Explore World History with Inspector Vinod

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

How to wear buttons

He tried to recall a memory of an Auckland gone by as he walked by the old structures of Queens Street. Of times when tram drivers weren’t scared to break speed limits. Of times when there was nothing “non-fat” about milkshakes. Of times when New Zealand was Old Zealand.

But all that occupied Inspector Vinod’s mind was the memory of Sir Edmund Hillary’s funeral earlier that morning. It was a powerful occasion that served a sober reminder that even those of us that had scaled the world’s most formidable heights would someday, run out of missions to accomplish.

Inspector Vinod had been invited to attend the funeral. Everyone who was someone was there. Except the Queen of England of course. She had declined to attend.

Inspector Vinod was secretly relieved at the Queen’s absence. He had refused a knighthood some years ago, and didn’t relish the prospect of meeting her and going through the most awkward conversation in his life. A jilted queen was like a bear that had just discovered his favorite river was without salmon -somber, tense and likely to bite.

Guests had filled Auckland’s beautiful Holy Trinity Anglican Cathedral. The bells had rung loudly, the baritones played their part and the overflow area next door had overflowed. Buddhist monks had chanted resonant prayers, as Nepali Sherpas had laid Tibetan prayer scarves on the coffin.

Anichya. Anichya. Anichya, thought Inspector Vinod. Impermanent. Impermanent. Impermanent. Everything in the world was impermanent. Except for the imposing body of snow and jagged rocks that was Mount Everest. And the large sum of money he owed his dry cleaner.

“It was a lovely funeral,” said Frank Hardy as they walked out of the historic Riverhead Tavern on to Queens Street.

Inspector Vinod nodded. He had known Frank for five years now, but had never had the courage to ask him if he was the same Frank Hardy of the famed Hardy boys duo. Childhood memories were a dangerous thing - Inspector Vinod still remembered how violently his ex-girlfriend Nancy Drew reacted when he had asked her what the “Password to Lakespur Lane” was.

A silent breeze blew through the impressive facades of Queens Street and played with his ears and the rims of his sunglasses or “goggles” as he liked to call them.

“Look!” said Frank breaking the silence of the night.

Inspector Vinod looked. He hoped for his first hobbit sighting. Instead he saw that straight ahead, a man was lying on the ground. Another man stood right next to him.

Inspector Vinod tensed. His detective experience told him that unless he was at a performance of Shakespeare’s Caesar, a standing man next to a lying man spelt trouble.

“Wassup?” he said. It was Auckland, and they had just partied like it was 1999. Inspector Vinod could be hip, when he felt like it.

Wassup is an odd question. In fact, it is the only question that can be answered by repeating the very query. Inspector Vinod knew of many people who responded to a Wassup with a louder Wassup, and they were perfectly normal members of society.

But nothing prepared him for the two responses he received now.

“Seventy-eight….,” stuttered the man on the ground, his arched back collapsing to the ground and his voice lapsing into silence.

Inspector Vinod knelt down on the ground next to the corpse. He placed his ear on the man’s chest and shook his head sadly.

The standing man merely grunted.

“Got a light?” was all he said.

A glint of steel formed in Inspector Vinod’s eyes, but it was difficult to spot it behind his dark sunglasses.

“An odd time for a cigarette! Can’t see the man down there?” Inspector Vinod asked.

“I don’t see brown,” the man smirked.

“Do you see him?” said Frank Hardy angrily pointing to Inspector Vinod.

“I am white,” said Inspector Vinod.

Everyone became silent. The standing man stared at Inspector Vinod with undisguised shock. Frank Hardy hummed a Madonna song. Sensing his street credibility drop, he hastily switched to whistling the title tune of ‘Bridge on the River Kwai.’

“You can co-operate with me now, or at the police station,” Inspector Vinod said, flashing his International Detective card that carried the logos of all the police stations of the world. The card also carried the familiar Starbucks logo that was displayed prominently on its top right side.

“Even cops need their lattes,” the Big Chief had told him. Inspector Vinod knew that he was right. The law didn’t upkeep itself.

“Ask me what you want,” said the man.

Inspector Vinod decided to proceed with caution. He noticed that the object of his investigation was heavy and well built, and definitely not a person to be trifled with.

“What’s your name?”

He knew that it was a good question to begin any investigation with. Inspector Vinod who was one of the few people in the world that had been given access to the “Secret Diaries of Sigmund Freud,” knew that this question prompted memories of maternal love in the latent unconscious, falsely lulling the most alert minds into complacency. He also knew from the diary that the superego was powerless in the face of kryptonite.

“John Q. Public,” said the man.

“Mr. Public, Do you know how this person got a cut on his face and chest?” asked Inspector Vinod.

“Carelessness?” said Mr. Public.

Inspector Vinod and Frank Hardy threw flames of fire from their eyes, flames that a passing pigeon did well to avoid.

Mr. Public shrugged. He spat on the ground. Inspector Vinod reckoned that it was all right. This wasn’t Singapore, and spitting in New Zealand, like a Youtube video featuring a family pet, was an action that lay between the realm of the acceptable and the downright dishonorable.

“You want to know the truth,” said Mr. Public. “I don’t care for the Waitangi treaty. I have no love for Maoris. So I don’t care.”

He looked down at the dead man. “At least this time, he went with dignity.”

Inspector Vinod tensed. His nose arched downwards and perched precariously over his moustache.

“What do you do, Mr. Public?”

“I develop real estate,” Mr. Public said.

Inspector Vinod nodded with disapproval. He knew that there was nothing “real” about real estate developers. To them, develop often meant “un-develop.” And in the age of high-rise condominiums, estates had become imaginary entities, like honest politicians and good, new Michael Jackson songs.

“Where’s the button on your coat?”, Inspector Vinod asked, pointing to the missing spot on Mr. Public’s spring collection creation by the famed designer GAP.

“Somewhere in Auckland,” Mr. Public replied.

Inspector Vinod didn’t chuckle or even smile. This was no time for levity. For Inspector Vinod, broken buttons spelt bad news. A coat that needed mending. A meeting with the dry cleaner. An uncaring spouse. A unhappy personal life.

Inspector Vinod walked up to Mr. Public.

“Confess to the murder of this man now,” he said. “Or I will remove my sunglasses.”

“No, don’t,” shouted Frank Hardy. “Have some mercy!”

Mr. Public laughed. “You know Inspector, you should remove those horrible glasses anyway. It’s the only decent thing to do.”

Inspector Vinod shrugged casually. He removed his sunglasses, held Mr. Public by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

What Mr. Public saw cannot be mentioned entirely in these pages.

Suffice it to say that he saw a giraffe dance the Macarena. He saw Batman order an orange Frappucino and saw that Catwoman was really a man. He saw the Canadian army take over the island of Madagascar, and Russian chess pieces trading on the New York stock exchange. He saw…

“I confess, I confess,” he cried hysterically, his demeanor having changed completely from the strong silent type to the “strongly wish you were silent” type.

“But how did you know?” he blurted out, as the last strands of sanity clung tenderly to him.

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his stupendous knowledge of world history.

“Consider the facts,” Inspector Vinod said.

“1. The Polynesian Maori reached New Zealand in about A.D. 800. In 1840, their chieftains entered into a pact with Britain, the Treaty of Waitangi, in which they ceded sovereignty to Queen Victoria while retaining territorial rights.’

2. The history of humanity is replete with instances of invaders cruelly suppressing the native population. New Zealand is unique in the sense that while there have been many attempts to violate the rights of the Maoris, there have been many good people in New Zealand that have zealously fought on their behalf in this beautiful country.

3. The Bastion Point occupation is a case in point. Protesters occupied Bastion Point in Auckland in January 1977 after the government announced a housing development on former Ngati Whatua reserve land. The occupation was peaceful and non-violent as protestors camped for 506 days in humble shacks.

4. Police evicted the occupiers after 506 days - in 1978, which if you remember, were the last words of the dying man. During that eviction, the Assistant Commissioner of Police Mr. Bill Overton told the demonstrators, “Whether you leave peacefully and with dignity or whether you are forcibly removed is a decision for you to make”. I was always struck with the irony of this statement, as the protestors were so dignified. This wasn’t a case of the pot calling the kettle black. It was more a case of the kettle calling the pot a whistler.

5. When Mr. Public said, “At least this time, he went with dignity,” I instantly made the connection to the Bastion Point occupation. What’s more, Mr. Public was a real estate developer, and he would have been actively following the Bastion Point Occupation.”

Inspector Vinod paused. Frank Hardy clapped. Mr. Public, who was still reeling from what he had seen in Inspector Vinod’s eyes continued to go a little more mad.

“The button of course,” said Inspector Vinod, “clinched it for me.” He bent down and forced open the dead man’s palms. A button, spot in the middle of the lifeline, stared boldly at the moon.

John Q. Public was right after all, thought Inspector Vinod. The button was in Auckland.

“Real estate developers don’t get to where they are with broken buttons,” said Inspector Vinod. “Blond wigs, maybe. But they always have impeccable buttons.”

Inspector Vinod grabbed a hold of Mr. Public and rested him gently on the pavement, just as his legs transformed into thin strands of spaghetti.

“Except for Mr. Public, this story has an happy ending, and the good people of New Zealand deserve all the credit. Following a Waitangi Tribunal inquiry and recommendations, much of the land has been returned to or vested with Ngati Whatua. There were also protests from 1978 at Raglan about the use of Maori land for a golf course, which was eventually returned to Tainui Awhiro people.”

“I never liked golf,” said Frank Hardy moodily.

“You have to get to the eleventh hole. Things begin to happen,” said Inspector Vinod mysteriously. “In the meantime…”

Frank Hardy braced himself. He knew what was coming.

“…go to http://www.teara.govt.nz/NewZealandInBrief/Maori/5/ENZ-Resources/Standard/1/3/en”, said Inspector Vinod throwing out a URL in a manner so peculiar to him.

Frank Hardy sighed expectantly. He hoped that the page would load without one of those fancy Flash plug-ins. Those were objects that even he had never been able to decipher.

The End

Special thanks to Damian Horner for the episode idea. If you have ideas for where Inspector Vinod should go next, please email me at arun_krishnan at hotmail.com, or post a comment below.

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

The L(OV)A Adventure

It was a sunny day in Los Angeles.

A day just like any other day.

Barbara Streissand was sitting at a Starbucks joint in Manhattan Beach. She was looking concerned. For her companion, who was normally a man who held himself together, was now sighing deeply into a hot Cappuccino.

“What’s the matter Inspector?” she asked. “Wasn’t I good?”

Inspector Vinod smiled wistfully. A small smile, whose curves barely touched the edges of his moustache.

“Oh you were excellent Barbara. The high pitches, the screams of pleasure. I always knew that you were an excellent singer and your performance at the Shine today ranks among your best.”

“Then what is the problem? You look sad. Is your coffee alright?”

“Yes, yes, the beans are powdered just fine. The milk is frothy, just the way I like it. And these little wisps of curvy steam,” Inspector Vinod pointed, “look almost ethereal.”

“Well, enough about me,” he said. “What are you having?”

“Iced coffee.” Ms. Streisand giggled for, as far as Inspector Vinod could see, no apparent reason.

Inspector Vinod frowned. He was of the opinion that by drinking this concoction, Ms. Streisand was doing a disservice both to the ice and the coffee.

“That look again! What’s up Inspector? Come on, out with it.” She nearly added “my dear”, but held back. Her mother had told her that people with deep tans, black sunglasses, dark moustaches and swarthy undertones are not to be addressed in such terms.

“Ok, Ok. I shall tell you what’s on my mind. It is fall Barbara….”

“And?”

“The heart yearns for a lost love.”

Ms. Streisand nodded and mentally jotted down these words for use in her next song.

“I have had my share of women….” Inspector Vinod paused to cough, even though there was nothing wrong with his throat. He was just a person, who believed strongly in decorum.

“Oh! I know! Without a doubt…” Ms. Streisand recalled as to how she had nearly cancelled her subscription to People magazine, when they had chosen Harrison Ford over Inspector Vinod as the world’s sexiest man.

“However, of all the women, one stands out in my memory. Her name was Theresa. She had a clear conscience, and for that reason could look me straight in the eye. Other women couldn’t stay with me for very long.”

“Why?”

“Well, there are only so many times you can make love to a person who is wearing dark sunglasses. I understand that it can get very trying. They left me, one by one.”

Ms. Streisand patted Inspector Vinod’s hands sympathetically, as she felt for him. She couldn’t even blame the other women. Even though the Inspector was a good friend, she had actually never seen beyond those sunglasses. She believed very strongly in all the dark rumors that went on about her, and could never muster up the requisite confidence.

“Well, Theresa had never committed an evil deed. Ants, cockroaches and flies roamed constantly around her at ease, feeling sure that she would do them no harm.”

“She sounds beautiful”.

Inspector Vinod nodded. “I met her on a sunny day like this in Los Angeles. Santa Monica beach. She was from Indonesia. Did you know that Indonesia was made up of over 13,000 islands?”

“No,” admitted Ms. Streisand.

“Well you should,” Inspector Vinod rebuked her gently. “Anyways, she was the most beautiful woman I had seen. Tall, thin, long black hair, a wheatish complexion…”

“I too have an inferiority complexion,” Ms. Streisand interrupted.

Inspector Vinod ignored her.

“A wheatish complexion and a beautiful smile. We were in love and fulfilled each other’s needs. If I ever ran out of tomato, while eating my salad, she would know exactly which aisle in so and so store was carrying a special on that particular type of tomato.”

“How long were you together?”

“One year. We had a wonderful time. She had a generous and kind brother Daniel, who would drop in occasionally. He was the nicest guy and distributed sweets to all the children on the beach. We were all very happy. Then one day, last month Theresa disappeared. I never saw her again.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Oh…very. Her sudden disappearance puzzled me to a great degree. I made discreet enquiries at the consulate and tried to apply my stupendous knowledge of world history in an effort to track her down. All to no avail. Then I received a letter from her, just two days ago.”

Inspector Vinod removed a piece of paper from his jacket. He smoothened out the edges carefully and put a paper napkin on the table, over which he placed the letter.

“What does it say?”

“As you can see it is written in Tetum and not Indonesian. She was from East Timor! I could never tell. Wonder why she never told me this all along.”

“She wrote to tell me that she had committed an evil act and as a result could never look into my eyes again. She was leaving me for that reason. Just like the rest of them.”

“Oh…”

“As you can imagine, I was shattered. I could have flown down to Jakarta or Dili to track her down. But I didn’t. It would never be the same. So I decided to stay put in America nursing a broken heart.”

“The life of a detective with tip top knowledge of world history is a tough one,” said Ms. Streisand.

Suddenly.

“Hey what’s this?”

She removed a piece of paper with cello-tape on its backside. It was attached to the inside of the envelope.

“Inspector Vinod snatched the paper and looked at it. It said:

VOUBFU, EBOGDM CDMPOHT UP BJUBSBL.

It was torn at the edges.

“Oh my God Barbara. What a find! Can’t you see that Theresa is far from blame. In fact, she is truly one of the noblest souls ever to grace this planet. I must go to the capital Dili and find her. ”

“What, what!” said Barbara. She blinked slowly. Things were moving too fast for her.

“No time for explanations, Barbara. I must run. I shall give you a call, once I solve this mystery.” He disappeared into the horizon.

The next month was agonizing for Ms. Streisand. Her dog bit her thrice. The President ordered her mansion to be bombed, just as soon as Saddam Hussain confessed to being a big fan of hers. And to boot, there was this mysterious matter of Inspector Vinod.

Then one day, her phone rang. She ran to it, hoping to speak to anyone, even a telemarketer. Lonely days. The caller ID machine had a map of the world on the display. She knew who it was.

“Inspector…”

He sounded different. Like there was a lump in his throat or something. “Barbara, I feel I owe you an apology. You were good enough to find that piece of paper that had eluded me somehow. If you would be kind enough to come down to the Starbucks on Manhattan Beach, I shall tell you all.”

In fifteen minutes, Inspector Vinod and Ms. Streisand were huddled over warm glasses of chai and coffee respectively.

“Tell me all, Inspector. Where is Theresa?”

“She is in Dili, East Timor living happily. Let me tell you all Barbara.”

“Call me Babs.”

Inspector Vinod was too busy marshaling his thoughts to consider such entrepreneurial offers.

“Barbara, let us start at the very beginning. East Timor gained independence from Portugal in 1975. Indonesia invaded it 10 days later. Since then, its entire history has been characterized by bloodshed. Hundreds of thousands of lives have been lost in fighting. Then in August of this year, elections were scheduled to determine if the people wanted independence or not.”

“Theresa disappeared in July…”

“Yes, her disappearance had to do with the elections. She had heard rumors that her brother Daniel was involved in Aitarak, a pro-Indonesian militant group that didn’t want independence and that had threatened severe consequences if the country opted for secession from Indonesia. That piece of paper inside the envelope…”

“Yes I remember, had it got there by mistake?” asked Ms. Streisand.

“Theresa had slipped it in the envelope to hide it from the sight of people who look, think and talk different. Do you remember what that piece of paper said? It said ‘VOUBFU, EBOGDM CDMPOHT UP BJUBSBL’”

Ms. Streisand looked puzzled, more so than ever.

“Come on Barbara. Weren’t you ever in the scouts? Advance each letter by one.”

“I need a pen and paper,” she replied.

After fifteen minutes the following words were visible on a napkin.

‘UNTAET, DANIEL BELONGS TO AITARAK.”

“Aitarak being the terrorist group and UNTAET the United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor.”

“She was a snitch and gave her own brother away?” Ms. Streisand looked shocked.

“She gave her own brother away, so that her country which has been bleeding internally for hundreds of years could finally gain independence. She is a great, noble soul and I told her such when I tracked her down. She didn’t do any wrong, just the opposite.”

“Where is she now?”

“Happily married to the UNTAET official that rescued her and put her brother behind bars.”

Ms. Streisand sighed. Inspector Vinod laughed in a forced manner.

“It is ok Barbara. Every dog has his day and God works in a mysterious way.”

“That rhymed,” said Ms. Streisand. “Should I sing a song?”

“No, let us walk into the sunset.”

They walked together towards the red rays of the sun. God smiled down upon them through skies that were at once green, yellow, blue and even a touch of burgundy. Life sucked, thought Inspector Vinod. Though, he admitted, it was one hell of a sunset.

The End

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

Adventure in which “Inspector Vinod admires a Zebra

“Please lend me your ears,” the speaker said. A little girl from the audience lent him her nose. He held the nose up in his one hand, with his other a rose and smelt it deeply. “Ah finally I can smell. The fresh burst of nature. Shakespeare, Shakespeare, today your sonnets make sense to me.” The speaker cried uncontrollably with joy.

“The End,” said Inspector Vinod. He was misty eyed too. He enjoyed reading to children. This tale was a particular favorite and never failed to move him. He wondered as to whether it had the same effect on the children too. With a large smile on his face he turned towards the thirty or so young minds of the Bamako Primary School (We also have air conditioning) that stared at him without blinking. They seemed unmoved.

“This,” asked one child pointing at Inspector Vinod, “is the prize?” He kicked a pebble moodily and cursed under his breath. He cursed in French as most people in Mali would, but it didn’t matter. Inspector Vinod understood. He was a Master of French. Rumor had it that he could offer a light to another person and say Bon Appetit three times in rapid succession even before the first puff of the cigarette. Though the child cursed softly, softer than the trees that whispered with the unnecessarily gentle breeze that blew on most hot days in Bamako, Inspector Vinod could easily fathom the child’s disappointment.

He walked up to the child and offered him a toffee. “What’s your name, child?” he enquired.

The child could have said, “Katikiro Kaya Kavuma”. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “That’s none of your business.” He couldn’t see Inspector Vinod’s eyes behind those dark sunglasses, but he could sense intuitively that they were full of grave sadness, the kind that would make Romeo remove the dagger from his stomach and say, “Ah. Life is not so bad. Other people have it worse.”

Katikiro felt bad for a second. He didn’t mean to be rude to a visitor to his country. But he had been looking forward to the prize for one entire year. Had he had studied ceaselessly for six months to meet a strange man with a giant moustache who couldn’t even tell a tale full of dragons and hobbits like in that movie? He had worked so hard. He also had to display quick on the spot thinking to win the contest. The government had posed the question to all students of Mali: How does the big bang theory sufficiently explain the origins of the universe?” Katikiro was the only one to answer correctly. He wrote down: It is very difficult to say.

This was an answer that would have made Stephen Hawking proud. The President of Mali was beyond himself with joy and had announced a surprise prize.

That was six months ago. Inspector Vinod was delighted to receive a request from the Government of Mali. Dear Inspector, the letter had said. One of our children has correctly deduced the beginnings of the universe and what better way to reward him than a face to face meeting with the World Famous Inspector with a Stupendous Knowledge of World History? The letter had gone on to offer the President’s Best Wishes on important looking stationery.

“Talk about rhetorical questions,” Inspector Vinod had addressed the President without using a telephone. Of course he would go to Mali! He always had time for children. He agreed to visit the school in six months and informed President Bush that he wouldn’t be available for the function where George would unveil some new and improved world map that he always kept talking about. He, Inspector Vinod, would be in Bamako, Mali at that time.

Had it all been in vain? As far as the Inspector could see, Katikiro was not one bit happy to see him. He looked at the child and wondered as to how he could better his mood. The child saw Inspector Vinod looking sadder than he had ever seen anybody look.

He felt bad and walked up to Inspector Vinod. “Katikiro. My name is Katikiro.”

“Katikiro, what a lovely name. Katikiro, did you enjoy looking at the giraffes yesterday?” asked Inspector Vinod.

“Yes! But how did you know?” Katikiro was amazed. His father was a giraffe keeper at the local reserve (as a result Katikiro was automatically exempted from Show and Tell) but there was no way that Inspector Vinod would have known. There was after all, Katikiro reasoned, something special about this man.

“I am a magician,” said Inspector Vinod. He hated lying to a child but sometimes one lie was better than a hundred truths.

The truth was that Katikiro was a dirty child who hadn’t bathed in the morning. Inspector Vinod noticed that Katikiro had the exact same droppings on his hair and feet. Using his expert knowledge of flora and fauna, Inspector Vinod had eliminated the droppings as belonging to pigeons, sparrows and indeed every bird known to the Animal Planet Channel. To get these droppings in this peculiar manner from an animal, Katikiro would have had to walked under the animal. Katikiro’s well formed bone structure indicated that he was a lad who wasn’t accustomed to walking under elephants. Inspector Vinod’s detective instincts had screamed out, “Giraffe!!!” and he had followed them.

“Really, you are a magician? Then why did you say earlier that you were an Inspector with a Stupendous Knowledge of World History?”

“All detectives are magicians, are they not?”

“Make this stone disappear,” Katikiro demanded.

“Only if it kills somebody.”

Inspector Vinod chuckled loudly at his very subtle joke. Then he saw Katikiro’s puzzled face and was conscious of how close he was to losing him again.

“What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked changing the topic.

“I want to go to the Hippodrome. My father told me that they have hippopotamuses race each other in twenty five meter swimming pools. The winning hippo gets to ride a motorcycle in the Well Of Death.”

Are disappointments a part of this child’s destiny, Inspector Vinod wondered. He didn’t know the dictionary meaning of the word Hippodrome but knew enough to know that it definitely didn’t involve a combination of hippos and motorcycles. He tried to remember the last time he had heard the word and grimaced.

Another painful memory.

A long, long time ago, in a coming of age conversation , Inspector Vinod’s father had spoken to him of hippodromes. “Mark my words, ” he said as the car jostled viciously in a Bombay pothole, “This nation is going to the gutter. The day is not far off when we will have dogs racing each other at the Hippodrome.”

But that was long ago. It didn’t matter what hippodromes actually were. The important thing was that the child should be happy. He owed that much to Katikiro. Inspector Vinod walked away. He dialed the President. After an animated conversation where he visibly lost his temper on no fewer than one occasion, he walked back to Katikiro.

“Alright,” he said in a determined manner. “Tomorrow morning, you will see hippos race at the Hippodrome. But first, you must go home, take a bath and get sufficient rest for the long day tomorrow.”

Katikiro was delighted. He leapt up and hugged Inspector Vinod at shoulder height.

“Can my friend, Djeniko come too?” he asked pointing to a girl who looked away shyly.

“All of you can come,” said Inspector Vinod in the manner of an aristocrat who has flung his last piece of bread towards a hungry crowd. There was loud cheering. An elephant trumpeted in the distance. Inspector Vinod heard drums in the marketplace play to rhythms of one, two and three. The mellifluous tunes of Babacour Traoure floated over the airwaves of Radio Bamakan. It was a wonderful moment. The last amount of resentment coagulated into a small bubble and evaporated into the hot Mali air.

“Now, where is your school bus?” Inspector Vinod asked. It had been a long day.

“Our driver is always late,” complained Katikiro. “We go home late and some days it gets so dark we cant play football. But he is a nice man. He always gives us plenty of chocolates.”

Inspector Vinod looked stern. These children of today! Didn’t they ever read the newspapers? Muhammad Ali, the strongest man of all time had weak teeth from eating too much chocolate. This fact had been covered on a daily basis in the newspaper that Inspector Vinod read for the last ten years. If that wasn’t a clarion call to stop having too much chocolate, then Inspector Vinod didn’t know what was.

“The bus,” he said, “is only for traveling. It is not a candy store. Hippos don’t race in front of boys who eat too much chocolate.”

“That’s a lie,” said Katikiro.

“I admi…” Inspector Vinod had begun to say when a very loud voice obliterated all that was present in his immediate surroundings.

“Come on Inspector, were you never a child?” asked a big man in military uniform. He was very tall (Katikiro could have walked under him) and had big arms, big legs and in a manner calculated to offend Inspector Vinod’s aesthetic sense, he carried around beady eyes and yellow teeth on his face. Streams of sweat flowed down his skin and momentarily quenched the thirst of the dry parched earth on which he strode.

“Were you never a child?” the man repeated.

“Only between the ages of one and fourteen” Inspector Vinod answered cryptically.

“Johan Bohatha,” the man stretched his hand out. As Inspector Vinod shook it, he was conscious of the fact that Johan had the biggest hands that he ever seen. He was not a man to be trifled with. The school had acted wisely in employing this man as the school bus driver. Here was a man that could take care of the children to and from home. The children too felt his overpowering presence (that bordered on omnipresence) and seemed to listen to him. One gesture of his little finger was all that it took to get them into the bus.

“The pleasure,” Inspector Vinod said, “is mine.” You have a noble occupation Johan. Ferrying the candles of the future to the temples of knowledge and causing them to glow brighter.”

“All in a days work,” Johan guffawed loudly even though Inspector Vinod hadn’t said anything funny. He wiped some sweat off his face with his fatigues.

“Do you serve in the army, Johan?” Inspector Vinod queried.

“Retired, Inspector, retired.” Johan nearly beat his chest with his fist. “And proud of it.”

“Rightly so. Volleyed and Thundered, Stormed at with Shot and Shell, Boldly they rode and well,” Inspector Vinod quoted.

“Ride well I did,” Johan’s eyes glistened over as he reminisced. “Those were the days. Battles were bloody and the leaders remembered to thank you.” He pulled out a letter from his pocket. Inspector Vinod thought to himself that the letter resembled a woman who dyed her hair regularly, but forgot to get a face lift. It looked young and old at the same time. It was addressed to Johan from Modibo Keita, the first President of Mali.

“Congratulations,” said Inspector Vinod. “You received this award in the summer of 1960?” he queried pointing to the date in the upper right hand corner.

“Yes, that was a peculiar year,” Johan replied. “I remember receiving this letter in July at a ceremony. It was actually cold then and I had to zip up my jacket during the ceremony.”

Suddenly.

“Did you see that?” shouted Inspector Vinod. “A zebra, a zebra! It darted into the bus.”

“Impossible Inspector,” said Johan. “We have a saying: Zebras do not roam the streets of Bamako. Besides look at the children. Not one of them has reacted.”

“It was a very small zebra,” said Inspector Vinod. “And very quick. It entered the driver’s compartment.”

Inspector Vinod saw that there was little time to waste in idle conversation. “There’s no telling with these zebras,” he said. “Johan, wait outside and be ready to catch the harmless looking animal, should it run out.”

The children were now visibly excited. “Are you driving us home today?” one of them queried, while another threw a piece of chalk at Inspector Vinod.

Inspector Vinod slammed the doors to the driver’s compartment shut. He rolled up his sleeves. After a few minutes, he stepped out of the bus in a pristine, magnificent, but all the same a zebra less state.

“Zebra got your tongue Inspector?” Johan laughed loudly.

Inspector Vinod walked up to Johan.

“How old is this bus Johan?” he asked.

“Why its little less than two months old,” answered Johan. It hadn’t seemed possible, but he was actually sweating more.

“Johan Bohatha, you are a low and despicable man. I am going to call the police right now and have them place you under arrest.”

Johan laughed uneasily. “Believe me, believe me I had nothing to do with the zebra’s disappearance.”

“You will be placed in the hands of the law and punished severely for participating actively in the child slavery trade!” thundered Inspector Vinod. You were going to sell these children to cocoa farm owners. You are no military man. In fact, I doubt if you are even a man.”

Johan Bohatha’s eyes grew red and bloodshot as though he were drunk. He charged-one huge mass of muscle and anger-towards Inspector Vinod.

Johan knew that he could kill Inspector Vinod easily. All it would take was one blow. Inspector Vinod realized it too. As Johan lifted his arms to deliver The Final Blow, Inspector Vinod held his peace. Then he realized that there was no other alternative. He removed his sunglasses and stared into Johan’s eyes.

The children in the bus who had never seen a wild elephant being tamed saw something close to it now.

Johan froze in midair for two whole minutes. He was powerless to do anything else. In the Inspector’s eyes Johan saw sights that he had never even seen in his wildest nightmares. He saw a hundred policemen at every block, each one handing out a hundred tickets for blocks at an end. He saw a thousand sunrises and no sunsets. He saw elephants with flippers and giraffes walking on two legs supported with crutches. And everyone spoke in English! It was all too much. He broke down and his chin hit the dusty earth. Inspector Vinod put his sunglasses back on and called the police.

“I confess!” he cried out. “I confess!” I was eventually going to trade these children for money. I joined the school under false military credentials. But how did you know?”

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his Stupendous Knowledge of World History.

Consider the facts, he said.

“1. Cocoa prices are at a ten year low. Farmers in the Ivory Coast have stopped paying children and in fact have started beating them if they try to return home.

2. Many of the laborers that work on these farms are from Mali. The Malian consul in the Ivory Coast has had to rescue boys who had worked five years or more without payment.

3. Given this scenario, my antennae were already up, so to speak. Then I meet Johan who seems like a good sort of fellow. Till he shows me a letter from the Government of Mali. That letter was dated, July 1960.”

All the children looked at Inspector Vinod with blank faces. “Don’t they teach you history?” asked Inspector Vinod. The children seemed unsure. “When did Mali gain independence from the French?” Inspector Vinod asked. At this stage, he was moving his arms about wildly.

“June 1960?” answered Katikiro.

“Think,” answered Inspector Vinod as he knelt down and placed his hands on the boy‘s shoulders. “Think!”.

Katikiro’s friend Djeniko raised her hand. Inspector Vinod looked at her. “Speak up young one.”

Djeniko spoke in a halting manner that is characteristic of children reciting what they learn from rote. “In June 1960, the republic that gained independence was the Sudanese republic. This republic was comprised of Senegal and Mali. Two months later in August, Senegal seceded from The Sudanese Republic, which was then renamed the Republic of Mali.”

“So you see, there was no Mali in July of 1960. There was only the Sudanese Republic. I saw at once that the letter was forged.”

“Go on Inspector,” requested the President who had arrived a little while ago at the scene with the police commissioner.

“I knew that Johan was lying. But maybe he was making up the letter to impress me. I had to be sure. I had to invent a plausible reason to gain access to the compartment without arousing Johan’s suspicion. I said that I had seen a zebra dart into the bus.”

Nobody said anything.Inspector Vinod continued, “Inside the bus I saw the mileage on the odometer. Twelve thousand kilometers! Don’t you think that it is a bit too much for a bus that ferries only in Bamako and is only three months old? I did. This extraordinary mileage after the fake letter. I was beginning to get very suspicious and looked around more. Underneath the driver’s seat I also found this.” He held up a receipt. “It is a receipt from a petrol pump. See the address.”

Everyone strained their necks to look at the small lettering. The lucky ones snapped back to a normal posture only after reading the words, “Aboiso.”

Inspector Vinod went on, “I knew that this man had been driving up to the Ivory Coast regularly. Who knows as to how many children he has already sold there? Or whether he went up there to negotiate with different farm owners? That is for you to find out.”

“And find out we will,” said the President. “Inspector Vinod, thank you for saving these innocent children. Can I invite you over for dinner this evening?”

Inspector Vinod shook his head side to side. “I am sorry President. That is a most gracious offer, but I am compelled to refuse. These children need someone to drive them home.”

“All right, then lets meet for brunch tomorrow? Its this new fad,” said the president. “You don’t eat breakfast and then eat during lunchtime.”

“I know all about brunch. I would be delighted to take you up on your offer,” said Inspector Vinod.

As the President drove away, Katikiro came up to Inspector Vinod. His eyes were wide open with admiration. “You are going to eat with the President?”

“You can join too,” said Inspector Vinod. “And so can your friend Djeniko. We will dine with the President after going to the Hippodrome.”

“Inspector Vinod,” said Katikiro, “You are the best gift that I could ever have gotten.”

Inspector Vinod smiled. His grin stretched beyond the confines of his expansive moustache.

“Do they really have hippopotamuses at the Hippodrome?” Katikiro queried.

“They do now,” said Inspector Vinod.

He got into the bus. He moved aside the copy of Info-Matin lying on the seat. The bus had a stick shift mechanism. He pressed the clutch confidently. The children were visibly sleepy now, otherwise he would have told them of the adventure where he switched to fourth gear from first without skipping a beat. But that was another story. For another day.

He looked out of the window. He didn’t want to see any more criminals. All he wanted to see was a zebra. In the world of crime, you got used to seeing things in black and white.

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

Adventure in which “Inspector Vinod attempts to smoke a certain you know who out of a certain you know what”

Six towers looked down on small steel metal cages. Inspector Vinod strained his eyes through his dark glasses as he approached a small cordon of security guards. He looked beyond them and tried to look into the cages. Nothing was visible, except for an occasional flash of orange. He waved his hands carelessly at the guard who asked him for some form of government issued identification.

“I don’t have any.” Inspector Vinod looked far from hassled. In fact, he was smiling.

“Then, get the hell out of here,” the guard shouted at him. “This isn’t Disneyland, its Camp X-Ray, Guatanamo Bay, Cuba.”

Suddenly.

Slap!

The stinging sound reverberated though the rippling heat. “Idiot, you dare ask this man for ID!” The man in charge, Brigadier General Michael Lehnert was having another word with his young, innocent flock of troops.

The soldier looked chastened. “I am sorry Sir,” he mumbled to an ant below. “I thought it was standard…”

“Standard, Shmandered,” said the brigadier. “Look at the gentleman.”

The guard looked. He saw a round face, covered with sweat. Something covered the wide gap between the nose and upper lip. It covered most of the upper lip too. It was presumably a moustache. He looked at the sunglasses. Then he staggered and grabbed at the air for support.

“Inspector…”

“Vinod,” said the gentleman effusively. He slapped him on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Brigadier, don’t be angry. The boy is young.”

The guard broke out into a flurry of apologies, as they walked away. He felt so ashamed of himself, that he couldn’t raise his voice loud enough to make it audible.

Inspector Vinod walked up to a small tent. He emptied out a bottle of Diet Snapple into the basin and filled it up with tap water. He took a long swig.

“Now Brigadier,” he said. “What is up? Why did you ask me to come here at such short notice?”

“Inspector, you know how tough we have had it here. The weather is hot, the food is cold and the prisoners are barbarians. One of them even bit off a huge chunk of flesh from my soldier’s arm, when he was unchained in the toilet.”

“I am not here to judge,” said Inspector Vinod. “Only solve.”

The Brigadier looked at Inspector Vinod first with anger and then with grudging admiration. He snorted.

“Ok, here is the deal. I need your help. I believe that these prisoners keep telling us lies during our questioning. We keep asking them about where their leaders are, what targets they have planned, and so on.”

He paused and continued agitatedly.

“I have seen them smile before they speak through their beards. I believe they are making up things to keep us on guard and themselves amused.”

“Do you have any proof?” asked Inspector Vinod.

“Yes, for example, one of them told me that the public restroom outside a gas station in Albany was a possible target, because he was unhappy with the flushing system. He muttered something in Arabic and said, ‘With God’s backing it will happen’. I heard people from neighboring cages chuckle. And this is only one of many. We can’t keep issuing public alerts based on such nonsense.”

“No you can’t, “nodded Inspector Vinod as he saw, ‘Samosa place with bitter chutney in Little India’ marked in red on the list.

“We also keeping asking them about the whereabouts of Osama. That is when they let their imagination fly. I am going crazy trying to decipher their answers. I need your help, Inspector. We need you to question them.”

Inspector Vinod had already left the tent. The hassled Brigadier caught up with him by the fourth metal cage. He handed Inspector Vinod an injection and pressed on the syringe. A fountain of liquid streamed through the air.

“What’s that?” There was no ‘need to know basis’ sort of stuff in Inspector Vinod’s lexicon of actions. He always needed to know. It didn’t matter what the issue at hand was. He remembered how his maid in India had tried to use some cheap Nirma detergent instead of the tried and trusted Surf. She denied it to him on questioning. He had removed his glasses then and looked into her eyes. Inspector Vinod felt sorry for her as he thought of how she had gone completely to pieces. The image of Nirmala drinking the water on the bathroom floor while laughing and crying hysterically was one that would stay with him for life.

“Fountain of truth,” the Brigadier chuckled. “It’s a truth serum.”

“Take it away, I don’t need it. My stupendous knowledge of world history is serum enough.”

They stepped into the cage. A bearded prisoner was trying to chain his mat to the metal rings on the wall. He saw the officer and said, “Come in, come in general. I have news for you today.” He rubbed his hands in silent glee and beckoned his guests to sit. “Who is this cartoon?” he asked.

“This cartoon is not very funny,” said Inspector Vinod.

Touche.

“I am Inspector Vinod”. “Remove the handcuffs, Brigadier.”

“But…”

“Remove them, so that I can shake hands with him. Now.” Inspector Vinod knew that showing fear was not a good tactic when employing psychological warfare.

Snapping of fingers brought about a flurry of activity. Several guards went up to the prisoner in a tug of war formation. The first guard cautiously slipped in the key and removed the handcuffs.

Inspector Vinod sat in front of the bearded man and stared at him.

“Hey, remove your glasses,” said the failed suicide bomber. “It is impolite to say the least.”

“Don’t you worry, the time will come for such a course of action,” said Inspector Vinod.

He asked a guard to get him some Diet Snapple. He then faced the terrorist, man to man, goggles to eye.

“So,” said Inspector Vinod, “How are you?”

“Fine”, replied the man in black. For the first time, he seemed a bit nervous.

“And you say you know where Osama is?” Inspector Vinod

“Sure,” said the man. “I would have not told you normally, but Inspector you seem a good fellow. You are not like these white devils.”

“I am white,” replied Inspector Vinod. Both the terrorist and the Brigadier general looked extremely shocked at this piece of information. They caught each other rolling their eyes heavenward at the same time. For a brief moment in human history, there was a genuine bonding between Arab and Western cultures.

“However, that is another story.” Inspector Vinod looked mysterious. “For another day.”

“First we tackle the matter at hand. Do you or do you not know where Osama is?”

“Yes, I do know. He is in a land where the river runs deep and from ear to ear, forehead to chin and north to south. The land too is full of deep craters, for it is a country that the US has bombed.”

“Which one could it be?” wondered Brigadier Lehnert. He could count at least five countries, he had visited as a bomber. Then he ran out of fingers.

“In the 1970s, Osama’s old friends conducted a long campaign in a certain place. They have left it long ago, and Osama is now in this forgotten land. The audiotape you confiscated with his voice. He recorded it there, in that same country.”

Inspector Vinod asked for the tape to be played. Even though the make was Sony the quality of the recording was poor. There was this constant rhythm in the background interrupted by the occasional whistle. It was quite useless. He shut it off.

“Terrorist scum, you dare play riddles…” The Brigadier was clearly upset and visions of a promotion only strengthened his anxiety.

Inspector Vinod raised his hands. “This man has told me all,” he said. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a bill of some kind. He wrote something on the reverse side and handed it to the expectant officer.

The Brigadier General took the bill and did a double back flip with his eyeballs. Then he reversed the bill and read what Inspector Vinod had written.

“Laos?” he whispered softly. The terrorist nodded taken by surprise and Detective Vinod nodded out of satisfaction.

For the next few days, the phone in Inspector Vinod’s pocket rang continuously. The United States was planning this big bombing campaign in Laos, backed up by necessary ground troops. Inspector Vinod was designated as a ’strategic consultant’, a term that had apparently become fashionable during the dot com era. He was asked questions about every nook and cranny in the scenery of Laos. It was a novel experience for him: a derivation of geography based on his stupendous knowledge of world history.

Inspector Vinod enjoyed being in Washington DC. It was a good town for relaxing. He could have these soul stirring Cappuccinos at this great joint called Starbucks. When he wanted to read, he could always saunter across to the Declaration of Independence and smile happily at the words, “Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.” They struck a melodic chord in his heart every time he read these pearls, irrespective of the language. Playing chess with the President also had its plus points, though he was tired of pointing out that killing a pawn does not allow one to shout out, “Check and mate”.

It was on one of Washington evenings, when Democrats were saying it was sunny and Republicans were clamoring that the weather channels use the word “muggy”. Inspector Vinod was waiting in the Rose Garden for the President to arrive. Suddenly, he had a moment of clarity. He closed his eyes tightly and cursed himself. He trampled over a rose and ran into the Oval Office.

“Mr. President!” he shouted. “Stop the campaign. I have been a fool not to realize.”

“What! Dang! I was really looking forward to this. Why, Inspector Vinod? Why?”

Though, truth be told, it came out more as an exclamation than a question.

“Not now, I need to go to Camp X Ray immediately. I shall answer all questions there.”

A helicopter is a thing of great wonder. In a couple or hours and a little more, Inspector Vinod stood before an august gathering, comprising of the President, the Secretary of Defense, the Vice President via hologram and Brigadier general Michael Lehnert. They all stared at the terrorist.

“Ok, you bloody liar,” said Inspector Vinod. “Confess that the tape was recorded in some other country and you made the rest up.”

“No, I spoke the truth,” said the defiant terrorist.

“Look away gentlemen,” said Inspector Vinod. He removed his sunglasses and stared into the eyes of the terrorist. The terrorist saw the God of Death dance madly to the tunes of a hit from the sixties inside big black, yellow and suddenly orange pupils. And that was only the left eye. What the terrorist saw in the right eye is unspeakable and cannot even be mentioned in this forum. He began to cry. The president clapped.

“You, progeny of doubtful parentage. How many more people will you kill? Didn’t September 11 quench your thirst?” Inspector Vinod was furious. A nearby squirrel scampered for safety.

“I lied! I lied!” the terrorist screamed. “I have no idea if Osama is even dead or alive.” He spoke in unison with the President, “But how did you know?”

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his stupendous knowledge of world history.

“Consider the facts,” he said:

1. “The terrorist said that Osama was in a land where the river runs deep and from ear to ear, forehead to chin and north to south. The land was full of deep craters, for it is a country that the US has bombed. This part was easy.

2. Osama’s old friends were members of the CIA. The CIA played a very active role in Laos during the Vietnam War. The Mekong runs all through Laos and is the lifeline of the country. The USA bombed Laos in the 1970s to target communist sympathizers.

3. We would all have believed him and gone on a wild goose chase in Laos, (not to mention the irreparable damage we would have caused to the common man there). But this terrorist overdid it by playing the tape. I didn’t realize it then, but remember that the tape was undecipherable due to this sound in the background? I couldn’t place it then, but that sound was of a train. There is absolutely no railway infrastructure in Laos, and hence I knew he was lying.”

“There are many countries in the world, where people have no access to basic health services, transport, food or sometimes even water. These terrorists have no right to be blowing up buildings and the like, killing innocents. But, Mr. President, you too are not blameless. Do have the good manners to clean up after bombing a country. I hope you build some schools, houses and MacDonalds in Afghanistan, before leaving it.”

The President looked chastened. The terrorist was still writhing in pain. “Note this link on your palm pilots, gentlemen,” said Detective Vinod. “We owe it to the people of Laos to be interested in their fate.”

“http://www.vientianetimes.com/Headlines.html” said Inspector Vinod. Then he stepped out of the room.

The End

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

Adventure in which “Inspector Vinod strikes faster than Ronaldo”

Inspector Vinod breathed in the cool morning air in Sikkim, India. He had really gone to great lengths to escape those pesky sunglass sales reps, who kept asking him to endorse his product.

Suddenly he heard shrill voices raised in argument. He became tense, as prior experience told him that somebody’s life could depend on his total concentration. It usually did. Nobody died making no sounds.

He scaled a huge mountain and ran to the scene of the shouting. He saw two boys tugging at a Ronaldo jersey. A small girl stood on the edge of the circle, crying.

He was suddenly accosted by a huge lady: “Help! Help! These boys will….”

She stopped. She had recognized the stately gentleman standing before her. “It can’t be…”.

Inspector Vinod raised his hand to indicate the need for silence. He didn’t want another sound to be added to the scene. Dilution of clues was a professional hazard, known to the amateur and unfortunately, often unknown to the professional. But he knew.

He strained his ears to listen carefully the two boys who kept fighting unmindful of the stranger in their midst. He went in the middle of the dust circle raised by them and separated them like Krishna did to the body of the evil Jarasandha.

“Stop”, he commanded. He looked very solemn. The two boys, in tacit agreement for the first time, suppressed giggles as they saw his face.

Inspector Vinod ignored them. “What’s all this fighting about? A young boy from India and another from Bhutan fighting! What has ever happened to neighborly love?”

“No, no they are both from India.” the lady spoke. Inspector Vinod turned to her.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the school teacher…”

“No,” said Inspector Vinod. “Any person, when agitated will always curse in his mother tongue. That boy is from Bhutan. I just heard him say, ‘Cow loving pig’ in Dzhonga. Inspector Vinod walked up to the taller of the two lads.” Where are you from, boy?”

“Thempu,” he said shamefacedly.

“Aha, from the capital, huh? Tell me what the matter is.” The other boy who had a strong Delhi accent broke in, “Don’t listen to this liar. I will tell you. He says that the Ronaldo jersey his is. It is mine. My father got it for me from Ronaldo’s homeland in Argentina.” He looked sullen and defiant at the same time.

Inspector Vinod smiled. What a liar! And at so young a image. If the child was the father of man, then the only transition that was happening was a vertical one. He turned to the other boy, who was looking crestfallen. “I guess this jersey is yours boy.” Inspector Vinod began to hand it over to the Bhutanese child.

Then he froze.

Something was wrong. His intuition told him.

“How did you get this boy?”

“When we were growing up in Thempu my father and I used to watch football matches on TV. My father saw this on TV and sewed one for me. I remember the date of this match too. It was August 1997 around India’s Independence day”.

“You are lying. Admit it.”

The little boy nodded his head vehemently. “No, I am speaking the truth,” he said.

“Tell me the truth or I will remove my glasses,” Inspector Vinod threatened.

“Go ahead,” challenged the little boy.

“Catch that hummingbird,” commanded Inspector Vinod. The lady ran up a small vale and caught a puzzled hummingbird. “I don’t want to look at you, boy,” said Inspector Vinod. “You will be scarred for life. But watch.”

He turned his back to all the people and stared at the hummingbird after removing his sunglasses. The two boys could clearly see the face of the bird. The bird turned its eyes wide open in shock and bobbing its head up and down a few times, never recovered. Even when Inspector Vinod released it, it tried to fly. However, all it could manage to do was stroll down to the nearest flower.

Inspector Vinod put on his sunglasses and turned to the lad from Bhutan.

“Should I write to the King about cable theft? Admit the truth now.”

The boy looked mortified. He seemed to be greatly moved by the state of the hummingbird.

“All right, I lied,” he said. “But how did you know?”

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his stupendous Knowledge of World History.

“This case,” he said looking rebukingly at the lady, “should have easily been solved by a school teacher.”

The lady made circles on the dust looking at her ankles intently.

Inspector Vinod continued, “Bhutan is a strange country cut off from the rest of the world. It has never even been colonized. Even today, the King, has managed not to be tempted by tourism revenue and allows only 6,000 foreigners to visit every year. In fact, so separate has Bhutan kept itself from the world that there was no TV allowed till August 1998. So either this boy is lying or his family stole images from yonder lands via illegal satellite dishes.”

Not a peep was to be heard. Naked Truth invokes hushed silences.

“I suspect this boy prefers punishment from me rather than the King. He came clean.”

“Now, run off you two,” he said. The two boys ran away in the direction of the school. They seemed to be friends again and discussed the possible times they could play football that evening.

The lady no longer seemed chastened. She was gushing with admiration.”You are wonderful,” she said.

“That is not important,” Inspector Vinod replied. “What is important is that this jersey is returned to its rightful owner.” He looked at the young girl who had remained silent all this while. “Come here, girl,” said Inspector Vinod. She stepped up to him and took the jersey. She reeked of a clear conscience. “I looked into your eyes,” she whispered into his ears and ran away happily, pulling the jersey over her head at the same time.

“Its a strange world,” Inspector Vinod said. “Technology versus culture? Who will win? I hope people are allowed to make the choice for themselves without the King applying any forceful methods. We can only continue to visit http://www.kuenselonline.com to stay updated”

He felt happy. He rolled down the hill.

The End

There is a saying, “Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail.”

Adventure in which “The sun shines for Korea”

It was seven in the evening on a dark, wintry night in Manhattan. Inspector Vinod heard his cell phone ring shrilly in the dense darkness. He fumbled to open it, as he found it difficult to see through his sunglasses or “goggles” as he liked to call them.

“Inspector?”

Vinod nodded.

“This is Dave from the INS. We got a call from the Seoul police today. They have this murder case all wrapped up, but want us to check on a Mr.Park. We thought that it would be wise to run him by you before we let him go.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The guards at the gates of the INS building clicked their heels and saluted when they saw Inspector Vinod approach the tall, icy looking towers. He nodded curtly and made his way to the dark interrogation room.

He saw two INS officers, a Korean man and a file on a desk. He knew what he had to do. He went to the file and started reading it.

“North or South?” he asked.

“South Korean, Mr. Park. Mr. Park, this is Inspector Vinod.”

“How can this dude see through those dark glasses?” Mr. Park wondered aloud.

“Hope for your sake that I never remove these glasses, Mr. Park,” said Inspector Vinod. The INS officers nodded knowingly. For Inspector Vinod only removed his glasses, when he had solved a case. Legend had it that he did it so that he could look into the eyes of the criminal and make him confess.

“Well Inspector,” said the officer. “We won’t keep you for long. Its an open and shut case, or at least seems that way. Mr. Park was visiting his family in Seoul two weeks ago. His father was found murdered in the living room. When the police arrived they saw Mr. Park’s brother sitting on the carpet with a dazed look and with a knife in his hand. He has been mentally ill since early childhood and they reckon that he committed the murder in the midst of one of his fits.”

“Was there any will left behind?”

“Yes, all the money was left to Mr. Park here. Makes sense, when you consider his brother’s condition.”

“Was everything all right between your father and yourself Mr. Park?” Inspector Vinod asked.

“Yes, he was slightly upset when I left him to come to America. But that was long ago. You know how quickly parents forget and forgive”.

Inspector Vinod grimaced as he thought of his father. “Where were you on the day of the murder?”

“I had gone visiting the Mount Kumgang resort in North Korea. You know the new tourist destination in North Korea, financed by Hyundai?”

“Yes? And what time did you leave?I think the only way you can get there is by boat.”

“Oh, yes, I was out after 1:00 p.m. I caught the second boat out.”

“I place you under arrest for the murder of your father, Mr. Park.” Inspector Vinod removed his glasses. Mr. Park quivered as he stared into Inspector Vinod’s eyes. They changed color, from brown to gray to Nordic blue and shape as they appeared Japanese at times and Canadian at others. Mr. Park broke down. “I did it! I did it! But how did you know?”

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his stupendous knowledge of world history.

Inspector Vinod put his sunglasses back on. Consider the facts, he said:

“1. North Korea and South Korea have been at war for a long time

2. The South Korean Leader Kim Dae-Jung came to power on a “sunshine policy if engagement” with his brothers in the North.

3. The Kumgang resort in North Korea was opened up as the first tourist attraction in the North and financed by the South Korean company Hyundai.

4. Far from bringing the neighbors closer together, it has created another dispute. Profits have been low and because of the extremely low number of travelers, Hyundai has been forced to cut down from four boats a day to just one.

5. So there is no way Mr. Park could have taken the second boat.”

“He is not only a bad liar. He is a bad son.” Inspector Vinod shook his head.

“If you guys at INS want to learn more about this, check out http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/world/asia-pacific/newsid_633000/633784.stm,” said Inspector Vinod as he threw out a URL in that manner, so peculiar to him. “It is a shame when people similar to each other in so many ways fight.”

He felt his way out of the room and closed the door.

The End