The Trickster

by Vinaya Bhagat

  ‘I am sure you can run faster if you want,’ she said.

  ‘You are Manu’s daughter, no doubt about that. He was kindness itself.’

  ‘But I don’t look like my father …’ Diya said.

  ‘No, I think you take after your mother’s side of the family.’ Sunny critically surveyed her face.

  Did he know her mother’s family? What other secrets did her father’s friend or brother know?

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mother’s family.’

  ‘Unfortunately no, we never met.’

  Then why did he say that she must have inherited her looks from her mother’s side of the family?

  ‘Sometime I wonder if I was adopted.’ Diya scanned Sunny’s face for clues.

  ‘You may not look like Manu, but you are definitely his daughter. Having you was the best thing that happened to your parents. Your birth helped them forget their loss. For the first time, my brother was happy. He was the best father, wasn’t he?’

  Diya nodded, choking back her tears.

  ‘Moreover, looks mean nothing. Look at Ronnie; he looks exactly like me when I was young. He would look handsome, but he refuses to grow a moustache. What is a man without his moustache, eh? He has no respect for his father. Dragging me away …’

  Ruth was in the kitchen with Rini and Diya

  ‘Diya, I did not know you were awake.’ Ruth came out with a cup of tea. ‘What would you like to have?’

  ‘She will have ginger tea like Manu of course,’ Sunny chimed in.

  ‘Ginger tea is fine.’ Diya tried to keep her voice light. This was the third reference to her father’s visit to his family.

  Her father travelled abroad two to three times a year for conferences but he had never mentioned going to India.

  If she was not adopted, why had her father kept his family a secret? Did her mother know about this or was she too in the dark about her father’s visits? Diya suspected that her mother was privy to the secret sojourns. The secrecy baffled her. Why hide that you were visiting your family? That you even had a family?

  Doubt once again roared its ugly head. Why had her parents been so secretive and what other secrets had they hidden? She could not, would not and accept that they were drug addicts.

  Bailey had acknowledged that Diya might have noticed if her parents were drug addicts but he had said there could be other reasons. Did he suspect that her parents were drug traffickers in the garb of intellectual academicians? That was ridiculous; there had to be another explanation. Diya refused to dwell on why her father had never mentioned his family. Sunny and his family’s kindness was her lifeline out of the ugly mire of doubt.

  ‘He came every year, didn’t he?’ She asked Sunny.

  ‘Yes, once every year. Manu was the most devoted son and brother. Every year he promised to bring you and Meera but for some reason or other and now ...’ Sunny’s eyes welled up and a look of raw pain contorted his cheerful face.

  ‘I have to get ready for office.’ He excused himself.

  Diya wandered through the well-kept garden. The air had lost its chilly edge, but it was still cool enough to send goose bumps scampering up her arms. She stood at the edge of the garden looking down at the path that vanished into the trees. Had her father too stood on the same spot on one of his numerous pilgrimages? A hen clucked and pecked at the ground near Diya’s foot. She too was like the hens, pecking around, searching for crumbs of her parents’ past.

  ‘Diya, would you like to see the town later today?’

  She looked up with a lost tunnel gaze.

  ‘Sorry, can you say that again?’

  ‘I was wondering if you would like to see the town later today,’ Ronnie repeated.

  ‘Yes, thank you, that would be nice.’

  The combination of jet lag and heavy breakfast made Diya drowsy. She went to the kitchen in search of a glass of water, hoping it would take the edge off her sleep.

  Elizabeth was sitting in a chair with a rosary. Not wanting to disturb her, Diya started to tiptoe out of the kitchen.

  ‘Is that you, Diya?’ Elizabeth called.

  ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb you.’

  ‘I was finished.’

  Elizabeth placed her hands on her knees and got up. Her bones creaked like unoiled hinges.

  ‘I think the sun is out now, let’s sit in the garden.’

  Golden yellow sunshine wrapped them in its comforting warmth.

  ‘I hope you found the room comfortable,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine,’ Diya assured her.

  Clouds were still scudding across the sky but their bellies were empty. A shadow occasionally blotted the sun but it was not dense enough to rob them of warmth.

  ‘I am so glad you came.’ Elizabeth placed her hand on Diya’s arm.

  ‘I am grateful that you found me,’ Diya said.

  ‘How could we leave you to fend for yourself? We are your family.’

  Elizabeth reached over and patted Diya’s cheek.

  ‘Do you like this place?’ the old woman enquired.

  ‘It is very nice; the view is marvellous.’

  ‘Sunny could never have afforded this. His salary is good, and Ruth is quite successful with her tailoring, but land is expensive here. Manu was always very generous to us.’

  ‘Daddy visited you every year, didn’t he?’

  ‘He might have visited only once a year, but he called every Wednesday. He never forgot birthdays or anniversaries. When he did not call on my birthday, I knew something was wrong.’ Elizabeth’s voice trembled.

  ‘He never forgot my birthday. I may not have given birth to him, but that never stood between us. He was his mother’s son, but he was my child too.’ Elizabeth stared into the distance, as if viewing the events of a past hidden behind the fog of time.

  ‘Where are Daddy’s parents?’

  ‘They died a long time ago, it was quite tragic. At least you are old enough to take care of yourself, but my Manu was just a child.’ Elizabeth’s voice choked with the memory of the little lost waif who had grown up to be a dutiful son.

  ‘And he came to live with you?’

  ‘We were neighbours. Your grandmother and I were best friends, and Sunny and Manu were like brothers. I couldn’t just let strangers take him. Poor child, he used to scream and cry half the night …’ Elizabeth sensed Diya stiffen next to her and stopped mid-sentence.

  ‘Oh, my poor child.’ she hugged Diya. ‘How you must be suffering!’

  Diya rested her head on Elizabeth’s shoulders and let the tears flow.

  ‘My father was lucky that he had you and uncle Sunny …’

  ‘Manu was a blessing for us too. His death has devastated Sunny, but he will not show it. He knows he has to be strong for you, and step into your father’s shoes.’ The old woman held her close. ‘When we heard the news, we could not bear the thought of letting you deal with the loss on your own. We didn’t know if Meera’s family contacted you.’

  ‘I thought my mother’s parents were dead.’

  ‘I don’t know if Meera’s parents are dead, but based on what Manu once said, she came from a large family. Meera and Manu were in love, but her family was opposed to the match. Who can blame them? What pedigree did a poor Hindu young man brought up in a Christian household have? That was a long time ago, and I am sure they have had enough time to repent. Your mother always said they were kind and loving. I am sure they will want to meet you.’

  The revelation did not shock Diya, as her parents’ secrets had become the norm, ever since she came to India.

  Diya got up from the swing; she needed time to think about this newly-revealed secret. Did her parents think she was old enough to deal with their convoluted past? Was that the reason they had insisted on the India trip?

  ‘What do you know about my mother’s family?’

  ‘Not much really, except that they lived in the mountains somewhere. Do yo
u think it will be too difficult to find them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Diya said. ‘Do you know their names?’

  ‘I have a photo of your mother before her marriage; she had beautiful hair, it was a shame she cut it. Manu gave me this photo when he told me they had to get married in secret because your grandparents were opposed to the match.’

  They went to Elizabeth’s room on the other side of the house.

  The old woman took out a worn plastic album and removed a photograph from a sticky cellophane pocket. Her mother was wearing a sari, black graduation robes and a tasselled black hat. She held a cardboard cylinder in her hand. She had chubby cheeks and dark kohl-lined eyes.

  Diya smiled as she spied the wristwatch with a black leather belt tied well above her mother’s wrist. Her mother always tied the watch that way. Diya and her father used to tease her about it, but her mother had insisted that it was the best way to wear a watch safely out of way when she worked in the kitchen or the chemistry lab. She hadn’t quite understood what Elizabeth meant by her mother’s hair, for as long as she could remember, her mother had had a shoulder grazing bob.

  In the photograph, her mother had a thick long plait of hair that snaked down her shoulder and hung well below her knees.

  ‘She had such beautiful hair! Why did she cut it?’ Diya wondered.

  ‘They did not want to be recognized. Even in those days, such beautiful long hair was not common.’

  Now that she had met her father’s family, Diya longed to meet those who loved her mother.

  ‘Can I borrow the photograph?’

  She was afraid of more secrets but, until now, none of the secrets had tarnished their reputation. Meeting her father’s adoptive family had only reinforced the fact that her parents were kind, loving and decent human beings. She was proud that her father had not forgotten those who had loved and supported him when his parents had died.

  NOSY NEIGHBOUR

  A

  fter lunch, Elizabeth retired for a nap. Without the comforting presence of her adoptive grandmother, gloom loomed over the horizon of Diya’s fragile peace. Questions and doubts crawled through her head and she was worried that her entire life was a series of lies. The sun was shining in its midday glory. Diya walked around the garden trying to immerse herself in the beauty of life brimming with colourful plants and birds in the soothing greenery around her. However, life was not enough to stop her from dwelling on death.

  ‘Hello, hello! Disha!’

  The neighbour who had spoken to her the previous day was standing across the wall, flapping her white-gloved arms like a bird in distress.

  ‘Hello, I am Jaya Bhat.’

  The woman offered Diya her gloved hand as if she was the Queen of England.

  ‘You are the cousin from America?’

  ‘Umm ... yes,’ Diya replied.

  ‘I am so glad to meet you. Your name is Disha, isn’t it?’

  ‘Diya.’

  ‘Diya or Disha, you will still go back to bidesha …’ the woman crooned.

  ‘Actually, my name is Diya.’

  ‘Oh, no matter, you are a foreigner. Is the whole family going with you or just that boy Ronnie?’

  ‘What makes you think anyone is coming with me?’ Diya asked.

  ‘Oh, but my dear, it is so much nicer there! Everyone is beautiful and glamorous, like film stars.’

  Mrs Bhat twirled her wispy grey hair and preened at Diya.

  ‘Now that you are all alone, you need someone for company. You and the boy can both benefit from this arrangement.’

  The woman reached across the wall and patted Diya’s shoulder.

  ‘By the way, my dear, I am so sorry for your loss. You must be horribly lonely over there. Do you have a boyfriend? Does he live with you or do you live with him?’

  Diya recoiled from the greasy touch of the gloves, but the woman did not back off.

  ‘Men are treacherous, you know. Once you allow them to pluck your flower, they will abandon you. What you need is a husband, not a bee that sips nectar from different flowers,’ Jaya Bhat whispered.

  Someone honked, and the woman let go of Diya’s arm to look at this new attraction.

  Ronnie was outside on his bike, waiting for someone to open the gate.

  Diya backed off and escaped from Mrs Bhat’s grasp.

  ‘What did Her Majesty Mrs B want?’

  ‘She was cautioning me against the perils of bees that sip nectar from different flowers,’ Diya smiled. ‘Do you call her ‘Her Majesty’ because of the gloves?’

  ‘That, among other things,’ Ronnie laughed. ‘She thinks she knows everything there is to know. Now, that may be true about happenings in the neighbourhood, but all her other knowledge is gained from watching television.’

  ‘Why does she wear those gloves?’

  ‘She has severe arthritis and cold is bad for her. If I were in her position, I would sit inside the house near a fire. Instead, she wears all these weird scarves, sweaters, and gloves and roams outside. She knows everything that goes on in the neighbourhood. Why are we talking about her anyway? Let’s go to town.’

  THE MARKET

  D

  iya placed a hand on Ronnie’s broad shoulder and climbed on the bike. She had never been on a motorbike and the sensation of swooping down at almost breakneck speed, and swaying with the motion of the bike was akin to a roller-coaster ride. Her stomach flip-flopped with excitement. Wind whipped through her hair and slid off her bare arms as she and Ronnie zoomed down the mountains.

  Once the initial hesitation of sitting so close to Ronnie vanished, Diya allowed herself to relax and enjoy the ride, holding tightly to Ronnie’s powerful shoulders.

  ‘There are two historical temples, a church and a botanical garden. What would you like to visit?’ Ronnie asked. ‘Where would you like to start?’

  ‘I had something else in mind. I want to make copies of an old photograph.’

  Ronnie examined the photograph. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘I know a place in the market where we can get good copies,’ Ronnie said.

  They weaved their way past the clogged arteries that ran through the heart of the bazaar. The road was lined on both sides with permanent and makeshift shops.

  Diya closed her eyes afraid of imminent collision with a bike, cow, or a pedestrian.

  The bike screeched to a stop and Diya opened her eyes.

  ‘Oops!’ Ronnie pointed to the closed sign on the shop door. ‘I don’t have classes tomorrow morning, we can come then. Is that Ok?’

  ‘Yes, there is no hurry.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why do you want to make copies of the photo?’

  ‘Grandma told me that my mother came from these parts and that her family might still be alive, so …’

  Her voice trailed off, somehow the plan of tracing her mother’s family from the faded old photo did not sound as good as when she had thought of it.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am sure we will find them.’ Ronnie squeezed her hand. ‘Until then, why don’t I show you the market?’

  They wandered through the serpentine lanes, browsing through shops selling fresh fruits and vegetables, clothes and spices and colourful objects of everyday use. The market buzzed with slogans and haggling – a rhythmic rushing river of sound.

  They turned a corner and the voices were drowned by bird cries and tiny barks.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘This is the pet market,’ Ronnie laughed. ‘Birds, rabbits, fish, dogs …’ He pointed at the shops.

  A basket of tiny white puppies caught Diya’s attention.

  ‘Oh, they are so pretty!’ She picked up a snow-white puppy with a black lightning-shaped mark on its back.

  The puppy thrust out its tiny pink tongue and licked her hand.

  ‘He likes you,’ Ronnie smiled.

  ‘I like him too!’

  ‘Well, then let’s take him home.’

  ‘But �
��’

  ‘You like him, he likes you. What more is needed?’

  The puppy once again licked Diya’s hand and gave a tiny bark.

  ‘Well, that settles it,’ Ronnie laughed. ‘You must name him.’

  ‘I want to call him Zorro,’ Diya said, pointing to the black mark on the puppy’s back.

  Night fell as they travelled back. At first, Zorro wriggled and moved in her bag, but in a few moments, the motion of the bike soothed him and he curled up into a ball and fell asleep.

  Diya hugged the tiny creature as joy stirred in her heart for the first time since her parents’ death.

  ‘You got a dog!’ Rini squealed.

  ‘You can hardly call him a dog,’ Ronnie smiled.

  ‘He is so cute!’ Rini skipped into the house with the puppy cupped in her palms.

  They heard suppressed laughter. The faint outline of white-gloved hands stood out in the dark shadows around the wall.

  ‘Is she always there?’ Diya whispered.

  ‘We are a family of clowns and hence a source of unlimited entertainment,’ Ronnie laughed.

  ‘Isn’t she afraid of the dark or creepy crawlies in the garden?’

  ‘She lives all alone in that big house with only the television for company, what else can she do? Curiosity is her only vice.’

  ‘Why does she live alone?’

  ‘Her children live abroad and her husband died two years ago,’ Ronnie shrugged. ‘Come with me.’ He pulled Diya towards the wall.

  ‘Hello aunty,’ Ronnie called.

  The gloves retreated in response and the woman’s face peered over the wall.

  ‘Hello Ronnie,’ Mrs Bhat smiled.

  ‘Have you met my cousin Diya?’

  ‘Yes, I met her this afternoon,’ the woman said.

  ‘What is the news from Dubai?’ Ronnie asked.

  The woman perked up at the question and launched into a lengthy anecdote about her grandson’s lavish birthday party.

  ‘Well, you should have gone.’

  ‘They keep asking me to come and live with them, but if I go, who will take care of my home?’

  ‘Let me make some money and I will buy your house,’ Ronnie teased her.