Under the Tamarind Tree

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Inspector Philip Mascarenes stood looking out of the huge window facing the street in Police Commissioner Sagnik Singh's office. He wearily rubbed his eyes. Philip had got up very early and had driven for straight four hours without a break from the small tourist town in the hills where he was currently posted.

He had been temporarily "lent," to the special investigative team here in the city and he hoped this case would lead him to a promotion and a permanent transfer back to a city, even a tier-2 city would be an upgrade from his current posting.

In his mind, he was a tough cop meant for the big city where real crimes happened.

The last time a "real" crime had happened in his current posting was six months ago, when a tourist had been beaten up by locals for urinating on the town hall compound.

Looking out the window right now, he could see a man brazenly unzipping his trousers, to take a piss right there on the compound of the police head-quarters. And, he could see a few constables pass him by without a word or a glance. A little further down the compound, heaps of uncollected garbage lay piled up, and a beggar-man stood foraging.

"Hello, how are you? adjusting to the change?" said Aman Poornesh, flopping down on the seat opposite to him. Inspector Philip felt a minor rush of irritation at the younger man's presumption but he quickly brushed aside that feeling.

Aman was his friend and friends usually came in without asking, took the seat opposite you and started conversations, even if you didn't feel like talking. Besides they had always been equals, and professionally, for this assignment at least, he would be directly reporting to Aman.

"Nothing seems to have changed and yet, everything is different somehow," said Philip, looking across the street to the grand old newspaper office complex that was one of the oldest buildings in the city.

Part of its parking space had been let out to a posh restaurant chain. Abutting it was the tea and cigarette stand and he could make out a bunch of men and women who seemed to be in the age range of 25 to 50 standing around and smoking.

They were probably discussing the politics in America and the war in the middle-east, with two minutes spared for the murder of the school teacher who lived in the neighbourhood, he thought, his mouth turning on its own into a smirk.

Or wait, maybe she would be under discussion since she was once a former university lecturer with leftist leanings. Surely conspiracy theories with government involvement would be doing the rounds.

Inspector Philip had once dated, very briefly, one of those pretentious intellectual types. She had spoken a lot of nonsense and argued vehemently against every law-enforcing system in the country while waxing effusive about the left politico, and the dangers of capitalism while wearing handloom grey silk kurtas that cost ten times more than any of his westernised polyester shirts.

The last he heard of her, she had married some rich builder who acquired honest people's homes, usually for less than it was worth, and then built low-quality apartment buildings which he then sold for profit.

Philip looked carefully at the group and could make out an effeminate looking boy in an expensive kurta pyjama trying hard to get his voice heard in the group. He looked to be the youngest and had that earnest look about him, often seen on people who take everything at face value or are on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"The Commissioner said we need to start cracking this case, you know. Why don't you go and do the school interviews and I just visit the morgue? The post-partem is going to come through any hour now, no time to stand and stare at the village green opposite the friendly little police station and all that," said Aman loudly, interrupting his thoughts, and Philip bit back a sharp reply reminding himself again, that Aman was one of his few remaining friends.