Later, when Manas suggested we play Pictionary, Bijoy nodded vigorously and Rhea said, ‘I’m on Mama’s team.’ He was blathering more than he had all day, though his syllabic torrent was difficult to grasp. I drew Manas aside and gently whispered: ‘But he can’t read or draw. How can he play?’ Manas brushed my objections aside with an optimistic, ‘We’ll see, Bijoy and I will be one team.’ The game we had at home was a junior version, gifted to Sajan by his grandfather. The words were simple, easy enough for a six or seven year old to comprehend. The first word that Manas drew was a home, with a steep angled roof. ‘Ow, ow,’ Bijoy said. ‘That’s right, ows,’ Manas said. ‘Ows,’ Bijoy repeated. ‘Awesome, Bijoy,’ I said.
We went through crow, fire, stick, money, game, bat, Bijoy occasionally springing in with homophonic sounds. Then Manas drew a smiley face for ‘smile’. I was planning to rise, to fetch my favourite green tea, when I saw the expression morph on Bijoy’s face. It was as if someone had injured him, a shocked pain radiating from his quivering lips to his shuddering hands. I froze in my half-risen position, and touched him gently. I thought he was having an attack of some sort. Rhea rose from my lap and stroked his head, asking, ‘What happened Bijoy?’
Bishnu hadn’t warned me of anything. I wasn’t equipped with any medicine or advice to handle this. ‘Bijoy, are you okay?’ I said. He looked up at me, and I realised with a sudden shudder that the trigger was the face, the smiley, clown-like face that my artless husband had penciled on the Pictionary slip. The cheery circle was evoking terror in Bijoy. Why?
‘Who is that?’ I asked.
‘Juh, juh, juh,’ he said.
‘That’s juh?’
Yes, he nodded. A vigorous, emphatic nod. Then he pointed towards the stairs, and beckoned me to follow. He led me to the study room, where he pointed again at the Korean dragon mask. I still didn’t get it, but a menacing laugh echoed between my ears. That explosive netherworld sound I had heard in Villa 37, from the smiling mobile hung over the baby’s crib. Then other images spurted into view. That chalky drawing on the village door. The doll in my son’s hand. ‘Is ‘juh’ a doll?’ I asked. He shook his head. No. He pointed at Manas, who entered the study room with his palms turned upward in bafflement. ‘Is ‘juh’ a man?’ Bijoy nodded. We were getting somewhere. ‘He’s a smiling man?’ Yes, Bijoy nodded. ‘A clown?’ I said. The child’s nod was vehement and brisk. A clown? But Juh? ‘Joker?’ I asked. He hugged me, burying his face into my long kurta. Yes, he seemed to say. Yes, you foolish woman. You finally understand. A joker? I realised with a shudder that the Joker was Batman’s fiercest enemy. And there was nothing more menacing than his permanent grin.
Was it a clown who pushed my son into that smoky darkness? But yes, of course, it had been Akshay’s birthday. Perhaps Kalpana had hired a clown?
TWENTY-SIX
KALPANA’S LIVING ROOM WAS as forbidding as her harmonised life. Her period furniture, imported from a Pierre Borges of London, with fluted legs and cushioned arms, was swaddled in wine-coloured velvet. The brass lamps, the bronze umbrella stand, the mirrors with gilded frames, and the chiming cuckoo clock echoed the rich, metallic sheen of her hand-painted wall paper. On her walls, stylised birds floated among gilded leaves and coppery flowers. Moreover, Kalpana’s stentorian tones and the priestly authority with which she asserted her views on everything, heightened my sense of having broken into a church or an ancient palace.
‘A clown?’ said Kalpana, raising her eyebrows into a quizzical Y. ‘Yes, of course we had a clown. It was the best part of the event. The kids loved him.’ I had, after congratulating Kalpana on her recent promotion, gently steered the talk towards that evening.
‘Was it a hired clown? Did you know who it was? I’m planning for Rhea’s birthday.’
‘I wouldn’t know that, Vedika. I had a party planner handle all those details.’
‘The clown was hired by a party planner?’
‘Yes, she did everything. But the clown was a big hit.’ Then Kalpana’s face momentarily softened, and her eyebrows settled into a straight line. ‘I remember your son laughing a lot.’
I was sipping tea from her intricately patterned chinaware, and I felt the hot liquid scald my throat. The image slid into place like the final scene in some horror film: my son clapping and laughing at his killer?
‘This clown, did he ever take off his costume? You know, like reveal himself?’
‘No, why would he do that? He didn’t even stay to eat, I remember that. He just entertained the kids, made them laugh, then buzzed off.’
‘Who was the party planner?’
‘Some woman called Sonu Singh. She’s good. Does everything, so you don’t have to handle the nitty-gritties.’
‘You know, Kalps, I’ve been meaning to ask you for this earlier. But you know how that evening was the last time my son…’ I couldn’t hold the cup any longer, my hands were quivering. ‘Can you send me all the photographs of that event. I want to look at him again, at Sajan, at the way he was just before…’ Even if my intentions were masked, my feelings were real. I wanted those images of my son, those last few cheerful fragments before he was whisked away by that grinning villain.
‘Of course, I’ll mail them to you.’ I was expecting Kalpana to rebuff my requests. Maybe her recent promotion made her more expansive and yielding. She promised to send me Sonu Singh’s details, and we chatted about other Fantasia birthdays.
Sonu suggested we meet at Café Brewster, one of several hip cafes dotting 100 Feet Road at Indiranagar. She sounded eager on the phone, assuming perhaps that she had snagged another prospective client. Since I rarely left the complex of late, a purposeful visit to the city seemed strangely compelling.
Sonu was already seated at one of the outdoor tables, under a striped umbrella that barely warded off the midday sun. But the sun’s radiance was overshadowed by the cafe’s yellow walls, white-yellow checked table cloths, white uniformed waiters with starchy, yellow aprons. I had expected someone more matronly; she was a thin, wispy woman, young enough to be mistaken for a college student.
‘How did you get started with party planning?’ I asked, after ordering my café-au-lait and croissant. Behind us, loud chatter and laughter mingled with the brew of strong mochas. A group of actors seemed to be celebrating a recent production, while at another table, a nervy entrepreneur pitched his venture to a funder. Lounging against the yellow wall sofas, a young couple stared intently into each other’s eyes.
‘I was an event manager at this PR company, but then I had a baby. So I wanted to do something on my own. Needed the flexible hours. This seemed like a great option.’
‘Kalpana was saying you did a great job for her son’s birthday, and my daughter’s is coming up. You remember Akshay’s birthday at Fantasia?’
‘I’ve done many more parties after that, Ma’am. I can show you pictures.’ Sonu scrolled through her phone, pressing on links. ‘This was a Mickey Mouse birthday, this was a Tintin birthday.’
‘You had this clown performing at Kalpana’s home? Apparently, he was a great hit with the kids. Do you use that clown for other parties also?’
She looked up startled. The sun, leaking through our inadequate umbrella, spotlit her face with white patches, highlighting creases beneath her eyes. Perhaps she wasn’t that young, after all.
‘Which clown, Ma’am?’
‘The clown at Akshay’s party? I believe he was very popular…?’
‘That clown? I didn’t order him, Ma’am ordered him.’
‘Ma’am? Kalpana? No, she said you brought him in.’
‘I had ordered a clown, but he didn’t show up because he had some accident on the way. Someone called me the next day and told me that Sidhappa had an accident, I hadn’t paid him even, so I thought Kalpana Ma’am must have ordered the other clown.’
‘His name was Sidhappa? Your clown?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I haven’t seen him since, no one has asked for clowns…’
&nbs
p; “But Kalpana clearly said you organised everything.’
‘But not that clown…but Ma’am, if you want another clown, I can get you one. There’s an online company that provides clowns and magicians for Bangalore parties. It’s called Entertainers-for-Hire. I found Sidhappa through them…’
‘Was he fat, thin, tall, short? The clown who turned up?’
Sonu laughed. ‘You seem obsessed with that clown, Ma’am. There are many others… That clown wasn’t even that good. He twisted black balloons into birds, and the birds didn’t even look that good. They looked odd, as if their necks had been broken.’
A stab of fear pierced my gut, as an image tumbled into my consciousness: that bird at Manjushri’s cradling had its neck broken, and a black balloon tied to its feet. Also, the balloons inside the tree house. Were those warnings from the macabre killer clown? The coffee shook inside my quivering fingers. ‘Kalpana was saying he was so good, I want to hire him again. But was he thin and tall? Do you remember?’
‘It was so long ago, that party. One of my first events. Don’t remember all the details. I think the clown was hefty, and maybe medium height.’
‘Do you have pictures of that party, Sonu?’
Sonu had only two pictures saved of my son’s last afternoon, a picture of party hats, twisted streamers and balloons. And of a Mickey cake, uncut, with unlit candles. Of a time, when Sajan must have been romping around our home, his pulse ticking, his veins throbbing. With life.
On the way home, I received Kalpana’s message with the promised pictures. But my attention was lured by the pandemonium at the Hoodi junction as my driver avoided a near-collision with a distracted pedestrian. The ever-tightening squash of two-wheelers and four-wheelers inside Bangalore’s clogged arteries led to bloodcurdling near-misses on every journey.
As the car jockeyed between two heaving buses, I tapped on her images. I was riveted by two pictures, in particular. One of Sajan with Akshay, the two of them beaming into the camera with impish, cakey grins. Another of five children, no Sajan among them, and the clown’s mask grinning through the group. He was stooping to the kids’ height, his coloured face breaking into their circle. No part of his body was visible. The mask, sculpted from white plastic, had red, blue and black hues painted on it. I flipped the phone to its horizontal position, magnified the spooky plastic with wide ears, a red nose, a thick, nasty grin. The mask! This clown had worn a mask instead of painting his face, and that’s why Bijoy was pointing to the Korean mask in our media room. Bijoy was far cannier than he seemed.
I started wondering too, about the child’s death games. Maybe Bijoy wasn’t obsessed with death, but was trying to communicate something? Something that his mother could not grasp.
I messaged Kalpana about the clown: ‘Sonu thought you ordered the clown. She doesn’t know where he came from.’
‘Me?’ responded Kalpana, after an interminable few hours. ‘Definitely not me. Maybe she’s forgotten.’
I didn’t think Sonu had forgotten at all. Either Kalpana or Sonu were lying. Or neither knew where the clown came from. Was he a stranger and a trespasser into our colony? Or some other clown from that online company? Rhea’s birthday was actually a few months away, but perhaps the planning could start.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WHEN I CALLED ENTERTAINERS-FOR-HIRE, I said my daughter was very particular about the clown’s personality. I needed to interview their clowns in costume, before selecting one. I was, however, willing to settle the payment in advance.
Fortunately, the male voice, sounding rather resigned, agreed.
‘I believe you have someone called Sidhappa working for you? I’d like to meet him too,’ I said.
‘Sidhappa doesn’t work for us anymore. We’ll send you others.’
I called Bishnu on the intercom and asked if I could take Bijoy out for a day. To a mall, to an ice cream shop and to a lunch out. For a day filled with kiddie activities. Bishnu agreed readily, having heard about the success of Bijoy’s visit.
The clowns had agreed to meet with us at the Swenson’s outlet at the Phoenix mall, where Bijoy, Rhea and I settled down behind large vanilla sundaes topped with chocolate sauce and nuts. Although Rhea wasn’t clued into our real purpose, she seemed excited by the novelty of our outing. The first clown was tall and long-haired, his face thin and angular. The clown paint on his cheeks and around his eyes seemed ill-suited to his emaciated frame. I had already briefed Bijoy about the purpose of our encounters: did any of these clowns resemble that clown? Staring dutifully at the skinny man, the kid shook his head emphatically.
The second clown, somewhat shorter and with a slight limp in his walk, straddled the threshold of the ice cream shop with a bunch of balloons in his fist. Bijoy formed a small chocolatey ‘no’ with his lips. The third one, who wore a purple wig and matching purple pants, sported a large paunch held together by a rainbow belt. His face, too, was made up with cheap paint that barely concealed his ebony skin. Bijoy shook his head again. When the fourth clown arrived, I held my breath. He had a hefty build, (‘big made’, as Sonu said) and was of medium height. He wore a rainbow wig, and a fat red knob for a nose. His eyes were circled in black. But he too, had painted his skin, instead of donning a mask. Bijoy, I realised, had stopped eating. The whorls in his eyes seemed to widen, he looked at me and nodded. Then looked up again and seemed to change his mind, because he shook his head. Was he unsure?
‘Is this him?’ I whispered.
‘Muh, muh, muh…’ the child said.
‘Maybe?’ I asked.
The child nodded, and then backed away from the table, huddling closer to me. I called the clown over to join us for an ice cream treat. He moved rather clumsily towards us, as if his walk were part of an act. His name, he said, was Muniraj, and he worked as a cook at a restaurant. He wore these costumes as a side business, to earn extra bucks. From up close, he seemed to have blotches on his skin.
‘Did you know someone called Sidhappa?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, sounding startled. ‘He was cleaner in the hotel. He only told me about this job. He told me where to rent the costume.’
‘Did you go to Fantasia in Whitefield for a birthday, held a long time ago? Did Sidhappa ask you to substitute for him?’
He looked at me with a weird expression, as if my face had morphed into something frightening. ‘Sidhappa died on the way to Whitefield party.’
Something fluttered inside my stomach and the wretched tingle started crawling up my spine. ‘Sidhappa died? How?’
‘Hit by truck.’
‘Hit by a truck? Was it a speeding truck?’
He nodded. ‘Bike and truck, accident.’ He banged his fist into his palm.
‘Do you know what happened exactly?’
‘Truck driver from Dhoolvansh was drunk, Sidhappa died in hospital.’ I stared at Muniraj, at his wobbly form, trying to ignore the spoon trembling inside my hands. Had he just mentioned Dhoolvansh? The place where Baba once lived. The creepy feeling evoked by my nightmares started climbing up my back.
‘How do you know he was from Dhoolvansh?’
‘It was bad accident, police checked his license.’
‘So did you substitute for Sidhappa? Did you go to the Fantasia party?’
He shook his head, and Bijoy also mouthed a firm ‘no’. There had been another accidental death that evening, wasn’t that bizarre? Was it linked to Sajan’s death? After all, the clown who had been hired, had been knocked off. And another clown had taken his place. It clearly wasn’t Muniraj, who still seemed to be mourning his friend’s loss. Whose testimony seemed too artless, if he was indeed the interloper. And what about the link with Dhoolvansh? Was that immaterial, a mere coincidence?
As Muniraj wobbled away from us, I walked up to the cash counter to settle our bill. I turned to gesture at the kids after I’d settled the amount. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, when I spotted the blank chair and stopped breathing. Rhea was missing! I had left our table for a few second
s only, and where had my child disappeared to? I turned to Bijoy: ‘Where’s Rhea?’ The kid shook his head.
I could feel my palms grow damp as I rushed out of the store, Bijoy in tow, shouting her name: ‘RHEA, RHEA.’ The ice cream store was located near a courtyard, filled with indoor plants and a musical fountain, but the idyllic setting couldn’t allay my fears. I had left her only for a few seconds, she couldn’t have gone far. Across from the store, a noisy bowling alley beckoned with its throbbing music and fluorescent lights. Was she in there?
I dashed into the bowling centre and staggered to the front of the ticket queue like a drunk. ‘Have you seen a little girl? Just this height, did she come in here?’ My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. A few gawking teenagers hung about the bowling alley but clearly Rhea wasn’t among them.
From my few years at Fremont, I remembered 911, the American emergency number. But I wasn’t sure if the Indian number would evoke a similar urgency. Where should I go? A security guard was walking past the shiny corridor, and I gripped his arm frantically. ‘A little girl, this height, she’s missing. Where can I make an announcement?’
‘You have to go upstairs Madam, meet with the mall manager.’
No, I wasn’t willing to leave that floor. Not yet. Bijoy gestured towards a Levi’s store, to the racks laden with jeans and jackets. Ignoring the consternation of the jeans-clad sales staff, we darted between the tiny spaces, still shouting out her name: ‘RHEA, RHEA’. Why had I brought her even, instead of leaving her with Mariamma? Though if she wasn’t safe with me, who could I entrust her with? We were about to rush up the lifts, towards the manager’s room, when Bijoy tugged at my arm.
Emerging from a gourmet grocery store was Rhea, seemingly unaffected by the chaos she had stirred around her. ‘Rhea,’ I screamed, hugging her tightly. ‘Where did you go? Don’t you know you shouldn’t leave me like that? I was so scared! Why did you go in there?’
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