He moves to stand in front of me. His naked six-pack (he does wear shorts though—I pride myself in keeping a decent household) touches my head while he bends down to rub his knuckles gently but firmly across the tops of my shoulders. Ever so slightly I move my head. His skin caresses my forehead as he moves back and forth. Mmm… a lot better than all of Mummy’s foot-massaging Chotus put together.
Slowly, his warm and moist hands sail toward my head.
I slap his wrist. “Not the Broca. It behaved badly.”
“Pardon, Senhorita?”
“I cannot pardon it. Period.”
“Uh, ok. Flip over, please.”
I take a moment to rearrange my towel. He pours some
warm oil on his palms and massages the lobes of my ears,
moving on to trace the length of my collarbones from the
outside, reaching the hollow in the centre and then down the valley between my breasts. Stealthily, I pinch the towel from the inside and pulled it downward. He rubs my breasts without touching the nipples, though one lay exposed.
“Is the pressure okay?”
“Harder please.”
He dips his hands farther in massaging the undersides of my perky breasts, again managing to avoid the nipples altogether. Do them, J. For once, kick correctness to the kerb. I am two strokes away from letting him ride me.
“Any tension release?” he asks, his voice smooth.
I grip the sheets with both hands and a loud knock followed by rude footsteps thunder in, interrupting my O.
I sit up, holding the towel. Bitch.
“Sorry, Tana, I need ...” —she stares at the masseur— “ooh, that’s José!”
And I’m Tana, and you’re Priyanka. I nod.
“Isn’t he your gardener?”
Isn’t that none of your goddamn business! What was I
thinking? Inviting you over. “He can massage. What do you
want?”
“Hair-straightener. I forgot to pack mine.”
“Sure, it’s in there,” I wrap the towel tight around
myself, signal to the masseur/gardener to leave, and give the
beastly gadget to the home-intruder. My hand trembles
uncontrollably. Forgot to pack. Says the piss-poor rag picker who doesn’t even own a hair-dryer.
As he is leaving, Priyanka grabs his arm and asks,
“You can do me too? Right?” She grins devilishly.
“Olá, Senhorita.” He turns to look at me.
I shake my head ever so slightly. Horny wench! All over
him like one of her ugly rashes.
“Tana, you’re still robotripping?” she whispers, her tone censorious as she stares at my hand, “taking F and cough syrups?”
So, now you’re the INTERPOL? “Added heroin and
cocaine, too.”
“Oh, my God.” Her hand flies to her chest. “You’ll end up dead. You’re popping pills like candy.”
“I’m clean. Wellness facility and all,” I say, my voice hard as granite. ‘I don’t even know what these wellness resorts actually are good for. Never seen one; never intend to see one. Bunch of malarkey. Money-extorting gimmickry.’
“You mean a rehab?”
“No, I mean a wellness facility,” I dare her to defy me
again.
“You have given me a rash.” She rubs her cheek. “This …
er, thing of yours will destroy Auntie.”
There you go again; scratching scabs to make them bleed.
I glance at my phone. Five p.m. “I’ll see you later, little lamb with fleece as black as crow.”
Twenty-three
HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE
GOA
June 2019
AFTER A QUICK SHOWER, I tie my hair up in a messy knot, wear a white cotton dress, slip my feet into Shiven & Narresh flip-flops accented with rose gold snails before walking out into the courtyard with a glass of rosé in one hand and the Diary in the other. Quite the contrasting picture from the memory that flashes in my mind—as a teenager on a family holiday in Goa, I’d been frolicking in the waves when Mummy and Papa had walked down the hotel stairs leading to the sandy beach, covered from neck to calves in thick white bath robes, their heads encased in silicone swim caps.
This right here is my own classy space. “Can’t wait for your birthday tomorrow, sweetie. I’ll dress you up in a pink jacket, your gift. You are my only friend in the whole-wide-world. It’s time I name you.” I glance at the glass of the delicious summer wine in my hand. “I’ll call you Miss Rosé. You do know Rosé’s my favourite wine, right?” I tell the Diary as I knock down two granules of flakka. “Hey, caught you.” I grab her just as she is about to slip out of my hand.
Stretched out on a lounger, I don gloves, unlock her, my
gaze drawn toward the beauty of the lianas entwining the Jambhalam trees just beyond the pool. Soon however, I
struggle to keep my eyes open. Probably the cumulative
effect of the calming massage, the wine, and the bath salts.
Suddenly, I’m startled awake by a sound. CRASH!
What’s going on? I half-open an eye. It is dusk and the sea is stormy. A few dark clouds dawdle across the sky.
Another, far more dangerous storm brews on the pool-side
making my blood run cold. I flinch hard as though hit by a
sledge-hammer.
A few feet away, Priyanka sits with her legs half-dipped in the pool, her back partially turned toward me. I can see her eyes starting out of the sockets as though preparing to take-off and then land on to the pages of Miss Rosé, who lay supine on her wretched black thighs, having been abducted by the diary-snatcher. Holding the stem of a broken wine glass that lay shattered by her side, Pri mutters, “Killer, a mad, mad, killer, she needs to be behind bars.”
Oops! Terrible choice of words. She has signed her death
warrant. ‘Killer, killer, mad killer’—the string of words amplify abnormally in my head instead of dying when they should have—much like cancer cells. The sound echoes in my mind, multiplying out of control, growing into a tumour that threatens to suck the oxygen out of me. Behind bars? What’s this dumb moral crusade everyone is on? First Papa, then Mummy, and now …?
I have to act fast. Time is of the essence in the truest sense as the sudden realization dawns on me that my actions in the next minute or so will play a pivotal role in determining where I spend the rest of my life. Please Lord, haven’t I kept my word and lit an oil-lamp every day since you know when? Though I’m sorry I didn’t burn my shoes. Keep me safe. Amen. I bet this is the first she’s seen a pool— surely, she can’t possibly know how to swim. With the intent to bring my A-game, I creep slowly, grab her under the arms before plunging into the water, pinning her under my weight. Can’t squeeze her throat though. I’ve heard Anupam talk about murder-giveaway-clues such as ligature marks, neck
abrasions, lacerations... despite the gloves it was best to play
safe. Just keep her head under water. That should serve the
purpose.
Thanks to my perspicacity, I handle the crisis in a remarkably phlegmatic manner. I got these genes from Papa. My strength surprises me; maybe I snorted flakka. Uh-oh! That spells trouble; a precursor to something ugly. Last when these three things coincided: A) My happiness under threat, B) The person responsible for that positioned like a sitting duck right there in my line of fire, and C) I used flakka, the result wasn’t pretty. Turned out to be the recipe for disaster. I should stop doing whatever I’m doing.
“I can’t swim, Tana,” the tea-guzzler gasps.
Good to know.
“I promise, I’ll never mention Auntie.”
Auntie, Auntie, Auntie: Now go meet and greet her with
your kettle, you Auntie-fucker.
“I swear I’m done talking about the past,” she coughs and splutters, her breathing ragged.
Too late to remember that. Living in the past is corrosive.
/>
Now bear the consequences of sniffing around.
“I’m not going to breathe a word to a soul,” she gargles out
the words.
And I’m Mother Teresa.
“We should talk,” her voice muffles.
And say what?
“I’m not going to breathe a word. Not to a single soul,” she
manages to rise out and sputter.
So you keep saying.
“Just ignore I exist.”
Whatever you need, Pri. Say no more.
“You call me your Dark-Beauty.”
More like Black-Bitch.
“I’m your BFF …” she says, her breath shallow.
Exactly! Bloody-Fucking-Fool. I push her head in
deeper to silence her for good.
“I can’t brea—” She thrashes like a fish out of water.
Boo-hoo.
“Please Tana, hear me out.”
All of a sudden, I loosen my grip. “Not a bad idea. I’ll hear
you out.” I’m not Papa, who jumped to condemn even before the defendant had a chance to explain his/her acts.
“I know I mean a lot to you,” she coughs out water, “your
diary—”
“The name’s Miss Rosé,” I hiss brittly.
“—has a whole chapter on me.”
“That’ll change, I promise. A footnote!”
“Sorry?” she wheezes, her teeth chattering.
“Well, I’m not—to change the chapter into a footnote. Who
do you think you are? Swooping in on your plasticky-icky heels and—never mind what!” I bluster. To hell with tact—
“You are a rotting stem … not a healthy … a sociopath—” she pants breathlessly, struggling to loosen my hold. “That’s the scary truth.”
‘—and to hell with hearing her out. I am my father’s
daughter. “To set the record straight Pri, I’m far from a rotting stem. What I see myself as is that beautiful liana,’ I point at the woody stem with one hand while pushing her head into the water with the other, “and you as the Jambhalam tree. See, its fruit is dark, sweet, and sour, a lot like you. Also, my dear girl, let me educate you, sociopaths do not lose a bit of sleep over their actions. Whereas in my case, since Mummy passed away it’s hard for me to live, much less sleep. Her death’s been eating me alive. So, deep down, I know for a fact, I’m not one. I’m simply a survivor— the kind who will probably be featured one day in a TV series titled, The Survivor.” I could feel her life slip its moorings on earth and begin the voyage heavenward/hell-bound. RIP or not for all I care.
“Did I hear you say—‘You’ll end up dead.’ Yet, here I stand. Bloody parasite; crawling out of the woodwork for your free holiday. Spongy petiole—sucking my nutrients. And if you insist on truth-telling, how about ‘Rent’s been hiked.’ Duh! I haven’t been hibernating. That was the wrong answer, genius. You thought I wouldn’t catch your lies? What goes around comes around. The Grim Reaper is here. As you sow, so shall you reap.” I chuckle softly, tickled by the ironical justice. “Happy now?” I continue, “Your very own customised murder-adventure? All your questions: Where’s Auntie, what happened to the Merchant of Venice etcetera etcetera—I hope Rosé the Diary answered them for you. You are welcome, Nancy Drew. Bon voyage!”
‘Trust me. You want to save her. Call for help,’ urges Miss
Holier-than-thou.
Just shut up, will you? First off, I do not trust you, and second, I do not want to save her.
A crunch of glass! I rise vertically like a dugong from the
pool to find out the source of the noise. Drifting leaves cling
to my head. José has stepped on to the broken shards and is
peering into the water.
“All okay, Miss?”
Not the brightest guy around. Quickly, as best as I can, I
suppress my smile and say, “No, it’s not okay! She’s drowned. Get her out. I can’t,” —I sob— “Stay with me, Pri, oh, Pri.”
Diving in, he dog-paddles as fast as he can. Despite the dead weight of the water-laden girl, he brings her up as if she’s a doll before laying her down on her back on the tiled
deck, his taut nipples showing through the soaked shirt.
“You are not sick. You are a sicko,” Priyanka’s faint voice
slithers into my ears as though it carries worms and not words.
“Step aside, I’m trained in CPR,” I tell José, my voice
shaking.
“What’s that, Senhorita?”
“Nurse stuff.” I pinch Pri’s nose, cover her mouth with
mine to create an airtight seal, and then suck in deeply. This
will ensure the quick demise of the straggling breaths still
lurking inside her. A minute passes. I can’t resist
whispering, “Can you hear me, Pri? All human-beings are
sickos. Some are just good at hiding it.”
“What’s it, Miss?”
“Sending out a last prayer.” A moment afterward, I get up,
clasp my hands, and bow my head as though I continue to
pray. “Keep her safe, God.”
“She’s dead?” José asked agitatedly.
“Yes, she is. I don’t know what to do,” I fling myself at him.
He holds me. We hear a feeble cough. I free myself. “Is she
alive,” I ask him, my voice trembling.
The young man kneels down to check. “I think so,” he says excitedly.
I pick up my phone, “The battery’s died. Don’t just sit there. Go, go, call the police or a doctor. An ambulance …”
He rushed into the villa leaving me free to deal with collection of rashes, discount coupons, vouchers and the like. Who is she? An Android, a Cyborg? Stubborn as hell! Not unlike those freaky villains in movies who simply refuse to die. I bend down, grab a limp hand before pushing her into the pool. José comes out running with the cordless gadget. “What are you doing,” he cries out in alarm.
Saving myself. Duh! “She slid; the puddle underneath her dragged her back. I’m trying to pull her out. Don’t just stand there. Take her out.”
Once again, the Greek god fishes her out the pool. I snatch the phone from him, peel off my gloves and frantically punch in the numbers— “Hello, ambulance services? Oh, my God,
help, help,” I scream. “It’s my friend. She fell in the pool.”
“Who’s that? Is this a spam call?”
“No, it isn’t,” I hang up and this time around dial the
right number, my hands shaking. “Help, help. We are losing
her … she’s lying … I mean dying,” I yell unintelligibly.
“Calm down Ma’am,” says a cool professional voice on
the other end, “What’s your emergency?”
“My friend … she’s drowned … she-she-she can’t swim.
Save her, she’s not responding,” I bend down and check her
hanging wrist for a sign of life. José gently pries the gadget from my cold grip. He says, “Villa La Pasado, Assagao. A
lady. Drowning case. Hurry.” He isn’t that dull.
Once and for all, she is gone. “Pri, Pri, my bestie.” I crash down alongside her bawling. “Just wake up, please. Someone … tell me this isn’t happening. Oh God, bring her back,”—I gaze forlornly at the thin sliver in the sky— “I have nobody. NOBODY!” A thought strikes me. Looking around, I find Miss Rosé lying face-up—her pages fluttering in the soft wind—close to the shattered glass. She smiles smugly. The stem is nowhere in sight. Pink liquid seeps out the glass-shards into the pages. Rosé permeating Miss Rosé. I feel as though I am the missing broken stem. What had Priyanka named me? A broken stem?
A strong voice in my head goads me, DESTROY it. A
weaker one—probably Miss Holier-than-thou, if I were to
guess, fought with it, ‘In all good conscience you can’t do that. Miss Rosé has been your true friend.’
‘You have to,’ the strong voice commanded. ‘Miss Rosé betrayed you. She was supposed to keep your secrets. Instead, she spilled them.’ That’s when I spot the broken stem—it rolls out from under her back. With a raging desire to deface her, I grab the glass stem and stab Miss Rosé’s eye. “What kind of a rosé are you? I’ll tell you: The disgusting, cloyingly sick-sweet, and badly made kind.” Pink tears stream down her cheek but I’m not quite done with her. Seizing her by the spine, I tear her down the middle before shredding her leaves into strings of moist-pink-paper. “Take that, you cheat. Now you’re spineless, ineffectual. That’s the destiny you deserve Pinka-Stinka, the book of jiggery-pokery! This’s for messing with me. No pink jacket for you. Only a black body bag!”
The wail of an ambulance siren snaps me out of my frenzy.
“MISS, Miss, Senhora.” I feel an arm around my shoulder.
“You should lie down.” Lifting me effortlessly José puts me
down on the wicker sun-lounger and begins to lightly rub my
temples.
An exaltation of larks rise from the nearby periwinkle
hedge, warbling and singing. Other sounds mingle with their
cries; José’s voice insisting I rest; the distant noise of the
ambulance’s siren; the hoarse ki-ki-ki song of a kingfisher
perched in a knothole up in the mango tree. A flash of lightning lights up the skies. First drops of rain begin to fall. Thunder crashes, the wind howls. The terrible cacophony of noises drills holes into my head.
Across the moonlit tiles, shadows begin to creep. Quick as
the wind, I spring to my feet and swift as an arrow, slash
them with the glass stem.
José squeezes me in a hug and guides me back to the
lounger.
I close my eyes, a tear trickling down the corner of one. I
shouldn’t have done that. Am I a monster? Who am I? People
are unknowable. “Shoulders, please, Rosé … uh … José,” I
beg. All my life I gave Papa hell and here I am judging myself. Funny that! I pick up my half-empty glass of wine. “She had
great potential to age.”
“Who? The wine?” —he asks, eyes narrowed— “Your friend?”
“No, Miss Rosé. We wanted to grow old together and walk into the sunset. I shouldn’t have done that. Tsk-tsk, shame on me. I’ll turn myself in. I have to make amends,” I speak in an odd voice.
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 17