Club You to Death Anuja Chauhan (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📖

‘That is true, sir! Sir, we wanted to ask you about the … young lady called Ganga who works in Daily Needs.’

Observing Mehra’s expression closely as he asks this question. Bhavani decides that while the general is surprised by it, he doesn’t look rattled in any way.

Shrugging slightly, he says, ‘My ill-wishers have been busy, I see. What that disgusting rumour has to do with Leo’s death I cannot imagine, but I will gladly answer your question.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir …’ Bhavani looks hugely relieved.

Mehra inclines his head graciously.

‘Young Ganga and I are buddies. We got friendly during an extremely taxing period of my life – my wife of thirty-seven years was grievously unwell, and I had taken on the responsibility of the weekly shopping. Ganga assisted me in picking out my daily needs very sweetly. She had a no-good husband – chap came and went, I believe – drank like a fish, and was a terrible provider. She was lonely; I was retired, my children had moved abroad. To cut a long story short, we hit it off. She started visiting us at home. Meeting her cheered my wife tremendously! We all played teen-do-paanch, drank a little whisky. Then my wife died and I … I leaned on her a little. Like a father would, on a daughter. But then her husband got wind of it. There was a bust-up, I punched his face in, and that night he walked out on her. Left her for good. We always agreed he was a bad lot – me and my dear departed Savitri.’

‘So sorry for your loss,’ Bhavani says gravely, as if the general’s wife has died that day and not three years ago.

Mehra’s hazel eyes grow wistful. ‘She was a saint,’ he says. ‘A real saint! Loved gardening! In fact, the kitchen garden here is dedicated to her memory. There’s a beautiful, engraved plaque: Shrimati Savitri Mehra Udyaan.’

‘So nice,’ Bhavani replies. ‘We were there this morning with Bhatti sa’ab. But we did nat observe the plaque.’

‘Bhatti wouldn’t have shown you. He doesn’t like me. Because he made such a hash of being home secretary while I was such a success in South Block! Defence Minister Jagmohan Ruia is my very good friend even today. In fact, the party offered me a Lok Sabha ticket. Did I tell you that?’

‘Yes. Uh, general sa’ab, one last question. You must have heard all these rumours about Mrs Khurana and Matthew … Do you think Mr Khurana could have been upset enough to poison him?’

Mehra thinks hard, then exhales noisily. ‘Look, the chap’s unhinged,’ he says bluntly. ‘Desperately sick. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on medication for schizophrenia and bi-polar behaviour! I know everybody’s been saying I’ve been winding him up about Matthew and his wife, but believe you me, Khurana did not need any egging on from my side to perform any of his recent antics – he’s always been like this – there’s always some chap or the other he’s jealous of! Wife’s a real looker, you know! Not much difference between him and young Ganga’s husband, if you ask me, frankly! His wife should not be volunteering for public duty with such an ill man on her hands. In fact, she shouldn’t be running a business either. Her primary duty should be to her home and husband.’

Bhavani looks confused. ‘We were told he’s a highly successful chartered accountant? With his own firm?’

Mehra leans in earnestly. ‘Chap like that would be right at home with numbers and accounts! It’s black-and-white stuff – with clear rules and consequences. It’s the human side of things that he would find incomprehensible!’

‘You think he did it, Mehra uncle?’ Kashi asks.

Mehra shrugs carelessly. ‘He’s the most obvious answer to your little problem,’ he says. ‘And in my experience, the most obvious answer is usually the correct one.’

This is the beauty and wonder and miracle of the institution of arranged marriage, Bhavani Singh thinks as Padam Kumar ushers Urvashi Khurana into Guest Cottage No. 5, that a wet fish like Mukesh Khurana can score a wife like this!

Because this a special woman – tall, finely made, with a short mop of chic, loose curls he can only describe as French-looking, and a glowing complexion. She is dressed in a pepperminty woollen firan, white track pants and embroidered leather juttis.

‘Good afternoon,’ she says gravely in a soft, exquisitely modulated voice. ‘I believe you are the ACP?’

She reminds him vaguely of those elegant ladies in the Pakistani TV shows his wife likes to watch. There’s something refined about her, so much so that she makes you want to be refined too. Bhavani notices that Padam Kumar has put on his most cultured face, smoothed down his pink Rajasthan Royals jersey, and is coyly pushing forward a chair.

Bhavani gestures towards it invitingly. ‘Yes, madam.’

She takes her own time sitting down, then looks at him with serious and complete attention.

‘And you wished to see me. Why?’

Her sheer classiness is extremely intimidating, but Bhavani Singh ploughs in doggedly, his plain face as grave as hers.

‘Madam, your role in the proposed election for the Club president and the fact that your husband was … umm … assaulted by the murder victim on Tambola Sunday do accord you somewhat special status,’ he says stolidly. ‘Also, the rumour that, forgive us, you and Leo Matthew shared a somewhat special relationship.’

A ghost of a smile gleams in the grave eyes. ‘Please don’t apologize, ACP. I’m well aware that there are various nasty rumours doing the rounds – in clear contravention of the Club’s election by-laws, by the way – of my lurid affair with dear Leo! Please ask me anything you like.’

Bhavani gives a quick nod.

‘Thank you, madam. So first just the routine questions we are asking everyone. What exactly was the relationship between Leo and you, then?’

‘We learnt from each other,’ she replies composedly. ‘We met three times a week for the