The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  ‘Like in a sci-fi movie.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Those are not totally imaginary.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said sceptically, with an expression of why are you telling me all this? ‘So, what happened to the little girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, after fifteen years, on a whim, the mother placed an advertisement in the newspaper asking for information about her daughter. She described her as she must have become, fifteen years later... long blonde hair, elongated blue eyes, wide lips, eyebrows, cheekbones like her mother...’ A longer pause this time.

  They stared at each other

  ‘And?’ Francis said.

  ‘Lo behold!’ Darya said, beaming. ‘The daughter's foster mother called back. The picture was a splitting image of the girl, now all grown up.’

  ‘What had happened to her?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Kidnapped, abused and then dumped in a care home,’ Darya said. ‘No one knows by whom and the girl had been too young to remember. But the good news is, she hadn't died. She was very much alive and being brought up by a loving foster family.’

  The expression on his face had moved from curiosity to expectation to bafflement. And now he was staring blankly at her, waiting for her to tell her why she was telling him all this.

  Which she did, with a flourish.

  ‘What?’ Francis spluttered, looking unsure if he had heard her right. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I placed an ad in the newspaper asking about Aunt Farideh,’ Darya said.

  ‘How? Why?’ Francis asked, looking perplexed.

  ‘I didn't ask for her explicitly,’ Darya explained quickly. ‘It's really an obituary for my uncle. But I'm hoping someone would read between the lines and call back.’

  ‘What do you mean? What lines?’

  She clasped her hands in front of her and gazed into the distance.

  ‘I think she's still alive,’ she said slowly. ‘Call it instinct, but I don't think she died that night twenty years ago. Either she's alive or someone who knew what happened to her is still alive. I know it... I can feel it.’

  His eyebrows shot up. Eyes opened wide. As she had expected.

  Not the annoyance though. She had expected him to be congratulatory. Or in the very least, indulgent.

  He dropped the bread on his plate. Then—

  ‘Are you joking?’

  She shook her head and gave him a cautious smile. The incredulous expression on his face was slowly settling into one of exasperation.

  ‘She is dead,’ Francis said, emphasizing each word.

  ‘Yes, but...’

  He did not hear her. ‘Or am I missing something?’

  ‘But there was a reason I read that story... remembered it after two years,’ Darya said indignantly, wondering why he didn't understand. So much for patting my back. ‘I don't even read newspapers. But this stuck with me.’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous, Darya.’

  But she was not about to give in.

  ‘What if she was kidnapped that day and someone knows what happened to her? Just like in this story.’

  ‘After twenty years?’ Francis exclaimed.

  ‘Who knows? Ten, twenty, it's possible. I've read of such cases,’ Darya said glumly.

  ‘Does your father know?’ he asked.

  ‘No one knows.’

  They fell into an angry silence, each considering the other with wary eyes. Finally, Francis let out a whoosh of breath, as if to expend the tension, and leaned back. ‘So, what does the obituary say?’ he asked.

  ‘Get The Goa Times and read it,’ she replied curtly, focusing on her plate. ‘Or any Times edition. I asked for national circulation.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he prodded, kindlier now.

  She thawed somewhat.

  ‘We'll get a copy on our way outside,’ she said.

  She'd walked to Primavera in the morning and grabbed the Castelinos' copy before they woke up. The obituary was prominent enough. The calls would start pouring in anytime now. She was hopeful.

  ‘See, it's not that bad,’ she told Francis. ‘Don't look so troubled. Even if nothing comes out of it, it'd be okay. I lost some money, that's all.’

  ‘I'm only worried for you,’ he muttered. ‘The break-in, and the fact that the inspector thinks your uncle was murdered... you should be more careful. Why are you digging up the past like that?’

  She shrugged. Knew he was probably right. She'd acted on an impulse. A wild one.

  ‘Let your father handle things,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me, doesn't it make you even a little bit curious... what happened to her?’ she asked. ‘A story without an ending. We need to find that ending.’

  Francis smiled, or at least his lips twitched.

  ‘You're bizarre, woman,’ he said, his voice as soft as the foam on her milkshake.

  She smiled back.

  They sat talking for another hour after which Darya dropped him to the bookstore. She promised to be nice and pick up the phone when he called. Francis, in turn, promised to call more frequently, adding again that he was going to be busier than usual for the next few days. He'd check out the obituary in the bookstore's copy of The Goa Times but asked her again to stop meddling into the past. They hugged in the front seat of the jeep and said goodbyes.

  In a good mood and with some free time on her hands, Darya decided to stop at a café on the way that promised high-speed Internet. So much had been happening, she hadn't had the time to check her emails or Facebook. Not that she minded. She'd, in any case, turned off the data on her phone and hadn't been taking calls from anyone other than her father and Francis. Spandan had called a couple of times but she hadn't picked up. She was sure he was only calling to remind her again how incapable she was of being on her own. Only he could help her; only he was capable of showing her the right way. For a minute, Darya broke into a cold sweat as she contemplated the possibility of his landing up in Goa... at Sea Swept. Then brushed it away. Spandan was all hot air; more speak, less do.

  A few of her friends had called too but Darya hadn't picked up their calls either, almost guessing what that would entail: Sorry about what happened, what can we do to help, are you all right, how are you coping. Blah, blah, blah.

  Sighing, she sat on the uncomfortably high chair in front of a desktop computer and stared at the stormy-sky wallpaper for a few minutes. That was what her head felt like. Grey-blue-black. It seemed to her like she was living an alternate life here in Goa—a vacation chiller movie—in which she was the protagonist and sinister things were happening every now and then to add twists to the tale.

  She began to type.

  First Facebook. She quickly scrolled through her timeline, glancing over the spate of messages but not stopping to read any. There'd be plenty of time to do that later. Besides, she was here for another reason.

  She moved the cursor up to the search bar and typed Francis. Scrolled down the twenty or so profiles that popped up. Clicked on the one that looked the most like him. Francis Bookman. Darya gave a quick laugh as she double clicked on his name. It was her Francis alright: a pile of books in his hands; false moustache and dark glasses on his face; light-up red devil's horns on his head, the kind so popular in Goa. He had posted four pictures in all. Three had him lounging on the beach, bareback, in beach shorts, women around him, in various stages of repose. Darya looked at them scornfully; she'd have to reform the man. The fourth was a picture of Aaron and Francis standing in a beach shack; goofy grins on their faces; an arm slung around the other's shoulder. Both appeared drunk. The photograph was blurry.

  Typing Aaron Dorji in the search bar threw up no results. She tried several combinations and a lot of Aarons and Arons came up but none which resembled the man she knew. So, he wasn't on Facebook, Darya thought drily.

  Next, she looked up Vidisha. The updates on her page were numerous, her timeline filled with forwarded articles, her sons' photographs and status updates, the most recent cryptically referring to her divorce. Darya read conce
rned comments and Vidisha's replies to them but was bored in minutes. No mention of her husband or Gaurav on her profile, at least not in the past year. She closed the page.

  She tapped her fingers on the table, wondering whether to check what Spandan was up to but decided against it and logged off her Facebook account.

  She opened Gmail next and saw that she had sixty-seven unread emails. She went through the list and in the end, opened two that seemed of most interest to her.

  First, a mail from Vidisha.

  You must have heard about the divorce. Things were not going well. We decided to end it. Don't feel sorry for me.

  By the way, 1have proof Gaurav killed our parents. He wasn't where he said he was that night. My own brother! Can't even imagine.

  I am coming to Goa on the 15th. Will stay at a guesthouse in Candolim. Don't leave before that. I need your help.

  Next.

  A mail from Spandan.

  D, I know you are in Goa and I know where you are. Will come to you if you don't call me back. Your immaturity astounds me. Do you really think you can run away like that? You can run away from nothing.

  Darya closed her eyes and exhaled, long and deep. She cursed herself for opening the email but was also surprised the words stung less than usual. Had she finally succeeded in flushing him out of her system? If so, she'd stay in Goa as long as it took, thieves and murderers be damned.

  Darya logged off her Gmail.

  The last thing she did was a search for Rubáiyát and when the page came up, fired a print of the verses. She paid for the printouts and the one hour of the Internet used and walked out.

  On her drive back, the sky appeared greyer than usual.

  Like the wallpaper... like my head.

  Then she remembered Zabel’s prediction of a thunderstorm. An unseasonal downpour was going to be a welcome respite from the heat. And really, Darya loved the rains in Goa. She remembered as a child watching from her window... the sea, rising and ebbing in its glory and fury... the trees swaying in the wind. The imaginary movie in her head grew vivid and delightful then: it was she, alone, standing by the sea, surrounded by nodding groves, soaking the sharp-scented water.

  A thought struck her then: had her aunt felt this way when she lived at Heliconia Lane? The thought dampened her feeling somewhat and she continued for the rest of her journey in silence.

  As she parked the jeep and stepped out, she glanced curiously at the silver BMW XI parked next to Constellation. Moving closer, she saw Aaron had visitors. Two men and a woman were standing with him on the balcao, deep in conversation. Now and then, they pointed to the roof of the house and then around.

  The men were in their early fifties, dressed similarly; solid polo shirts and black trousers; dark glasses and serious expressions on their faces. The woman was half hidden in the shadows, but when she emerged, Darya saw that it was Bobby, dressed in a tight blue smock, golden sandals on her feet. She looked more at ease than the last time. Aaron, wearing a linen shirt and casual shorts looked ready to head to the beach. The visitors had identical thick blue folders in their hands and referred to it every now and then. The logo on the folders seemed vaguely familiar to Darya, but she couldn't place it.

  She wondered what they were up to. More renovations? She hoped not, because that would mean an uncomfortable next few days with strangers in the street and the noise of drilling machine. Or had Vidisha sent them to prepare for her move back to Goa? Darya would have to ask Aaron later if she could catch him before his impending trip.

  She walked inside the house in rapid strides. A burning desire to take a short afternoon nap had overtaken her. And she smiled to herself thinking how Goan she was getting.

  As the sun set on the horizon and the dusk cooled the sea, Darya decided to go for a run on the beach. It had grown into a habit in the past six months. When her mind started to think, she picked up her shoes, walked out of the door and ran as fast as she could. There was nowhere to reach and no goal in her mind. She never looked at the watch or timed herself. She chose the hardest terrains and toughest time of the day and in Mumbai it was usually at eleven in the morning when the sun was beating down and the traffic milled around, honking. She didn't care for anything then. Her head was clear, her body free. Not for a moment did she feel sorry for herself.

  Running on the sandy beach of Valsolem was going to be more pleasurable than the streets of Mumbai and she was going to do it barefoot. The low tide had created a level, hard-packed surface which worked well for her. She tried to stay as close to the edge as possible but kept away from the water. Occasionally though, the warm sea surprised her, washing against her ankles, teasing sand between her toes.

  She ran.

  Once or twice, she glanced back, nagged by the persistent feeling she wasn't alone. There was someone else on the beach... behind her... in the expanding shadows.

  But she saw no one.

  She'd felt this since the time she'd left Sea Swept but the beach was empty on both sides.

  She ran faster to shake off the disquiet.

  Faster. Faster.

  Her calves ached and sweat dropped like candle wax on her face and back.

  After about twenty minutes, Darya slowed down. Then stopped. She took a couple of long, deep breaths. Her shirt was soaking wet.

  Then, wiping the sweat from her forehead, she started to run once more.

  But five minutes later she stopped again. She'd sensed a movement from the corner of her eye.

  She'd been running away from the water's edge, alongside a thick undergrowth populated with tall palm trees. But something had flickered.

  Was it...?

  Nah, can't be. At this time... don't think so.

  She glanced at the beach in front of her. The shore was empty except for a few boats tethered some distance away.

  She looked behind her. Not a soul in sight.

  She trained her eyes at the thick undergrowth. Nothing.

  She began running again, slower this time. Apprehension clung to her like the sweat on her skin.

  Had she only seen the flap of earphones around her neck? The flicker...

  No, that's not it. It was something else.

  She stopped.

  She'd seen it again. Something was moving up there... along the underbrush.

  She focused her eyes in the dark.

  There again—a bit clearer now—a rush of blue—almost hidden by the tall bushes. It flashed in front of her for a brief second, then disappeared from sight.

  Is that... a person? A man?

  Her heart thudding in her chest, she walked a few steps towards the bushes to make sure.

  Nothing.

  Whatever it was, it was gone.

  She should head back, she told herself. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her.

  Go back. RUN back.

  She turned and started to run. Her throat was parched. Her feet felt heavy as lead.

  Then she heard.

  Running footsteps behind her. Nimble. She tried to move faster but the running at the back quickened to keep pace with her.

  She was terrified now and gasping for breath. Tears stabbed her eyes.

  She had a long way to go and it dawned on her that she might not make it back on time.

  ‘Wait.’

  Darya ran harder.

  ‘Wait,’ the voice cried again. It sounded familiar.

  Is that... someone I know?

  Darya looked over her shoulders and saw the man's blurry profile. He was tall and lithe. Didn't look like a jogger or a fisherman. A tourist? Someone she'd met at Panjim?

  Then she looked again and noticed what was on his face.

  A black and white striped balaclava.

  Her mind gave a silent scream.

  It was him! The guy she'd caught looking into her uncle's bedroom on her first night at Sea Swept.

  Darya forced her body to move faster, heart in her mouth, adrenalin raging through her body.

  She wasn't going to d
ie here, not in this bloody, isolated beach. Like her aunt had. No bloody way was that going to happen.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Darya panted. ‘What do you want? Get away, you asshole. I have my phone with me, I can call the police,’ she screamed.

  ‘No, wait. Don't run.’

  ‘Get away from me.’

  ‘I only want to talk to you,’ the voice shouted.

  ‘I don't want to talk to you. Get away or I will scream,’ Darya yelled.

  ‘I am Joseph. You came to my house,’

  Joseph?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not yet believing.

  ‘I want to talk.’

  Darya slowed down, more because her body had begun to give up. A painful stitch had formed in her stomach.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ he gasped, slowing down behind her.

  Darya stopped, clutching at her belly.

  ‘Please,’ he pleaded.

  She turned around to face him.

  He was standing a few feet away from her but made no attempt to move forward. He had removed the balaclava from his face. It lay around his neck like a detachable collar.

  ‘Why are you wearing that damn thing?’ Darya asked, in a voice, she barely recognized as her own.

  ‘I did not want you to see me,’ he said.

  ‘But you want to talk to me,’ she said sharply. ‘What game are you playing, Joseph?’

  The boy stood where he was and shifted awkwardly on his feet.

  ‘Well?’ Darya said.

  The sky, a dark purple now, was filling up with stars. A rising wind sang in her ears. Fishermen in the far distance walked from the sea towards the road. There was distant chatter.

  Joseph said nothing. He stood as if he was waiting for Darya to make the next move.

  ‘Why didn't you come to the house?’ Darya asked hands on her hips. ‘You do know where your father stayed. Where I stay.’

  ‘I know the house. I went there one day,’ he said. ‘You were there also.’

  So, it was him.