The Case of the Love Commandos by Tarquin Hall Read Free Book Online Page A

which, for all its faults, had produced an educated intelligentsia. Since independence, the vacuum had been filled by something far less sophisticated. Uttar Pradesh’s modern rulers possessed none of the intellectual acumen of the likes of Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru or Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, the Dalit leader responsible for writing the Indian constitution. Today’s politicians were crude men and women guilty of everything from smuggling to rape and murder. Their route to power was not competence or judiciousness but exploiting caste vote banks.
    The latest leader to ascend to the state’s highest elected office was the son of a hereditary laundry man. Thanks to the affirmative-action “reservation” system for so-called backward classes, the new chief minister had been the first in his family to receive an education. Popularly known as Baba Dhobi, this former bureaucrat had tapped into the resentment of the long-oppressed untouchable castes to win power.
    “We will thrash the Brahmins with our chappals!” had been his main slogan.
    Since becoming chief minister four years ago, Baba Dhobi had sought to consolidate his cult standing by using state funds to build lavish monuments and statues to the leaders of the Dalit movement, himself included. Bronze effigies of this stocky, thick-nosed character—unmistakable in his simple dhoti with the unshorn tufts of hair growing from his ears—now stood at major intersections across the state. With new elections looming in a couple of months, his smiling image also stared out from myriad billboards and posters across Lucknow.
    But from what Puri had read in the newspapers, Baba Dhobi was languishing in the polls. The crucial Muslim vote looked set to abandon him, and there were even grumblings amongst his Dalit base, who claimed that their lives had improved only marginally during his tenure. It was the detective’s understanding also that crime was still on the rise. Often referred to as India’s badlands, Uttar Pradesh was deeply feudal, with a caste landscape that was bewilderingly complex. Mafia-like networks controlled every aspect of the economy, and dacoits indulged in kidnapping, smuggling and carjacking.
    Puri was glad to have his pistol with him. But before heading into deepest, darkest rural Uttar Pradesh, he needed to perform a puja to help ward off the evil eye. He explained to the driver his requirement and soon the ornate shikhara of a temple, its shrine strung with colored lights, came into view.
    “Fifteen minutes is required, only,” Puri told Facecream as the car stopped.
    He got out and then remembered that he didn’t have a paisa on him. Unable to tell even Facecream about his embarrassing secret, he made some excuse about his ATM cardnot working and asked to borrow three thousand rupees. With a small portion of this money, he bought from a stand in front of the temple some ghee, a coconut, and a garland of marigolds. He found a dozen other worshippers crowded before an effigy of Shiva, intoning “Om Nimah Shivayah.” Puri explained his evil eye issue to the priest, who suggested an appropriate puja. He then chanted some shlokas from the Hindu holy texts and made an offering of ghee to the deity. The marigolds were draped around the idol’s neck and the coconut duly blessed.
    The detective stood with his eyes closed and his hands pressed together, entreating Shiva for protection from negative forces conspiring against him. The priest then smeared his forehead with a daub of vermillion paste, gave him a string of rudraksha beads, and pressed blessed halva and a few sultana raisins into his upturned hands.
    With the god duly on his side, Puri returned to the car and shared the prasad with Facecream and the driver.
    To the west of Lucknow, past rains had carved deep gorges into the earth’s crust. They spread like fractures in a pane of glass across the umber-colored landscape—perfect hideouts and smuggling routes for the likes of the infamous