Could be a rival moustache grower, no?'
'Not a member of MOP, that is for sure!' said Pillai, bristling. 'Our members are all respectable gentlemen. From well-to-do families, I should add. You yourself are a member, Mr Puri.'
'Yes, but surely--' ventured the detective.
'Each and every member is aware of the supreme effort and sacrifice required to grow an award-winning moustache,' continued Pillai. 'Never have I seen one hint of jealousy aimed at Satya-ji. Everyone is proud of his accomplishment. You recall the reception after he returned from US last year? One and all gave him a hero's welcome.'
Puri gave a knowing nod, loath to admit that he hadn't attended the special dinner that had been held to honour Satya Pal Bhalla. The truth was he attended few MOP functions if he could help it. He'd become a member to do his bit for promoting the growth of moustaches amongst Indian youths (it was, after all, sad and shocking to see how many young Punjabi men were not 'sporting' these days), and to indulge in a bit of socialising and networking with like-minded individuals. But over the years the organisation had been hijacked by a competitive group of individuals. All they talked about was, well, moustaches. And Rumpi, for once, refused to attend any more of their functions.
'I can't listen to the debate about wax versus gel ever again,' she'd protested after the 2007 annual dinner, her last.
Satya Pal Bhalla was the worst offender. A Grade II bureaucrat employed in the Central Secretariat Stenographers' Service, he was one of a breed of Indians who were desperate to stand out from a crowd 1.2 billion strong and therefore dedicated their lives to extreme pursuits. The ultimate prize for such types was an entry in the best-selling Limca Book of Records.
Growing his thirteen-foot-long leviathan had brought Bhalla fame and kudos. Indeed, no one stepping into his living room could fail to be impressed by the collection of photographs on the walls, of Bhalla posing with the great and the good.
While Pillai went to fetch the victim from his bedroom, Puri circled the room admiring the photos. Mother Teresa; ace batsman Sachin Tendulkar; the father of India's nuclear bomb, Dr Abdul Kalam; Bollywood legend Amitabh Bachchan . . . Bhalla had met them all.
His moustache had also brought him promotional work. By the window hung some framed print advertisements in which he had appeared. One for SHIFT clothes detergent depicted him standing with his moustache stretched out in both directions. Brightly coloured shirts and underwear hung from it. A DEEP CLEAN YOU'LL WANT TO SHOW OFF, read the slogan.
But now it seemed Bhalla's career was over and the man himself looked bereft. His moustache's left tendril had been completely shorn off, leaving the right section still curled around his cheek like a Danish pastry.
'Heartfelt condolences, sir,' said Puri as he entered the room. 'What you must be feeling I cannot imagine.'
'Is no one safe in their own house?' asked Bhalla, as if the detective was somehow responsible for the break-in. 'Look at me! Look at what is left! I'm a freak!' He tugged at the bare section of his upper lip, his eyes burning with anger. 'I want him caught, Puri! Do you hear? I want him to pay! We all know who did this and I want you to get him! Whatever it takes!'
The detective raised a calming hand. 'Who is it you believe was the culprit exactly, sir?' he asked.
'Ragi of course!' Bhalla's anger flared. 'He's been after my number one status for years! Finally he's found a way to get me out of the way!'
It was true that Gopal Ragi was now, by default, the Moustache Raja of India. It was also true that he and Bhalla hated one another.
'Recently that bastard accused me of wearing hair extensions!' he continued. 'I told him, "Go to hell!" And he threatened me! You know what he said? That if he was me, he would watch his back! And his moustache, also! His exact words!'
'There were witnesses, sir - to his threat?'
'So
'Not a member of MOP, that is for sure!' said Pillai, bristling. 'Our members are all respectable gentlemen. From well-to-do families, I should add. You yourself are a member, Mr Puri.'
'Yes, but surely--' ventured the detective.
'Each and every member is aware of the supreme effort and sacrifice required to grow an award-winning moustache,' continued Pillai. 'Never have I seen one hint of jealousy aimed at Satya-ji. Everyone is proud of his accomplishment. You recall the reception after he returned from US last year? One and all gave him a hero's welcome.'
Puri gave a knowing nod, loath to admit that he hadn't attended the special dinner that had been held to honour Satya Pal Bhalla. The truth was he attended few MOP functions if he could help it. He'd become a member to do his bit for promoting the growth of moustaches amongst Indian youths (it was, after all, sad and shocking to see how many young Punjabi men were not 'sporting' these days), and to indulge in a bit of socialising and networking with like-minded individuals. But over the years the organisation had been hijacked by a competitive group of individuals. All they talked about was, well, moustaches. And Rumpi, for once, refused to attend any more of their functions.
'I can't listen to the debate about wax versus gel ever again,' she'd protested after the 2007 annual dinner, her last.
Satya Pal Bhalla was the worst offender. A Grade II bureaucrat employed in the Central Secretariat Stenographers' Service, he was one of a breed of Indians who were desperate to stand out from a crowd 1.2 billion strong and therefore dedicated their lives to extreme pursuits. The ultimate prize for such types was an entry in the best-selling Limca Book of Records.
Growing his thirteen-foot-long leviathan had brought Bhalla fame and kudos. Indeed, no one stepping into his living room could fail to be impressed by the collection of photographs on the walls, of Bhalla posing with the great and the good.
While Pillai went to fetch the victim from his bedroom, Puri circled the room admiring the photos. Mother Teresa; ace batsman Sachin Tendulkar; the father of India's nuclear bomb, Dr Abdul Kalam; Bollywood legend Amitabh Bachchan . . . Bhalla had met them all.
His moustache had also brought him promotional work. By the window hung some framed print advertisements in which he had appeared. One for SHIFT clothes detergent depicted him standing with his moustache stretched out in both directions. Brightly coloured shirts and underwear hung from it. A DEEP CLEAN YOU'LL WANT TO SHOW OFF, read the slogan.
But now it seemed Bhalla's career was over and the man himself looked bereft. His moustache's left tendril had been completely shorn off, leaving the right section still curled around his cheek like a Danish pastry.
'Heartfelt condolences, sir,' said Puri as he entered the room. 'What you must be feeling I cannot imagine.'
'Is no one safe in their own house?' asked Bhalla, as if the detective was somehow responsible for the break-in. 'Look at me! Look at what is left! I'm a freak!' He tugged at the bare section of his upper lip, his eyes burning with anger. 'I want him caught, Puri! Do you hear? I want him to pay! We all know who did this and I want you to get him! Whatever it takes!'
The detective raised a calming hand. 'Who is it you believe was the culprit exactly, sir?' he asked.
'Ragi of course!' Bhalla's anger flared. 'He's been after my number one status for years! Finally he's found a way to get me out of the way!'
It was true that Gopal Ragi was now, by default, the Moustache Raja of India. It was also true that he and Bhalla hated one another.
'Recently that bastard accused me of wearing hair extensions!' he continued. 'I told him, "Go to hell!" And he threatened me! You know what he said? That if he was me, he would watch his back! And his moustache, also! His exact words!'
'There were witnesses, sir - to his threat?'
'So
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