The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

The public ground known as Cross Maidan in south Mumbai’s New Marine Lines district had gained its name from the sixteenth-century stone crucifix erected there by Governor Nuno da Cunha, back when the city was under Portuguese rule. The cross, planted in the northern end of the five-acre common, was deemed to possess miraculous powers – supplicants journeyed from all over the country seeking fulfilment for prayers that had fallen on deaf ears elsewhere.

Chopra parked his van on Fashion Street, the strip of Mahatma Gandhi Road that ran adjacent to the Maidan near the Bombay Gymkhana.

Even at this late hour Fashion Street was alive with the clamour of furious haggling as locals and tourists alike matched wits with the owners of hundreds of stalls lining both sides of the street and selling every type of garment known to man.

Chopra threaded his way swiftly through the chorus of pleading and wailing and gnashing of teeth and on to the Maidan proper.

The sky above was darkening and streams of commuters hurried along the shortcut called Khau Gully, connecting the Victoria and Churchgate stations via the Maidan. In spite of the gloom numerous games of cricket were still going on. More than one famous Indian cricketer had first honed his skills on the patchwork of threadbare pitches that stretched over the common. Chopra was tempted to stop and watch, but he knew that time was short.

As he walked across the Maidan he reflected that in the days before Partition, tens of thousands of his fellow countrymen had gathered here to peacefully protest the continued presence of the British. His own father, Premkumar Chopra, who had once lived in the city, had stood shoulder to shoulder with countless others and chanted pro-Independence slogans. Gandhi himself had spoken to the masses here. And one day, his whispers had become a cyclone that had blown away the British.

The circus comprised a single two-pole big top, with a bright red roof, and red and yellow stripes marching around the sides. A colourful, hand-illustrated wooden board sat above the tent’s entrance depicting an exuberant virtuosity of circus acts. The board was surrounded by lightbulbs, many of which had failed. On a second board above was a painting of a grinning, bearded Sikh gentleman, a tiger, and the words: TIGER SINGH PRESENTS THE WORLD- FAMOUS GRAND TRUNK CIRCUS.

The evening show had ended. A handful of desultory visitors hung around outside the tent, smoking beedis and spitting. One man urinated onto a tent peg.

The interior of the tent was lit by hanging striplights powered by a portable generator that thrummed away in the background.

Chopra found himself confronted by a compact circus ring surrounded by rows of red plastic chairs. A cleaner worked his way between them, picking up discarded chocolate wrappers, soft drink bottles, paan leaves, cigarette packets and other junk. His expression transformed into one of horrified distaste as he peeled a discarded condom from the floor and threw it into his bag. A solitary drunk who had fallen asleep in his seat snored away, a dribble of eighty-proof saliva trickling down his chin.

The ring, a dusty circle hemmed in by foot-high portable barriers of the sort used to mark the boundaries at cricket matches, was still alive with activity.

The performers were winding down, letting off steam after the evening performance.

Chopra watched as a flame-thrower in a sequinned jacket practised blowing a jet of fire at a wooden mannequin tied to a stake five metres away. Beside him a portly, blindfolded man hurled knives at the same target. He was not very good, Chopra reflected, as another knife bounced hilt-first from the wooden figure and clattered onto the dusty floor. He hoped that in the real performance a live volunteer was not employed as the target.

His eyes were drawn to a caparisoned elephant sitting in the centre of the ring on a reinforced stool, its front legs raised in the air. A hoop dangled from its upturned trunk. A slender woman with Assamese eyes hung from the hoop, her body contorted into a ring.

A chorus of raucous laughter arose from the far side of the circus ring where half a dozen dwarves in clown outfits were lounging in a circle smoking and playing cards. ‘Why don’t you come and ride my trunk, Parvati?’ one of them shouted. ‘I promise I won’t take my trunk out of your hoop until you’re finished.’

Chopra stepped over the ring barrier and walked over to the dwarves. ‘I am looking for Tiger Singh,’ he said.

The dwarves stopped laughing and stared at him, their jovial clown make-up re-forming into baleful expressions. The dwarf who had spoken to the contortionist spoke again: ‘Are you from the AWBI?’

Chopra found Tiger Singh in a straw-lined temporary paddock behind the circus tent in which were tethered a number of threadbare camels and emaciated horses. Singh was seated on a cane stool on one side of an upturned wooden crate. On the other side was an old dwarf in a tight-fitting scarlet ringmaster’s jacket with gold trim. A cheap cigar stuck out of the side of his mouth as he intently focused down on Singh’s hands.

Singh had three coloured balls laid out on top of the crate. As Chopra watched, his hands became a blur, moving the balls around on the crate’s surface.

The dwarf looked up. He plucked the cigar from his mouth, blew a cloud of brackish smoke into the humid night air and said, ‘Not bad.’

Singh had once been a big man, but seemed to have lost weight. His beard was black, with a single white stripe down the middle. His turban was a deep midnight blue and he wore a flowing black kurta pajama sashed at his waist with a bright red tasselled rope. His face was deeply lined with a map of crevices… and something else. A weariness that had nothing to do with age or infirmity.

Chopra flashed his identity card. ‘My name is Chopra. I am investigating the disappearance of the Crown of Queen Elizabeth.’

‘I thought they already found that,’ said the dwarf. ‘It was on the news.’

The dwarf raised a bottle of cheap whisky to his mouth and took a swig. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘It is my understanding that Bulbul Kanodia has engaged your services for a birthday party at his Bandra residence tomorrow afternoon.’

Tiger Singh stared at him. A shadow passed over his face. ‘The things we must do to survive,’ he sighed eventually. ‘Do you know that this circus has been running for over a hundred years? Once upon a time we toured the length and breadth of the subcontinent. We had the very best acts in the land, better than the Jumbo, the Gemini, or even the Great Royal. Thousands flocked to see us. Now, all we get are the uninterested and the drunks. I cannot blame them. What reason have children to come to the circus any more? Look at me… I am a Tiger Singh without a tiger. Ever since the animal welfare people tightened the regulations, our acts have been decimated. I fear for the next generation. Who wants to send their children to join the circus now? Who wants to break every bone in their body learning the trapeze when they can sit in an air-conditioned office and sell sand to the Arabs? Who wants to burn their mouths hurling flame or lie down beneath an elephant’s foot? The only ones we get now are the borderline criminals, the girls without dowries, and the dwarves. No offence, Vinod.’

‘Vinod is our general manager,’ explained Tiger Singh. ‘I do not know what I would do without him.’

‘The birthday party,’ said Chopra, steering the conversation back to the reason for his visit.

‘Sir, I know that we must not look like much,’ said Singh eventually. ‘But we take pride in what we do. I cannot permit an amateur into my troupe. Our private clients pay us well. I will not compromise the integrity of our performance.’

‘Each day in the circus is a matter of life and death. I am afraid I cannot help you.’ Singh looked back down at his crate and began to spin the remaining two balls.

Chopra thought fast. He had to get inside Kanodia’s residence. It was the only avenue of investigation he could think of.

‘I have a baby elephant. He is very smart. I will bring him with me. That will be my contribution to your act.’

Singh’s eyes were suddenly far away. ‘It has been many years since last we raised a young elephant in the traditions of the circus. Now we have only Aurangzeb, the old bull. He is very temperamental. Also I think his mind is going. He forgets his acts. I have told the mahouts not to give him drink, but they do not listen. They say without alcohol he cannot function at all.’ Singh shook his head. ‘It will be good to see a young one again.’

‘Ganesha is no ordinary elephant,’ Chopra said, repeating the words that his uncle had written.

Tiger Singh smiled. ‘No elephant is ordinary, sir. They are the king of beasts.’ He exchanged glances with Vinod. Something unspoken passed between them.

Singh stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘We will have to find something for you to do. Vinod?’

The dwarf blew more smoke from his cigar and sized Chopra up. ‘I am sure we can manage something. Be here with your elephant early tomorrow morning. We will rehearse.’

Tiger Singh smiled thinly. ‘Once upon a time I used to put my head into the mouths of tigers, but now… now Tiger Singh has been reduced to a mere conjuror.’

He reached up to take off his turban. Chopra realised that rather than being a long strip of cloth wound around the skull, the turban was in fact a solid mass, glued together to form a sort of hat.

This was how the illusion worked. Misdirection and sleight of hand: the twin tools of the prestidigitator.

Singh lifted the ball from his head and twirled it around his fingers. ‘It is a hard life and not the one most would choose,’ he said. ‘But that is karma, yes?’

THE GRAND TRUNK CIRCUS