A tale of unconventional murders

This story begins with a rossogolla. Which should have been a sweet thing really, except somebody died and I found myself in the middle of a murder investigation.

Life, they say, is stranger than fiction.

In hindsight, I should have anticipated trouble when I bumped into Dolly Luthra. In all the years that I've known her, that woman has brought nothing but turbulence into my life. But I wasn't expecting to run into her in Kolkata of all places and was completely unprepared for the events that followed.

I'd flown down from Gurgaon to visit my parents. The first couple of days were spent navigating a maze of confusion. The city I had grown up in was fast disappearing. A brand new Kolkata was emerging from the cocoon of tradition like an garishly coloured butterfly. The skyline was dotted with swanky glass and concrete towers, there were fancy cafes, restaurants and malls vying for space alongside ramshackle old houses and buildings. The roads and bridges were freshly painted and sporting new names and I couldn't find any of the old landmarks.

To add to my bewilderment, the city had a shiny new toy. The City of Joy, not the most original of names I'll admit, was Kolkata's most recent and fanciest acquisitions. A glitzy 23- acre structure built over the ruins of an erstwhile industrial estate. The mall was the largest the city had ever seen, complete with designer outlets, departmental stores, a rooftop food court boasting of global cuisines and a state-of-the-art movie theatre. Flanking the mall was a landscaped residential complex, a prime piece of real estate, commanding astronomical prices.

Whether I was paying an elderly relative a visit or meeting up with a friend for coffee, the same question, like a stuck record, was on everyone's lips. Have you been to The Mall yet? It seemed every city dweller worth their salt had been to The Mall, other than me. So, I decided to pop in one afternoon to see what the fuss was about.

After an hour of loitering aimlessly through the spiffy interiors, I found myself somewhere between the groceries and packaged foods aisle of a popular departmental store when I heard the familiar voice.

"Hayyo Rabba, why have you brought me sanitary napkins? I said table napkins!"

I froze. It couldn't possibly be her, could it? Why on earth would she be in Kolkata?

The tower of Frooty Oats cereal boxes was blocking my line of vision. I moved stealthily towards it and peeped out.

Dolly Luthra stood in the middle of the home furnishings section, brandishing a box of sanitary napkins in one hand like a weapon. The other hand was resting on her hip, fingers tapping impatiently.

She hadn't changed a bit. She would be pushing fifty but you wouldn't guess looking at that sleek, well sculpted body. She could pass off as a twenty-something with her frothy white top and lycra trousers outlining those glorious curves. A glossy curtain of golden-tinted hair rested on her shapely shoulders, an assortment of bling covering her neck and wrists.

The mousy-looking shopgirl looked tearful. "I'm sorry Ma'am but you did say you wanted feminine napkins so I thought ...."

"Yes fem-in-ine napkins," Dolly's perfect eyebrows arched skyward and her eyes narrowed. A bulging vein appeared on that unblemished forehead. Her voice rose a few octaves higher in warning. "I meant napkins with feminine designs. Like pretty flowers and parsley." Did she say parsley?

She meant paisley of course. The woman had a hilarious habit of muddling up words. I chuckled softly from my corner.

The shopgirl sighed wearily and took the box from Dolly's hand. "I will ask another attendant to help you while I return this box to the pharmacy." She walked across to a young woman who had been observing the scene and whispered something in her ear. The woman nodded and squared her shoulders. Bored with their Chinese whispering, Dolly turned around and began walking in my direction.

I panicked and did an about-turn, preparing to make a dash for the exit. But my handbag swung against one of the cardboard cartons with a loud thwack and the Frooty Oats display came down faster than the walls of Jericho. Cereal boxes tumbled helter-skelter all over the shiny floor.

I stood there dumbstruck like a deer caught in the headlights. "Mini?" It was too late to flee. She had enveloped me in a bear hug.

My name is Mrinalini Sen, Mrini in short. But Dolly Luthra insists on calling me Mini. At five feet four inches and sixty five kilos, I am not Mini by any stretch.

(Excerpted with permission from Debeshi Goopt's The Rossogolla Murders; published by Notion Press)