Darya shuddered.
Where was Vidisha now? Could she have anything to do with this? No, it's not possible... but... ... was it?
Something told her this wasn't a normal accident. It was too coincidental; the timing too pat. After all, Vidisha had been planning to go to the police with evidence that her brother had killed their parents. Maybe she got so angry she decided to teach him a lesson herself?
No, it was possible. Darya had never seen siblings that hated each other as much, a fact that had given their parents much anguish. Over the years, Gaurav had spared no efforts to get under Vidisha's skin and she made sure too that his worst was pulled out for the world to see. Darya often thought Vidisha sought to make a perfect marriage only to spite Gaurav. And maybe he thought the same, when he went his opposite, unlawful way. She followed the rules and he didn't. Opposites. At loggerheads.
She watched the white foam surge over the muddy grey sea, up and down, like the keys of a piano.
Zabel had called to update her an hour ago. Filip had flown to Delhi but was not going to be back until early tomorrow. Gaurav was in a critical condition and it was unlikely he was going to survive. Darya was upset to hear this but not as much when Zabel cried—
‘Everybody is dying. A shadow has fallen over us.’
Darya turned to make her way back to the house.
From a distance, she saw that she had guests. She recognized Veronica, dressed in a maroon satin frock and matching low-heel pumps. Her wig looked recently washed and brushed. Next to her was a tall, dark-skinned man. Darya hadn't seen him before. He was built like a professional wrestler; his hair cut in a Mohawk; dressed all in black; a big pair of black sunglasses covering half his face, like a diva. The two seemed to have been waiting for a while and visibly relaxed when they saw Darya approach.
‘Veronica,’ Darya called out. She opened the gate to the garden and walked in. ‘Why did you take the trouble to come? You should've called me.’ She wondered if her purpose was the same as that of her son—to check if Paritosh was really dead.
‘Deu boro dis dium,’ Veronica said in greeting, giving her a shy smile. Then pointing to the man next to her, ‘This is Alexander D'Penha. His other name is Oolo. He brought me on his bike. He's a family friend. His father runs the supermarket in our street.’
Oolo, Joseph's friend, the one with the motorbike.
‘Hello there,’ Darya acknowledged and opened the door to the house.
Her guests stepped inside.
Veronica took a step or two, hesitated and glanced around nervously. She turned to look at Darya, a beseeching expression on her face.
‘Do you want to take a look around?’ Darya offered.
Veronica returned a quick, keen nod. Oolo made himself inconspicuous, leaning against a far wall, checking his phone, his scowl set deep.
For the next fifteen minutes, Darya gave her a tour of the house, answering questions, describing how things had been before she shipped the items home. Veronica was curious about everything, and though she didn't ask much, Darya told her as much as she could.
She stayed the longest in the master bedroom, which now only had the bed, the table and the odd books and newspapers. Her eyes gleamed as she walked around, taking everything in.
After a while, she seemed satisfied and said, ‘We can go.’
They settled themselves on a raised part of the courtyard. Oolo talked on the phone and ignored the proceedings.
Veronica turned to Darya and said, ‘He is dead.’ Matter-of-fact.
‘Yes,’ Darya said.
‘He was doing some bad things, but he was not a bad man,’ she muttered, eyes on the floor. ‘He gave us money. He protected me. He loved Joseph.’ A tear fell from her eye.
‘I know,’ Darya said.
They stayed in silence for a few minutes. Then keeping her voice level, Darya murmured—
‘I saw the tattoo on Joseph's hand.’
Her face shot up. But no surprise on it. Either Joseph had already told her, or she knew she'd have to talk about it someday.
Her eyes fell again. She mumbled, as if talking to herself.
‘He is... was a good man. He cared for us. Hoi, some days he was getting angry. He was drinking and getting angry. Bodphirla.’ She turned her palms over. ‘What to do?’
‘That tattoo...’
‘He gave to him at twelve years old. Joseph cried and said no... he was crying a lot but Pari said he was his son. He belonged to him. It was all right.’
‘Did you know his wife Farideh had a similar tattoo on her forearm?’ Darya asked.
She gazed up at her, her expression unreadable but said nothing.
‘What about you?’ Darya asked. ‘What did he do to you?’
Veronica held her gaze this time. Her lips moved softly. ‘Padre Agnelo says men will always have their temper and demands. Women need patience for having a happy family.’ Then lapsed into silence. Her shoulders slumped.
She wasn't going to talk anymore, and it didn't make sense to ask anymore either. Darya knew all the answers already. Perhaps her father and Francis were right; she should leave the dead in peace.
But the living need peace too.
She placed a sympathetic hand on Veronica's shoulder.
Veronica murmured, ‘He really left no money?’ as if she couldn't believe it. Then without waiting for an answer, ‘We have to sell the shop. Will you help sell the shop?’ Grabbing Darya's hands in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, she pleaded, ‘I am old. I do not know anything. Joseph cannot do it. Oolo can help you. Can you sell our shop?’
Darya threw a glance at Oolo who was now barking orders over the phone. She wondered what to tell Veronica.
‘Are you going to be selling this house?’ Veronica said. ‘You can give me and Joseph some... only if you do sell... very little, not much...’ Darya saw the effort it cost her to make the request and felt wretched. She owed them something; they were Uncle Paritosh's family after all. Technically, they were related and surely, they deserved better?
Making up her mind, Darya said, ‘There will be something. You will get something.’
The grip on her hand tightened. ‘Really?’
Darya nodded. Then wondered how she was going to broach the topic with her father, kicking herself for speaking too soon.
Well, karma should work for somebody.
Then all of a sudden, Oolo was in front of them.
‘You coming?’ he asked. At first Darya thought he was addressing Veronica but when he flashed a glossy paper under her nose, realized he was talking to her.
‘What's that?’ she asked, perplexed.
‘This, are you coming for?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Darya said, wresting the paper out of his hands. ‘Oh that. Bong-Bong Bohemia. Yeah, I'm thinking about it.’ She looked up at him, sensing there was more. ‘Why?’
‘I have a tent,’ he announced, beaming. Then before Darya could ask him to explain, ‘Joseph put this inside your house,’ he said, twirling the sunglasses around his fingers. ‘He watched you one day from the window.’ This caused Veronica's head to jerk up in surprise. ‘He put it in through slit—’
Veronica interrupted him. A terse exchange in Konkani followed. Darya did not stop them. Five minutes later, they turned to look at her; Veronica apologetic; Oolo sheepish.
‘Sorry for what Joseph is doing,’ Veronica muttered. Oolo shuffled his feet.
‘It's forgotten and forgiven,’ Darya said, smiling. Then addressing Oolo, ‘Why did Joseph put the pamphlet in my house?’ she asked.
‘He wants you to come.’
This was news to Darya.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘You are like his sister,’ he said simply.
She was momentarily touched, more by his attempt to express emotions than the words itself.
‘But... but he did not know me when he put this in the house,’ Darya said, tapping the paper. ‘Then how?’
‘He thought first yo
u are Paritosh's daughter. Or someone in his family. Both families are same. Now he knows you are his cousin. Same.’ He stopped. Darya nodded, getting it. Then, ‘This by invite only,’ he muttered. ‘I have a tent. Purple salt.’
‘A tent? What's that? What do you mean?’ Darya asked.
She remembered what Francis had told her. A trial ground for experimental drugs. But Francis wasn't an insider, this man was. She should know what it was about, before she went. It sounded like a lot of fun and—
‘Too much danger. A young lady like yourself should avoid,’ Veronica said and threw a scathing glance at Oolo. He ignored her.
‘It is safe,’ he said. ‘It is happening after many years. You should come. Bring friends. I can give exclusive time in my tent for one hour. Minimal charge.’
‘Is Joseph going to be there?’ Darya asked, looking at Veronica.
‘No!’ she said sharply.
‘Yes,’ Oolo said at the same time. Turning to Veronica, he coaxed, ‘For only one hour, Aunty. It is a lot of fun. You can also come.’
‘Over my dead body,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘But what's purple salt?’ Darya asked.
For the next half an hour, she listened with growing fascination as Oolo explained what purple salt was. A homemade herbal concoction that numbed the brain for an hour or two. It was possible to move, but the brain commanded the body not to, or rather gave no command at all. It caused a temporary paralysis of the senses. She could think of it like some sort of a vaporous chloroform. Two of his friends worked at a big pharmaceuticals local clinical trial facility and had discovered the combination. The participants of the carnival scouted for blends like that through the year and introduced them at the carnival. It was an underground affair; only a handful of people were invited to it. This time though the clientele was being expanded and so they had printed a few pamphlets to distribute around—
Darya interrupted, ‘Is it even legal?’ in response to which Oolo launched into a fifteen-minute explanation of how the carnival was like a regular one, similar to the feast of St. Francis Xavier which the Goans so loved to celebrate every December. Veronica gave a resigned shake of her head at this. Yes, Oolo said, one can consider it as a mode of intoxication, but it was medicinal in nature. No hard drugs. Not harmful at all.
‘We are like scientists,’ he told her. ‘It is like a chemical lab. This is my second successful find. The last was five years ago.’ He wrote down the main ingredients for her, asking her to look them up and urged her to visit his private YouTube channel to see for herself what it could do. In the end, he extracted a promise of discretion from her, letting her know that spreading the word around would do no one any good, a threat Darya found laughable at best the way he said it.
Even after Veronica and Oolo or the-name-that-made-her-giggle-each-time-in-her-head, had left, the conversation continued to play on her mind. Veronica's life with Paritosh... Joseph's growing up... Oolo... the carnival... the underground chemical experiments... it was all too fascinating. A new world had opened up before her. Purple salt sounded fantastic and very... very useful. She imagined the things that could be done with it: throw a party where people sat numb, unable to move; catch criminals and make them confess, streamed inside a police lock-up.
She did not hear the phone when it rang the first time. She was in the bedroom, folding clothes she'd washed earlier. The second time it rang, Darya turned towards the sound, startled. It was a shrill, grating ring, cutting through the silence of the night, like the cry of a banshee.
Her skin crawled.
It was the phone, her mind urged.
This one. This...
She took a quick gulp of breath and ran out towards the ringing phone, grumbling all the while, meaning to give the caller the drubbing of his or her life if it was a prank again. But it was a half-hearted act on her part; her heart beat like a hammer in her chest. Because something at the back of her mind told her it wasn't so. It wasn't a prank.
The voice on the other end spoke before she did, quiet, soft words and hurried, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her or catch her speaking on the phone.
Darya leaned against the wall, trembling. The world blurred before her eyes.
The voice finished speaking and before Darya could say anything, the caller had kept down the phone.
Darya sighed.
After all those years, finally she knew.
The Two Faced Heart
Darya was so tired; she could barely keep her eyes open. The three hours long flight and twelve hours bumpy car ride felt to her like she'd travelled to a different time zone altogether. Every few minutes she yawned and hastily covered it up so as to not appear rude to the girl sitting in front of her.
Ruksana. That was her name.
Hands on her knees, she rocked back and forth on the divan. Her face was pale and narrow, her lips threadlike and a piercing pink. The dark kohl around her eyes gave Darya an impression of eggs on a frying pan. Five feet tall, she had a bony frame, wore a yellow tank top and bright green batik print pants. Apart from the height and colour of her eyes, she was the splitting image of Farideh.
‘Ek behan, aur do bhai,’ she said. I have a sister and two brothers. ‘They won't be happy if they see I'm talking to you.’
Darya gulped a rising yawn and nodded.
‘They are at school now. Only Dadi is at home,’ Ruksana said, looking furtively over her shoulders, as if afraid of being interrupted by her grandmother. ‘She is sleeping now. She will sleep for two hours.’
‘You don't go to school?’ Darya asked.
‘I'm seventeen. I finished school,’ she said. ‘Mukhtar is my twin brother. He didn't study so hard and has a few more exams to go. We're the eldest.’
‘And college?’ Darya asked.
She nodded. ‘I start next month. I'm going to study Arts at St Xavier's in Chandigarh,’ she said.
‘Why wouldn't they like you talking to me?’ Darya asked, though she knew or at least had an inkling. But she wanted Ruksana to do the talking, tell her as much as she could, as quickly as she could.
‘We know everything about you,’ Ruksana said. ‘Ammi told us.’
‘What do you know?’ Darya asked, blinking her eyes, trying to get rid of the tiredness that weighed them down. She looked at the tidy, spotless bed on which the girl sat and yearned to lie in it. It'd be a few more hours before she could sleep now.
The address of the house she was in had been easy enough to find. Darya was to walk on the wooden bridge across the Beas River towards old Manali, head up the road to pass a cluster of Swiss-style chalets on her right, continue up the slope, cross a line of shops and cafés, and finally reach a dead-end. The house was going be to her left. The nameplate would say Ziba.
Darya had looked it up. It meant 'beautiful' in Persian.
She had been to Manali only once before, as a teenager on a school trip. She remembered very little of it. She knew the basics: located in the Himalayas, at a height of six thousand feet, with a population of twenty thousand, cold all year round but pleasant during the summer months unlike the rest of the country. It was a popular honeymoon destination for newly-wed Indians and a place to unwind and get access to the easily available charas for the remaining.
Not so different from Goa, was it? Just swap the mountains for the sea, Darya thought sourly.
She was to meet Ruksana at two pm but had arrived early. So, she killed some time in a café close by, sipping coffee, munching on a pile of biscuits, her stomach rumbling with anxiety. She could scarcely keep anything down. At exactly one thirty, she began her ascent to the house that took ten minutes to reach. She hung out on the road for another ten before walking up to the door and knocking.
Ruksana opened immediately. As if she'd been watching from inside the house.
‘Bhukh lagi hai?’ Ruksana asked now. ‘I can bring bread, cheese and cherries. Organic. Home-grown. Papa is a tourist coordinator in his free time. We have an organic fa
rm and a tourist lodge down the hill. It's called Noor Homestay. Did you see it?’
Darya nodded, remembering the Swiss style cottages she had crossed on her way. In contrast, the room she was sitting in was modest: done up in a beige and matte red, minimal furnishings, a simple cream cotton bedspread on the divan, a threadbare maroon and grey kilim on the floor. The wrought iron chair Darya was sitting on had been fetched from inside. A tall wooden shoe rack occupied a quarter of the room. A large vintage engraved illustration of Mecca hung on the wall facing Darya, a silver and black clock attached to its lower section. The room seemed to her like an outcrop; the part you had to pass through to enter the actual house. She doubted guests were received here.
Darya could see that her presence was causing Ruksana much anxiety. She seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of her as quickly as she could just as she'd been the night she'd called; Darya had hardly been able to get a word through. But she recalled the flood of emotions that had risen in her when Ruksana told her. Yes! Finally! It was her stroke of brilliance had led them to the truth.
Darya hadn't told anyone yet because she hadn't been sure this wasn't another prankster. Ruksana had spoken briefly, precisely: Yes, she knew Farideh. Yes, she knew the Rubáiyát, she had recognized the quote. She could tell Darya everything about it, but she had to come to Manali, to see for herself.
Darya hadn't thought for very long. She had not cared about the consequences. She was going to Manali. She was going to prove to everyone, especially to herself, what she was capable of. She was going to bring this twenty-year-old mystery to an end.
Twenty f'ing years.
Me... I did it!
It was true then, what no one spoke of, but always suspected in the corner of their minds.
Farideh was alive.
‘When is she coming?’ Darya asked, sneaking a look at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed since she'd arrived, but it seemed like an eternity. Her heart hadn't stopped thumping since the time she'd stepped inside.
Darya jiggled her legs anxiously and glanced at the door that led to the inside of the house, expecting the curtains to part at any minute. The air in the room tasted like wet wool in her throat.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 20