong, and for this reason are unique among the species which
dwell the earth...!"
These ages, in all probability, were preceded by the Age of the Crashing
Bore. All sorts of valid forms of knowledge were suppressed, not shared
and hidden. False knowledge was professed and advocated...!"
Baburao was soon standing next to Hanji Lall proffering a gloved hand
as a greeting. Hanji shook it warmly and quietly waited for him to settle
down in the chair next to him.
"Are are are, Inspector Sahab. Hah. Kaise ana hua. Hong Kong to Bharat
se Badee door hai!"
The Inspector replied is equal good humour, "Jab sab log amrika ki taraf
mukhatib ho rahe hain, to aise samay main, kuch logon ko to Eastward
70

71. dekhna hi chahiye, ayen?"
Hanji Lall, "Bilkul. Aur yahan Bharat ki hi tarah chain aur shanti bhee h
ai, hai ki naheen, bhai sahab?"
Baburao, "Hanh, Hanh, Bilkul...Magar ana kab hua?"
Hanji, "Ummmm. Yehi, koi ek do roz pehle. Factory main kuch unexpec
ted profits ki vajah se. heh. heh. Heh."
Baburao, "Magar agar apki zindagi itni achi hai hi, to pravachano ki kya
zarurat? Heh."
Hanji, "Sir, you see, I am a Sublimate Parent of about five hundred or so
children, youngsters and adults!"
Baburao, "Sublimate Parent? You mean Surrogate of course, don't you?"
Hanji, "Sir, in the way that I intend it to mean, sublimacy is just about su
rrogacy too, to the extent that this surrogacy is entirely subliminal."
In between listening to the ongoing Dadh Ichi lecture, Police Inspector B
aburao Chowgule decided to give him the ear.
"Theek Hai. Aur Bataiye."
71

72. "Aur? Vah bahut khoob. Maza ayega. basically, this surrogacy or sublimi
nal parenthood derives from the massive underemployment and unemplo
yment of Khatampur. I did not realize this when I first arrived here to set
up my bicycle factory. Among the locals here, there are those who find
work, and there are those who find surrogate parents, for the end of their
days. The idea of such surrogacy is based on a deep contempt which the
youth here have for their natural parents, who they deem unworthy of an
y care, sympathy, respect or attention, as they think that one way or anot
her it is they are to be blamed for the abject penury in which most of the
youth here find themselves. Hence, setting-up small activities for small i
ncomes, they set about sizing-up the various customers they entertain as
future surrogates."
"What exactly is such a subliminal-surrogate child, youth or man? What
do they actually do to you that you should call yourself their parent?"
"What do they do? Well, mark time, basically. A surrogate or subliminal
parent is basically supposed to endorse every damn thing they do! Such
a parent, then, is just supposed to shower unlimited benignity!"
Baburao, "That sounds more like being a Grand Parent. Hah. Hah. And h
ow about these so called adults? You mean there are actually adults too
who do such a thing?"
72

73. Hanji, "The power of imitation! You'd be surprised. There are adults too,
Yes, and some from extremely affluent circles. They also apply such a ps
ychological lock, but then that is for shirking work, mostly! Also, their
modus operandi is more astute. First they work at neutralizing all the int
ellectual abilities and existence of a target surrogate or sublimate. Then
when enough despondency is caused thereby they sink their claws, to de
rive as much of mush and soap, out of the surrogate, to get on with their
blackguardly ways."
Baburao Chowgule, "I see. Then the whole thing is basically about not w
orking or shirking work?"
Hanji Lall, "Ah! that would seem to be the case!"
Baburao, "And this is what disturbs you? So that you have to come all th
e way to Hong Kong!"
Hanji Lall, "Yes! It is a free country!"
Suddenly Baburao's cellphone bleeped as when such phones do on inco
ming messages. It was Indrajeet Talwadekar. The message was short. It s
aid that Baburao should keep Hanji Lall engaged in conversation.
Baburao, "Aur?"
73

74. Hanji Lall, "Aur Sir, main do kitab bhi likh raha hun."
Baburao, "Do kitab? Kaun Kitab?"
Hanji, "Pehli ka naam hai Faces of Khatampur aur aur doosri ka Slippers
of Khatampur."
Baburao, "Hmm. Chehre Aur Chappal!"
Hanji, "Magar Sahab, itna hee nahin. Ye sab ke sab basically factory-
workers hain, ye surrogates, aur chahete hain kee sab ke sab ki bahali Cl
erk main ho jaye? Aise to kadachit sambhav naheen hai na, Sir?"
The Dadh Ichi lecture resumed suddenly.
"The Age of the Rascal. Friends and followers, behold the Age of the Ra
scal. Closer to the time this universe was being created. Great forces and
powers of nature were at work. Sometimes not so slowly, not so silently
at all! Crafting the rivers, the land mass, the trees and forests of the yore.
truly the work of our first or the very first ancestors who in the new age
of our sentience were gradually to be remembered as superhuman, even
gods. All oral tradition, fantasy and very much a figment of our
imagination. For why do we imagine a god at all? It is basically through
our sense of gratitude that we were at all born to behold this sublimity, to
be able to enjoy the same rivers, forests, mountains and what have you!
74

75. Think about it, for a minnit. Do we actually not imagine and relate with
God as if she or he were an ancestor? However, and as always, science
asks that 'why' question? There have been materialists and the doubters
in a theory of God, in every civilization, day and age...! For the rest, we
have our oral traditions, which through the failings of human memory,
individual and collective, turn historical fact into glorious, but totally
fact-less forms, grandmothers' tales, if you like. For human imagination
and therefore memory are often posited upon things material..!"
Mrinalini Lall decided suddenly that it was time for asking a question.
Mrinalini, "Teacher, teacher!"
Dadh Ichi, "Yes, Child!"
Mrinalini, "Teacher, I come from India every year for your lectures. yet,
this is the first time that I have a question?"
Dadh Ichi, "That is wonderful, I may say even scientific?"
Mrinalini, "What teacher, is the upshot or the purport, of your lecture
until now, Teacher."
Dadh Ichi, "Very well. basically, I feel our universe has become
completely senile."
75

76. Mrinalini, "But, Teacher, the universe was always, sensu stricto, senile.
When we say that a star is several million light-years away, it really
means the distance of that star, at the speed of even light, is millions of
miles away, isn't it. So the solar system and the beyond too, is really
absolutely senile, isn't it?"
Dadh Ichi, "It is, and, this is the wonder of science."
Tumultuous clapping from a very disciplined crowd at the Hong Kong
docks, followed.
Dadh Ichi, "In the order of their demerits, and by and by, the next 'age',
and the one preceding all these, enumerated before, was the Age of
Classifications!!! When no sentient being, at all, walked anywhere on
this earth. Nature, you see, has very mysterious ways of, this...Ahem,
ahem, ahem...this classifying. Nothing is random, in the nature's scheme
of things. It is just that, the order nature follows, defies our own
mathematics, and hence reasoning! Why should, all things being equal, a
Mango Tree continue for millions of years, as a Mango-tree? And then,
there is the Fibonacci Numbers or the Fibonacci Series.
Let us, all, however, take a few deep breaths and inhale and exhale this
glorious fresh air, made available to us by the elements, on this winter
morning. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale...Now, the illustrious Italian
76

77. Mathematician who propounded this theory about nature recognising the
value of and arranging thing and objects, but mostly thing, I mean living
things, into discrete algorithms approaching numbers in sequence, which
are strange but entirely regular as indeed they are feasible and numbers
in a sequence, ought to have realized that every civilization, at some
point, had to ape nature in discovering their own system of counting and
establishing numerals of some sort, to signify quantities and then
numbers, at some point of time! However, that since the beginning of
time that we have been aping nature, in many many regards, in a quest to
‘overcome’ it, and have quite forgotten the cosmic number systems
themselves, strikes me as worthy of our present meditations...Inhale,
Exhale...and so on and so fourth and so fifth!...Inhale, Exhale, Inhale...!"
Suddenly a Hong Kong University graduate Shin Liu Sherdil decided to
speak-up and be counted.
Shin Li, “Master, Master! I too have a question...Master, Master,
Namaste! Master, Master Ichi!! Master, Master Dadh Ichi, Sir!!! Please
answer my question.”
Dadh Ichi, “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!! My Child. Please ask your question, Dear
Child!”
Shin Liu, “Master, Master! Sir, I study history at the university of Honk
77

78. Kong and my name is Shin Liu Sherdil!”
Dadh Ichi, “Yes. Yes indeed you are a Sherdil! Go on ask you question,
Dear Child.”
Shin Li, “But Master, E.H. Carr in his book What is History suggests
that we must all be very very rational in writing history and piecing
together the past.”
Dadh Ichi, “Yes. Rationality. Rationality is good. It is very very good.
But who is E.H. Carr?”
Shin Liu, “No. No. Master you are very very wise. E.H. Carr is just a
historian.”
Dadh Ichi, “Ah. Master Carr. The historian. Heh heh heh. These days
there are a lot of these historians and we must be very very careful with
this history, innit?”
Shin Liu, “Yes. But by that measure Master, you would seem to saying
things which are utterly non-rational, is it not?”
Dadh Ichi, “Non-rational? But I didn’t say anything!”
Shin Liu, “No. Master this age-system you were propounding is that
78

79. rational. The rest is quite alright, isn’t it?”
Dadh Ichi, “Rational. Rational. Yes. Yes. Quite alright. Now sit down.
What I do wish to let you know, Dear Child, that I am here as a
representative of my spiritual senior called the Universal Mother! She is
the one, in our church, who is empowered to give sermons on rationality.
The Church of the Illustrious, that is. Our church has been in the
business of alternate discourses since at least the thirteenth century. I
will assure you, Dear Child, that rationality is one of our major
strengths, in so far as our enterprise of educating the young properly is
concerned.”
Shin Liu, “The Mother? The Universal Mother? Pray, Master, please do
tell us where she is so that we may learn from her.”
Dadh Ichi, “Ah. So that brings to an end my lecture for the day. All you
wonderful people assembled here on the Hong-Kong docks! I thank you.
Yes, for those wishing to meet the mother of our church Mamati Piu
Chong, please note her address. The first hutments next to the city-
square public taps.”
A sea of appreciate grunts and clapping followed as Master Dadh Ichi
left his seat at the Hong Kong docks and walked away to board the
rickshaw that was waiting for him.
79

80. Well, insofar as the mole, so called, had spoken Baburao Chowgule and
Private Detective Indrajeet Talwadekar stood informed. They were quick
to disengage themselves from the crowd on the Hong Kong Docks, and
from the Lalls, and to hire a cab, and were soon racing their way to the
city square to locate the Universal Mother of the Church of The
Illustrious.
Indrajeet, “Four murders, all seemingly planned very rationally. A very
clueless Khatampur Police Department and citizenry. This business of
rationalism mentioned at the very end of the preacher Dadh Ichi’s
discourse. What possible clues emerge? Eh, Baburao?”
Baburao, “Man, Indy. Rest it. Just rest it. Let us meet with Mamati Piu
Chong first. This is a globalized world innit? There are bound to be
linkages!!”
Their cab soon hovered near the city square and the public taps a distant
memory of the Han Dynasty era loomed into view. It was an imposing
structure. Exquisite architecture over what seemed to be a natural spring.
Indrajeet Talwadekar was quick to solve this geomorphological problem.
“There must have been some volcanic activity around these parts in the
geological past of Honk Kong. I come to think of the many many such
favoured spots in India. Tapping natural spring-water is such a good
thing, Baby, innit?”
The cab deposited them near the curb where they alighted and paid the
fare. The central park of the Hong Kong city square was bathed in a
glorious sunshine and early picnickers had already arrived and spread
their garden-sheets and arranged themselves into small, conspicuous
conclaves. Children playing football the elders sitting around reading
newspapers, chatting or catching-up with walking.
80

81. As they navigated the park a set of hutments came into view. Loads of
fish and chips stalls, vegetables, groceries and chow mein vendors
selling a mind-boggling range of noodles and dim-sums. There were
regular restaurants too.
Baburao, “Hey Man. It is nearly time for breakfast!!”
Indrajeet, “Baby, something tells me that the Crime Branch will be able
to tell from our depositions about this interview what time exactly we
chose to give pleasure preference over work. I’d say we speak with
Mamati Piu Chong first. Wouldn't you say?”
Madam Mamati Piu Chong’s Consolation Parlour was written large in
red paint on a sign board right beside Hong’s Seafood Delights. They
walked in and paid the tickets and were soon shown into a smallish
auditorium where Mamati’s morning lecture on rationalism was in
progress.
“Reasons, reasons, reasons. Reason behind every thing. You are tired of
giving dem reasons and you are tired of listening to dem reasons. The
point, however, is to get the work done. So how do you do it? Clearly, by
not being on the other side, so to speak, of the reasoning process. The
god given gift of human rationality had its dawning ages ago and that
gift was given the humans, to help us da survive de better-more, to think
like humans, which is to think socially, lifelong. Pay attention and you
will learn, that among all the species, because of the gift of rationality
and sociality, it is humans alone who share da food de lifelong. Why?
Why? Why? Have you ever thought? Have you ever thought Sirs and
Madams, that it is knowledge that is power, and not information? For
knowledge is about learning or having information about a particular
skill or technique for earning a living. It comes through learning by a lot
of devotion and regular learning. Not bits and bytes of information
81

82. which may bring you quick lucre and a lifetime of comfort. Hence, it is
said that give a person a squid and s/he will eat for a day, teach them
how to squid, and they shall eat for all their days... And here, perhaps, in
a nutshell, the crux of this morning’s rational discourse...the work-space
is the work-space. However, why are we so quick to dovetail our cultural
mores and codes in conducting day to day work? The work space is not,
I say, da cultural space...all kinds of cultural miasma has come to
characterize the work-space of the twenty-first century! Whatever we
may choose to call such a very negative invasion. A lot of people
consider it a ‘negotiation’ of sorts, apparently, to undo all of dis worlds
ills, in the space of a day’s work. Or rather than being indisputably
‘productive’, through such parameters as ‘productivity’ is clearly
defined, for a productive organization, for all of their days.
Clearly, as in most cases, explicit communication is the key to both
‘negotiating’ the undoing of millennial ills, through the agency of ‘work’
and the ‘work-space’. Not the contrary, to subvert da work-space in a
bid to negotiate, through what are clear strategies to stall and subvert
work ergo productivity, instead of weaving a tapestry, howsoever
appealing, through reflecting your millennial concerns by doing your
work...As a famous poet said, there is a time for everything!”
Even as the duo sat there working bits of this discourse into their own
narrative of how Mamti Piuchong could possibly be the murderer or at
least to have ordered these crimes to be perpetrated or at least would
have a motive to do so, Indrajeet's mobile phone buzzed, it was the
Chandu on the line, from the selfsame Khatampur University's
psychology department.
"Yes", said an excited Indrajeet, sensing a crucial clue that would give
them the much needed breakthrough was about to be revealed.
82

83. "This is Chandrasekhar from the Department of Psychology, Sir."
"Yes. Yes. Chandrasekhar Ji. What is it?"
"Sir, Professor Govindan would like to talk to you. He asked me to let
you know that he thinks he might have accidentally landed on a clue for
detecting your murderer."
"Clue? Murderer? But I think we are sitting right here in Hong Kong in
front of her!"
"Well please talk to the Professor, Sir."
...
The upshot of the conversation between the two was simply this.
Professor Govindan thought it was a local astrologer, with an overgrown
sense of self-importance, and in quick need of money, for setting up an
astrology university, who was picking-off those with a contrary view
towards the scientificity of astrology, which would have prevented him
from getting the required funding.
"The debate", as he suggested to Indrajeet Talwadekar, “between the
science of astronomy and the art of astrology is a very old one, and
much as in the debate between religion and science, the course of
development of astronomy, as in other sciences, in ancient India,
challenged deeply established orthodoxies, and caused the deepest
enmities between leaders of society, who would lead with or without the
benefit of objectively valid propositions and pathways, leading our
politics, economics and society onto surer or slippery grounds.”
“I see. And then?” Piped-in Indrajeet, by virtue of being another
Khatampuri who had had the benefit of seeing the ghettoy astrology
there, although he did realize that they made their money terrorizing on
83

84. the quiet.
“Professor, but this debate must then be at least two thousand odd years
old? Did it really continue that long and with such severity?”
“Well at least since the time of Aryabhatta, which is 5th century CE, isn’t
it? And then profitable professions and past times are even now very
difficult to come by in our society!”
…
Inspector Baburao Chowgule and Indrajeet Talwadekar were on the first
flight back from Hong Kong to Khatampur. After a night’s rest to work-
off the jetlag, the duo returned to Khatampur University premises, and
were ushered into the psychologists office which was already expecting
them.
“According to the terms, and material evidence cited during the trial, and
testimonies offered by the police force, we have four murders, all of
which stand to benefit a very short list of suspects, all of whom are
practicing astrologers. Variously they are a) Atamram Agnihotri, b)
Bilawal Baikunth, c) Sudarshan Saryupari and d) Mithila Manbhavan…”
Meanwhile, the astrologer-suspect was busy writing his notes, towards
his new work, to be published soon. It was to be expected to be about
control. Control of people, through mental states they come to him for
seeking succor, and his suggested remedies. His notes were rather
profound.
“The best subject is to be controlled through a judicious mixture of
pressure and persuasion. They all come when neck-deep in trouble, or
when they are nearly crumbling with pressure related with a son’s
studies, or a daughter’s marriage, not having sufficient for their dowries,
or wishes for demanding exorbitant dowries for themselves.
84