The Case of the Missing Servant by Tarquin Hall

Author:Tarquin Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: India
ISBN: 9789085241522
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2008-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

Mummy, like so many Indians, had a gift for remembering numbers. She didn’t need a telephone directory; the Rolodex in her mind sufficed.

The late Om Chander Puri had often made use of her ability.

‘What’s R.K. Uncle’s number?’ he would call from his den in the back of their house in Punjabi Bagh as she made his dinner rotis in the kitchen. Seeing the digits floating in the air before her eyes she’d reply automatically: ‘4-6-4-2-8-6-7.’

Mummy had no difficulty remembering even the much longer numbers of ‘portable devices’.

Jyoti Auntie, a senior at the RTO (Regional Transport Office), was on Oil 16002340.

It was this lady, with whom Mummy had partnered at bridge on many a Saturday afternoon in East of Kailash, who she called now to ask about tracing Fat Throat’s BMW numberplate.

‘Just I need one address for purposes of insurance claim,’ she told Jyoti Auntie when she called her the morning after Majnu had lost him in Gurgaon.

‘Oh dear, what happened?’ asked Jyoti Auntie.

‘The owner was doing reckless driving, bashed up my car and absconded the scene,’ she lied. ‘Majnu gave chase but being a prime duffer, he got caught in a traffic snarl.’

Jyoti Auntie sympathised. ‘Same thing happened to me not long back,’ she said. A scooter scratched my Indica and took off. Luckily I work at RTO so after locating the driver’s address, Vinod paid the gentleman a visit and got him to reimburse me for damages done.’

‘Very good,’ said Mummy.

‘You have a note of the numberplate?’ asked Jyoti Auntie.

‘No need, just it’s up in my head. D-L-8-S-Y-3-4-2-5. One black colour B-M-W. It is Germany-made, na?’

Her friend tried to look up the numberplate in the system, but the computers were ‘blinking’, so Mummy had to call back after an hour.

‘The vehicle belongs to one Mr Surinder Jagga, three number, A, Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon,’ divulged Jyoti Auntie.

Mummy wrote down the details (she did not have a head for remembering addresses) and thanked her.

‘You’re playing bridge on Saturday, is it?’ asked Jyoti Auntie.

‘Certainly, if not totally,’ said Mummy. ‘Just my son, Chubby, is facing some difficulty and requires assistance.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Let us say it is nothing I cannot sort out,’ said Mummy.

♦

Less than two hours later, Mummy and Majnu pulled up outside Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon.

Fat Throat’s black BMW was parked in front of the building.

‘You wait here and don’t do sleeping,’ instructed Mummy. ‘Just I’m going to check around. Should be I’ll revert in ten minutes. But in case of emergency call home and inform my son’s good wife. You’re having the number, na?’

‘Yes, madam,’ sighed Majnu, who was only half listening and privately lamenting the fact that he had missed his lunch.

Mummy let herself out of the car and made her way to the entrance to Block Two.

Chandigarh Apartments was not one of the high-end super luxury developments. It housed call centre workers and IT grunts, most of whom hailed from small towns across the subcontinent and had flocked to Delhi to live the new Indian dream.

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