Miss Timmins' School for Girls

by Nayana Currimbhoy

  It sounded lame, even to me. “But at least there is one bright spot,” I said. “At least I solved one mystery. It’s Kushal watching me in Aeolia at night.” I scraped up the last of the omelet grease from the frying pan with a piece of pau bread.

  “You stay here with me, until all this passes,” he said. I was hurt, but tried not to be, because he did not say, “You stay here with me forever.”

  “But it’s causing such a scandal,” I said. “Why don’t you stay with me there, in Aeolia?”

  “And why will that be less scandalous?”

  “Well it’s far away. We can be more furtive. This place is in the middle of everything. Even the girls were sniggering about it.”

  He was silent for a minute. “What would you rather do?” he asked.

  “I am not safe here. I think I should leave Panchgani. The inspector told me I would be needed for questioning. I am to inform him if I need to leave Panchgani.” I said it not because I wanted to go. I knew I could not leave now. I had swallowed Panchgani and could not leave until I digested it. Or maybe it was the other way around. Panchgani had swallowed me, and I could not leave until it was finished with me.

  I said it, waiting for him to say, “Don’t go, I’ll miss you.” But he said nothing.

  I felt resentment against Merch creep upon me again. His holding back. Why can’t he say he will marry me? Then we would live here without the swirling rumors, and he would keep me safe.

  But the image crumpled before it was fully formed. I could not imagine the two of us bustling around with children and shining brass pots.

  “Why not tell him about Kushal?” he asked. I shook my head then.

  But later that night I awoke in a cold sweat. I sat up in bed knowing that I was not safe in Panchgani unless I told the inspector that I was in danger from his son, who was not really his son. And I would never be safe within myself until I confessed to what I really saw on table-land on the night of Pin’s death.

  Merch opened his eyes. He took my hand and kissed it and held it against his chest, playing with my fingers.

  “I don’t know if I should be saying this,” he said in a hoarse just-awoken voice, “but I love you.”

  “You should say it if it’s true,” I said. He felt so safe and clean and good I could not believe it was still the night of the leering caveman.

  He stroked my hand as one might a puppy. “But you, you are a restless one.”

  “And you are not? I think we would be good together. We would be, Merch.”

  “Let’s take it as it comes.” He pulled me down and kept my head in the hollow of his shoulder.

  I rolled over to the other side of the bed.

  “I am not one for commitment,” he said, knowing he had hurt me. “But you know I am yours.”

  As long as it’s fiction, I thought.

  The next morning, I asked Merch to come with me to Inspector Wagle for moral support. But just as we were about to enter the chowki I changed my mind. I decided I was better off going in alone.

  “I need to change my statement,” I told the inspector. He looked at me uncomprehending at first. My voice was shaking. “I need to change my statement about my activities on the night of the murder.”

  He looked very tired. There were large dark pouches under his eyes. “Now what is it, Charu?” he asked.

  I confessed. “I did go up to table-land that night for the same reasons as I earlier stated. Moira Prince had come to my room and told me she was thinking of jumping off the cliff. She did not tell me about the letter and the fateful message it contained. I thought I calmed her down. But later that night I awoke with a start from a bad dream and felt that she might still have gone up.

  “But when I went up to table-land, I did see something. I saw Moira Prince standing against the needle. Before I could go up to her, I saw Miss Shirley Nelson approach her. Miss Nelson patted her on the back. Moira Prince did not turn. Miss Nelson left and walked down from table-land. I turned and walked back soon after her.”

  I became bold and strong as soon as I began the first line. It was the most liberating moment of my life.

  “She was alive when you left?” he asked. “Did you talk to her?”

  “No, I did not go up to her.”

  Mr. Woggle was eyeing me with displeasure and disbelief. You mean you went all the way up to table-land in the middle of a monsoon night because you were worried about her, and then you turned and left without talking to her? And how did you suppose she would not jump after you left, since, by your own admission, you were concerned about her safety? I think this is what he must have been itching to ask—I would have been, if I were him—but I was so clear and confident that he decided to say nothing.

  “You will be testifying under oath in court soon,” he said. “Nelson is accused of the murder, so you cannot be accused at the same time. But you will be cross-examined by big-city lawyers. Do not take this lightly. You young people do not understand what you meddle and say.”

  “I did not kill her. If I had, why would I come forward at this stage? To be put under suspicion? I am doing it because I cannot leave Nelson falsely accused.”

  “It is not as simple as that,” said the inspector. “Why did you lie in the first statement?” I noticed he avoided saying my name.

  “My mother was in critical condition,” I said. “I thought the shock of it would kill her.”

  “If, as you say, you did not even go up to her, what is the shock?” We were both silent for a moment. A young Brahmin girl from Indore, or even from Panchangi, for that matter, does not reveal her sex life to an inspector. I could not say I went up to table-land to find Prince due to a lover’s quarrel. Decorum must be maintained at all costs, even though we were talking of murder.

  “And your mother, she is better now?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, “she is still in a coma.”

  “Nelson will be tried in court, and if she is found not guilty due to your testimony, it may be your turn next. Have you talked to your family about this?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have,” I lied, but it was a white lie, with no guilt attached. I had still to figure out how I would tell Ayi and Baba, and what it might do to them in their fragile state.

  “Now, you are telling me that the principal didn’t kill her and you did not kill her.” He looked defeated, I thought, more than anything else. “Who killed her, then?”

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “Well, you can tell that to the court. For now we will record your new statement and pass it on to the relevant authorities.” He was silent for a while, seemed to have trouble breathing. Our beer and peanut evenings seemed from another life. “You could face charges for perjury. Or for obstructing justice, if the matter gets really out of hand.”

  So that was done. Without further ado, I launched into the second subject.

  I have a complaint, I said, against Kushal Wagle.

  The inspector stiffened and looked at me with distaste. Distaste for me or Kushal or perhaps for us both.

  “You are trying to tell me that he assaulted you in Devil’s Kitchen at 8 p.m. last night?” he said when my story was complete.

  “Yes.”

  The inspector looked me up and down. I could not blame him, exactly. I had already lied to him before.

  “And what do you want me to do about it?” he finally asked.

  “I want to register an official complaint,” I said. “He should be locked up. He is a danger and a threat.”

  Even to my own ears, I was beginning to sound hysterical and high-pitched. The inspector must think I am mad. Cracking under duress. He might think I was one of those strange repressed women—often thin and ugly like me—who began by getting tremors and temple trances, and progressed to making up stories with connotations of lewd attacks. He might even think I made up the entire
table-land episode.

  Inspector Wagle frowned, folds of plump flesh puckering. He called in his hawaldar. The hawaldar stood at attention beside the desk. You could hear the inspector’s mind working.

  Finally, he said, “Tell Manu to take the car and fetch Kushal here. Not the jeep, the closed car, the Ambassador.”

  We waited in silence. The inspector pretending to be reading some official reports, I staring at the wall.

  Kushal shambled into the office. He gave me a defiant smile.

  “So what happened last night?” the inspector asked him in Marathi, his voice curt, his lip curled in disgust.

  “Didn’t she tell you?” he answered, insisting again on English. “I saved her life. I don’t know what she was doing down there, but I saved her life. Heard her scream and pulled her out of the hole above the cave. Maybe she is here to give me my reward.”

  “But you tried to—tried to threaten me,” I almost screamed in anger and frustration.

  “Did you or did you not lay a hand on her?” asked the inspector. He stood up, came around his desk, and even though he was at least two inches shorter than the boy, the inspector raised his hand and gave him a hard slap on his cheek. Kushal cowered, and in that moment I saw the helpless eyes of a lost, abused child.

  The inspector turned to me. “I cannot control this boy anymore. Go ahead, register your complaint.”

  “No,” I said, feeling sorry for him. “I do not want to record a statement. But I want some kind of assurance that he will not harass me in the future. I think he follows me and spies on me.”

  “We will see to it,” said the Woggle.

  “What does that mean?” I asked the inspector.

  “Curfew,” said the inspector without looking at Kushal. “If he cannot be trusted, then he will be locked into his room at night. I cannot have a member of my own family causing disturbances in town.”

  “Well, then, I guess I will be safe,” I said, and turned to leave.

  Kushal showed no gratitude for my soft heart. “Ha!” he said. “She knows I can get her sent to jail. Instead of punishing me, ask her. Ask her what she does at night when she goes up to table-land with all those boys.”

  Then he turned, pointed to me, and said, “She’s a whore.” He used the Marathi word, which sounded even worse. “She’s a randi and a murderer.”

  “Shut up, you bloody idiot!” shouted the inspector. “You dumb son of a bitch, you know-nothing. Why did I keep you and your slut of a mother in my home? Taking advantage of my good nature. And now this. Take him out of my sight.” He directed his order to the hovering hawaldar.

  I remembered the night of my first dinner with the Woggles, when I had returned to find Janaki wailing. So this must be a regular fixture of family night at the Woggles. The Woggle’s torture chamber. Slow drip.

  But Kushal stood his ground. “I saw her,” he said, pointing his fat index finger at me. “That night from my room. I saw her running down. And it was after the scream.”

  “What is this babble?” asked the inspector with a snort.

  “That night, I heard shouting and screaming, ‘Help, help, help!’ It was a terrible scream, and I heard it. It was at least ten minutes after that that I saw Charu running down.”

  “And all this time you said nothing? Don’t tamper in this matter.” The inspector went to Kushal, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him up. He raised his hand again, but the hawaldar discreetly separated them.

  “You can hit me. Coward. Hit me,” said Kushal. “But I will record this statement. If you don’t take it, I will go down to Satara Court.”

  “He’s lying,” I shouted. “There was no scream.”

  The inspector turned to me. “And how would you know that?”

  “If Kushal heard the scream, and I was on or near table-land, I would have heard it. And for that matter, no one else did. Not the girls, the boys, or even Shankar. He was in the cave; he would have heard the scream. He would have said so in his defense when he was arrested.”

  “You can’t stop me,” said Kushal. “I heard a scream, and I saw this whore”—he pointed in anger—“I saw her running down after the scream.”

  All those years of being a good girl were wasted now and gone. I had been accused of being a whore and a murderess. I should have felt distraught, destroyed. But I felt as light as a feather.

  Thirty-two

  Silver Oak Wind

  My world was turning cartwheels. It was straight when I was high and upside down when I was not, and so it was always in the school that the world was most warped, because I never went stoned to school.

  But perhaps I could, I was thinking as I walked into school the next morning in my one and only pair of blue jeans and Pin’s short saffron kurta. Pin must have come stoned to school. I’m sure I could do it too. No one would ever know. Few people really looked beyond the blot, after all.

  The walk from Aeolia was windy, and I was running my hands through my hair. I cast a different shadow in my wild blowing short hair, I was thinking in a pleased manner when I ran into Miss Wilson outside the staff room. There was a strange man in a frayed black suit sitting on the bench outside the staff room. Miss Wilson raised her eyebrows and blushed brick red. “Er, Miss Apte, can I see you in my office for a minute?” she said.

  In her office, she stood on the carpet of recalcitrant students, so that I was forced to stand beside her. She handed me an envelope from the Satara District Court. I knew what it was already. I had been expecting it ever since I heard that Nelson had a lawyer. It was a summons to appear before the court as a witness for the defense.

  I took the thick envelope and turned to go. But Miss Wilson was not finished with me.

  “Just a minute, Miss Apte, I’ve been meaning to bring up a small matter for a few days now, and I suppose now is as good a time as any. You see, the girls are not allowed to wear trousers,” she said quite conversationally, now having composed her face and drawn the mantle of leadership about her. “There was an incident when bell-bottom trousers were confiscated from the senior dorm. It was last summer, before you came, of course, just before the school fete.”

  I had heard of how Miss Manson made the girls kneel in front of her as she measured the distance from the ground to their hems. And then made them stand up so she could measure the width of their hemlines. But I had not heard of the pants episode.

  “Actually, I think there is no harm in them being allowed to wear trousers now,” said Miss Wilson. “Times have changed, and it would keep their minds from the minidress. I do think it can be done, but now is not the time. What do you think?” she asked, rubbing her pointy chin.

  It would throw Miss Manson, the elastic watcher, out of business is what I was thinking, but I nodded sagely and said, “No, not the time. Perhaps next year.”

  “Then it would be better for their morale, don’t you think, if you did not wear trousers? While you are inside the school, that is, of course.”

  I knew that Pin was the only woman in Timmins who wore pants, but I presumed it was out of choice that no one else did. And truly, it was hard to see Jacinta Mathews or Willy in divided legs.

  I spun around to go, although she had said nothing about the meeting being over. “There were trousers worn by a teacher last term,” I muttered over my shoulder. “I do not see why I cannot wear them too.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw her face redden again, and in her eyes a spark of anger, the kind of anger that Pin must have elicited. I did begin to feel that we were good for each other, the Prince and I, a good cop and bad cop rolled into one, better equipped to solve the mystery of her murder, which was a good thing, because I was sure that my life de
pended on it.

  To my relief, the staff room was empty when I entered. In my cubby was the weekly letter from Baba.

  My dear Charu,

  I trust this letter finds you in the best of health and happiness. We are both fine here.

  Your Ayi is gaining her strength. She drinks chicken soup every night. She is more relaxed, now that she is at home, and her eyes are showing signs of comprehension. You should not worry about her. I judge the prognosis to be good.

  We are hiring a new maid for your mother, since the last one was caught stealing some food items by the jamadarni, who still comes to clean.

  It is getting cold in the evenings here in Indore. But the days are pleasant. Ayi and I take our walks at 5 p.m. instead of 6. She walks for quite a stretch now.

  Take care of yourself, and do not worry about the home front.

  Your loving,

  Baba

  His letters were always terse and pointed. That is how he must have taught himself to write in the navy.

  He knew nothing of my new life as the Panchgani bad girl. He thought I still lived in the back room of the school hospital. Now that I judged the water to be around my neck, I thought perhaps I should tell him that I was embedded in the notorious murder trial.

  “I will get a lawyer. I will arrange for you to stay for some time with my brother’s niece and her husband in Poona,” he might say.

  But before that, I would have to tell him a very long story, full of sharp turns and spins. I did not have the strength for it, and neither did they. Let Ayi recover, for now at least.