He threw her a questioning look. Then returning to the phone, read:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
He leaned back. ‘Where did you get these?’ he asked.
‘A photo album,’ she replied. ‘I found several like these. Here's another.’ She showed the one which she'd clicked from the photograph Vidisha had given her.
He read, his lips forming the words silently.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years
‘The original is in Persian,’ Darya said, scanning his face expectantly. ‘Will Aaron know anything about it?’
‘Yes,’ Francis said. ‘And so will I.’
Darya raised an eyebrow.
‘Do you think Aunt Farideh wrote them?’ she asked.
Francis let out a snort of laughter that caused some food to spill out from his lips. He reached for some water, chuckling the while.
Annoyed, Darya asked, ‘Well, what do you know about it?’
‘No need to get upset,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Your words took me by surprise, that's all.’
‘Why?’
‘They're definitely not by your aunt, that's why.’
Darya gave him a reluctant smile. ‘So, who's the poet?’ she asked.
And before Darya could stop him, he leaned forward to pull the phone out of her hand and moved away to duck her attempts to get it back.
‘What's in here?’ he asked, a cocky grin on his face. ‘Steamy pictures? Ex-boyfriends?’
‘How do you know they are exes?’ Darya asked in a huff, glaring at him.
‘I like your dress, by the way. Just the right colour for your skin,’ he said.
Darya blushed, realizing, rather sheepishly that he was teasing her again. He seemed to take pleasure in it. Because I'm letting him, she scolded herself.
‘You can keep the phone,’ she muttered. ‘But will you please tell me who the poem is by and what the lines mean?’
He fixed his eyes on the phone. ‘These are lines from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam. And yes, originally written in Persian.’
‘Tell me more,’ she said.
‘Khayyam was a Persian poet but also a mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, you name it. He wrote the Rubáiyát, a series of thousand four-line verses in Persian, in the ninth or tenth century. They were translated into English by a man named FitzGerald. Don't look so surprised, I read too. At least I used to when younger.’
She smiled. ‘Where can I read the whole thing?’ she asked.
‘On the Internet,’ he said, handing over the phone to her. ‘Or I can get you a copy of the book from the bookstore.’
‘Let me try the Internet first and see what I can dig up,’ she said.
Francis nodded and swallowed a mouthful of vindaloo. ‘Some for you?’ he offered.
Darya shook her head; ‘Too much meat early in the morning,’ she said. ‘Argh, oh... what the hell.’
Her hand had accidentally knocked over a bottle of water. Puddles gathered around her feet.
‘Use these,’ Francis said and handed over a couple of paper napkins from the table.
‘My sandals are caked with sand,’ she complained, wiping her feet vigorously.
‘I didn't do anything,’ he said, raising his hands.
Realizing she'd thrown him a few accusatory looks, ‘I know,’ Darya said ruefully, smiling.
‘Kiss of salt, eh?’ he said. ‘You've got to love it.’ She heard his next few words from under the table. ‘Why is this so important though?’ he murmured.
‘What?’ Darya asked, crumpling the napkins and dropping them to the ground. ‘What is... what do you mean?’
‘The verses. Why are you so keen to know what they mean?’
Because they were cryptic, beautiful and otherworldly, and most importantly, they reminded her of her aunt. She hoped by learning more about the verses, she would get too know her aunt better. What had those words meant to her? Why were there so many of them, behind every photograph, written with great thought and care as if to match the verse to that moment in her life?
And... were they connected to her death somehow?
Aloud, she said, ‘They look interesting. I'd like to know more, that's all.’
‘Aaron can tell you more,’ Francis said.
‘He does know a lot about books, doesn't he?’ Darya said.
Francis nodded; his mouth filled with food.
‘His parents were intellectuals—both doctors, and also readers, and philosophers. He taught himself to be like them.’
‘Taught himself?’
With a mournful shake of the head, he said, ‘They died in an accident when he was fifteen. His parents used to practice in Goa, did you know that? He was adopted by his maternal uncle soon after and went to live with them in Bangalore.’
‘What accident?’ Darya said, feeling a chill. No wonder he's that way. No one who'd lost his parents young was ever normal.
‘It was a car collision. Hit and run,’ he paused. A strange look crossed his face. ‘Would you believe he lived here as a boy the same time your uncle was alive? Their paths might have crossed. And yours too when you used to come here.’
‘I guess so,’ she said, feeling subdued now. She felt guilty for having judged Aaron too soon and made up her mind to try again.
Francis finished eating. Darya insisted she pay this time.
‘But you hardly ate,’ he protested.
‘No matter,’ Darya said, placing the notes on the table. After a few words of appreciation to the waiter, they walked outside and stood on the sandy sidewalk. The sun shone brightly overhead.
‘When can I see you next?’ Francis asked.
She smiled at him, pleased that he had asked, pleased it was going so well.
‘Tonight?’ Darya suggested.
‘I've got to make a few book drops tonight.’
‘Huh?’
‘People who bought books but could not take them home,’ he explained. ‘That happens quite a lot. Have you finished sorting your place?’
She shook her head. ‘A lot left to do. I'm going to visit a neighbour now. She was hurt badly last week.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. Then noticing Darya's questioning face, added, ‘Aaron told me.’
‘Yeah.’ She wrinkled her nose playfully. ‘Now you'll get to know everything that happens at Heliconia Lane... Bummer.’
‘Is it such a bad thing?’ he asked, looking at her.
This time she returned his gaze. Her voice was steady when she said—
‘No, not really.’
Then for the second time that morning, she was taken by surprise when he moved closer and wrapped her body in a hug. She responded by moving her body against him. A quiver of excitement coursed down her spine. She felt the graze of his chin against her cheek. The citrusy scent of his neck made her eyes water. He held her for a minute, his warm hands caressing her back.
It wasn't erotic, but it wasn't innocent either. Somewhere in between. Somewhere nice.
‘Hello,’ Darya managed to say, with a small giggle. ‘What was that for?’
He released her. ‘Sorry to let you go,’ he said and winked as if to make light of it.
Darya felt her face grow warm.
‘See you again, soon?’ she asked softly.
‘You bet,’ he said, raising his hand in a short salute. Then turning, he crossed the road and disappeared from view.
There was justice in the world, after all, Darya thought to herself as she sat inside the jeep. A song came to her lips. Was it serendipity that her uncle died when she was going through the worst phase of life? She had perhaps come to
Goa to meet the life she was meant for.
Oh yeah, she could see herself settling down in Goa just fine.
On her way back, she replayed the hug several times in her head and her heart did a somersault each time. His scent lingered around her.
She parked the jeep at Sea Swept. Then glancing at Constellation, saw that its doors and windows were closed. No movement or signs of life. Aaron must have gone to the store today. It was a good thing she'd met Francis outside the bookstore. She'd continue to favour this arrangement to avoid running into Aaron altogether.
Then she remembered the promise to be good to him. Given what she had learnt about him, she decided he deserved a second chance.
On her way to Primavera, she noticed the Royal Enfield Bullet parked in Constellation's garden. She whistled softly, surprised at Aaron's choice of transportation. Then realized Aaron was home and hurried across the street.
Her sandals were squelchy still and the sand sticking to her feet were troubling her. She remembered there was a washing area at the back of Primavera and decided to use it before she went inside.
She opened the gate and walked in, glancing at the neatly labelled trees, the flowers nodding gently in the wind, the hammock that looked particularly tempting. Thanks to Filip's retirement, the garden was better kept than the house itself was.
Circling around to the back of the garden, she came upon the servant's quarter first. She crossed it and was about to walk towards the tap when... she hesitated. Turning back, she surveyed the lodgings with interest.
Someone was or had been living there until very recently. Fresh curtains hung on the windows. The door seemed recently painted; loosely latched, it rattled in the wind. A table was on the porch, an ashtray and a crumpled packet of Lays chips on top of it. Two faded T-shirts flapped on a clothesline.
Darya retraced her steps.
‘Hello,’ she called out, softly, uncertainly.
The door jiggled in response to a gust of wind. But apart from that, there was silence.
Balancing herself on the raised edges of the porch, she looked through the slightly ajar door.
A single bed covered in a pale blue sheet. A crumpled pillow on it propped up against the wall. A pair of orange slippers on the floor. The only other piece of furniture apart from the bed in the room was a white Formica table. On it was... she craned her neck to see....
Her eyes narrowed in surprise.
...it definitely was... a laptop. A Samsung laptop with a green and red logo in one corner. She couldn't identify the logo, but... but it looked familiar.
A laptop in a servant's room. Things have changed in Goa.
Darya hadn't seen any servants around. She knew a cleaning lady visited every afternoon whose services Filip had offered to Darya although she hadn't had the need yet. She wondered if they'd hired someone new. This one was mighty well-off to own a brand new laptop like that, Darya thought. Her laptop had died the night before her trip to Goa and she'd been missing it terribly. She wondered if she could borrow this one some time. She'd talk to Uncle Filip about it. She didn't think he owned a laptop himself.
With some reluctance—perhaps because she hadn't fully processed what she'd seen—Darya made her way back to the tap. She turned it on and washed her feet without bothering to take off her sandals. After she was done, she walked to the front of the house. Rang the bell.
‘Filip Uncle,’ she called out aloud.
No one responded. She waited for a few minutes before knocking again.
‘Zabel Aunty, Filip Uncle,’ she called. Silence. She pressed against the door. It wasn't locked and opened easily.
Stepping inside, she looked around her. The hall seemed empty. She paused for a moment, wondering what to do. Then crossing the hallway, she reached the flight of stairs and just as she was beginning her ascent, a head popped on top.
Her heart gave a lurch.
‘Whaaa,’ she cried.
‘Easy,’ he said.
‘Aaron,’ she whispered. He was the last person she'd expected to see there.
‘That's right,’ he replied.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her feet were awkwardly placed at the bottom of the stairs and she shifted to adjust them. ‘Where are Uncle and Aunty?’
Filip's face appeared beside his and Darya heaved a sigh of relief. She had no idea why, but Aaron's presence in the house had rattled her. She had thought... she didn't know why... had wondered for a minute if the Castelinos were in some sort of trouble again.
‘What happened?’ Filip asked, looking puzzled at Darya's reaction.
Darya walked up the stairs.
‘You met our new neighbour, it seems,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Filip said, tipping his head at him. He looked flustered; Darya noted with some satisfaction.
‘I did not know you two were acquainted,’ Darya said, addressing Aaron.
‘We are not,’ Aaron replied, his face devoid of any expression. ‘I thought I should pay them a visit in order to get acquainted.’
Filip shifted his feet. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked as if he wished he were elsewhere. Darya guessed he was not used to visitors in the house anymore.
He has changed.
Filip led them inside the bedroom. Zabel was sitting up, wearing a jade green pinafore and looking sprightly.
‘Are you feeling better, Aunty?’ Darya asked.
‘She is,’ Filip answered for her.
Zabel nodded.
‘This nice young man visited us. He doesn't even know us.’ She looked at Aaron and smiled. ‘But he's a nice young man.’ Darya rolled her eyes.
‘She doesn't seem to think so,’ Aaron said. Impassive. Solemn.
Zabel looked at Darya in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘Aunty,’ Darya said, throwing up her arm in exasperation. ‘Can we talk of you instead?’
Aaron gave a small laugh. Then turning to Zabel said, ‘I'll go now. I have to go to the store. If you need anything, please let me know.’ Bobbing his head at Darya and Filip, he left the room.
She waited for the sounds of his steps to recede on the marble.
‘He's weird,’ Darya muttered.
‘He's a good boy,’ Zabel said. ‘You should ask him out.’
‘I told you, Aunty,’ she said, her voice mock-weary, ‘there's...’
‘Someone else,’ Zabel finished. ‘I know, but this one is also nice. Quiet, protective types. This is the kind of man a girl needs. He earns well also re. Looks like he does, at least.’
‘He behaves like a boor,’ Darya said. ‘Thinks he's superior and all.’
She turned to Filip for support because she suspected he thought along similar lines, but he was staring at the wall clock, his face pensive.
‘What is it, Filip?’ his wife asked.
‘Are you feeling well?’ Darya asked him.
‘Nothing,’ Filip said, awkwardly, embarrassed at the attention. ‘It's nothing.’
‘You should go see a doctor,’ Zabel muttered.
‘I can't leave you here alone,’ he told his wife sternly.
‘What did you think of this boy Aaron? Good for our Darya, no?’ Zabel said.
Filip nodded absently. ‘I've seen him somewhere.’ He turned his face to the ceiling as if he were searching his memory.
‘He used to live here in Goa,’ Darya said. ‘His parents were doctors and they died when he was very young. In a car accident.’
‘Dorji,’ he mumbled, accompanied by what sounded like a hiccup.
‘Yes.’
What happened next almost knocked the wind out of her.
She watched in fascination as Filip's face contorted horribly in front of her eyes. His cheeks turned purple. His eyes gleamed shiny as coins. His lips stretched wide in an unsightly grin. The hiccup turned into a fit of coughing. Then choking.
‘Filip!’
‘Uncle!’
Darya took a few steps towards him in alarm.
He coughed. Spluttere
d into his hands. Cupped them over his mouth.
‘Are you okay?’ Darya cried.
Then everything stopped. Just as abruptly.
He let out a grunt. His face turned back to normal.
‘I'm okay,’ he said. ‘Choked on something.’
‘I keep telling you to go to the hospital,’ Zabel scolded.
‘What happened?’ Darya asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied but wouldn't look at her.
But she suspected it was because—
‘Do you know him?’ she asked.
Pause. A wheeze.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘But I remember the accident. It was sad... but a long time ago... I remember from the papers.’ Then turning to Darya, ‘Can you ask your father to call me? I've tried reaching him, but he's not picking up.’
‘I already told him to. I'll tell him again,’ Darya said. She wondered if she should mention Veronica and ask him if he knew her, but it seemed like Filip was in a hurry to see her off. He had already taken a few steps towards the door.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ Darya asked.
‘Umm... we... I have some things to do and it's time for Zabel’s supper. Will you come back later?’ Filip said.
‘Behave yourself, Filip,’ Zabel said sharply. ‘No way to treat a guest.’
‘Sorry,’ he stood by the door, hands stiff by his side, a sorrowful expression on his face.
Darya decided to relieve him of his discomfort. Something was not right with him today.
‘That's okay, Aunty. I need to leave too,’ she said. ‘Are you expecting someone?’ she asked, addressing Filip.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have some things to do.’ Looking uneasily at his watch, he muttered, ‘It's getting late.’
‘Okay, Uncle,’ Darya said, walking to the door. Then remembering something, stopped. ‘One more thing...’
Filip stopped behind her. Zabel looked up. They waited, eyes on her.
‘I need someone to sweep the house and take out the trash. Can I borrow your help?’ she said.
Zabel glanced at her husband. Then nodded at Darya. ‘She comes at twelve every afternoon but doesn't stay for much time. You can ask her tomorrow. I don't know how much free time she has but.’
‘I was talking about the new man you've...,’ Darya stopped, the rest of the words caught in her throat. Filip and Zabel were staring back at her in astonishment.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 11