The Cosmic Clues by Manjiri Prabhu Page A

principles and predictions are the outcome of thousands of years of statistical study of the magnetic cosmic forces and their effects on our lives. Anyway, my total belief in the science of Astrology sanctions my modus operandi. To put it plainly, Astrology delivers the goods to those who believe and study it, and I believe, study, and practice it!” She did not add that she'd been rewarded with results. Because of Astrology, she had seen her mental confusion dissolve, her arguments keel over, and answers emerge out of a blank horizon. No, she wouldn't tell him about it. Words would merely undermine the value of her personal experience—a premise secluded from prying eyes. Instead she turned to him and smiled. “Let's not waste any time. Our Independence Day is surely an auspicious day to knuckle down and begin cracking this problem!”
    Mohnish straightened with alacrity. “Right! I'll be on my way! And you'll keep me posted on your progress? I'll call you up from time to time.”
    Sonia nodded.
    Mohnish hesitated. “Thank you,” he said simply.
    “Actually, I ought to thank
you
for trusting me to find Neha's husband,” she responded.
    “That was not a problem. Surprisingly, I do trust you.” Mohnish stared at Sonia, as if gauging her reaction. Then he smiled. “Well, see you later, then.”
    Sonia stood still for a moment, feeling his presence even after he'd left. Which was odd . . .
    Jatin stepped out into the outer office. “Neha is okay now,” he informed Sonia. “But, Boss, I was right, wasn't I?”
    “Right?”
    “About not taking a holiday on Independence Day? We have a new case!” Jatin pointed out, unable to contain his excitement.
    “You were absolutely right!” Sonia agreed wholeheartedly.
     
    The autorickshaw—a three-wheeler scooter—trundled over the bumpy Sinhagad road. The smell of diesel seemed to fill the auto, as it chortled and grunted noisily. Seated on the brown cushioned seat which had a big tear in the middle, revealing the stuffed cotton underneath, Sonia glanced outside. Her eyes flew from the piece of paper in her hand to the passing buildings. Although Inspector Divekar had taken a day to ferret out all the details of the case for her, he had given her exact directions to the Kapoor residence.
    Vehicles zipped past, unruly and uncontrollable in the morning rush, but the driver of the autorickshaw nonchalantly managed to avoid brushing sides with his road-fellows. He whistled, unconcerned, as the vehicle jumped and steadied over small ditches.
    “Slow down a bit, please,” Sonia told the rickshawwala. The driver slowed, passing a bakery, a laundry, a chemist, and a vegetable mini-market. “You can stop here,” she said, as she spotted the Kapoor house.
    The auto jerked and halted by the side of the road.
    “How much do I pay you?” Sonia asked, as she rooted around in her handbag for a copy of the tariff card.
    The driver, in a khaki shirt, and a handkerchief tied around his forehead, glanced at the meter.
    “Thirty rupees,” he replied casually.
    “Thirty!” Sonia exclaimed. “Are you sure? Where's your tariff card? It's supposed to be pasted on the back of your seat.”
    “Madam, have some trust!” the rickshawwala remarked a little indignantly, in the regional language, Marathi. “Children tear it off, so I can't put the tariff card on the seat.”
    Sonia found her card and checked the rate. The fellow was charging two rupees more than the normal rate. “It's twenty-eight rupees!” she told him sternly.
    The unabashed rickshawwala smiled carelessly. “What, Madam, everything is so expensive, can't afford anything, and then, what is two rupees for people like you?”
    “Why, do I look as if I grow money on my head, instead of hair?” Sonia asked him sweetly. She slapped the exact amount on his hand and stepped out of the auto.
    The rickshawwala shook his head and drove away, muttering at the miserliness of rich people. Sonia threw a resigned look after the