The mystery and masala of Inspector Singh

Where are you now?” He suspected that she’d picked up on the telltale sounds of cutlery and crockery. “Having lunch in fort area.” As always, Mrs Singh had the last word. “How do you expect to find anything if you only investigate in restaurants?”

Yes, how would he? Here is a Singaporean police inspector pushed to oblige his extremely Indian wife’s family by looking into the death of a bride, whose marriage he came to attend in Mumbai against his will. With no first name, Mr Singh is a pot-bellied, beer-loving, lazy Sikh inspector on a vacation and is hoping to relax. But a nagging, nationalist Punjabi wife pulls him along to India, bang in the middle of slums and open drains, from a very comfortable and ‘perfect’ Singapore. In a family where ‘good girls’ don’t date, Singh has been handed over the difficult task of privately investigating why Ashu, the bride, was found charred to death.

Shamini Flint’s Inspector Singh Investigates: A Curious Indian Cadaver is a mix of witty perspective from the eye of an Indian who has no connection to India other than his Google-loving wife’s nationalist rants, and murder/suicide mystery plot. Though the plot, as it starts, seems like a heavy and ingenious tale capable of a spine-chilling end, comes to a very expected death. With a prologue set in the 1984 Hindi-Sikh riot, one would expect the plot to send a stronger political statement, but looks like Flint decided to abandon that initial plan later in the book.

The only thing that keeps the book going is the humour. The small insights into an NRI Sikh’s psyche and the way he looks at very common Indian traditions and antics will keep nudging you on despite the disappointing the plot.

Sample this. “So tell me again, whose wedding are we attending?”

“I told you, my cousin’s daughter. A very smart girl. A scientist working for a big company here in Mumbai. And now they’ve found her a good boy.”

A smart girl and a good boy. A match made in heaven. It was a curious element of Indian culture than men and women were still ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ until they had achieved the state of matrimony. So much for driving licences, the right to buy cigarettes or vote. None of these were sufficient indication of a graduation into adulthood. Only holy matrimony would do.

A big part of the humour comes from Mrs Singh’s perception of her husband — “Mrs Singh wondered whether the family would take the ashes to Punjab or whether a river closer home would suffice. She tried to imagine what Singh would do when she died. Probably chuck her ashes into the nearest monsoon drain and head to a coffee shop for a cold beer.”

In the beginning, Singh’s character was a little unbelievable — an NRI who is unaware and uninterested on the happenings in India. Who would not know anything about the Babri Masjid? Well, Singh needed a 15-minute history lesson from his wife. But we reconcile with the characterisation when Flint reveals Singh’s background halfway through the book.

Singh’s laziness, apathy to news and his constant comparisons of India and Singapore will make you despise him. He is a crime inspector who cannot distinguish betel juice stains from blood and his immediate conclusion is a massive massacre. But it is difficult to not to eventually like this pot-bellied, pudgy sardarji ■

— krittika@newindianexpress.com