At the Rhododendron Cottage, popularly known as the Rhodo Cottage, four people sat around a gate-legged table leaning back in their chairs, waiting to begin a game of cards.
The bridge partners, a judge, professor, colonel and a doctor, lived on Oak Street that led to the little shrine atop the hill. With its pot-pourri of colonial bungalows, their ornate, wrought-iron gates and window sills camouflaged behind luxuriant shrubbery, Oak Street belonged to a bygone era. Massive, majestic trees lined the street, casting shadows on the cottages. Perennially flowering vines overhung the fences, draping the exteriors of the villas and climbed the trees, bringing a riot of colours to the surroundings. Along with the colours they spread a cocktail of heady fragrance over the street.
It was six in the evening and the birds had long returned to their nests and a deep black, velvety darkness cloaked the house. Time meant little or nothing to the gentlemen, all of whom, except the Doctor, had retired from successful careers. Rhodo Cottage, with its central location and genial owners, was the fulcrum of their lives. Here they gathered every evening to play a couple of games, banter and enjoy Jawahar Joshi’s hospitality.
That evening was no exception.
‘So, who is doing the honour of dealing the cards for this game?’ asked Jawahar Joshi, aka JJ, running his hand over his baldpate, his intelligent eyes observant under the canopy of bushy brows. ‘I think it is your turn Colonel.’
‘So it is,’ agreed the dapper man with a military buzz-cut, sitting across JJ. He shuffled the cards with an expert hand before dealing.
The portly professor, Anil Uniyal, wearing an oversized pullover, grunted as he picked up his cards and stared unhappily at them.
‘Any unpleasant surprises, Professor?’ asked Doctor Sunil Rawat, his eyes on the bold geometrical pattern at the back of the cards. He was the youngest in the group.
In reply, the professor stroked his grey streaked, French beard, and raised two fingers of his right hand.
‘No hints, please,’ Colonel Arjun H. Acharya shook his head without raising his head from the cards in his hands.
‘I am not fishing for hints,’ protested the doc, rearranging the cards with surgical precision. He was a finicky man.
‘Looking for clues in your cards, Colonel?’ teased the professor.
The retired soldier’s love for golf and sleuthing were legendary, as was his sense of humour.
‘There is always a possibility,’ bantered Acharya. He picked up his cards one by one and then rearranged them meticulously. The judge, his partner, watched him patting his Gablesque moustache with satisfaction. The colonel seemed satisfied with his cards. With barely thirteen points in his hand and a five- carder spade suit he called ‘one spade’.
It was the Doc’s turn to bid next. He hesitated, unable to decide his move.
‘Your turn, Doc,’ the Colonel reminded, after a couple of minutes.
‘Pass. My grey cells are still dormant. They need a cup of hot tea to perk them up.’ Sunil Rawat glanced longingly towards the kitchen from where came the sound of crockery.
His partner, the professor, smiled and perked up his ears. ‘I can hear it coming,’
True to his words, Geeta Joshi wheeled the tea trolley towards the four men.
The bidding concluded with the professor making the game call at three no-trumps. The colonel was leading, while the doctor was relieved to be the dummy.
The partners were deep in the game when Tim walked into the room, the obese Labrador at his heels, creating a momentary diversion.
‘Here comes the poster boy,’ exclaimed the doc, his mind wandering from the cards.
The strapping, blue-eyed assistant superintendent of police (ASP), with his regular workouts at the local gym was ideal cover material for a fitness magazine. The inhabitants of the hamlet referred to the incongruous copper and canine duo as Tim and Dim.
‘Hello, everybody,’ Tim waved at them, watching his aunt disappear into the kitchen.
‘Go and amuse yourself elsewhere till we finish this game,’ growled the judge, annoyed with the disruption.
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ Tim grinned, as he sauntered towards the sofa, where the professor and colonel’s wives were seated.
‘Dim is wearing a new collar,’ remarked the colonel, momentarily distracted. He was very fond of the young man and shared with him a love for good mystery.
‘That’s a reward for good behaviour,’ the young police officer patted his dog affectionately. ‘Dim walked up to the ridge with me this morning.’
‘Knowing his laziness, I must say that is quite a feat for Dim.’
‘I hope Bullet is not anywhere around,’ remarked Tim. ‘I am too tired to act the referee in a contest between the two dogs.’
‘A fight or a contest, as you put it, between Bullet and Dim will be disastrous,’ chuckled the colonel, going back to his game.
Tim had become a big fan of the colonel, ever since he ran into Acharya at his uncle’s cottage and heard stories about his feats in the Intelligence Corp. Impressed by the colonel’s passion for Sherlocking, Tim recommended him to the senior police officers. Although at first reluctant, the DSP soon changed his mind upon hearing about the colonel’s success stories.
‘When have you let his behaviour dictate the rewards? He is the laziest and greediest dog in the whole universe,’ Geeta snapped at Tim as she placed a platter of freshly fried snacks near the card players.
‘Dim is ravenous and so am I,’ Tim declared. ‘We haven’t eaten a morsel since breakfast. Are there any leftovers in the kitchen?’
‘I am not surprised,’ the judge retorted, reaching out for a pakora from the plate. ‘The two of you are always hungry, especially when you get a whiff of Geeta’s biryani.’
‘Did you say biryani?’ The professor’s ears had caught the word.
‘Professor, can we please complete the game without your mind gallivanting all over the kitchen,’ rebuked his partner.
The colonel suppressed a titter.
‘There is some leftover biryani in the kitchen for you,’ Geeta said to her nephew, walking with her tea to join the ladies. ‘As for your dog, you can give him some slices of bread with milk.’
‘You seriously don’t expect him to be satisfied with bread and milk: he loves biryani, you know that.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ scolded his aunt. ‘The biryani is for the humans, not dogs.’
‘Don’t let Dim hear you. He will be terribly hurt,’ Tim pretended to be shocked at Geeta’s words. ‘Did you know that dogs can understand human language?’
The dog whimpered sadly as it followed the young man to the kitchen.
‘Bullshit,’ scorned Geeta. ‘Whoever heard of a dog feeling hurt?’
‘It isn’t bullshit. I am quoting from a recent article in The Huffington Post.’
Tim loaded his plate with the biryani and offered some bread and milk to the dog. Upset with the discrimination, the dog whined loudly.
‘Alright, give him some bones,’ Geeta instructed from the other room. ‘I forbid you to bring your dog to this house without filling up his bottomless barrel of a stomach.’
But both dog and master knew the kind lady didn’t mean a word of this.
‘I met Ganesh at the bottom of the lane,’ Tim emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of biryani. He made himself comfortable on the lumpy sofa. ‘He seemed to be coming from the doc’s house.’
The doc took his eyes off the cards and grunted with disapproval. ‘That guy drinks too much for his own good. Wonder what he wanted in my house.’
With all the talk about biryani and other things, interest in the game was fast declining.
‘We never seem to finish a game without distraction. I think we should ban loose talk or change the venue,’ grumbled the judge.
‘It’s alright, JJ,’ said the colonel, slapping his trump card on the table. ‘Tim seems to have stumbled upon something interesting.’
‘I agree with JJ,’ seconded the doctor, tossing his cards on the table. ‘Thanks to the professor’s preoccupation with biryani, we lost the game.’
‘He had some letters in his hand.’ Tim continued, unmindful of his uncle’s annoyance.
‘The film star must have sacked him, so he has taken up the job of a postman,’ the colonel chortled.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. The way he ducks behind the bushes to take frequent swigs from his bottle couldn’t have gone unnoticed for long,’ said the professor.
Ganesh Bisht was Ramola’s gardener. The skinny fellow knew all about plants and was marvellous at his job when sober. When Ramola moved into the sprawling Charmwood Cottage, she had asked the judge to help her find a cook and a gardener.
‘I’ll send Ganesh over. He works well when not drunk, which, I must warn you, is rare. He is also headstrong and not likely to take your advice on what should be planted in the garden. That is not to say, he is not polite. He will find excuses and very reasonable ones, too …’ the judge had warned.
Not only did Ramola employ Ganesh Bisht, she also appointed Dinesh, his nephew, as cook. The two of them were good workers, if one discounted their love for the local brew. Even as his virtues were being discussed, the gate creaked open and the gardener arrived.
‘Ramola madam has sent a letter for Judge saab,’ said Ganesh, looking hopefully at the bottle of whisky lying on the sideboard. ‘There is also one for Kernel saab and for Daktar saab and Prafessar saab. Oh yes, there is one for Tim saab, too.’
Surprised, the Bridge partners put aside their cards to take the envelopes from his hands.
‘Well, well, what do we have here?’ the doc scratched his head. ‘The star is throwing a party and I am invited.’
‘To what do we owe this honour, I wonder. No matter, we should take the playing cards along, just in case we get bored,’ joked the judge.
‘Shame on you, JJ,’ the colonel chided. ‘Can a film star’s party be boring? By the way, what is the occasion?’
‘I guess she is feeling lonely. Golfing with you isn’t challenging enough.’
‘Let’s invite her over for a game of bridge,’ suggested the doctor. ‘It is the ideal pastime for lonely people.’
‘I have read about Ramola in the gossip columns,’ said Laila, adjusting the glasses on her pert nose. A voracious reader, the lady subscribed to no fewer than five magazines. Her interest covered a wide ambit from films to interiors and mysteries. ‘She married a man many years her junior. Her father apparently committed suicide when she was very young. Going by the juicy accounts, the woman has a colourful past.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ chided her husband.
‘There is no smoke without fire,’ snapped Laila. ‘Why blame the paparazzi, the 24×7 channels are no better. They make a mountain of a molehill for the sake of TRP (television rating point). Anyway, I am looking forward to the party. I am sure it will be an interesting evening.’
‘Yes, we will have the opportunity to rub shoulders with a star,’ said Uma.
‘I wonder why she came here in the first place,’ mused Laila. ‘It must be quite dull in Ramsar after her hectic lifestyle in the movie biz.’
‘Don’t worry, you will get an opportunity to extract the details out of the mare’s mouth instead of relying on the gossip columns,’ joked her husband.
‘I hope you use your sleuthing skills to find some interesting stories from the star’s life.’
Ferreting around for information was now a habit with him, the Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle books devoured in childhood having sharpened Acharya’s interest in sleuthing.
‘Whether or not I can glean interesting stories, one thing I’m sure is that the food will be good, which alone should make the party worth attending.’
‘Knowing Dinesh’s culinary talents, I wouldn’t bet on that,’ retorted Tim.
‘I am looking forward to an interesting evening,’ said the professor, rubbing his hands with glee. His wife smiled at his enthusiasm.
‘Well, we should be leaving,’ said Acharya. ‘I can’t wait to finish the novel I am reading right now.’
He picked up his polished rosewood cane with a brass eagle head, limping his way towards the door. An unfortunate accident during his tenure in the army had left Acharya with a limp, which worsened with the plummeting temperature.
‘Since, Geeta is not offering us biryani tonight, I guess we should leave, too,’ said the professor.
‘Too much of biryani will be the death of you,’ chided the doc, following them out of the Rhodo Cottage.
A chilling wind greeted the friends as they left Rhodo Cottage and Laila burrowed the lower part of her face into the thick Kashmiri shawl that covered her head. Slipping one hand through her husband’s arm, she smiled up at him.
The colonel and his wife, Laila, lived at The Nook, a cosy bungalow with an outsized garden, with Bullet, a frisky Alsatian and the colonel’s lucky mascot. Nikhil, aka Nick, the only son of the couple, was posted at Almora and paid them a weekly visit.
‘One of these days I am inviting myself to your house for a drink,’ declared the professor, as the couple pushed open the gate to their house.
Fearing, her husband would give action to his words, the professor’s wife nudged him from the back.
‘You are welcome to walk in anytime,’ smiled Acharya, latching the gate behind him.
Anil Uniyal’s weakness for all things alcoholic and tandoori was the butt of many jokes amongst his bridge partners.
They parted, thoughts of the forthcoming party occupying their minds.