They shared snippets of their childhoods as Francis helped Darya navigate through the crowded streets. He had grown up in Goa, then moved to Lisbon for a few years with his parents. Many Goans did that, he told her. About seventy thousand Indians lived in Portugal, half of them Goans. A hundred thousand more Portuguese of Goan origin.
‘That many?’ Darya marvelled.
‘We know the language, the culture... it's easy to integrate. Did you know that an Indian national from Goa can obtain Portuguese citizenship if his parents were citizens of Portuguese India prior to 1961? All they had to do was register their birth in Portugal.’
‘Dual citizenship,’ Darya remarked. ‘But I thought the Indian constitution did not allow it.’
‘Goan natives were granted Indian citizenship after the liberation but their Portuguese nationality wasn't taken away. But that's changing too because now they're been asked to make a choice,’ he said. ‘In fact, most are giving up their Indian passports and assuming Portuguese nationality.’
‘Not like the rest of India, is it?’ she murmured, ‘...slaves of the British.’
He nodded. ‘Our assimilation was more complete. In fact, there have been MPs of Goan origin in the Portuguese parliament since the nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘Many still go there to study or work for a few years.’
As they talked, Darya realized how easy Francis was to be with. He laughed often, took nothing very seriously, and listened without judgement. Okay, so not really like Spandan, who had an opinion about everything; a quirk she had found intellectually invigorating at first, and then quickly grew tired of it.
Conversations should mostly be just... for the heck of it. Not to lead anywhere or to prove a point. At least not here... in Goa.
‘I love Lisbon,’ Francis said. ‘But I wanted to take a break. See the place of my birth.’
‘And your parents?’ Darya asked.
‘Still there.’
‘How long in Goa now?’ Darya muttered and swerved to avoid a motorist. No chill in the traffic. Chaos only, she thought to herself wryly.
‘Not long,’ he said.
‘And how long do you plan to stay?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends.’
‘On?’
He turned sideways, giving her a knowing smile. It could've meant anything, but it made her blush.
Stop it woman.
She looked away and mumbled, ‘How far to this place?’ Then swerved the car left when Francis waved a hand.
‘Five hundred metres. It's called Three Wise Men and is fairly new. I hear the food is good,’ he said.
‘What kind of food?’
‘Continental,’ he said and gestured her to stop.
They had arrived.
The Three Wise Men was tastefully constructed: outer walls of angled bricks that created a three-dimensional zigzag effect when the bricks caught light, the interior in a high-key palette of pale yellow and pink outfitted with cheerful patio furniture. Darya's ears caught the sound of violin playing as they entered. Diners had only just begun to arrive, and they managed to get hold of a table that overlooked the courtyard. Francis ordered for the both of them: seafood salad, lamb stroganoff, and seared kingfish on a bed of cilantro risotto.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ Francis asked. ‘Some wine maybe?’ Darya nodded. Francis called for the house port wine.
As they ate and talked of this and that, Darya noted that her fascination, and a sort of delicious fear, of his two-toned eyes had now abated. Earlier it had seemed to her like two beings in one—a cat and an owl, or a vampire and a wolf—but now it seemed normal, mysterious perhaps but not odd anymore. She did still wonder though, how it must have been to grow up like that... trying to cope with what must have seemed to most like a disability. She knew how cruel children could be and was sure he got teased a lot. Nevertheless, he seemed perfectly at ease now, cocky even. She wanted to ask him if his parents had two different coloured eyes and he'd inherited one of each. She giggled in her head at the bizarre idea. Or was it a gene malfunction? But she'd wait until they got to know each other better.
She also noted mildly how often their conversation veered to Aaron. Francis seemed to be in awe of his boss.
‘He didn't seem very friendly to me,’ Darya commented dryly.
‘Once you get to know him,’ he said, ‘you'll find him fascinating.’
‘Uh, huh,’ Darya murmured, digging into a piece of kingfish. ‘This is delicious,’ she murmured.
‘He's organizing a literary festival in Goa,’ Francis said. ‘Has ambitious plans for it. We've sent out invitations to a few stalwarts... authors, publishers, critics... who's who of the book world. Most have accepted. It'll be an event like never before seen in Goa.’
‘When is it?’ Darya asked.
‘Sometime in October. November to January is peak tourist season. More about drinking, partying and sunbathing then. Not the best time to hold a literary event.’
‘Is your man rich?’ Darya asked, trying to extract a piece of bone stuck in her teeth.
He stared at her with a smirk, as if why the question?
Unfazed she said, ‘Only curious.’
‘I think he is,’ he replied, after some thought. ‘He ran a medical equipment business back in Bangalore. He doesn't talk much about himself.’ Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he chuckled. When Darya looked at him curiously, he explained, ‘The house I'm staying in right now... you should've seen it when Aaron was living in it and now that I'm there. Like those dramatic weight loss pictures. Before and after.’
‘What do you mean?’ Darya asked.
‘It was clean and bare, when he lived there. Like new underwear. And now it's so dirty, there's barely room to sit. This landlord isn't going to be very happy either.’
‘Umm, okay,’ Darya murmured, the mention of underwear unsettling her. Then, ‘What about you?’ She leaned forward. ‘What do you like doing?’ she asked.
He glanced at her; his eyes mischievous.
He knows I like him.
Darya's heart skipped a beat.
‘So?’ she prompted. No going back now.
‘I love the sea,’ he said, leaning back, relaxing his shoulders. ‘I love the feeling of salt on my skin. And only the warm sea... the Goan Sea. I don't know how I stayed away for as long as I did.’
Darya smiled. She loved the way he'd said it. Passionately. Something about him reminded her of her childhood. The feeling of freeness. Abandonment.
‘Me too,’ she whispered.
‘So, you know what I mean,’ he said.
She nodded.
‘At my uncle's villa, you can hear the sea from the bedroom. Sometimes it sounds lazy, sometimes ferocious... peaceful and frightening... amazing how that's possible... all at once. I bet people would pay a fortune to live in that house... just to experience it.’ She added bashfully, ‘You should visit.’
He wiped his mouth with the edge of the napkin and said, ‘If you want me to,’ following it with a jaunty smile.
She flushed again; seemed a permanent state of affairs of late. Then remembered something she'd wanted to ask him. ‘Hey, do you know about the Bong-Bong Bohemia carnival?’
‘Oh, that one. Yeah,’ he said. ‘It used to happen a long time ago. Don't think it happened last year. Or the year before that. It's not totally legit, you know,’ he glanced at her, eyes twinkling.
‘What do you mean, it's not legit?’ Darya asked.
‘It's a trial ground for experimental drugs. Or used to be. Entry is by invite only. I'm surprised you even know of it.’
‘So…’ Darya was confused. ‘This carnival is for sick people?’
He gave a quick laugh. Darya felt like one of those women who appeared stupid only to get a man to like her.
‘On paper, it's a simple carnival. Music, dance, food and drinks, the usual. But allegedly experimental drugs are sold. The back-garden variety. The kind you can cook up in your kitchen. Inexpensive, harmless
for the most part, and creative. Also, allegedly... the brews are touted as cure for minor pains and aches. But... I've never been there, and I don't know for sure. It's all hush-hush. Underground.’ He paused. ‘But how did you know of it?’
‘Found a pamphlet in my house,’ she replied.
‘Well, aren't you lucky,’ he murmured.
They called for the bill. When he insisted he pay, Darya heaved an inward sigh of relief. It had been a date after all. She was back in the game.
High five, baby.
Francis said he had a few things to do before heading back home and declined Darya's offer to drive him, saying he borrowed a friend's old scooter every now and then and didn't stay too far anyway.
They waved goodbye, promising to meet again soon.
Darya had a song on her lips all the way home. Even the weight of the bags she carried inside the house failed to dampen her mood.
But as soon as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, a strange noise greeted her. For a second, she stood frozen, unable to figure out what it was.
A phone was ringing... but was it her mobile? But that wasn't her ringtone, was it?
She put the groceries on the floor and fumbled inside her handbag. Her mobile was on silent. Then what was—
Her head snapped up in realization. It was the sound of the landline ringing.
She hadn't even been sure the thing worked anymore.
Leaving the groceries on the floor, she latched the door behind her and rushed to pick up the receiver.
‘Hello,’ she said, breathing heavily into the phone.
Crackling static greeted her from the other end.
‘Hello?’ she repeated, louder this time, moving the receiver close to her ear. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She took a few deep slow breaths to calm herself.
‘Hello,’ a quiet male voice answered after a few seconds.
‘Who is this?’ Darya asked.
Silence.
She sat on the bench.
‘Who is this?’ she asked again.
She heard breathing... slow... fast... up... up... down... warm... and strangely... she thought of a rising tide.
That man at her window...? Could this be...?
‘Tell me who it is,’ she demanded. Her voice cracked with tension.
A whisper at first... a male voice. Soft and light. Halting. Strong provincial accent.
She tried to make out the words.
‘Da...?... Paritosh... I want him. We were calling for many days.’
Sounds okay... not like a murderer at least.
She breathed out slowly and said, ‘He's not home. Who's this?’
‘We have to talk to him,’ he said. From the shrillness in his voice, Darya guessed he was a teenager, probably fourteen or fifteen years old.
‘Who are you?’ Darya asked.
‘Who are you?’ he mimicked.
She heard scratching noise on the other side, as if the boy was scraping the phone's mouthpiece with his fingers. He didn't sound normal; maybe he wasn't as old as she thought he was.
‘I'm his niece,’ Darya said. ‘And you?’
‘We have to talk to him,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Who is we?’ Darya asked, impatiently.
‘Me and Mum,’ the boy said. ‘He has not come home for two months. We do not have money.’
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead wearily.
Somewhere at the back of her head, a nagging feeling of unease was growing. Hardly daring to breathe, she asked, fearful and yet knowing she had to—
‘Who's you and your mum?’
Silence. Flagged breathing on the other end.
The nagging feeling swelled in her head, until it was throbbing in pain.
She opened her eyes. The figures in the mural swam in front of her.
‘Tell me?’ She wanted to shout but controlled herself. She clutched the phone tighter, tighter... until her knuckles were white.
Tell me... I think I know it already. But tell me anyway.
It was through a miasma of voices in her head, that she heard him say—
‘Where is dad? I want to talk to him!’
She stopped breathing.
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat like a hammer blow to the sides.
For a moment—or for an eternity—everything stopped for her. The room was musty... stifling.
A drop of sweat trickled into her brow.
Then she came to her senses and sat upright, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot through her legs at the sudden movement.
This is ridiculous. Why am I listening to this shit? Who's this loon?
‘Hey,’ she said, her voice cold and snappy. ‘Who are you? What do you want? I can report you to the police, you know. How dare you call here?’
She wondered for a second if she should dial Filip or Francis but... she was in no real danger and the boy sounded harmless... off his rockers maybe, but harmless. Was it a prank call? Should she keep down the phone?
His voice broke into her thoughts, ‘We need money. Mum is sick. Customers are angry.’
‘What customers?’ Darya asked.
‘Customers of the shop.’
‘Which shop?’ she demanded. ‘Where do you guys live? Who are you?’
Then like the wail of a siren, cutting through the silent night, the boy screamed—
‘Why are you asking so many questions? Where is dad?’
Darya dropped the phone in alarm.
Then after a few seconds, she picked it up again, with a good mind to hang up this time, when she heard muffled voices on the other end.
A female voice came on the line.
‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘Is that Pari?’
The way she said it... the words soft and hesitant... distraught yet hopeful..., there was no longer any doubt in Darya's mind.
She sat totally still, a pulse beating rapidly in her throat. Her insides felt hot and dense, as if stuffed with tar.
She had suspected all along... from snatches of her parent s conversations, from what she remembered of her uncle... but... never dwelt on it. It had seemed impossible. Everyone had told her the love of her uncle and aunt were stuff of legends; the love he held for her was eternal, free of blemish, untouched by temptation.
And now this.
‘He's dead,’ Darya said, feeling like a creature in a dream, floating in space. When the woman gave a small whimper, it seemed to come from far, far away.
‘Kas-shi? How?’ she managed to ask.
‘Cerebral thrombosis. He died a few weeks ago,’ Darya said. ‘I'm his niece.’
‘What is that? Thrombosis?’ she asked.
‘Like a brain haemorrhage,’ Darya said, her answers reflexive.
She was feeling tired all of a sudden, and hungry. But she had so many questions...
She closed her eyes.
‘Tujhe naav kitte?’ the woman asked in Konkani then probably realizing Darya may not understand, repeated in English. ‘What is your name?’ She spoke like the boy, the words soft, dragged, accented.
‘Darya,’ she replied. ‘What's yours?’
‘Veronica,’ the woman said. ‘Veronica Pereira. You talked to my son, Joseph.’
‘Joseph,’ Darya repeated.
‘He is not okay,’ she explained. ‘.. .in the head. Birth defect. Sorry he troubled you.’
‘That's no problem,’ Darya said automatically.
‘I told him not to call,’ she said. ‘But he does not listen to anything. Maashe, forgive him.’
‘How did you know Paritosh?’ Darya asked, still in her dream.
She knew the question had to be asked, so she did. The answer had to be known. There was no other way.
‘We were together,’ the woman replied.
‘Were you two...?’ Darya hesitated.
‘Married?’ she finished softly. ‘Na. But Joseph is his son.’
‘How old is he?’ Darya asked quietly.
‘Eighte
en,’ she replied.
Darya heaved a sigh of relief. At least, it was after Farideh died.
‘We run a fish shop here,’ the woman said, then hesitating, clarified, ‘Paritosh ran it.’
‘Where is here?’ Darya asked. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Vatkola,’ she replied. ‘Near Joseph Sea Food. Next to Andorra supermarket.’
‘Can I come to meet you?’
Darya had no idea why she said that. How sure was she that these people were telling the truth?
It is the truth. It is. She could feel it.
She was now in a calm close to serenity. A missing piece of the puzzle had been handed to her, to complete the story of her uncle's life.
But this was not all, she knew. There was more. More.
‘Hoi, if you want,’ Veronica said softly. Then, ‘He is really dead?’
‘Yes,’ Darya replied.
Despite the initial sign of distress, the woman seemed to be taking the news of her dead partner remarkably well. Had they loved each other—Paritosh and Veronica? Had he spent his days at Vatkola with Veronica after Farideh died when he was supposedly travelling for work? How had the two met? A thousand questions popped in her head.
‘Did you know about Farideh, his first wife?’ Darya asked.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘He always talked about her.’ Then after a pause of several seconds, ‘Did he... did he have a will?’
Even over the phone, Darya sensed the embarrassment the question caused her, so she was amenable when she said, ‘No, he left no will.’
‘Are you sure,’ Veronica said. ‘I was having hope... only that, Joseph, you know... and the shop... I do not know how to...’
‘I'm sorry,’ Darya said, feeling pity. If what she claimed were true, the family was going to be in a wretched state now. ‘I'll talk to my dad and see what we can do about it.’
Veronica murmured her thanks.
Darya could think of nothing better to say than—‘Sorry I could not help you more.’
‘Yetha,’ Veronica said and fell silent, seeming to wait for Darya to end the call.
She didn't want to do it, but she was too overwrought to continue. And even after she'd placed the receiver back on the hook, she didn't move for a long time and sat paralyzed, still in her dream.
Was it possible? Really?
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 9