Heavy Wait

It all began with an innocuous phone call to Mumbai detective Rajni Pandit, and a request to tag along on a case. At the appointed time, I manoeuvred the steep flight of steps leading up to her centrally located office and arrived at a door with no nameplate, just the number 28.

When Pandit said detectives learn on the job, she wasn8217;t kidding. My training involved but two words of advice: Keep up. I was to accompany her brother Vinod on a quest that could take us across the city on buses, trains and rickshaws. It8217;s a good thing I8217;m wearing my sports shoes.

A few hours later, however, it doesn8217;t look like they8217;ll be of much use. I8217;m still standing, give or take a few inches, at the spot under the tree.

Because I8217;ve been sworn to secrecy, there8217;s not much I can reveal about the case, except that the quarry in question is male, aged 45, and his wife suspects him of ties with the underworld.

8216;8216;It8217;ll be no fun if he doesn8217;t move out today. But there have been times when we have stood at one spot for 15 hours,8217;8217; says Vinod, scoffing at my apparent discomfort. It8217;s the chase he loves8212;with great pride, he displays a forehead gash from a close encounter with a handbag on an evening local. You must either be a voyeur or a masochist to succeed in this profession, I deduce.

While detectives are on call 24215;7, their services don8217;t come cheap. About Rs 3,000 a day is what anxious mothers, devastated housewives and jealous husbands are willing to pay to keep tabs on their loved ones. With a sly grin, Vinod narrates how he was recently paid a handsome sum by a popular television actor. His task was to tail her husband to an island off the coastline, to confirm suspicions of a torrid affair.

8216;8216;If we went out dressed like that, we8217;d be spotted in a second,8217;8217; laughs Vinod, staring disbelievingly at my thick winter coat. He is one with the crowd in his faded jeans and T-shirt.

I notice that he keeps peering across the road. Very strange, since our man lives upstairs on the third floor. That8217;s when I realise that we the followers are also being followed, by the man hiding behind the vada pav stall. In a panicked whisper, I ask, 8216;8216;Have we been spotted?8217;8217;

But as a faint nod of recognition is exchanged between the two, I heave a sigh of relief. He8217;s on our side, the proverbial sidekick. In case the suspect scoots out of a back gate, it always helps to have an extra pair of eyes on the job.

It8217;s two o8217; clock and nature8217;s decided to take matters into her own hands. Like a magnet, I8217;m drawn to the lassi counter. On the job though, a private eye8217;s best friend is a bottle of mineral water. 8216;8216;You never know when you might get to eat or what,8217;8217; sighs Vinod. As I glug down a chilled glass, my mentor strikes up a conversation with the owner.

In this line of work, you have to be a fast talker. Whether it8217;s warding off suspicious cops or chatting up shopkeepers for a cover story, the gift of the gab is an asset. As I mumble a thank you, barely meeting Sharmaji8217;s he already knew the owner8217;s name eyes, I think I have a lot to learn about the social business of detective work.

Three o8217;clock now, and all8217;s not well. A phone call later, my fears are confirmed. Our lazy friend8217;s retired for a siesta. Being a detective may not have panned out for me, but as Vinod and I part ways, just for laughs, I slip on my shades, put on my hat and glance up at the window one last time. At least, I look the part.