Season of Sacrifice

by Bharti Kirchner

  An obviously stoned teenager, wearing frayed jeans, stared vacantly from the opposite corner. Crows joined in a cacophony overhead. The wind howled and made a door rattle. Maya took a few steps, disturbed by the sight of a patch of half-dead purple petunias. She tried to draw in a steadying breath, only to have her hair caught by the swaying branch of a pear tree. She untangled her hair and kept walking. A baby burst out crying in a nearby house.

  The man on crutches caught up with her. ‘My name’s Atul Biswas. I’m an accountant. Friends call me Atticus.’

  ‘Maya Mallick.’

  ‘Sorry – I almost hit you with my crutch.’

  Weirdo. Maya could press charges against him for assaulting her. Except, given the enormity of the situation and the fact that the authorities had graver matters to handle, she would rather not. ‘Not almost. You hit me; my elbow hurts. Why did you do that?’

  ‘Nothing intentional. Please, I’m a basket case. Didn’t have the foggiest what I was doing.’ His eyes rounded in sorrow. ‘My sincerest apology. May I give you a ride somewhere, Maya?’

  She shook her head. ‘One question. What’s the name of the place where you meditate?’

  ‘Padmaraja Meditation Center.’ He pivoted and hobbled away.

  After taking another glance at Detective Justin Stevenson, busy talking with witnesses, Maya walked away from the grisly scene and soon reached her car. Before sliding into the driver’s seat, she twisted her head once to see if anyone was following her.

  Leash in hand, a determined dog-walker strode past. The menacing-looking dog held itself stiff, stared at Maya, jumped and growled.

  After steadying herself, she dug out her cellphone from the glove compartment and punched in her landline number. Hopefully her mother, Uma, visiting from Kolkata, would answer in her gentle manner. She badly needed to hear that voice just now. It rang, rang and rang, then the call clicked into voicemail.

  ‘No pastries today, Ma. Something’s happened.’

  TWO

  Cellphone still in hand, Maya placed the call to Justin, her heart thumping wildly as she listened to the ringing. Voicemail. She left him a message in a duller tone than she’d hoped for. She had just witnessed two self-immolations in the Green Lake neighborhood and asked him to call her back, without mentioning how deeply she’d been affected. After disengaging, she tried not to replay the message in her mind, tried not to criticize the sound of her own voice or to mull over how he would think she sounded, tried not to worry that she might have sounded hurt or needy or pathetic.

  A man in business clothes, walking past her car, fired off a mean look in her direction. She swallowed, a brief walls-closing-in moment, and wondered if he might have noticed her in the crowd.

  A long truck rumbled past, fouling the air with coils of diesel, its clatter assaulting Maya’s ears like a dull hammer. Once the noise abated, she called her best friend Veen and recorded a brief, ‘Hi, call me,’ message. She needed to make sure that Sylvie wasn’t one of the two women. Sylvie had never talked about Tibet, her ancestral homeland, much less hinted at a desire to be a freedom activist.

  The same age as Maya, olive-skinned with velvety-black hair and delicate features, Sylvie was softly spoken and energetic, reminiscent of a sparrow flitting from one tree branch to another. Her shining eyes always revealed that she had much to say, although she kept most of it to herself. Maya found it hard to believe that a young bio-med scientist like Sylvie, so passionate about her work, so invested in helping others and for whom a shining future awaited, would kill herself in such a violent way.

  Maya set off into the traffic. Upon her arrival at a modern, three-story building on Woodlawn Avenue called Future Space, she parked in the underground garage. Emerging from the elevator, she strode down the hall to number 106, her new abode as a private investigator. Most of her savings from her previous career had gone into the renting and refurbishing of this office. Now she half-noticed the lack of any sign on her door and frowned. The vendor should have delivered the brass plaque by now.

  She unlocked the door and walked into the two-room workplace. The front room had a carpeted wood floor, an antique black executive desk, a matching swivel chair, three straight-backed visitors’ chairs, two secure file cabinets and a painting on one wall of a riverside Indian village, all organized just the way she liked it. Yet, on this day, the room seemed empty. The sound of a lawnmower coming through a half-open window overlooking a manicured courtyard jarred her.

  ‘Hi, Maya!’ Hank, her investigative assistant, called from the back room.

  Maya took in a deep breath, returned the greeting and still nearly tripped as she joined him in the back room. It was equipped with a desk, a coffee-maker and a portable refrigerator. Hank Anderson, a skinny, blond, bright-faced, twenty-three-year-old MFA student sat in front of an open laptop. When not busy with his thesis of a short story collection, Hank worked for her part-time as the first line of communication. He fielded phone calls and emails, employed search tools and linking technology, dug into professional-grade databases and also maintained Maya’s website. Softly spoken, he used his fiction-writing acumen to his advantage. ‘Characters are everything, fucked-up as they often are,’ he’d argue as he dissected the words, actions and motivations of a prospective client.

  With his clear gaze, gentle enough to put people at ease, but also perceptive, Hank surveyed her closely. ‘Is everything OK?’

  Maya shook her head and narrated this morning’s gruesome happenings. Hank remained rooted in his chair and, when she’d finished, let out a low whistle from seemingly holding his breath and finally exhaling. ‘Beyond bizarre – terribly sad too. Worst thing that could have happened.’ He tried to rise, then sat down again. ‘I’m sorry, Maya, I don’t know how to process it. You’re limping?’

  ‘A minor injury. I’ll let it go.’

  ‘Do you see yourself getting involved as a P.I.?’

  ‘I have no reason to. The police showed up and I assume they gathered all the obvious clues, although they could have missed some subtleties.’

  ‘Such as the subtext and deeper motivations?’

  Maya nodded. ‘Any calls or emails?’

  ‘Yes and yes. A Japanese woman called to whine about her granny missing. It’s a referral from Ms Pillai, a lawyer acquaintance of yours. Something didn’t sound right, so I called Sophie. She got the scoop from the community. The feisty old granny has secretly flown to Las Vegas with a young man – arm candy, from what I hear – for a little fun of her own.’

  Maya smiled, caught up in Hank’s enthusiasm. ‘So the case is closed, at least for now? I doubly appreciate your effort, Hank, knowing how you feel about Sophie.’

  Sophie was Hank’s ex-girlfriend, an Australian-Japanese who he was still on speaking terms with. It was clear to Maya from the sheepish expression on Hank’s face that he’d like to get back with her.

  ‘She and I had a thing.’ Hank’s voice turned heavy. ‘I’ll get her back from that asshole dude and I’ll get her cuffed.’ He diverted his gaze to the screen. ‘Here’s an email asking you to do an undercover investigation of an office theft. Again, it’s a referral from a former nutrition client of yours. I’ve asked for more input. Also, your mother called to see if you were here yet. She must have been cooking. I could hear the sounds of pots and pans. I could almost smell the curry.’

  Oh, Mother. She always had to check to see where her daughter was. ‘She loves to cook.’

  ‘Mine had a Ph.D. in Chinese carry-outs.’ Hank’s gaze flitted over Maya’s in a mock look of envy. ‘Lastly, an Indian man called from a blocked number. Mumbled he met you this morning. I get that he’s nervous. Hashtag old-school. I’m like, “Speak up, man.” He said he’d try back later and hung up.’

  Maya stood still for a second. Must be Atticus. Given that he knew she was a private detective, he’d found her on the Internet. What did he want?

  She had half-turned when Hank said, ‘Do you have a gun, Maya?’

 
She gave a start. ‘No, I don’t have a firearm permit. Why do you ask?’

  ‘There’s a bookish saying.’ Hank’s lips parted in a smile. “If there’s a gun on the mantelpiece, it must go off before the story is over.”’

  Maya laughed; she needed a light moment. ‘I’ll wrap up my last nutritionist gig and check with you about what’s going on.’

  ‘Totally, boss. Now I can call Sophie back. Tell her you were pleased with my sleuthing. Maybe even offer to take her out for a green-tea shake.’

  Maya rose and smiled. ‘It’s worth a shot.’

  On her way to the client, she noticed a blue sedan passing her too close, adding to the anxious feeling still gripping her chest.

  Several hours later, after finishing the client consultation, Maya decided to check out the meditation center; the place was a common element between Atticus and one of the self-immolators. She drove north, passing by a tent encampment for the homeless, reached her destination, parked and scoped out the surroundings. In this renovation-ready neighborhood filled with creeping shadows and boarded-up storefronts, the sidewalks were chipped and the exteriors of a few aged buildings showed mold growth. Pedestrians strolled by; an occasional car wheezed past. The meditation center stood out, an unobtrusive, single-story, flat-roofed building freshly coated with lotus-white paint. Why this neighborhood? Cheap rent? Desire for privacy?

  Emblazoned in flowing black calligraphy across the top of the entrance was the name of the establishment: Padmaraja Meditation Center.

  The door was locked and the lights inside were not on. The center must be closed at this hour. Still, Maya rang the doorbell. No answer. She stood and absorbed the strange silence that permeated the immediate area, then drove home.

  As she hopped out of her Honda, her gaze fell on her house, a small, single-story, two-bedroom Craftsman bungalow. It was all she could afford. Painted a muted blue, it had squared columns, a large front porch and deep eaves. Clean, simple lines – her favorite. Even more so after this morning’s horror.

  Sunlight illuminated a section of her front yard, highlighting a sweet-smelling honeysuckle bush that spilled over a long fence. Next to that, a bank of daisies bloomed, each white flower with an inviting yellow cushion at its center. Daisies, a sign that summer was at its peak, also indicated that the season would soon disappear. And the flowers would die.

  She picked up the mail from the mailbox and opened the front door. The aroma of sizzling oil wafted from the kitchen, as did a hip-thrusting Bollywood soundtrack from the CD player. Her mother, Umaratna, must be at the stove, preparing wickedly delicious snacks for their tea break, as she’d done every afternoon since her arrival from Kolkata a month ago. In no time, Uma had become ‘Auntie’ to Maya’s friends; she solved their problems. They fawned over her and brought her truffles, candles, scarves and show tickets. Maya never hoped to be as popular as her mother.

  Should she tell Uma about the self-immolations? Perhaps not yet.

  Uma peeked out from the kitchen, a petite woman swathed in a white sari with a rosebud border, her hair done up in a neat bun. ‘Oh, you’re back.’ Her large eyes shone, the music of her Bengali words hung in the air and she turned off the soundtrack. ‘You said you’d be back by eleven and it’s now close to two.’

  ‘When will you stop worrying about me, Ma?’ Though she tried to make her voice reasonable, Maya failed to conceal the edge of irritation, having already had too much to deal with today. ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m almost thirty-three. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Cool it, dear child,’ Uma said in English. She’d been picking up slang and colloquial expressions and relished using them. ‘Did you know that the Chinese foreign minister is visiting? Big deal. Yesterday’s news said the activists were planning to march their boots off to protest the Chinese rule of Tibet. Being from Kolkata – they call it the City of Processions, you might remember – I know how those demonstrations can turn ugly. Huh! What I don’t understand is why the protesters only concern themselves with Tibet. They obviously don’t know, or care, that the Chinese have been holding the citizens of our beloved state of Arunachal Pradesh under their fists since Nehru’s time. Talk about an expropriation! Talk about a dance between a dragon and an elephant. To me, it seems more like the dragon is strangling the elephant.’

  ‘Have you watched any demonstrations—?’

  ‘No, I didn’t bother to turn on the television. I took a long walk through this neighborhood instead.’

  Thank God Uma hadn’t viewed the media hype that likely dominated the television and the Internet by now. Even a fleeting shot of a flaming body would have undone her habitual state of equanimity.

  A troubling thought wiggled in Maya’s mind: Uma, alone in the house all day. She rubbed her face with a hand to hide her expression of distress.

  The kettle whistled, startling her.

  ‘There goes the attention-getter. Be right back.’ Uma hurried to the kitchen.

  Maya sank into a sofa in her uncluttered living room and kicked off her shoes, surrounded by the warm scent of sandalwood coming from an incense burner on a sideboard. Her gaze swept the room: ivory walls adorned with batik paintings and a smattering of furniture – another solid off-white sofa like this one, an armchair near the fireplace and a sideboard, all in place, yet harmony was somehow lacking. The opposite wall featured a picture window where Maya caught a sliver of a washed-out denim sky mottled with patches of darkening cloud peeking through the open curtains.

  She sorted through the mail, discarded the advertisements and opened a brown package airmailed from Kolkata by Simi Sen, her new employer. With pleasure, she fished out a large box of business cards. Done in white linen paper with black lettering, the logo-free cards boldly proclaimed her name.

  Detectives Unlimited of Kolkata

  Maya Mallick

  Private Investigator

  Her business number and email address for the Seattle branch followed. Maya put the box on the coffee table, closed her eyes and listened to the rattling of pans. The comforting scent of Uma’s cooking wafted into the room through the kitchen door. How could she ever thank her mother, who could always discern what she needed even before she opened her mouth, such as her need for a higher income? To pay the mortgage. To have a savings account. Also, as the sole proprietor of a nutrition consultation business, she’d run out of challenges. Four months ago, Uma, through her network back home, had made the initial contact with the Kolkata-based detective agency.

  ‘Although you make good money, you’re tired of your whining clients, acting as food police and raiding people’s refrigerators,’ Uma had said over the phone. ‘I don’t blame you. With your energy, smartness and toughness, you can do so much more. Your eyes are sharp and searching and you’re mostly level-headed. You want more in your life; you can’t wait to get it. Why not fly back here and have a chat with this company? They’re successful and they pay well. A gut feeling – you’d like the high-adrenaline work of a P.I.’

  ‘But Ma, isn’t it a little unusual for a company in India to branch out into other countries?’

  ‘Such practice is becoming increasingly common. Maybe the news hasn’t reached you there yet? India is growing at an alarming rate and many businesses here are trying to get a foothold abroad. All that cash on hand. Look, it would mean working for an international outfit – you’d have loads of opportunities that you currently lack.’

  ‘Seattle does have a large Indian population,’ Maya had said. ‘But crimes? There aren’t that many in our community, or for that matter in the Asian neighborhoods.’

  ‘Give it time, dear. Crimes involving Asians could become a growth industry,’ Uma had said jokingly. ‘And yes, they want to see you in person.’

  So Maya had flown to Kolkata for an interview with the agency, which turned out to be a well-decorated operation in a high-rise building. There she’d met with the owner, Simi Sen, who preferred being called Sen. Fit, well-groomed and elegant, dressed in a yellow s
ilk sari and pearl earrings, the fifty-something Sen was reputed to be a tough investigator. Behind her back, industry insiders called her the ‘Iron Lady in Soft Silk.’

  ‘We’re an all-women boutique agency, discreet, confidential and private,’ Sen had said, sitting behind her high-gloss, executive desk. A strong presence lifted her to beyond-pretty level. ‘When we first started this operation, a few pompous male detectives made fun of us. “Those ladies in saris would beat the streets and chase gun-wielding gangsters? They have no place for their cameras.” Look at us now. We recently celebrated our tenth anniversary. Women are better at it. We have our intuition and people skills. Nobody can beat us when it comes to pre- and post-matrimonial investigations and cheating spouse cases. “Wedding detectives,” they call us, and we’ve expanded to nine cities. Now I want to branch out to Indian communities in the U.S. You know better than I do that Indians are one of the most successful minority groups there. They must also have plenty of headaches. My guess is our Indian people will go to another desi for help, if one is available.’

  Maya had nodded while Sen adjusted her sari at her shoulder.

  ‘Detecting must also be in your genes. Your late father, Subir Mallick, the legendary detective with the Kolkata Police Department – who hasn’t heard of him?’

  Maya had lowered her face. Sen hadn’t needed to remind her of her father’s brutal murder decades ago, when Maya was only nine years old. It would remain an unsolved case.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sen had paused as a bearer served them each a glass of amber tea. ‘Here’s a hypothetical situation. A bride’s family requests us to find out if the groom smokes or not. Smoking is a big no-no in the bride’s family. The groom claims he’s never touched nicotine, although that raised some eyebrows. How would you prove or disprove him, if you were to handle the case?’