No Trespassing

by Brinda S Narayan

Raj inadvertently disclosed that the Raos of Villa 37 were back. When he stopped by our home one evening, the conversation drifted to the state of their garden. ‘At first, they were out of town. Now they’re back, but they don’t care. The committee has sent them so many notices.’

  I perked up at once. ‘They’re back? At 37? Since when?’

  ‘Who knows? Can you imagine taking a potential buyer by that place, and convincing them that each home costs four million dollars?’

  ‘Four million dollars?’ Manas said, ‘Wouldn’t the price be closer to two?’

  ‘You have to look at the long term, this place is going to rocket. No other place like this in Bangalore. I’ve pumped funds into companies like this, I know exactly how this will pan out. Apartments won’t have a market, because there are too many me-toos. But luxury villas are different. Next to gold, this is the best investment.’ Such discussions were frequent at Fantasia. For most folks, there were few other topics as important or as engaging. Property, its present value, and its predicted future climb were shared obsessions. Manas, often remarked, that his company’s prospects rested on our property value. For a few months after Sajan’s death, I had become detached from such concerns. But, of late, I had started worrying about our financial future. What if Manas’ company didn’t take off as envisioned? After all, fees at Le Meilleur were spiralling every year.

  One early weekday evening, I knocked on the Villa 37 door. I had been ready for a rebuff, and was prepared to muscle my way in. But when the lady opened the door, my combativeness faded. Perhaps it was the frazzled expression on her face, or her appearance in general. If her hair wasn’t in such a heap, if her face wasn’t so blanched, she might have been attractive.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, in a tired voice.

  ‘Hi, just thought I’d drop by, we’ve been neighbours for a few years now,’ I said. For a moment, she hesitated. Then she seemed to resign herself, with a quiet sigh.

  ‘Sure, come in.’

  I was expecting filth, disarray worse than that of the garden, but was confronted instead by carton boxes and vast, empty spaces. The furniture was sparse. The living room had one couch with two wicker chairs, but no centre table or rug. Since theirs was a multi-level Classic villa, I could peer into the dining and kitchen from the entryway. The breakfast ledge was glaringly empty, the kitchen cabinets half-done. She directed me to the living room on the right, and asked if I’d like some tea.

  Pigeons clawed at her living room skylight. Her baby wailed in the ground floor bedroom, and a maid called out to the lady. ‘Oh, is that your baby?’ I asked. ‘I’d love to see her.’ Suddenly I wished I’d brought gifts for the baby, something to soften my presence.

  ‘I’ll bring her,’ the woman said. ‘After her feed.’

  Eventually, I turned the conversation towards that long-ago evening. ‘This must feel like a strange question, but a year ago, my son died in the generator room. You must have heard about it. Would you know anything about the generator guard who used to work there then? Because he wasn’t doing his duty...’

  ‘No, I don’t know him at all. I don’t know any of the guards here.’

  ‘This is so long ago, but do you remember summoning a guard to your home for some reason? Maybe you needed help with something?’

  ‘Can’t remember doing that. We’ve always kept to ourselves, we don’t really interact with people here.’

  Everyone else must have forgotten that evening. Only I was fated to remember it forever. ‘Who invited you into Fantasia? Did you have friends...?’

  ‘Some friends who knew Jacob. Would you like some tea?’ She pointed apologetically towards the kitchen. ‘Our cabinets have been dismantled.’

  ‘If you need a good carpenter, I know someone.’

  ‘We’re not planning to do anything here. We’re moving out,’ she said.

  ‘You’re moving out? Why?’

  ‘Going back to the US.’

  ‘Is it your husband’s job?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and paused, her eyes roving across my face, as if assessing my trustworthiness. Then she flopped into a wicker chair and sighed. ‘Our daughter, the second one, has issues with her motor movements. I’ve taken her to several doctors already, they’ve said there’s no cure. So we want to go back to the US, because we might find specialists who can tackle it better.’

  My face must have radiated surprise: ‘My goodness, that’s a huge decision. Are you sure you can’t handle this here?’

  ‘I don’t want to stay in India with a child like this. I don’t think our country is equipped for such children.’

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ My voice had softened. I was already feeling sorry for the couple. No wonder they’d neglected the garden.

  In a short while, she led me into the baby’s room. The white wooden crib was empty. ‘My maid has taken her out for a walk,’ the woman said. I continued to proffer assistance in all matters: with packers, with the move, with doctor contacts in the US, till my eyes were riveted by something else, by a piece of plastic that hung from the far end of the crib. A plastic mobile that had a smiling face imprinted on both sides. That clown with its chilling grin, like the one on Raj’s child’s crib. My hands slid from the crib and covered my mouth.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

  ‘A gift,’ the lady said.

  ‘Who gave it to you?’ I said.

  ‘We found it on our threshold. Wrapped up in ruled paper. I thought it was garbage at first, but when I opened it, I realised it was a toy. At first, I was going to throw it away. But when my daughter saw it, she smiled. For the first time in her life. So I hung it on her crib. She loves it. Listen, to this.’

  And she pressed the clown’s round nose and the mouth cackled. With a sound as macabre as I had expected it to be. With a voice too high-pitched for a male, too low-pitched for a female. With a voice that seemed to emerge from some netherworld, and shatter my tranquil facade. Something about it brought back shards from my dreams: that garden, that swinging branch, a child’s gruesome cries.

  The woman stood there and smiled politely, but I could feel the heat rising in my ears. If the noise hadn’t died down in a few seconds, I felt like something inside me would have broken.

  Later on, after I had left her house, the sound continued to echo in my head. But it wasn’t just the grinning face that left me jittery. Their child, like mine, had a condition, as did Raj’s child, and Kalpana’s, and Joanne’s, whether she would admit it or not. Was there some kind of curse on this community? I didn’t think the Villa 37 folks had anything to do with the guard’s absence from the generator room on that fateful evening. Had someone wanted me to visit this home for a reason? To impart a sinister warning?

  Shortly after, the Villa 37 family quit Fantasia. I had offered again to help with packing and moving out, but the lady refused.

  Soon, they advertised on our email group for tenants. But Raj, as President of the committee, reminded them that we had signed a no-rent clause with the builder. Since, Fantasia was a by-invitation only community, we were not allowed to lease our homes for a period of eight years. Even after that period, potential tenants would be interviewed by the committee. No one contested those rules since we were sure that that the property values would rise, as Raj projected. Fantasia, in those days, was considered the address in Bangalore.

  SIXTEEN

  THOUGH OUR EARLIER CHATS had been fuelled by my surreptitious enquiries, over time, I grew rather fond of Manjushri. She wasn’t just a source anymore, but a friend I could trust.

  She called me if her period was delayed, even by a week, in a voice brimming with joy. And later on, when the ruthless drip-drop arrived, I tried to rally her spirits with chocolatey treats or jokey jibes about our neighbours. Attending to another person’s sorrow distracted me from the gaping hole in our lives.

  Since we were often seen together, the others sometimes asked me about her plans or whereabouts: �
��We’re going up to the mall for lunch? Would you like to join us? Would Manju?’ We met every day, often buzzed each other on the intercom, and shared visits to the city for various reasons: to Rhea’s school for a performance, to a ladies’ tailor, or to a sudden lunch out.

  One afternoon, I spilt my suspicions about the other kids. I felt like I knew Manjushri well enough to trust her with secrets.

  Manjushri’s jaw slackened: ‘Are you saying Vedika, that these other kids intentionally killed your boy?’

  ‘I’m not saying that yet, but there are these strange goings-on. Why did Gowri disappear? Why are the kids blaming Bijoy?’

  ‘Kids play games, Vedika. But they’re kids.’

  ‘I think you’re right, and please don’t tell anyone else. The other mothers will hate me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Veds. Your secret is safe with me.’ She winked at me, but the wink seemed forced. ‘How’s it going with Manas? I’m sure it must be tough after -’

  Did she think that I had started losing my grip on reality? And that my marriage was in trouble? I decided then, that I couldn’t bring this up with anyone else.

  I continued stalking Joel and Suhel around the complex. Joel already seemed lean and sinewy, as if his body were prodding him into an accelerated adolescence. Suhel, however, still had his childhood flab, stomach slightly rounded under the tightened belt of his jeans. Since I could only watch them outdoors, at most times they seemed engaged in normal boyhood activities: tennis, cycling, skateboarding. Once, on the periphery of the woods, I spotted a flash of silver in Joel’s hands. A knife! He was using it to scrape the bark of a tree. As I drew closer, I heard him saying, ‘That’s how it’s done, bugger.’ How was what done? With groups of other boys, they were often sniggering or whispering furtively, but there wasn’t any other telling evidence of hidden malevolence. Yet I continued to sense a cold detachment in Joel, with his handsome features frozen, at all times, like an ice sculpture.

  I asked Damini for an opinion on the kid’s psychology. After all, Razia had mentioned that Damini had helped heal the kids after Sajan’s accident. ‘Do you think there’s something strange about him?’

  We were in the midst of a Reiki session inside her Zen room. ‘Joe? Maybe, darling. But all kids are different, don’t you think?’

  ‘Joanne said he seems to be possessed by something. Why would she say that?’

  ‘Possessed? Perhaps, she meant obsessed. Most kids are obsessed with being cool, don’t you think. We were all like that, weren’t we?’

  Damini’s gentle hands rubbed my shoulders, and I could sense a pleasant throb travel down my body. My mind travelled back to my adolescent years, to the times when I consciously rebelled against my domineering mother. Ma, who always took up the cudgels on behalf of people she thought of as oppressed, never realised that she was oppressing me all along. Oppressing me with her pursed lips, her disapproving gaze, her conspicuous disappointment in my feeble intellect. Till I sought everything she disparaged. I had resolved to be a different kind of parent, to be accepting of my children, regardless of their differences. Why had I not been given that chance with my boy?

  Below a rainbow bandana tied across her forehead, Damini’s fluid eyes roamed over my face with concern. Her iPhone played the sounds of waves crashing on a sandy beach. ‘Why bother with other kids, darling?’ Surrounded by her calming walls and resonant voice, my thoughts drifted into the inconsequential ether. At least for the duration of her session, I was willing to let go.

  SEVENTEEN

  SOON, THERE WAS TALK behind my back. For a few days, I didn’t pick up on anything. But later, on several occasions, I was sure that my friends were deliberately shutting me out from certain conversations. In the evenings, we often congregated near the kids’ play area at the golf course, a few feet away from the yelps and shrieks on the sandpit, and on one of them, Kalpana nudged Manjushri when Rhea and I emerged into view. They were standing behind the purple twisty slide, and had, for a few seconds, been talking quite animatedly. However, when I joined the group, there was a pause, a perplexing silence, before someone launched into what was obviously a new subject.

  Another time, they were walking around the lake. I heard their feverish chatter. When I caught up with them, Razia looked startled, then mildly guilty, and a hush descended on the group.

  I nearly brought it up with Manjushri once, but strangely enough she was cold-shouldering me as well. In some ways, even more than the others. When I invited her over for afternoon teas, where earlier, she never refused, she started proffering vague excuses. ‘Sorry Veds, have to do my groceries.’

  Then during a dinner with my husband, I struck on the reason for their inscrutable behaviour. We were talking about how Fantasia folks made a big deal of anniversaries and birthdays, and though we were sitting out on the master bedroom balcony, though the terrace light wasn’t turned on, I spotted a flush on his cheeks. The light was intentionally dim - a candle-lit dinner—but the change in his expression was unmistakable. Below us, besotted with the five garden lights in our backyard, moths swirled around the lambent yellows. Beyond, the lake was an unruffled stillness. While my gaze flitted between those intoxicated insects and the filmy waters beyond, I fathomed what their hushed talk was about.

  After my awkward confession to Manjushri and her concern about my marriage, I had been hinting to Manas that he wasn’t expressive enough. That we needed to show everyone that our relationship hadn’t been permanently scarred, that we had reached a new normal. That we needed to revive our annual celebrations, mark our birthdays and anniversaries with flowers and gifts. Or like Raj Mehta or Vicky, orchestrate surprise parties. A few years ago, I’d have been aghast at such demands. But there was an unspoken rivalry among Fantasia ladies to have the most romantic marriage ever, demonstrated by lavish birthdays and offbeat gifts. Vicky had gifted Kalpana a ravishing platinum necklace and even a busy doctor like Sid Shah had sprung a holiday to Phuket on Razia. I wasn’t just smarting after Manjushri’s comment. I wanted Manas to rekindle the romance. I had lost Sajan, and now I was afraid of losing myself. I was terrified that my recurring nightmares signified the end of something. I needed Manas to haul me out of my unfounded terrors, to woo me again, not just as Sajan’s or Rhea’s mother, but as his wife, the woman he had fallen in love with. Besides there was Rhea to think about. Surely, she needed to grow up in a happy home.

  I suddenly realised that our anniversary was around the corner and that Manas had roped in my friends to plan a very special event. Everything fell into place. Manjushri was scouting for a venue or a caterer. Those conspiratorial whispers around me were proof of how obliging my husband was.

  I didn’t, at any point, think of asking Manas, as I couldn’t spoil it all. But I was delighted.

  I constructed, in my head, many versions of the surprise party. I imagined, at first, he’d booked a party hall at the Leela Kempinski for a banquet dinner with cocktails. Later on, I was equally sure he planned to host the event at home. Because, two or three days before our day, I spotted him fluffing out the living room cushions and dusting the underside of the centre table, attending to housekeeping details that rarely bothered him.

  At Fantasia anniversaries, couples usually exchanged showy gifts. But I planned to give him something more personal. An origami collage that depicted our relationship: our bookstore encounter, the movie date where I lost my purse, Sajan’s birth, then Rhea’s arrival. During the morning hours, I started folding my figures and arranging them artfully on a board.

  Once or twice, I saw him carry in a few extra packages and I couldn’t resist sneaking a peek. One was a large plastic shopping bag, with a red cardboard box inside. My heart sank. Had he already bought the clichéd ring or necklace? While he was in the toilet, I pried the top open. Thank goodness, it was just an ugly mess of wires! I didn’t want jewellery like the others, but I had been eyeing an origami book by Kawasaki, a contemporary Japanese origamist. One that I had desisted from buying becau
se of its price.

  One night I snuggled up to him on our living room couch. ‘If you’re planning on any gift, there’s this awesome bookstore on Church Street that sells specialty books, including ones on origami...there’s one by Kawasaki...’

  ‘Oh?’ said Manas, feigning surprise, ‘I haven’t, I mean...okay, all right.’ Night lights glittered around the lake, and I imagined our dressy friends sparkling at our party. I didn’t need the event as much as I needed the reassurance that he still cared. Surely my son would forgive me for seeking new pleasures, for creating memories that he wouldn’t share? Or was I being selfish and self-indulgent?

  On the morning of our anniversary, Manas was unruffled and composed. As if it were any other morning. He sauntered to the gym for his weights routine, breakfasted on bread and jam, waved goodbye without so much as a peck on the cheek or even a surreptitious smile.

  The rest of the day unfolded like any other. That morning, I joined my friends for a walk around the lake and, as usual, I could sense their whispers and secret talk. I must have had a glow on my face, in anticipation of the evening, because Kalpana said: ‘You’re looking nice, Vedika. Any reason?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ I laughed, and almost winked at her, because surely the drama was being dragged out longer than needed.

  Later that day, I called Manjushri home for lunch. She accepted this time. At home, she maintained an affected normalcy, as if she didn’t know it was our anniversary. Our conversation revolved around the usual topics. But every now and then, she let this simpering smile escape, and each time I caught her with it, she turned scarlet.

  That evening, I expected Manas to return from work earlier than usual. By 6 p.m., I was worried and impatient. I stepped outdoors, towards the golf course park area, where the mothers were gathered as always. Rhea accompanied me, in her favourite denim outfit. I already had a party dress set out for her on our ironing board, a frilly pink top with an off-white skirt. None of the women were dressed up, but they were talking again in that hushed manner. Manjushri spotted me and shushed them into silence. I couldn’t contain myself any longer.