Sea of Innocence

by Desai, Kishwar

  Just because the girl might have consented to being alone with these boys for a ‘dance’, was it presumed that she would willingly take her clothes off and sleep with them, I wondered. Or, as I had suggested, had she known what was going to happen and wanted to be there?

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Amarjit. You think if I question what the girl was doing with four or five boys in a room alone it will sound like an antifeminist view. How can Simran say this?! But, to me, this girl looked like she had a choice. While I don’t think that foreigners who come here must behave like vestal virgins, it would surprise me hugely if they are so very blasé about everything. How could she go into a situation like this and not expect something sexual to happen, damn it?! And then the whole thing is being filmed! Come on. She looked at least fifteen or sixteen years old. Most western girls have been on dates by then, have had sex and so on. She knew what she was in for . . . and I am sure it did not end in . . .’

  I stopped because I noticed how increasingly grim Amarjit had become.

  He completed my sentence, pushing his coffee cup away as though the brew was not distilled from the best coffee crop from Chile, as the menu claimed, but from hemlock.

  ‘In rape. Or murder. Or both. And now we don’t know where she is. Which is why I had to come down, and try to talk to you.’

  Provoked, at last, I thought he might tell me the truth behind his interest. I couldn’t believe he had come down to examine the single case of one allegedly missing girl. Why do that when he had so many lackeys who could do it for him?

  ‘It’s a long way to come when you’re not even based here. That’s strange.’

  ‘Someone has asked for my help, and that’s why I’m here. Please don’t try to grill me on who it could be. Suffice it to say that the government is very worried about incidents like this is Goa. They’ve happened a few times in the past, and we’ve received complaints that the local police just hush it up. This time we want to investigate the system, see if anything is going wrong. And also check if any of these complaints, especially by foreign nationals, are true. Now that this girl has vanished, we need to know if this is also part of the same conspiracy of silence.’

  ‘And so you’ve been sent here to do some firefighting?’

  ‘Just to get a proper investigation going. I can’t announce it to my local colleagues here because the state government will object if I interfere. But everyone is upset because these cases can become very high profile, hurt the image of the country, and even affect tourism.’

  I was startled by his last words. Affect tourism? I thought he was here because he was worried about the girl.

  ‘And of course, then the economy gets hit as well,’ he went on.

  ‘Which part of the world is she from?’

  ‘She’s British.’

  So it wasn’t just the problem about this missing girl, but now the larger economic and foreign-policy implications which were worrying the mandarins in Delhi. All because a young British girl had disappeared.

  ‘Have there been many more cases like this? I only know of two cases so far: this girl, and that other girl, also from the UK. I can’t remember her name.’

  Amarjit hesitated. ‘Scarlett Keeling.’

  As soon as he said the name, it all flooded back. Because of the publicity it had generated I had followed the case quite closely for a while.

  That name had been in the headlines non-stop for almost five years, while Scarlett’s mother had fought for justice over her daughter’s brutal murder in this part of Goa. Initially the police had simply said that the 15-year-old had drowned while out swimming at night, and rushed to close the case. But the mother, Fiona MacKeown, had found too many loopholes in their investigation, including the fact that the girl had been naked except for a brassiere dangling from one shoulder, when her bruised and battered body had been found one morning, on the beach. Three days after her daughter’s death, she stumbled upon the clothes her daughter had been wearing on the night she died: the shorts, t-shirt and underwear stuffed behind a shack close to where Scarlett’s body had been discovered. The police, apparently, had not even bothered to hunt for her missing clothes.

  I remembered that she alleged that Scarlett had probably been given drugs, raped and then murdered. Fortunately, one witness, a British national, stepped forward. He claimed he had seen her being sexually assaulted by a barman of the Luis shack at Anjuna beach (not far from my hotel) early in the morning. Even though the girl had been somewhere on the beach or in the vicinity from 12.30 at night till her death sometime around five or six in the morning, no one could explain how she died.

  Two men were eventually arrested: the barman accused of the rape, and an alleged drug dealer who was also at the shack that night. Scarlett had been seen snorting some of the cocaine he had spread out on the shack’s kitchen table.

  But Fiona accused powerful people in the government, including a minister’s son, of a deliberate attempt to obliterate the evidence. It could have been due to the alleged involvement of government officials and their families, or to the normal procedural judicial delay in India, but the case dragged on, and only very recently had the girl been buried back home in Devon. Nothing had been proven conclusively and the hearings were tangled in legal knots. The accused were out on bail and for the past few years had been leading normal lives.

  Very little had gone well in the Keeling case. Nor did the investigative agencies apparently behave in an exemplary fashion. The forensic department completely failed to provide any conclusive evidence. And after the girl’s recent burial no one knew, as governments changed and ministers were reappointed, whether anything would ever be resolved. No wonder Amarjit was hesitant as he reminded me about it.

  ‘So do you think this is very like the Keeling case? Was there any suggestion she, too, could have been gang raped?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘We don’t want this to hijack the headlines. As I said, Goa is opening up. Lots of investment is flowing in, we don’t want it to look unsafe.’

  I raised my eyebrows at that. He had the grace to look sheepish, at least, as we were both reminded of the recent rape of a young girl on Delhi bus. What about her? I wanted to ask.

  And why are you worried about this girl in particular?’

  He knew what I meant.

  He paused again.

  ‘It’s actually her sister who is worried. She is threatening to go to the British High Commission and the media and create a stink. She says she can’t just allow her sister’s disappearance to be forgotten like this. Her story is that they were last together at a shack on this beach. Drinking with some friends. She claims their drinks were spiked and when she woke up the next morning, she was alone in the guest house she’d been sharing with her sister, Liza. No one has any idea where she could be. Frankly I don’t have all the details, but I thought if you could speak to her and others on the beach, discreetly of course, and find out more . . . When it happened, etcetera, etcetera. Especially since this video has surfaced. It’s been sent to a lot of fairly important people and we’re worried.’

  ‘Any idea who could have sent it?’

  ‘None. But it was sent from a computer that’s difficult to trace. We’re working on it.’

  ‘Not from the mobile phone on which it was found?’

  ‘No – that doesn’t seem to match.’

  ‘Did you ask the sister?’

  ‘I don’t think she knows about the video. I haven’t mentioned it to her either. And right now it would be best to keep quiet about it, as she might give a copy to the wrong people.’

  ‘You mean the media?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s why it has to be kept very confidential. Please don’t talk about it to anyone. Especially not the press or the police out here.’

  I didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  ‘Surely you have more details about it?’

  I didn’t think Amarjit would come to Goa without being armed wit
h everything he could find out.

  He still looked a little evasive. ‘The reason I want to involve you is that you could give us a fresh insight. You see, I’m not quite certain about what exactly happened to the girl, or if she’s still alive.’

  But he displayed an air of helplessness that made me furious.

  ‘What’s the problem? Don’t the highly efficient Goan cops have enough ideas about where she could be, Amarjit?’

  I fixed a steely gaze on him and slammed my coffee cup on the table. It was time to show him that I didn’t believe a word of what he had just told me.

  ‘Why the fuck are you here to ruin my holiday? Tell me the truth. You know I don’t buy this story. It’s too . . . too glib. Girl vanishes and the cops have no clue what happened. And suddenly you are motivated to fly out to Goa to find out what happened. Complete crap. If there is a cover-up tell me who is involved and why. There must be someone important behind this, there usually is. Was she someone’s girlfriend, someone’s mistress? Wasn’t that what was suspected in the Scarlett Keeling case, too? That some minister’s son had raped her? And if that’s what you’re worried about, what can I do about it anyway?’

  ‘Help me find her,’ Amarjit said quietly.

  ‘Look at me. I have a young daughter to look after, who, thanks to you, went through a huge amount of trauma a few years ago. I need to spend time with her. I will not dash off looking for a missing girl on some whim of yours—’

  ‘I don’t want to wreck your holiday, for God’s sake,’ he cut in, trying to calm me down, using blatant flattery as a weapon: ‘I just need someone like you to handle this. You have this way of speaking to people, getting them to open up. It’s a fabulous coincidence that you were here just when this video turned up. I can’t trust anyone else, because I don’t want the press to know that this girl Liza Kay has disappeared. And if the cops know we are looking for her, she’s dead anyway.’

  It was strange to hear a police officer say that, but it was true. If someone had kidnapped her or had hidden her and knew that the police were on their trail, they would kill her even quicker. Assuming she was still alive.

  All it means is asking around a little, since no one connects you with any of this. You’ve been here with your daughter, you don’t look like you’re involved in the drug mafia or any of the usual suspects! You don’t look like a cop either. Just keep a lookout for information, for any clues. All these beaches in North Goa are very closely linked to each other, and you’re sharp. You’ll be able to pick up something very quickly—’

  Despite his overwhelming and somewhat false flattery, my attention was diverted by something he had said.

  ‘Did you say the drug mafia . . .?’

  Amarjit looked slightly uneasy.

  All I meant was that you seem like a normal tourist and so people will talk to you.’

  And you’re sure you can’t trust your own cops?’

  Amarjit nodded reluctantly while I lit another cigarette. This time I didn’t do it to irritate him, but needed time to think this through.

  The answer came before I could take a second drag of my cigarette.

  My mobile rang. Durga had woken up and wanted to go to the beach for a late breakfast and a swim.

  I shook my head at Amarjit, inwardly relieved. I needed a way out desperately, and now I had my answer. I simply did not think I could handle such a complicated case when I had promised my daughter a holiday. And I wanted her to stay for at least as long as we had planned. All of ten days.

  Putting away the mobile in my handbag, I said, ‘Nice try, but I’m afraid Durga comes first. She’s the reason I came here, not you, or this case.’

  I got up.

  ‘Goodbye, Amarjit. Let’s meet in Delhi over a drink and talk about something more pleasant, perhaps?’

  I put it as gently as I could, extinguished my cigarette and walked away before he could stop me.

  But I knew the expression on his face only too well. There had been many moments when he had looked at me like that. Puzzled, rueful, hurt.

  And all too often, feeling guilty over something I was not responsible for, I had changed my mind. Instead I marched briskly up to our room and, mentally pushing Amarjit back to the bottom of the ocean where I had consigned him earlier, helped Durga pack a beach bag for the day.

  Beer bottles beckoned and so did the sea.

  Chapter 3

  Even though the day passed without any incident and Durga swam and ate another lazy lunch of grilled butter prawns, I did keep a lookout for Amarjit. To reduce Durga’s annoyance over my inattention, I explained to her that he had asked me for help. I could see that she, too, hoped that he wouldn’t sabotage our holiday.

  From my past experience I knew he wasn’t someone to give up easily. So I had been sure he would try harder to persuade me. And I have to admit that I was a little disappointed when he didn’t even contact us on the beach.

  Later I glimpsed him walking at a distance with two men. They were silhouetted against the sea, standing out because they all wore trousers and shirts on a beach where everyone else was almost naked. He looked in my direction, but even as I lifted my hand to wave, he left. Obviously I had upset him more than I had meant to. Or he hadn’t seen me.

  And so when Durga suggested that we attend a party that evening at our favourite shack, Bambino’s, I thought it was a brilliant idea. Perhaps the depression I was sinking into, just thinking about rape and its consequences, would lift.

  The colourful posters promised a ‘DJ from Mumbai’, and though normally I could not bear loud music, at least Durga would get to meet other teenagers, and be spared my rather unexciting company for this evening. In fact we had planned our Goan holiday with the knowledge that some of her school friends would be here at the same time. A large group of them were staying at a guest house close to our Hotel Delite but we were only expecting two of them this evening.

  Getting into the cotton dresses we had bought that morning from a roadside shop near the hotel (I had completely abandoned wearing sarees in Goa), we were at Bambino’s at around eight at night to find that the place was already crowded. This was the run-up to Christmas, when the place was popular with both foreign and Indian tourists. Multicoloured neon lights blinked at the entrance and neat rows of paper stars shone brightly down on us inside.

  We pushed our way inside to a table and grabbed four chairs.

  Near the bar I thought I recognized the two men Amarjit had been speaking to earlier. They glanced at me, perhaps because I was staring at them, but showed no interest. I looked away quickly before they jumped to the wrong conclusion about me.

  Since they were slightly closer than they had been when I’d seen them on the beach, I noticed how similar in appearance they were. Perhaps they were brothers. Both were tall and well-built, and in their grey trousers and dark t-shirts, they certainly stood apart from the holiday crowd. Curious, I decided to keep an eye on them.

  Later, I saw a pretty Indian girl join them briefly. As she spoke to them and looked around the shack, I wondered if she was looking in my direction a little too often. Had Amarjit said anything to them about me?

  It was beginning to bother me that he seemed to have left without even saying goodbye. And because I didn’t want him to get the impression that I was considering his plea to help find the girl, I refused to call him to find out where he was.

  As the crowd filled almost every available crevice in the shack, and the music decibels increased, I determinedly shrugged off my apprehensions. If I kept worrying about Amarjit, I thought, I might as well go out there and hunt for the missing girl.

  Soon all seats were taken. Tourism seemed to be doing well. No wonder Amarjit was worried about the case becoming media fodder. The rape of another beautiful foreign girl in Goa would be the lead story in every newspaper and on each television channel all over the world.

  A makeshift stage had been set up at one end of the shack and it trembled uncertainly with the collective st
amping of feet.

  Durga stood up to clap and sway, along with her two school friends, Siddharth and Renu, whom she’d somehow found in the crush of dancers. All three of them then eventually negotiated their way to the bar to collect their glasses of fresh juice. Still under the legal age for alcohol, they were all actually teetotallers, much to my relief. Despite my own unabashed urge to drink, Durga hadn’t (as yet) shown any desire for it.

  Meanwhile, I ordered another beer, attracting unwanted attention from a group of Indian men at a nearby table, who looked like junior executives in a bank or a call centre enjoying a bonus holiday. Perhaps it was my off-the-shoulder cotton dress and the fact that I was sitting alone.

  Disconcertingly, I realized it was actually the second time that I had encountered them. They were obviously here for ‘fun and frolic’, as advertised by the local low-cost hotels. In recent years Goa had begun to attract budget Indian tourists in large numbers, many of whom were men.

  Which was not always a good thing, because now Goa was overrun by Indian men who regarded it as one large beach party, overflowing with bikini-clad women.

  It was an image of the state that I knew many Goans disliked and resisted. Disturbed, they tried to project a more noble, holistic Goan identity, delving into the past to resurrect a rich, syncretic and spiritual culture. But, alas, commerce always won, and it was debatable whether many tourists were attracted to Goa for its heritage, though some did explore its old churches and temples, as part of their package tours.

  So did this mean Goa was abandoning some of its cosmopolitanism? Just this morning I, too, had wanted to censure at least one of these Indian male tourists. And now the same man was amongst the group at the adjoining table, raising his beer glass in a silent but deeply offensive toast. Clearly, either my annoyance earlier in the day had not been communicated, or the Indian male was developing an extremely thick skin.

  In the forenoon when I had waded into the sea, happily paddling around, this same portly gentleman in his late twenties, with thinning hair plastered on his forehead, had risen out of the sea, a very unlikely Venus, and said, ‘Madam, can you teach me how to swim?’