Shirin dreamt of home. Of monsoon showers drumming their rat-a-tat beat on the tiled roof. Of sitting on the veranda sipping hot sweet tea and biting into spicy potato bondas freshly cooked by Madhu. Of Madhu herself, in her pink sari with white flowers, washing clothes beside the well and smiling when she saw Shirin, opening her arms wide and welcoming her in, smelling of washing soap and fried onions and whispering in her ear, ‘You came. I knew you would.’
Coconut-tree fronds danced in the wind, displacing drops of rain like the holy water Father Sequeira sprinkled across the pews as he walked down the church aisle on feast days; and the crows that were perched on the branches flew away, black silhouettes against a moody sky.
The tamarind tree in the front courtyard bent like a weary old man from the weight of its ripe knobbly fruit. Her father, Walter, sat under it on the threadbare rattan stool, absently swatting at mosquitoes as he read his Bible, its pages worn from use; the ever-present bottle of water by his side, within easy reach.
Her sister, Anita, squatted on the veranda, recounting earnestly everything that had happened to her that day and Shirin felt guilty, as she only half listened, nodding at appropriate times, her mind wandering.
Deepak slouched with his gang of friends by the church and eyed all the college girls. He laughed, eyes twinkling—momentarily distracted from his perusal of Anjali, his latest crush, by Shirin’s expression when she found the dead lizard he had left as a souvenir in her accountancy textbook.
Her mother, Jacinta, resplendent in her blue-and-gold sari, dressed ready to go to church, entreated, ‘I have to attend this parish council meeting, Shirin. Don’t you be gone when I come back. Please, Shirin, we have so much to talk about.’ Worry lines creased Jacinta’s face and Shirin wondered why her reserved, unflappable mother looked so concerned.
Jacinta left, walking down the hill past the mango trees. Shirin saw her making her way between the fields, the green ears of paddy bending gracefully, eavesdropping on whispered conversations. Jacinta looked back at Shirin one last time, a plea in her eyes.
A baby. Red scrunched-up face. Downy golden skin. Mewling minuscule mouth. Toothless red gums. Chubby arms extended upwards, tiny hands bunched into fists. Reaching out.
Shirin woke with a start, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached for Vinod but the empty space beside her told her that he had already left for work. She glanced bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. 8:00 a.m. The phone beckoned. She picked it up, dialled Vinod’s number.
‘Hello,’ he said.
In the background, she could hear chatter and the steady chug-a-chug of the train Vinod took to work—normal, working-day sounds.
‘Vinod,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ he prompted. He was taciturn, but never impatient.
‘Vinod, I want to go home.’
The day was populated with ghosts. Ghosts from a past that Shirin had tried desperately to relegate to a corner of her heart. Ghosts that stubbornly refused to stay quiet or hidden and every so often manifested in memories that washed over her and left her dizzy with yearning.
She was waiting, the engine of her old Honda Civic idling, at a pedestrian crossing on the way to work, wishing away the headache that loomed behind her eyelids, when she felt premonition chill her spine. She looked up and her gaze was held by a pair of eyes—cold, empty and yet somehow accusatory—among the press of people crossing the road. She was aware of a rushing in her ears, of her whole body trembling, of her heart screaming against her chest. She wanted to gun the engine and drive away but she was hemmed in by the people ahead and the cars behind. She wanted to get out of the car and run. But what if the Eyes followed?
The last straggling pedestrian crossed and Shirin raced away, breaking the speed limit, constantly checking all mirrors to make sure she wasn’t pursued. When the crossing was a safe distance behind, she pulled up at a gas station, taking in the other cars, the people visible through the lit windows of the shop. No empty, threatening eyes. She switched off the engine and locked herself in. Then, with shaky fingers reluctant to do her bidding, she pulled out her phone and dialled Vinod’s number for the second time that morning.
‘Yes?’ His voice was clipped.
‘Vinod, I saw...’
‘Shonu. I am at a meeting. Can I call you back?’
Why had she called him? She knew how busy he was, how he hated to be disturbed at work. Everything was off-kilter since the dream this morning. And what she had just seen... A hallucination? Something real? Here? Now?
He misinterpreted her silence. ‘Shonu, I’m sorry.’ She heard voices discussing flowcharts. Male laughter. ‘I’ll call you later. Bye.’ Ringtone loud in her ear. She put the phone back in her bag, unlocked the car and stepped outside on jelly legs. She was a survivor. She wouldn’t let what she’d just seen—thought she’d seen?—defeat her. She smoothed her skirt, flicked a sliver of lint off her shirt. A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door of the shop. The Asian man at the till looked up briefly. Drowsy brown eyes glazed with boredom. Stop this. Stop inspecting the eyes of everyone you see. She treated herself to coffee and a jam doughnut.
At work she was swamped with concerned queries and advice she didn’t want: ‘Shirin, you look peaky.’ ‘What’s the matter—you coming down with something?’ ‘Two ibuprofen and a black coffee, that’s what works for me.’ And exaggerated winks and nudges with allusions to the night before: ‘Enjoyed ourselves a bit too much last night, did we?’ ‘What was the occasion then?’
She went straight to Kate’s office and knocked. ‘Have you had breakfast? I got doughnuts.’
‘Are you all right, babe? You look like something the cat brought in.’
Kate: witty, straight-talking, Irish; her only friend in the UK. Kate was the one who had interviewed her at CST Solutions, looking for a software programmer to join her team. Immediately after the interview, Kate had held out her hand to Shirin: ‘I know I’m breaking all the rules and we’re supposed to get back to you after three days, but what the heck—you’re on. Welcome to CST Solutions, Shirin. Welcome to my team.’ Shirin had stared at Kate’s hand, at her beaming face with its faint dusting of freckles.
‘The person on the CV, that’s not who I am,’ she’d said.
‘It’s not? As long as you do your work well, I don’t care who you are,’ Kate had replied, a bemused smile on her face. Something in Shirin had shifted then; the chill that had taken root since leaving India had thawed slightly and she’d warmed to this woman with her upturned mouth made for laughter.
Kate was the only person besides Vinod who knew the truth about Shirin’s past. She had had to confide in her, when the thing happened with Ian. For Shirin, who had learned the hard way not to trust anyone, trusting Kate with her story was a leap of faith. To her credit, Kate had not been outraged, had not sacked Shirin as she’d half expected her to, had not treated her differently since. And tentatively over the years, Kate had morphed from boss to friend.
Now Shirin asked, ‘Do I look that bad?’
Kate nodded, ‘Like you’re coming down with something. Are you? Do you need the day off?’
‘No. I’ve just had a shock, that’s all. A blast from the past.’ She tried to be blasé, to put on a smile. It didn’t work. Not with Kate.
‘What happened?’
The concern in Kate’s voice brought it all back. Made her knees buckle. She sat. ‘I... I dreamt of home. Woke up aching with longing. I used to have these dreams a lot in the beginning. So vivid. Like I was there. Like that was real and this... this life a dream...’
‘But it wasn’t only that, was it?’
Perceptive Kate. ‘No.’ A deep breath. ‘On the way here, I was at a pedestrian crossing. I saw...’ A pair of eyes. Empty yet menacing. Looking directly at her. ‘The Eyes...’
Kate’s startled gaze held hers. ‘Here? Now?’
‘I... I don’t know.’
‘Was there a face? A person? Anything?’
An intake of breath that came out a sigh. ‘Just the Eyes. Like in the nightmares.’
‘Yesterday. Did something happen? Something that jogged your memory? Caused the dream and this...’
Shirin met Kate’s gaze. ‘Her birthday.’ A whisper.
Kate’s mouth: a perfect maroon-lipsticked O. A couple of years ago, when Kate had had her pregnancy scare with the Boyfriend from Hell, Shirin had told her. The final ugly truth about herself. Her guilty secret. Her biggest regret.
‘Does it happen every year?’
‘Not like this. The dream perhaps... But not...’
‘What you just saw?’
‘Must have been my imagination—don’t you think, Kate?’ It was a plea.
‘I’m sure it was.’ Kate gave Shirin’s arm another squeeze. ‘Shirin, it’s been ten years...’
‘Eleven,’ Shirin whispered.
‘Eleven then. After all you’ve been through, what’s the worst that can happen?’
Shirin closed her eyes, gripped the arms of her chair. She could think of a few things.
‘All right, I’ll shut up now. I’m not helping.’ And then, very gently, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Shirin shook her head, no. Kate nodded once, then stood abruptly, clicking her fingers. ‘Come on, you need a strong black coffee. And work. Nothing like work to get your mind off all this.’
‘Yes,’ said Shirin, shaking her head to clear her mind of visions of cold, empty, accusing eyes. ‘Nothing quite like work.’
It was when she was visiting her grandmother on a rain-drenched, gloomy afternoon in September and there was nothing better to do than go over old photographs, musty and yellowed with age, that Reena found it. It was tucked away behind one of the other photos in the album. She would never have discovered it if it hadn’t been for Chinnu the cat, who squeezed in through the bars of the open window, landed on the album and then proceeded to shake vigorously to rid herself of the raindrops in her coat. Reena squealed. She had been lying on her stomach, legs bent at the knees, feet swinging merrily in the air, on the cool cement floor. Madhu had warned her repeatedly not to do so. ‘You’re a city girl and not used to these floors. You’ll catch a cold. It will seep straight into your chest from the cement. Then how will you travel back home in the overnight bus, tell me?’ Madhu had yelled just that morning when she found Reena sprawled on the naked floor.
Reena smiled as she remembered asking her dad once, when she was little: ‘Is Madhu your aunt?’ Her dad had picked her up and twirled her around, so her dress bloomed in patterned swirls like a Bharatanatyam dancer’s, and, laughing, had said, ‘No, darling. She’s more like a second mum.’
She had scrunched up her nose, puzzled. ‘Another mum?’ From up in the air, suspended in her dad’s strong arms, his face had looked different, wider somehow.
‘She came to stay when your Mai was about to give birth to me, to help with the housework. She’s never left. She’s part of the family now.’
‘Why don’t I have a second mum?’ Reena had asked and her dad had laughed. She had watched, fascinated, as his face became wider as it got closer, until she was so close she could see the tiny hairs curling just inside his nostrils.
‘Your mum’s a superwoman, that’s why. She says she manages quite well on her own.’ Reena had wrapped her arms around her dad’s neck, had laid her head in that warm safe space just above his left shoulder and breathed in the familiar smell of his sweat.
‘Yes,’ she had said, voice muffled, ‘she does.’
Reena jumped up and pulled the album out from under Chinnu. That was when she saw something peek out from behind the picture she had been looking at.
Wonder what that is, thought Reena excitedly, imagination in overdrive. Perhaps something of great value that someone wanted to conceal… What better hiding place than an old, woodlice-ridden album of photographs!
She had just started reading Nancy Drew and wanted so much to be a sleuth like her. She knew her mother hoped she would be a doctor, and her father wanted nothing more than for his only daughter to follow in his footsteps and become a computer programmer. But ever since Reena had laid her hands on the first Famous Five book at the age of nine, she had wanted to be a detective. Solving mysteries seemed such fun. And there was a dearth of Indian detectives, which was a shame really considering there was so much crime in India, so many unsolved murders.
She had listened enough to her parents’ laments after they watched the news or read the paper. Her mother would shake her head sadly and say to Mrs. Gupta next door, ‘Did you hear about the poor woman being attacked and left for dead in her flat for hours? Everything taken, even the dog’s bowl it seems.’
‘Arre Baap re,’ Mrs. Gupta would moan, ‘I am sure it was the servants. You have to be very careful, Preeti. They are very sly, these lower-class people. Once they know where you keep your keys, God help you...’ One of Mrs. Gupta’s hands would be clutching her right breast dramatically, checking to see that the keys she kept tucked inside her bra were safe. Reena was sure Mrs. Gupta was aiming for the ‘tragic heroine’ look, but with her long pointy nose and evil face, she was anything but.
Murli, Mrs. Gupta’s cook and Reena’s friend, regaled her with horror stories about crimes that went unchecked in his village. In Murli’s version, it was the rich people, the employers, who were the villains.
All this only served to make Reena more determined to be a detective. It would have helped if she had a book starring an Indian detective as a guide. The India she knew didn’t have moors, gorse, secret islands and open spaces like the England of the Famous Five books, except maybe at her grandmother’s house. But the open spaces in Taipur were populated with mud, mosquitoes and snakes. She couldn’t find a single book, fiction or otherwise, with an Indian girl, boy or adult detective. She had even braved asking the Scrooge of a librarian at her school, who had looked down her nose at Reena with her ogre-like eyes and pinched-together face and asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Reena was a tiny bit ashamed of the fact she had fled. But, she reasoned, detectives needed to keep a low profile. They couldn’t afford to blow their cover...
In the beginning she had been all for forming a club like in the Famous Five or the Secret Seven and had spent ages concocting names and passwords. She had given up when she realised that she had names aplenty but a scarcity of friends or siblings who could be coerced to join. Then she started reading Nancy Drew and bingo, she realised that she could go it alone. She spent hours practising her signature in her notebook, adding flourishes and titles. She personally liked ‘Reena Diaz, Super Sleuth’ best. It had a nice ring to it. She decided she would be the first Indian girl detective. All that remained was to find a mystery. The only problem was that once Reena decided to become a detective, there were no mysteries to be found. No murders or burglaries were reported in the local newspapers or on the TV channels. Even Murli didn’t have any more horror stories of unsolved crimes to impart. Her life, Reena was fast coming to the conclusion, was extremely mundane. Nothing thrilling ever happened in it.
And now, thanks to Chinnu, she seemed to have stumbled on something exciting, even if it wasn’t the murder she’d been hoping for as her debut case.
Before proceeding any further with the discovery, and wanting to prolong the sense of mystery as much as possible, Reena glanced furtively around her, as she imagined Nancy Drew would. Chinnu was sitting under the wooden bench in the corner cleaning her whiskers busily with her paw.
Her grandmother, Mai, was having her afternoon siesta. She lay on the mat by the front door. Her mouth was open and little snores escaped it from time to time. Her sari was slightly askew, the pink skirt she wore underneath showing. The steady hum of rain relentlessly beating down on the tiles and the steps leading down from the front door served as a familiar lullaby.
Outside, the coconut trees stood out in relief against the blanket of rain which muddied the courtyard that Madhu had diligently swept and tidied just that morning. Dirty little puddles had formed everywhere.
Her parents were out visiting with her father’s old school friends. They had tried to get Reena to go but these friends of her dad’s did not have any children and nothing could persuade her to venture out into the blinding rain, get wet and muddy only to sit in their house, stare at their walls and listen to her father reminisce about the good old days. Looking at yellowing photographs of people she didn’t know to the accompaniment of Mai’s snores, while eating hot golibhajis dipped in coconut chutney and sipping cardamom tea was much better.
At least she was dry.
She went to the kitchen, ostensibly to get a tumbler of water, but in reality to check on Madhu. Madhu was sitting beside the hand grinder which she used to pound spices into thick masala for her curries, preferring it to the new electric grinder, which she insisted didn’t make a smooth enough paste. Her knees were drawn up, and she was resting her head on them. Strands of grey escaped her bun and obscured her lined face. She was wearing the stained, old apron that she was never without around her sari. She was fast asleep. The kitchen door was wide open and sprawled across the entrance was Gypsy. She was fast asleep as well.
Reena hurried back into the living room. Luck was on her side. Her parents were not due back for a while yet. And it was as if an epidemic of sleep had struck the rest of the household. Even Chinnu was asleep now, lying on her side under the wooden bench, paws stretched out.
Slowly, Reena pulled out whatever it was that was peeking out from beneath the picture she had been looking at—and sighed in disappointment. Just her luck! It wasn’t a mystery at all but another black-and-white photograph. It must have slipped behind the other one by mistake. Like the others, this one too was yellowed with age. And, like the others, rot had begun to eat away at it.
She pulled it closer for a better look—and noticed something different. Unlike the other pictures she had spent the afternoon flicking through, this one was creased and worn, as though someone had run their fingers across it many times and then folded it and tucked it away. It was a picture of three children, all of them smiling what were obviously false smiles for the camera. The youngest—the little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair in bunches, flashing dimples—Reena recognised as Aunt Anita, from the countless pictures she had seen of her as a baby and toddler. The boy in the photograph, tummy sticking out, adorable gap-toothed grin, awkward stance, was her father, Deepak, as a child.
It was the other girl in the picture who captured Reena’s attention. She was chubby and dark-complexioned. She wore seventies-style churidars and her long thick hair was in pigtails and tied neatly with matching ribbons behind her ears. She had a kind face and an open smile. And she looked very much like Reena herself...
Lying on the deliciously cool floor, staring at the photograph, Reena remembered packing her clothes into her case the evening they left Bangalore to come here, desperately hoping for a mystery to sink her teeth into…
Reena’s parents had not meant to visit Taipur in September. They had already been in June during the summer holidays. And they did not like visiting during the monsoons anyway.
As her mother, Preeti, had put it to Mrs. Gupta from the flat opposite, the evening they were leaving for Taipur, her nose crinkling disdainfully: ‘Stuck in that house all day, nowhere to go, what with the relentless rain. Can’t even watch television...’
‘Why not?’ asked Mrs. Gupta, curiously. ‘Doesn’t your mother-in-law own one?’
‘Oh, no, no...’ Preeti hastened to reassure her. She did not want Mrs. Gupta—who always slipped her husband’s royal and hallowed ancestry into any conversation—to think that Deepak’s family did not measure up. Deepak wouldn’t be pleased. ‘They have a very big house and are one of the oldest and most respected families in Taipur. And they have one of those big televisions. Deepak’s father brought it back from the Gulf. It’s huge, really, almost like being in a cinema hall. But you never get to watch. It’s the power cuts, you see. Because it is a village, there is no power, either all day long or all night long. And the mosquitoes and all those insects...’ Preeti gave a practised little shudder, ‘Ohhh... the monsoons attract the worst sort of bugs. And the humidity...’
‘I don’t see why you go at all then, Preeti,’ said Mrs. Gupta, delicately taking a sip of her tea, and immediately embarking on a coughing fit.
Reena gulped down a giggle. Mrs. Gupta always did this and any minute now...
‘Murli!’ Mrs. Gupta called shrilly, summoning her harassed cook, who arrived, head bowed and apologising contritely.
‘Is it the tea, ma’am? Too much sugar is it?’
‘Too little, Murli. Too little. Pah! The cooks nowadays—you pay them a thousand rupees a month and they don’t even know how to make tea! Get me another cup right away. You have made a fool of me in front of my guests. If it happens again, I will sack you. I mean it, Murli.’ She waved Murli away and turned to face Reena and Preeti. ‘The servants these days...’
‘I know,’ Preeti murmured sympathetically even though she didn’t have a servant, had never needed one.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, Preeti, why do you go at all?’
As Murli bent to take Reena’s cup, he made a face at Mrs. Gupta behind her back and winked. Reena giggled out loud, unable to hide it this time.
‘What’s so funny, Reena?’ asked Mrs. Gupta, interrupting Preeti who was explaining more to herself than anyone else why they had to go to Taipur during the monsoons.
‘Nothing,’ mumbled Reena, fiddling with her top, her face lowered so Mrs. Gupta could not see the glee on it.
Her mother continued talking as if she hadn’t been interrupted.
‘It’s the Bandh you see. I can’t believe they are having yet another strike! They need an excuse, don’t they, to shut down the city. You whisper the word ‘Bandh’ and the whole of Bangalore shudders to a halt. It’s disgraceful, really...’
Mrs. Gupta made sympathetic sounds of agreement.
‘So, Reena’s off school and Deepak just delivered a release well ahead of time and he’s due some time off. You know how he’s been working all those long hours and weekends. Some days he’s even slept at the office! You are lucky your husband comes home at a decent time, Nupur. You are lucky he runs a business and doesn’t work in software, full stop. Anyway, Deepak feels guilty, now that his mother is getting so old and frail, especially after his father died. And of course Anita never visits...’
‘You should put your foot down.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I should...’
‘And where is Anita nowadays?’
‘Oh, you know her. She flits around like a butterfly, never in one place long enough...’
‘And what about her husband? Doesn’t he get annoyed with her travelling everywhere?’
‘They are a modern couple,’ Preeti said as if that explained it all.
Reena sighed inwardly. Her mother’s comment was like holding a red cloth in front of a raging bull. Now Mrs. Gupta would embark on a monologue on the state of the country and the wantonness of its youth: her second favourite topic after the despicable laziness of servants—and there would be no stopping her.
And sure enough...
‘Modern couple...’ Mrs. Gupta sniffed loudly, making it clear to all and sundry what she thought of modern couples. ‘All those young girls strutting around showing their belly buttons, boys hanging on their arms! No values, nothing. No respect for elders. I saw a couple kissing each other—on the mouth, Preeti, in full view of everyone! Chi! I swore loudly and spat on the street right next to them but they didn’t even notice. Too busy tasting each other’s lunch, they were...’ Mrs. Gupta shuddered. She paused to take a breath and her narrowed gaze settled on Reena. ‘I hope you don’t go about behaving like that, Reena, when you grow up...’
‘No, Aunty,’ Reena mumbled, eyes down, suitably demure.
‘What is this country coming to? Politicians corrupt, young people with loose morals...You know what it is, don’t you, Preeti? It’s the influence of the West. Our impressionable young blindly following what they see on TV, all those half-naked women...’
Reena noticed her mother’s eyes start to glaze over. Preeti had come round to Mrs. Gupta’s for her daily fix of gossip but none seemed forthcoming. Silently, Reena willed her to interrupt Mrs. Gupta’s rant, and for once she did.
‘My God, is that the time? Reena, we should be going. We’ve got the packing to do. Thanks for the tea, Nupur. It was lovely.’
With that they were saying their goodbyes and were out of Mrs. Gupta’s flat, across the landing and inside their own.
In the living room, Preeti collapsed onto the sofa and reached for the phone. ‘Rinu, go and pack what you want to take with you, sweetie. The bus is at 10 o’clock tonight. Why they don’t have a proper train line connecting Bangalore and Mangalore I don’t know. I hate going in that bus; it always gets stuck in the ghats...’
Leaving her mother still grumbling, Reena escaped to her room, lay down on her bed and stared out of the window, not really seeing the blue of the swimming pool which the peon was half-heartedly cleaning, or the landscaped gardens, or the little playground in the centre. ‘I liked that plot we saw in Dasarahalli, Deepak,’ her mother had said when they came to view this flat. ‘We could build a two-storey house and still have some land left over for a garden and it’s a quarter of the price of this one.’
‘Ah, Preeti,’ her dad had beamed, standing in the shade of the palm trees by the swimming pool, and Reena knew then that his mind was made up, ‘Ma will be voted president of the parish council when word gets around that we are buying a flat in the same apartment complex as Shivarajkumar. A pat on the back for the Taipur Diazes.’ Status meant so much to her dad.
‘He’s like Mrs. Gupta that way,’ her mother had said once, laughing conspiratorially. ‘Good job he works the hours he does. If he and Nupur had a family pedigree contest, it would result in a tie…’
Reena had not wanted to move here, despite the fact she was going to have, as her father had said, his eyes sparkling, ‘Your own room, Rinu, as big as our entire flat in Hosur Road.’
‘But I like our flat, Dad,’ she had protested. ‘My best friend, Divya, lives nearby. Here I will have no friends.’
‘You will make some. Who would not like to be friends with you?’ her dad had beamed.
Most people, she had wanted to say. I am not that popular, you know.
She sighed deeply, worrying the tassels on her pillow cover. She missed Divya sorely, her once best friend who still lived in the old apartment complex. She used to knock on Divya’s door and they would walk together to the bus stop. And then Reena had moved to this apartment complex where film stars lived, and where her school bus had to make a special detour just to drop her off. There were hardly any other kids living here and the ones who did went to very expensive schools at the other end of the city and would not deign to talk to her. Paradoxically, her classmates, including Divya, assumed that she was too snooty now that she wa. . .
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