‘So,’ Veda said slowly, ‘this might be the only source of the … of the … liquid?’
Maya stared wordlessly at the box. Unruly thoughts jostled around in her head – but she snatched one and held onto it. ‘1905. That’s 111 years ago,’ she calculated.
Professor Kekobad sighed. ‘Precisely. The Shadows believe that the effects of the golden water last for 111 years. For 111 years they’ve been unable to find their next dose. Time is running out. It has probably already run out for many. The remaining Shadows must be frantic that they will lose their youth and beauty, maybe their life. Maybe they’ve seen what has happened to the others. To those who did not get their dose on time.’
‘They will do anything in their power to get hold of the liquid.’
Maya gazed at the silver box, sitting in the corner. It was difficult to imagine that in its dark depths was a glass bottle filled with powerful magic. How had the Shadows found out? Had the Spanish priest told someone else about his secret? Had one of the three students blabbed?
‘How did the Shadows find out about the silver box in the chapel?’ she asked.
‘Secrets are like water. They trickle through hidden cracks and are forgotten, till one day they come gushing out,’ said Professor Kekobad. ‘Where the cracks are, nobody may ever know.’
‘Did he tell anybody else about the box?’ Veda asked. ‘Or was it just the three of you?’
‘We never got a chance to find out,’ Professor Kekobad replied.
‘But why?’ Aadil demanded. ‘Why didn’t you ask all these questions?’
‘Father Lorenzo arranged to meet us in the chapel after a week. But the meeting never happened. Sometime after we had left him, Father Lorenzo climbed onto the college roof. He often climbed to check the gargoyles, the stone floors and the plasterwork. But that night was wet and windy. The roof must have been treacherous. He must have slipped.’
Professor Kekobad stopped for a moment.
‘They found Father Lorenzo in the quadrangle the next morning. He was dead.’
CHAPTER 12
Outside the chapel, afternoon had faded into evening. The crows were protesting some avian indignity. On a tinny music system, a popstar’s voice soared in a recent hit: ‘I just wanna see you, I wanna see you be brave.’
Inside, the stained glass was dull and lifeless. Memories of death and betrayal tainted the air. In the oppressive silence, the chapel door groaned and swung open. Three figures stepped inside. One was dressed in a white robe that stood out in the dusky light.
Father D’Gama.
The other two were bulky, unfamiliar silhouettes.
Father D’Gama walked a few paces, and suddenly, the chapel was flooded with amber light. Maya blinked with shock. Veda and Aadil looked pale and disoriented. Professor Kekobad looked aggrieved.
‘Yes,’ he snapped at Father D’Gama. ‘What is it?’
‘These gentlemen want to talk to you,’ Father D’Gama said tonelessly. ‘Preferably in private. Perhaps your acolytes can wait outside.’
Veda, Aadil and Maya jumped to their feet and scrambled outside.
‘Acolytes?’ Aadil remarked. ‘That’s a loaded word.’
Maya gobbled lungfuls of petrol-infused air and found unexpected comfort in the distant honks and clangs of garbage trucks and BEST buses. In the knowledge that Bombay was going about its business as usual.
She gazed at the quadrangle, where once a priest had tumbled to his death. She looked up at the gargoyles, menacing against the bruised, evening sky. Had Father Lorenzo slipped? Or had he been pushed? What had he been doing on the roof in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm?
‘Maya,’ Veda said in a peremptory tone. Maya flinched. Veda had recovered both her colour and bossiness. Which was a pity. She was much easier to tolerate when she was upset or afraid.
‘Maya,’ Veda repeated. ‘Wake up. Who were those two men with Father D’Gama?’
The same question had been bugging Maya. She’d seen them somewhere. And then too they had been with Father D’Gama. ‘The police,’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘They’re policemen. They were here two days ago.’
‘The police,’ Veda said. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t you think ransacked offices and assaulted guards warrant police presence?’ Aadil mocked. ‘Sounds to me like our friends in khaki should be setting up a chowky here. Veda Pomegranate, we never realised before that we study in a hotbed of danger and criminality.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ Veda remonstrated
‘No, indeed,’ Aadil agreed and pulled out his phone. ‘Nobody shall accuse me of laughing at this matter.’
After a few minutes Maya sat down, leaning against an arch. She too pulled out her phone to message her mother. ‘Will be later than I thought. Will take taxi.’
Then she untied her ponytail, pulled out her hairbrush and brushed her hair.
Maya was a big brusher of hair. Whenever she was bogged down with an English essay or stuck in the middle of a Maths problem or feeling overwhelmed by life, she grabbed her shiny blue brush. As she attacked her hair, she always felt she was getting rid of not just the knots but of old, tired thoughts as well.
She was tying her usual every-hair-in-place ponytail when her phone vibrated. She picked it up and noticed that the WhatsApp message was from an unfamiliar number that ended in 8787. Absentmindedly, she clicked on it and read it. Then she read it again and looked around wildly.
At first glance the message seemed innocuous enough. ‘What pretty hair you have. XXX’
But as Maya looked around the quadrangle, surrounded by dark, inscrutable windows, she knew. Someone was watching her.
The phone vibrated again. Maya clicked and stared uncomprehendingly at the screen.
‘I am nothing, I am something,
I weigh less than breath,
Darkness destroys me and light is my death.
Who am I?’
Enough, Maya decided. She didn’t want to save the world. She didn’t want to find a potion of Eternal Youth. She wanted to go home. The phone vibrated again, but Maya thrust it into her bag and jumped to her feet.
Just then, the chapel door opened. The policemen walked out, conferring with each other. From the chapel, Maya heard raised voices. ‘You wanted something from him’… ‘Accusing me?’ And then, Father D’Gama stormed out with a contorted face and flapping robe.
Professor Kekobad seemed wrung out by his meeting with the police, but straightened up with grim determination when Aadil, Veda and Maya returned. ‘It’s time we all went home,’ he said.
‘But professor, I’m tormented by unanswered questions,’ Aadil objected. ‘If the liquid’s been safe in a silver box that is as impregnable as Shivaji’s forts, why do we need to tamper with it? Why not let sleeping complications lie?’
‘Please try and understand, it’s no longer safe,’ Professor Kekobad said, his voice quavering. ‘There are some things you just have to accept. The more thirsty and desperate the Shadows become, the more devious and dangerous they’ll get. They will do everything they can to open the casket. Which is why you need to find those keys quickly. Before somebody else does.’
‘But HOW will we find the keys?’ Aadil asked. ‘Where are we supposed to look for them?’
Professor Kekobad rose slowly to his feet and hobbled to the front of the church, about ten feet away from the altar. ‘Father Lorenzo was standing here when he said his final words,’ the teacher said. ‘He stood here, facing the altar and said, “The answers are right before me. But only those with gifts and goodness will see.”’
For a moment there was pin drop silence. Then Veda asked, ‘And then?’
‘Nothing,’ Professor Kekobad sounded miffed, as he walked towards the door. ‘That was the only clue he gave. Perhaps I don’t have gifts; perhaps I don’t have goodness. But, try as I might, I have never seen what he meant.’
Professor Kekobad was almost at the door of the chapel when Maya remembered the qu
estion that had been nudging at her all day. ‘Professor,’ she said. ‘Who were the other two students that night? Where are they now?’
‘One was an economist. Partho Das. He moved to America as soon as he graduated,’ Professor Kekobad replied curtly. ‘We lost touch with each other over 50 years ago. The other was a biologist. He became a priest at St Paul’s in the Zoology department.’
‘Father Furtado,’ Veda exclaimed.
‘Yes, Father Furtado,’ Professor Kekobad said as they stepped out of the chapel into the deepening dusk.
‘Maybe Father Furtado will remember other clues or hints,’ Veda said with sudden energy.
‘A good idea barring one small problem,’ Professor Kekobad said between hacking coughs. ‘Father Furtado is missing.’
‘Missing?’ Veda repeated.
‘The police are looking into it. He disappeared three days ago. I hope you believe me now. The Shadows are gathering. There was a time when they were merely vain and greedy. But now they are demonic. They will destroy anything in their path. Even a feeble priest who could barely walk a single corridor. Now do you believe me? They must be stopped.’
Professor Kekobad shuffled into his office. Maya, Veda and Aadil walked though the deserted quadrangle to the college gate beneath still, watchful windows. Later, Maya remembered the suffocating feeling of doom, and wondered whether she could have done something to stop the horrible events about to unspool.
At that moment, though, she was focused on getting out before the sky became inkier. She set a brisk pace and only halted when they reached the bustling street.
‘What exactly are we supposed to do now?’ Veda asked.
‘Find the keys,’ Aadil said.
‘How?’ Veda asked.
‘I don’t want to be a part of this,’ Maya blurted out. ‘How’s it our business?’
‘Do we have a choice?’ Veda asked. ‘In the old legends, where there are forces of evil, the good have to fight.’
‘Those are stories,’ Aadil countered. ‘Who says we don’t have a choice?’
‘They are stories,’ Veda admitted. ‘But they are a bit more than that. They are very old and contain some truth.’
‘Tale as old as time,’ Maya sang, as the words from an old song popped into her head. She stopped when she saw Veda’s expression.
‘In my opinion,’ Veda glowered, ‘we should treat this seriously.’
There was little more to say. Veda, who lived in Worli, walked to her bus stop. Aadil summoned an Uber to take him to Napean Sea Road. Maya hopped into a black-and-yellow taxi with ratty orange upholstery and numerous photographs of a plump god-woman.
Maya acknowledged the photographs and decided she could use all the protection she got.
As the cab nudged its way through the traffic, the song from her childhood replayed itself again and again in Maya’s head.
‘Tale as old as time
Tune as old as song
Bittersweet and strange
Finding you can change
Learning you were wrong’
The song stayed with her all the way home. As did the lost look in Sanath’s eyes.
If she never went back to St Paul’s, she would never see Sanath again. Maybe that was why—despite everything—she kept going back.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday is like any other day if you’re a super-achiever. Only more stressful, more packed with classes and petrol-guzzling schedules.
This was something Maya hated. Especially when she heard her school friends planning a lunch at Pizza Express, a movie at Inox, followed by a stroll down Colaba Causeway. Of course, Maya had been told often enough that her friends were Wasting the Most Productive Years of their Life. They were Doing Nothing. They were Going Nowhere.
But was it always necessary to be Going Somewhere? This was hardly a question she could discuss with her mother. But she wondered about it sometimes, as she dashed from one achievement to the next.
When she woke up on this particular Saturday, Maya felt bouncy with anticipation. Nothing could dampen her excitement. Not the sweaty-armpits-in-30-seconds weather. Not the half-remembered dreams about falling rocks. Not even the helpless feeling that she was caught up in a current too strong to resist.
Maya hurried through her shower and ate a cheesy scrambled egg with two beautifully burnt toasts. Burning toasts just right was one of Maya’s special skills.
Then she looked into her cupboard at her neatly ironed, untrendy clothes. T-shirts with puffed sleeves, for heaven’s sake. Dresses designed for frill-loving one-year-olds and then replicated for 14-year-old losers. Matching skirts and blouses inspired by flight attendants rather than pop stars.
Finally, she pulled out a white shirt and pleated purple skirt. A little schoolgirlish maybe, but better than the yellow-checked dress with the attached red jacket. But then anything was better than that. Even a bout of German measles with complications.
Should she wear lipstick?
Maya peered at herself in the mirror. Oval face. Neat nose. Lips a bit too bulgy for perfection. Brown eyes. Straight hair tied in a ponytail. Nothing really wrong, but boring, boring, boring. Why would Sanath even notice her?
Maya applied a grape-flavoured lipgloss and sprayed a peachy perfume. She hoped Lola wouldn’t find her dull. She hoped it would be a fun morning. Then she spotted the time, yelled a quick bye to her mother and rushed out before Mrs Anand realised that Maya was Frittering Away the Entire Day.
Maya gave Mr Pinkwhistle a quick cuddle, and ignored Mr Ranglani’s samosa-tinged invitations to join him for a cup of tea. Then she hopped into Bus No 132. The bus was empty and she bagged a window seat on the non-sunny side. Colaba Causeway was not an early morning place. Although it was almost 11 a.m., the shops were just rolling up their shutters. The streetside vendors were pulling shoes and shirts out of large metal tins and hanging them on makeshift stalls.
The Causeway was not a long stretch. If you walked briskly you could probably cover it in eight minutes. But it required unshakeable self-control to walk through it briskly. Most people stopped to examine the plump grapes at the fruit stalls. Or the Minion t-shirts in bright blues, yellows and reds. Or the 3 for 2 sale at Arrow. Or the knock-off Nikes. And before they knew it, the morning had evaporated.
Lola and Maya had decided on an early start. On weekends, Colaba Causeway was crammed with shoppers. By afternoon, the pavement was impenetrable.
The 132 stopped at a traffic light. Maya hopped off and crossed the road. She reached the steps of Regal cinema a few minutes early but Lola was already there, wearing faded jeans, sensible flip flops and carrying an oversized cloth bag. ‘My shop till you drop outfit,’ she giggled, as they walked along the street lined with junk jewellery, clothes and shoes. ‘Let’s go. I’ve been making lists in my head all morning. It’s like so exciting.’
The girls crossed to Café Mondegar, inhaling the tantalising aroma of bacon and pancakes. Maya would gladly have stopped for a sausage break, but Lola was stern. ‘We’ve work to do,’ she said. ‘You more than me.’
They had barely walked three steps before Lola hit her stride. ‘OMG, look at the owl necklace in that stall,’ she whispered. ‘It’s seriously cool. Let’s both get one. Do you want silver or gold?’
Maya stared in surprise at the fat silver owl hanging from a chain. It dangled next to copper beetles, silver dreamcatchers and a hideous Eiffel Tower in bronzy plasticky material. ‘Are you sure?’ she faltered.
‘Yes,’ Lola replied. She unhooked the chain and held the owl against herself and then against Maya. The pendant felt cool, heavy and alien. ‘Owls are the big thing at the moment. But pretend we don’t really want it.’
Lola turned to the grinning vendor and shrieked when he said the owl was for Rs 300. ‘Tumhara last price kya hai? Hum tourist nahi hai. This girl is born and brought up in Colaba. So don’t waste our time.’
The vendor declared that he was a poor man. Lola countered that she was a poor student.
Three minutes later they agreed on a compromise price of Rs 175, and the man popped the two owls in brown paper bags and handed them over.
‘We’ll both wear the owls on Monday,’ Lola announced. ‘With black tank tops. You have a black tank top, don’t you?’
‘Well … um … no,’ Maya mumbled. ‘I don’t usually wear tight and sleeveless.’
‘Thank heavens you have me as your fashion consultant,’ Lola said, looking shocked. ‘A black tank top is a teenage wardrobe essential. Don’t you like read any magazines or blogs? Come on, let’s sort this out.’
Like a heat-seeking missile, Lola zoomed in on another stall. She chose a black tank top for Maya and a red-and-blue striped one for herself. ‘There’s no such thing as too many tank tops,’ she maintained. ‘At least in the world according to Lola. If I ever start a blog I – OMG. Pretend you absolutely HATE them.’
Lola strolled up to a heap of shimmering jackets and was soon stuffing a metallic grey one into her bag. Next she tried on oversized, brightly coloured sunglasses that made her look like a cartoon character. Maya trotted behind her, watching, learning and objecting only to the sunflower sunglasses.
By the end of two hours, Maya arms were aching. Her head was spinning. She had acquired at least four wardrobe essentials – and a lot of inessentials on the side. About half the hawkers on Colaba Causeway had been informed that she was born and brought up in Colaba. They were also informed that Lola was not an heiress from America but an impoverished student.
All in appalling Hindi.
‘I think I’ve spent all my summer holiday allowance in one go,’ Maya announced finally. It was the most enjoyable morning she had had in forever, but she was ready to collapse. The two girls staggered into the coffee-scented, air-conditioned environs of Theobroma and grabbed the last table. They took a few minutes to huff and puff and arrange their parcels.
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