ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

April 2019

  DEVASTATED BY MY HUSBAND’S DEATH, feeling totally lost—like Alice in Wonderland—I spend weeks trying out things that might put me back on track; therapy, yoga and even the hocus-pocus business that’s called meditation with Shri Mata Hari, the Sunday Queen. Nothing helps. Sadguru is the worst. ‘Smile, smile, smile!’ Try smiling when your wife dies. Yoga proves to be equally bad. “Breathe in, breathe out.” For the sake of all the blood in a blood-bank, even a new-born knows how to do that.

  Without work or a sense of belonging, my days go by like crippled tortoises.

  Priyanka advises, “Put it behind you. Start over afresh.”

  Varun says, ‘It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for the demons swirling in his mind. Move on.”

  They’re right. I agree it’s time to move on. Unless provided with an alternate option, yes, I believe one has to get on with the business of living. Obviously, I should take it slow—there has been enough drama in mine to last several lifetimes. Once and for all, I want to be done with the past. It is a new day—I need to be in a new place without the shadow of my mistakes following me around. Varun is right. I’m not to blame for any of them. No person with a sane mind could hold me accountable. Even I do not recognize myself in the Diary entries I wrote under the influence. It was all on drugs. I know I have come a long way. The first step is to accept that I’m an addict and the second is to consider seeking help. I’ll do both.

  I decide to move to Goa—it’s got the best rehab centres in the country, it will be best to check into one. Never gonna happen, Miss Holier-than-thou muttered knowingly.

  Twenty-two

  MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

  GOA

  June 2019

  THE PAST COUPLE OF MONTHS have been as kind to me as the previous ones had been trying. A large chunk of Mr. Patel’s wealth—the rest, including the Lutyens bungalow went to his nice children and I swear I’m happy for the poor orphans—his beach-house in Goa, and the Diary; I have it all. Away from Delhi’s miserable weather and equally miserable people. What more could a girl want? That’s the closest one can get to a good life. Only there’s no one to talk to or have a glass of wine with. How I miss Vikram. That’s why I am so looking forward to my high-spirited friend’s visit.

  I pair a cotton floral-tank-blouse with a matching frilly A-line skirt before slipping my pink painted toes into Hermès sandals in suede goatskin with palladium plated studs and the iconic H cut-out. It would have been fun to rub Papa’s nose or his ashes, into these shoes.

  Years ago, when I was merely a slip of a girl, I had thrown

  a tantrum, what little five-year-old doesn’t at one point or other

  in their little lives, in a shoe store insisting he buy me a pair of

  baby-pink flip-flops.

  “You have a big rack loaded with shoes and you’re still greedy for more? When I was your age—blah, blah, blah …”

  “But Papa, they are so cheap—only rupees hundred.”

  “It’s not a matter of price.”

  That’s when I threw myself on the store floor and rolled about like a barrel in a storm-wracked boat. “I want them, I want them, I want them,” I chanted.

  “I have a sick feeling about this one,” my so-called Papa had prophesied. In reply, my mother had said, “You’re not the only one with that feeling.”

  Hello, I’m right here. Time and again, they discussed my supposed shortcomings, with me present within earshot, as though my ears didn’t work. Gross insensitivity of the highest order, I would say.

  “Stop bawling, the world doesn’t revolve around you,” Papa had reprimanded me, whipping out his preachy stuff, “remember, `I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.`” He often sounded like those nauseating WhatsApp forwards we are all too familiar with.

  Terribly angry, I had launched into a cartwheel and hurtled

  into him, my pointed shoe poking him in the eye. Whereupon,

  the quick-to-take-offence-father-mine, who wouldn’t recognize a joke even if it smacked him right in the face, pun intended,

  instead of laughing off the silly stunt, had pronounced the

  sentence: “No new shoes for you, spoilt girl. For a whole year.

  This is what happens if children do not do as they are told.”

  “No Sir, that’s not gonna happen.” I picked up my

  milkshake and splashed it on his mirror-polished patent leather

  black shoes. Oh, Sweet Lord, the judge is going to crucify me. What got into me? I chewed my nails as I waited for the adjudication.

  Sure enough, he had gone ballistic. “GUILTY. No milkshakes either, ever.”

  “Papa, it’s just milk I spilled—not blood.”

  “Quiet, girl. You have a mouth on you. I suffer no backtalk.”

  Devoured with regret, I had pleaded, “Mummy, say something. You know shoes are my thing. He can take the shakes away. I can survive that. Not the shoes … please.” However, it wasn’t unusual for her to lapse into a vegetative state as though she were on a ventilator taking her last breaths when Papa, the outspoken bully, donned a judge’s wig.

  All she muttered was, “No brains, no beauty either.” Now why the hell did I land up with this set of imposters? —Ones with vampire-blood flowing in their veins. Shalini, the ugly chick has her father eating out of her claws, and Raima, the hippo has her parents wrapped around her beefy paw. And mine— bloody Fascists! Why couldn’t they have been one of those who, enchanted by their children, simply can’t stop extolling their virtues unless threatened by yawns and long, deliberate silences? Later, Mummy did have something to say, “You brought it upon yourself. So, deal with it.”

  I shake my head to bring myself into the present.

  My abrupt resignation after Mr. Patel’s sad demise certainly

  hasn’t gone well with my boss, Dr. Varun, or with Mr. Kumar—or any of my other regular patients—but I am done seeking validation/pleasing people. The pathological need to impress others, I am relieved to say, has all but gone. Papa sneered at my intellectual capacity or lack thereof thereby making me push myself mercilessly. Mummy wanted me to be the best housewife with the best skin and the best—never mind, I don’t care what she wanted. Been there, done that, clichéd and cheesy though it may sound.

  I look up through the skylight in the car as I drive to the airport. The sky is low with dark, jagged purplish clouds that remind me of the certified housekeeper. The tattered cotton balls stretch out toward the misty, rumpled horizon, blending artfully. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Papa. I proved you wrong, didn’t I? And Mummy, you did not see this coming either. What did you say? `Tana, I can’t imagine you running a bath, let alone a house! `” —I cup my ear— “Come again Mummy, I can’t hear you…” I snigger. “Can’t be easy for you to have to eat your words when you see my Villa run like a well-oiled piece of machinery with the help of proper staff with proper names: A man called José and a woman called Maria unlike your Chotus.”

  “Here, Pri.” I wave to her as she walks out of the airport

  on yellow wedge heels. The dark curls framing her attractive

  face bounce merrily. A sight for sore eyes! Her ridiculous brown get-up with a scarf at the neck and a belt at the waist

  had the logo LV in gold thread emblazoned all over it. A cheap

  knock-off for sure. Fit for the homeless with its multi-layers.

  “Ta-da! Here I am.” She hops and skips like a lamb. We hug each other and walk hand-in-hand to the car.

  Why didn’t I invite her sooner? Her effervescent, childlike quality breathes life into everything. “I love your hair—the bangs, my dear dark beauty,” I tell her, “the dress is cool, too.” It does show off her buoyant breasts in a flattering way.

  She smiles, a dimple digging in her left cheek. “Did you find Auntie?”

  “Mummy? Now why would you say that?” I start the car.

  “You said she might have settled in Goa.”

  “Oh
, that. That was just a wild guess… could be Vrindavan or Kashmir for all I know. She had always wanted to see the tulip gardens and sample the original biryani.”

  “I miss her.”

  “I miss her, too. But can we not do that?”

  “What?”

  “Talk about … um.”

  “I understand, but Auntie—”

  “Did you not hear me? Now can we talk about something

  else?”

  “Sorry, Tana. I know you two are close. I promise you’ll be

  reunited one day. You believe that, don’t you?”

  Only in hell/heaven. “For God’s sake, I am not a fortune teller.”

  “Why so negative?”

  “Pri! This is Goa for fuck’s sake. Can we please talk about slinging vodka shots, snorting ganja, and plastering tattoos?”

  “Hey, relax. I’ve never heard you swear before.”

  “Fun-fact: I do now—like a sailor on crack. And for the love of God, it’s hot. Do take it off,” I yank at the muffler around her black throat. “Bloody fool,” I swear under my breath. Die! Double die, Goa! Shitty humidity! The clammy air sticks to the body as if it were ultrasound gel—refuses to dribble or drip off.

  So much for wanting someone to talk to and have a drink with. Driving through twisted paths, tarred roads, and red-gravel lanes, we pass by laterite stone-clad cottages with Mangalore terracotta roof tiles, snuggled in gardens bordered with coconut palms, banana, and banyan trees. Elderly folks snoozed in their colourful balcões. As I swerve into the driveway, Pri whistles. Tucked away in Assagao, a village in Goa, and surrounded by hills on all sides, my beautiful Portuguese villa stands proud shaded by lovely old coconut trees. Tall, slender areca nut palms fringe its walls.

  “José,” I call out.

  The gardener runs up to the car and takes Pri’s bag from

  her. She slowly looks the hunky-young-bronzed-god up and

  down and then whistles again.

  “The gardener,” I tell her.

  After she freshens up, I show her around the house. The two-floor villa has a large courtyard with a swimming

  pool and three bedrooms. The lily pond glistens amidst the lush garden with tropical greens, and blooming lantanas.

  “Charming,” says Pri as she steps onto the mosaic-tiled floor of the guest bedroom and gazes up at the stucco

  moldings and the high sloping roofs with exposed rafters.

  I smile at my bestie. Maybe after all, we might just have a

  good time. “Sevenish by the poolside?” I say to her.

  She grabs my hands. “I’m loving it, Tana. I’ll make you

  the best cup of tea ever with my home-made masala. Thank you so much.”

  I take away my hands. “You’re welcome sweetie. Feel at home.”

  “Oh, I will, I will,” she says puckishly.

  “Anything special for dinner? Maria’s not a bad cook. She

  can churn out a few dishes before she leaves at six. Or I can

  call for food.”

  “All I want is sea-food. That’ll do.”

  “Done.”

  “Except for prawns. I get the hives if I eat them.”

  “Of course, you do,” I roll my eyes.

  “I could try lobster, though,” —she pauses— “crab, too.”

  “Sure, Pri. Anything for you.” How about a bubble-bath

  too, Your Majesty? I turn around.

  “Hey, Tana. I’m sorry about earlier. I guess I touched a raw nerve.”

  “Don’t worry your silly head. Let’s just have some fun in

  the sun.” Of course, you did. Waltzing into my house in

  your cheap dress and dredging up sludge.

  “Don’t mind, but Auntie’s a lot prettier than you. I love her black, grey-flecked eyes.”

  “They are not grey-flecked. It’s an eye condition: Arcus senilis caused by her high cholesterol.”

  “It’s just that Auntie is such an affectionate soul …”

  “I get it. She was lovely, prettier than me, affectionate—”

  Maria’s adenoidal voice interrupted my flow of adjectives,

  “Coconut water, Miss.” Then adds proudly, “And this here is dried salted mackerel—my speciality.”

  The vagrant from a barn snatches both the shells with one hand and a filet with the other. “Can I have more coco water?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I say indifferently. Mistress of Overreaction. Not a smidgeon of my middle path philosophy has rubbed on to her.

  “I am gonna be Pri the Princess,” she looks around

  happily, sipping out of one pod.

  And pigs might fly. My dear Princess, you have to go back

  and live in your cubbyhole. “Aw … stay for as long as you

  wish to, my dear.”

  “I’m so so excited,” she gushes, “I can come here every

  year, year after year.”

  Not a snowflake’s chance in hell. A nursery rhyme begins to

  play in my mind:

  Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a little lamb with fleece as black as crow. Where ever did Mary go the lamb was sure to go.

  “We can stay up till late. A pyjama party,” she continues.

  “Não, Miss,” says Maria, “I wouldn’t do that. A serial killer is on the loose. It’s all over the news.” She looks keenly from one to the other of her audience as though she seeks applause for her timely warning.

  To my horror, Pri actually begins to clap the two shells

  together. “The perfect holiday. A murder mystery thrown in,”

  —she seizes me in a hug– “I’m game. A murder-adventure. I’ve decided: We will stay up the whole night,” she concludes heroically while chewing on the fish. “We will figure out why the Merchant of Venice sent the staff and the kids off on their way, doped you, and then committed suicide instead of finishing you off,” —she raises her hand, and moves it in one swift motion across her neck suggestive of throat-slitting— “I haven’t been able to solve the mystery. Yet! Do you know?” She smiles expectantly.

  I pluck myself out of her clammy embrace and scowl. “How would I know? I don’t have a crystal ball.” I hope she chokes to death on a pin-bone. I picture her convulsing to death on the intricate European tiled floor.

  However, instead of dying, the tree-swinging primate

  jumps up and down like a jack-in-the-box, her legs like stilts

  doing a war dance. “You still got that note he left?”

  My scowl deepens. Wonders never cease. Crass girl.

  Exactly, how old is she … ten? No class. This is someone’s life she’s joking about. My husband’s. “Are you done or do you want to moonwalk as well?” I cock my head. “PRI-ck? You want to hold a séance maybe to talk to other dead folks? I could frame the note for you, if that’s what Your Highness desires?”

  “Of course not,” she refuses robustly while pointing at the door behind her, “I should just go … um … unpack and er … check out the washroom.” She goes in.

  Maria follows her and whispers, “Miss Tana’s a

  tender-hearted girl. Too, too attached to her parents, her

  husband. So,” —she put a finger on her lips— “topics, off-limits.”

  “I will not mention Auntie again … or HIM … I don’t want to give you a nervous breakdown,” her voice carries out to me.

  Disgusted, I storm off. Suddenly, a thought sears my brain like acid. Hey, you Tana! Did you say ‘She was’ instead of ‘She is’ and did you file her under the ‘dead people’? I smack my left temple hard, “Serves you right, Broca. You’re the one responsible for speech. Aren’t you? It is your duty to put the right words into my mouth,” I fume. God, I need a massage. Pressing the name in my favourites, I say, “A full body massage, please,” before removing all my clothes and wrapping a towel to lay face down on my four-poster bed.

  “Olá, Senhorita,” says the masseur. He begins by dimming

/>   the lights and lighting a lavender scented candle. “Music?”

  “Não.”

  I lay there pondering Maria’s words. It is unnerving. This

  possibility that anyone might be a killer—a person you see on

  a day-to-day basis perhaps just down the street. People are unknowable. What’s the psyche of serial-killers? Why do the poor bastards kill just for the sake of killing, as if it were a pleasurable pursuit—no motive whatsoever? Why do they go about killing people who’ve done them no harm? I, for one could not even lay a trap for Mr. Skin‘n’Bones for fear of seeing him hung on a hook. I guess some people are just wired wrong. Sometimes, there aren’t any answers. I try to banish these gut-churning thoughts away from my mind.

  The masseur spreads the sweet almond oil onto the soles of my feet. He then grabs each toe individually and gives it a tender pull. Gently, he tugs a leg from under the towel and gives it long, relaxing strokes all the way from the calf to the upper thigh. He moves up toward my bum and repeats the technique there. Next, he covers the leg with a towel and massages the other leg.

  “Back please,” I say softly. Lulled by his wondrous touch into a fantasy of a perfect world, I smile serenely. Cherish

  the present, Tana, the happy thought washes over me.

  He glides the towel down to the centre of my butt, and

  places the palm of each hand on either side of my spine,

  working his way up, keeping his hands parallel to one another.

  When he reaches my shoulder-blades, he fans his brown

  hands downward near my breasts, making me wish he pulled

  one out. I move surreptitiously and one does slip out.

  “Elbows bend, Miss.”

  I do that, making my shoulder blades stick out. He works

  on the knots around the blades using a thumb to press and release repeatedly.

  “Is the house-guest your friend, Senhorita?”

  “Regrettably, yes.”

  Lightly, he beats the top part of my neck. “Is the tension released?” he asks in his low, soothing voice.

  “Not yet.” Is he the serial-killer? People are unknowable. Maybe he will close his hands round my throat to throttle me … sounds like a C-grade movie in my head.