You Can't Possibly Know That's The Real Story.
So a while back, I read The Case of the Missing Servant: From the Files of Vish Puri, Most Private Investigator by Tarquin Hall and loved it to bits and pieces.
Last weekend, I finally found the second book, The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing: From the Files of Vish Puri, Most Private Investigator, in trade and made noises that only dogs could hear. I started reading it today and fuck, I love this series. Especially Mummy and her penchant for conducting investigations on the sly where her son won't find out and try to stop her.
Seriously, she is awesome:
Inspector I. P. Kumar was standing by the front gate along with three gormless constables, giving the hapless drivers a grilling.
"Madam, you gave your statment?" he asked her wearily when she insisted on talking to him.
"What is point? So stupid he is, na? Got rajma for brains seems like. Now, something is there you must know. So listen carefully, na? I've some vital evidence to show."
Mummy held up her right hand; she had wrapped it in a plastic freezer bag.
"You're hurt, madam?" asked Inspector Kumar.
"Not at all," she replied. "Just I scratched the gunman most deliberately."
"Why exactly?"
"For purpose of DNA collection, naturally," she said impatiently. "That is what I have been telling. Fragments of that goonda's skin and all got under my nail. Just his fingerprints are on my compact, Gita, and hand phone, also."
Mummy held up another freezer bag, which contained the other evidence she had collected.
"Madam," Inspector Kumar said with a weary sigh, "this is not Miami, US of A. For everyday robberies we're not doing DNA testing. That is for big crimes only. Like when non-state actors blow up hotels and all. Also, your fingernail does not constitute evidence. Could be you scratched yourself or petted the dog. How are we to know?"
Mummy bristled. "I will have you know my late, dear husband was himself a police inspector and I was headmistress of Modern School--"
"Then better you stick to teaching and leave police work to professionals, madam," interrupted Inspector Kumar before turning away and continuing with his interrogation of the drivers.
Mummy felt Rumpi's hand on her arm.
"Come, Mummy-ji, we should be getting home," she said.
"But police are being negligent in their duties," she complained, still brandishing the evidence she had collected.
"I know. You can lead camels to water but not force them to drink. Come."
The two women walked out into the street where their cars were parked.
Behind them Kumar and the constables were chortling conspiratorially.
"Seems Miss Mar-pel is here," one of them joked.
"Bloody duffers," cursed Mummy. "No wonder so many of crimes are going unsolved."
I would legit read an entire series about Mummy solving crimes on her own. She is like Miss Marple, only she curses more and has to dodge her well-intentioned son who thinks she shouldn't be solving mysteries because it is not what mothers do and solves crimes like a motherfucking BOSS. I love her a lot, you guys. She is my favorite, second only to Vish Puri.
Meanwhile, Vish Puri is like an Indian Hercule Poirot, but without all the rabid xenophobia and general Francophobia that usually accompanies Poirot wherever he goes. Plus, there are such vivid descriptions of food and countryside that I am constantly hungry and nostalgic while reading this book. It's lovely, and Tarquin Hall is my new favorite author right now.
(I kind of want a crossover between No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and Vish Puri because I think Vish and Precious would have a lot to talk about regarding proper detecting techniques, and I would like Grace and Rumpi to sit around with cups of tea and talk about the proper way to do things. It will never happen because it takes place in two different countries, but I can dream about it.)
I might have to cast this, at some point. If only to amuse myself.
Last weekend, I finally found the second book, The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing: From the Files of Vish Puri, Most Private Investigator, in trade and made noises that only dogs could hear. I started reading it today and fuck, I love this series. Especially Mummy and her penchant for conducting investigations on the sly where her son won't find out and try to stop her.
Seriously, she is awesome:
Inspector I. P. Kumar was standing by the front gate along with three gormless constables, giving the hapless drivers a grilling.
"Madam, you gave your statment?" he asked her wearily when she insisted on talking to him.
"What is point? So stupid he is, na? Got rajma for brains seems like. Now, something is there you must know. So listen carefully, na? I've some vital evidence to show."
Mummy held up her right hand; she had wrapped it in a plastic freezer bag.
"You're hurt, madam?" asked Inspector Kumar.
"Not at all," she replied. "Just I scratched the gunman most deliberately."
"Why exactly?"
"For purpose of DNA collection, naturally," she said impatiently. "That is what I have been telling. Fragments of that goonda's skin and all got under my nail. Just his fingerprints are on my compact, Gita, and hand phone, also."
Mummy held up another freezer bag, which contained the other evidence she had collected.
"Madam," Inspector Kumar said with a weary sigh, "this is not Miami, US of A. For everyday robberies we're not doing DNA testing. That is for big crimes only. Like when non-state actors blow up hotels and all. Also, your fingernail does not constitute evidence. Could be you scratched yourself or petted the dog. How are we to know?"
Mummy bristled. "I will have you know my late, dear husband was himself a police inspector and I was headmistress of Modern School--"
"Then better you stick to teaching and leave police work to professionals, madam," interrupted Inspector Kumar before turning away and continuing with his interrogation of the drivers.
Mummy felt Rumpi's hand on her arm.
"Come, Mummy-ji, we should be getting home," she said.
"But police are being negligent in their duties," she complained, still brandishing the evidence she had collected.
"I know. You can lead camels to water but not force them to drink. Come."
The two women walked out into the street where their cars were parked.
Behind them Kumar and the constables were chortling conspiratorially.
"Seems Miss Mar-pel is here," one of them joked.
"Bloody duffers," cursed Mummy. "No wonder so many of crimes are going unsolved."
I would legit read an entire series about Mummy solving crimes on her own. She is like Miss Marple, only she curses more and has to dodge her well-intentioned son who thinks she shouldn't be solving mysteries because it is not what mothers do and solves crimes like a motherfucking BOSS. I love her a lot, you guys. She is my favorite, second only to Vish Puri.
Meanwhile, Vish Puri is like an Indian Hercule Poirot, but without all the rabid xenophobia and general Francophobia that usually accompanies Poirot wherever he goes. Plus, there are such vivid descriptions of food and countryside that I am constantly hungry and nostalgic while reading this book. It's lovely, and Tarquin Hall is my new favorite author right now.
(I kind of want a crossover between No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and Vish Puri because I think Vish and Precious would have a lot to talk about regarding proper detecting techniques, and I would like Grace and Rumpi to sit around with cups of tea and talk about the proper way to do things. It will never happen because it takes place in two different countries, but I can dream about it.)
I might have to cast this, at some point. If only to amuse myself.