The Stolen Lunch

The Stolen Lunch

The 12037 Howrah-Jodhpur superfast express was meandering its way into Bharatpur station when my cell phone’s alarm clock woke me up. My vacation destination was approaching. Every December, once the semester ends and my academic duties are over, I usually travel. This year, I chose small town Bharatpur. The hustle and stress of a career in academia had worn me down considerably over the past year. So, I decided to avoid Rajasthan’s tourist hot spots like Jaipur, Jaisalmer and Bikaner and opted for the relative quietude of Bharatpur.

The Airbnb that I had reserved belonged to one Mr. Rathore. Being less than a mile away from the station meant that a brief auto-rickshaw ride brought me to the doorsteps of my holiday home. Mr. Rathore was a retired widower who lived on the first floor of his ancestral home. The ground floor was for rent. After a terse introduction, the landlord led me to my room. A medium sized studio with an attached bath would be the perfect resting place, I thought. Mr. Rathore informed me that his only servant and cook usually arrives at eight in the morning, serves throughout the day and then leaves at around eight at night. He said, “Come upstairs once you are fresh. Muralidhar should arrive soon to serve breakfast for us.”

At exactly eight thirty, Muralidhar welcomed both of us with pyaaz ki kachori and pudding. The dining room was small with only a table and its associated chairs in the middle, a couple of standing lamps, a standing fan, a mid-safe and a doorway to the kitchen. The mid-safe particularly had caught my attention primarily as it looked like a thing of the past. Apart from being made of mahogany wood, it also had historical events carved all over it. Possibly judging from the manner in which I was glancing towards it from time to time, Mr. Rathore grinned and said, “That mid-safe originally belonged to my great grandfather. He was a renowned ayurvedic physician at the time but also possessed a deep inclination towards wooden artifacts. This is probably the one thing that has stood the test of time in this house. It used to be a store for medicines during my great grandfather’s time. Nowadays, it is used by Muralidhar to store my lunch and dinner once he’s prepared them. Murali usually takes a break from work during early afternoon. So, in his absence, I know exactly where to find my food.”

After breakfast, still weary from my train journey, I had decided to take to bed with my favorite series of audio stories as a companion. Can’t say for sure exactly when I had fallen asleep, but I was awakened by a fuss coming from the dining hall. I took a peek at my wristwatch to discover that it was just past noon already! I put on my slippers and went to the dining room. Mr. Rathore was visibly upset. Muralidhar was standing beside him with a perplexed look on his face. Our lunch had been stolen or rather eaten! The front door was ajar and from a distance I could see the bowls empty! Mr. Rathore said, “How strange! Never has this happened previously. Murali, are you sure you had locked the main entrance on your way out?” Muralidhar nodded to say yes. Mr. Rathore continued, “Then how come this happened? Oh gosh!” The day was saved with Muralidhar re-cooking our meal. However, rice and fries are hardly an appropriate substitute for Rajasthan’s signature Dal Baati Churma. Mr. Rathore had a gut feeling that the lock to the main entrance was broken. Although, evidence suggested otherwise, he had it replaced with a new one that very day. He wasn’t willing to take any chances. The new lock cost him a few bucks but he was okay with it.

Next morning, I finally felt fresh enough to put my tourist boots on and pay a visit to Lohagarh fort. Bharatpur’s iconic eighteenth century ‘Iron Fort’ not only provided a picturesque setting for my Nikkon camera but also the tour guide’s vivid description of how the fort had repelled multiple attacks during the British Raj had grabbed my attention. I returned from my trip at lunchtime only to discover that our lunch bowls had met the same fate as the day before! Mr. Rathore had his hands on his hips. Muralidhar had the same bewildered look on his face. After careful consideration and not having a clue as to its cause, Mr. Rathore concluded that it was the ghost of his great grandfather who was at the root of this! He said, “My father once had narrated a story about my great grandfather. He never liked anyone touching his favorite mid-safe. Moreover, he was infamous for his gluttony. I am sure his ghost is at the heart of this mess.” Mr. Rathore didn’t waste a second beyond this and immediately called upon a priest to perform a ritual to appease the dead. The entire evening was captured by the solemn ceremony. Mr. Rathore had to pay the priest a sum more than the usual rate as he had summoned his services after regular business hours.

For the next couple of days, nothing untoward happened. Mr. Rathore was satisfied not only because his theory of a ghost was proven to be correct but also because he had done the spirit of his great grandfather a favor by having organized the ritual. Such was the extent of his happiness that he treated me with Bajra ki roti and chicken curry for dinner on the second night.

The day after that night, I was busy touring the famous Bharatpur palace when I received an urgent call from Muralidhar. Mr. Rathore had fainted! The mid-safe was found open and our lunch had been eaten again! On my way home, I had to acquire the services of the local doctor who accompanied me to Mr. Rathore’s place. After a dose of tranquilizer and some rest, Mr. Rathore was on his feet again. This time, he decided to call the police, but to no avail. The sub-inspector respectfully declined his summons stating that the police department had nineteen murder cases pending solution. A stolen lunch was hardly of any importance to them! Mr. Rathore felt disappointed but didn’t give up. He immediately made arrangements to hire a watchman to keep guard throughout the day. He then breathed a sigh of hope and retired for the day.

The following day was scheduled to be my last day of the tour. My return train was in the evening, but I had decided to remain at home and not stress myself too much in the sun. I was getting ready for breakfast that morning when I heard the main entrance bell ring. It turned out to be Mr. Jhunjhunwalla, Mr. Rathore’s next door neighbor. At dinner, one night, Mr. Rathore was criticizing his neighbor for being extremely parsimonious and so I was already acquainted with the neighbor’s name when I was formally introduced at the breakfast table. At first glance, it seemed as though Mr. Rathore was correct about his neighbor’s stinginess. Although he held the monopoly in the jewelry business in Bharatpur, his attire was dying to suggest that he was close to being destitute. Nevertheless, he was putting on a happy countenance so much so that Mr. Rathore had to ask for the reason. Mr. Jhunjhunwalla said, “My pet cat Gullu had gone missing since last week. Yesterday evening, he returned home. I was surprised to see that he had gained considerable weight during this time. I for one only allow him one piece of fish for lunch and a bowl of milk for dinner but his current appearance suggests that he has been feasting happily somewhere else. Mr. Rathore, do you think cats receive wedding invitations just like us?” Mr. Jhunjhunwalla laughed heartily at his own joke while I, Mr. Rathore and Muralidhar looked at each other in disbelief.