It happened so fast, I didn't have time even to step out of the trees. She straightened up, snatched the stick from his grasp – her strength formidable, made greater, perhaps, by humiliation and anger. I thought she would kill the old man and I screamed to Camran to step aside for to me the old devil's death would have been a relief.
But she did not aim for her father.
Camran, turning to move out of the way, he never really had a chance. And so it happened. I deceived you and shamed myself.
The foreigner's death was no accident.
Devsingh made off, smirking to see his handiwork. And to my knowledge, he never spoke of that day to anyone, preferring to hold that knowledge to his chest like a weapon to be drawn at will … now he will never use it.
I persuaded my son to hide Camran's body and his things; I calmed the wretched murderer and took her home.
Thahéra, pitiable girl, never knew what happened to her lover. She simply waited day after day for him to return from what she thought was a brief trip, thinking that he would, at least to bid her farewell. And he never did. She felt somehow tortured by her experience of him, perhaps by the desires he had awakened; she came once to discuss with me how she was feeling and I, vile liar that I am, simply nodded and told her that someone else would come along to satisfy her body and her heart if her husband would not, or that she should leave the area, take her children and go to some city to build a new life there.
But to her that was cowardly. She loves this village and her nephews and her sister and me – she wouldn't agree to leave us. She tolerated the old man in whatever way she could and protected her children from his wrath.
And then, weeks later, you came along, asking questions – the very thing Thahéra's sister had been dreading. She sought my help. We wished for you to go away. The night you came to question me, she attacked you – I beg your forgiveness, I did not know she would be so enraged. I was sickened by her after that and thought I would simply let things take their course. Which brings me to the last question – why did I deceive you?
I said I hated Thahéra’s sister; that is true. But I also shared with her a certain knowledge of life. I knew what it was like to be betrayed – and used. I knew what it was like to suffer for no fault of your own. And she had two beautiful sons, whom she cherished. What would become of them if your men took her away? They had already lost their father to the plains. They couldn't lose her too. So, when I understood that you were smitten by Thahéra, by her dignity and her form – Stitching Woman informed me of that, she knows us better than we know ourselves – I was sure that you would not wish to see her come to any harm. And when Thahéra's sister came to me, sobbing that you were indeed a policeman and that you had asked her son to help you find the killer, I suggested a plan to her.
I had made sure Thahéra was willing to defend herself – for your sake, she wanted to be with you so much that she was even willing to poison the old beast – and everyone reacted as expected, with horrific precision, including you, Arun, when you suspected Thahéra of harming Camran. She was guilty – of her father's death, yes, so were we all: Stitching Woman’s daughter supplied the poison; I mediated the plan; Thahéra added it to his food – and that guilt Thahéra did not wish to hide. But she could not understand why you were so angry with her about that if we had told you everything.
To this day she believes that you shunned her not for conspiring to murder the old tyrant but for the affair she'd had with the foreigner. To this day she has no idea that his was the body pulled from the earth below the village. She mourns you in a way that she never mourned him. I do believe that you are the only man whom she has ever truly loved.
Do I write this to bring you back here, filled by guilt and remorse? No. I do not. I hope that you are happy in Delhi, that your work is progressing well, and that you have won another woman who will see your good qualities for what they are. Thahéra – well she will slowly heal and, without her father's constant vicious ways, she may learn to take pleasure where-ever she can find it. So, those are not the reasons for this letter. I write because I, like so many human beings, cannot bear the guilt of my conscience, the torture of each day of lying and deceit. I write to beg your forgiveness, because I cannot bear to beg hers, the woman who to me is more perfect than any creation of my hands. And so I will leave you, asking you not to torture yourself as I am doing, with thoughts of what might have been.
Gauri.
The sun was setting when Karmel finished the letter for the third time. Mosquitoes sung in the gloom and a chill breeze danced across the city. Stitching Woman had tried to warn him.
His hands trembled; his face was wet with tears. He knew her now, in Delhi, just as Sonu had said he would.
Inside his lighted room he could see Tanya lying on his bed, knees up, a book balanced on her stomach, her tiny frown of concentration now so familiar and dear. But up by that eerie lake . . .. What was Thahéra doing?
A bird called somewhere, sighing before it succumbed to the darkness. He folded his letter and stuffed it into a pocket of his shirt, right near his heart and, even hours later, when he was sitting with Tanya, he could feel it against his skin, like a talisman, a revelation, the elusive caress of a mountain woman.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Truth Lake has taken more than a decade from its inception to reach you, my readers, and I have had unstinting support along the way. Particular thanks are due to Ammar Al-Ghabban, whose patience, kindness, intelligence and humour inspires me every single day and who accepts my crazy work schedule and nights of writing and editing without complaint. Also thanks are due to Sabrina Wilske who has helped me get the manuscript ready, brought all kinds of happiness into our lives, and listened to my endless stories with unfeigned interest; and my darling son Zinedine who designed the cover, broken thumb notwithstanding. Likewise, gratitude to my father and mother, Jairus and Rohini Banaji: I owe them my much of my sensibility about life in general, as well as my love of writing in all its forms; and my mother in particular for meticulous proof reading, comments, love and support at every stage of all my writing; I share with my aunt Savi a thrilling crime collection and a penchant for turning everything into a mystery. I will always be thankful to Theresa Chris, my agent for six years. Her sharp and perceptive reading strengthened my early drafts immensely, and her belief in my writing has remained with me. To my delightful and loving friends and family who have read and commented on drafts over the years – Patrick Yarker, Margaret Ould, Alice Lanzon-Miller, Ann Ninan, Sikha Ghosh, Eva Bognar, Maja Turnšek Hančič, Neeta Shah, Hyeon-Seon Jeong, Emma Bish, Sue Cranmer, Britta Ohm, Mary McDonagh, Rajiv Bidap, Leena Kumarappan, Murad Banaji, David Buckingham – I can only say your comments and kindness have been much appreciated. My grandparents and aunt Vijayatara who read this and were so loving about it, are now dead, but always remembered. And a very special thank you to Mukul Mangalik, who first took me to those mountains, villages and Himalayan lakes when I was just a girl.
About the author
Shakuntala Banaji lives and lectures in London, returning frequently to India to conduct research and visit friends and family. She is the author or editor of several non-fiction books, including Reading ‘Bollywood’: the Young Audience and Hindi Film (Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), South Asian Media Cultures: Audiences, Representations, Contexts (Anthem Press, 2010), and The Civic Web: Young People, the Internet and Civic Participation (with David Buckingham, MIT Press, 2013). Truth Lake is her first novel.
Picture credit: Sabrina Wilske
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