‘Keep dreaming, I won’t sell my house for even hundred crores.’
‘If you don’t want to sell it, just gift it to me,’ Ronnie said.
‘Keep dreaming!’ the woman laughed.
‘It’s getting cold now, you better go inside.’
‘Yes, I was just finishing my evening walk.’
Jaya Bhat waved to them like a departing queen and melted into the shadows.
Zorro was sitting on Elizabeth’s lap, watching television. As soon as he saw Diya, he barked and jumped off, landing clumsily on the floor. He waddled towards Diya and began running rings around her, barking and wagging his tail.
‘Even a sparrow chirps louder than you.’ Diya scooped up the tiny creature and held him close.
They played with Zorro until dinner. Before going to bed, they placed him in a cardboard box lined with newspapers and covered him with an old towel for warmth.
Sometime in the night, Diya heard Zorro scratch at her door and she let him in; he curled up on the mat under her bed and went to sleep.
CLUES
‘D
o you want only the face or the complete picture?’ the photographer asked.
‘Complete picture.’
Maybe someone would recognize her mother because of her long hair. The photos were clear; even the watch around her mother’s wrist seemed to gleam in the light.
‘Where do we start?’ Diya asked, once they emerged from the gloom of the photo studio into the bright sunny day.
‘We can start right here,’ Ronnie said. ‘This is the oldest market and some of these shops and shopkeepers have been here for a long time.’
The morning rush had subsided and only a few people, mostly pensioners and housewives, were browsing through the stalls. Unlike the previous evening, there was no raging slogan war or impromptu advertising to attract customers.
They stopped at one of the shops they had visited the previous evening. The owner, an old woman, was sitting behind rows of vegetables. She threw them a bamboo basket to place the vegetables they wanted to buy.
The woman turned around, spat a crimson streak of paan and beetle juice to the ground and smiled at them.
‘Today we don’t want vegetables, we want some information,’ Ronnie said.
‘What am I, a travel agent?’ she cackled.
‘My mother’s family came from these parts; I am trying to locate them,’ Diya said.
‘Where is your mother?’ the vegetable vendor asked.
‘She died in an accident a few months ago.’
‘Cha ... cha ...’ The woman clicked her tongue. ‘But that’s life.’
Diya placed her mother’s photograph in the basket and passed it back to the woman.
‘This was taken around twenty years ago.’
The woman peered at the photo for a few minutes and shook her head.
‘She looks familiar, but I cannot say for sure. Now girls want to look like boys with short hair, but there was a time when long hair was coveted.’
Diya had not expected the first person to recognize her mother, yet she felt a little disappointed.
‘My memory is very poor,’ the woman added. ‘Check at the vegetable stall at the end of this row. That man knows everybody and everybody’s business.’
The man hemmed and hawed as he studied the photograph. ‘I used to know someone who looked like her, but she is long dead,’ the man finally said.
They walked around looking for another suitable candidate, but most of the people were too young to have known her mother.
‘What are you searching for?’ A woman called from one of the vegetable stalls. She was young, probably in her mid-twenties. A child of less than a year was perched on her hips.
‘We are searching for my mother’s family.’ Diya passed her the photograph.
‘I know her,’ the woman said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. I don’t know her name, but I know where I have seen her.’
Diya’s heart skipped a beat and she gripped Ronnie’s hand.
‘Where?’ Ronnie asked.
‘Do you know the Shiva temple?’
‘The old one?’
‘Yes, behind the temple is a school called Sentrusula’s.’
It took Ronnie a moment to decipher the name, but finally recognition dawned. ‘St Ursula’s?’
‘Yes, that convent school. Miss Dolly lives in the lane behind the school. Her house is blue; you cannot miss it. She was an actress before she got married. In her house, there is a photo near the television with two girls. I am sure your mother was one of them. You can’t mistake that hair!’
‘How do you know this?’ Ronnie sounded suspicious.
‘When I was young, my mother worked for Miss Dolly. She has the most beautiful house with some pretty things, she used to wear beautiful dresses and lipstick. She even gave me a lipstick once. I never used it because my mother would have killed me. Now, my husband will kill me so …’ The woman stopped and looked at them with blank eyes as if waking up from a dream. ‘So anyway, you should go and meet her.’
They bought a bunch of grapes from her before leaving.
‘Let me know when you find your mother’s family.’
Diya’s heart raced with hope. Could Dolly be her grandmother?
MISS DOLLY
T
he sapphire blue bungalow gleamed in the midday sunshine. It looked out of place, wedged between drab brown houses on either side.
‘Wish me luck!’ Diya pressed the doorbell.
The musical chords of a piano pealed through the house and hung in the air before dying down.
They waited, but no one answered
‘Do you think she still lives here? If she was old she might be long dead,’ Diya said.
‘Let’s ring again, she might not have heard.’ Ronnie pressed the bell.
Once again music sailed over them. As the notes died down, a bolt scraped and a safety chain jangled.
A young girl, fifteen or sixteen, stood in the doorway with a crooked broom in her hand.
‘What do you want?’ She shook the broom at them.
‘We wanted to meet Miss Dolly,’ Ronnie said.
‘Why?’ the girl asked, raising the broom like a dusty question mark.
‘We have some important work with her.’
‘If you are Jehovah’s Witness, I can tell you she is not interested.’
‘No, it’s personal work.’
‘Are you selling something?’ The girl peered at the steps behind them to check if they were hiding their merchandise.
‘We just want to ask her a few questions,’ Diya said.
‘Uh?’ The girl looked confused by Diya’s accent.
‘We want to ask her a few questions,’ Ronnie explained.
‘What are you, reporters?’ the girl asked.
‘Yes,’ Diya said. ‘And tell her I came from America.’
‘She is busy, I will check.’
The girl banged the door in their face and went back to consult her mistress.
She was back in two minutes.
‘She says you can come in,’ the girl said reluctantly. ‘But you have to wait.’
The girl ushered them into a room crammed with flowerpots of all shapes and sizes, photo frames and other bric-a-brac. She gestured them to sit on a sofa with faded pink and red upholstery.
Diya wanted to check the photos to see if her mother’s photograph was among them, but the girl with the broom glared at them like a suspicious museum security guard, ensuring they did not run away with her mistresses’ precious possessions.
‘Shanta.’ A musical voice trilled from inside the house.
Shanta escorted them through a hallway and down a short corridor to a beautiful sunny room.
An old woman was seated on a sofa. She wore a flowing gown festooned with tiny red roses. Her thin shoulders were bent, but even then, there was no hiding that she had once been elegant. Her porcelain skin, though wrinkled, was still clear of b
lemishes, and her wispy silver hair was cut in a blunt with flattering bangs.
‘Good afternoon. Please take a seat.’ Dolly smiled and pointed to matching chairs nearby.
It was a beautifully appointed room, dotted with antique furniture, photo frames and flower vases. A huge piano stood in the corner waiting for fingers to tickle its ivory keys. Though clean, the room still smelled musty as if unused to human occupancy.
‘It’s not often that newspapers want to interview me nowadays.’ Dolly’s voice was well modulated with a faint hint of an accent.
‘Well, actually we are not really from a newspaper,’ Ronnie said.
‘I think you knew my mother,’ Diya said. ‘Her name was Meera.’
‘I knew many people in my day.’ Dolly smiled with a hint of mischief.
‘We think she was one of your friends.’
‘You are sure you don’t want to ask me about the movie?’
Ronnie glanced around for clues to the woman’s identity. Finally, he spied the framed poster of a famous movie.
‘Yes, I wanted to know about the movie, too,’ he said, hoping to prolong the interview. ‘It was the one where a young Indian prince falls in love with a beautiful European girl.’
‘Yes, that was very successful too, but everyone wants to know about the one where I play Sister Nivedita.’ Dolly got up from the chair with a swirl of frills and walked to the piano.
Her gait was slow and though she did not use a cane, it was obvious she was used to walking with the help of one that hung from the back of the sofa.
Ronnie got up, took the photo from Dolly’s hand, and helped her back to the sofa.
‘You are a chivalrous young boy,’ Dolly said. ‘Come sit near me.’ She patted the seat next to hers.
‘You must tell me about the other movie, the one with the Indian prince,’ Ronnie said.
‘Typical. Men like that movie. My late husband always said that he fell in love with me when he saw that movie.’
As Ronnie chatted with Dolly about the movie and her role, the old woman sat up straighter and crossed her legs. She played with her wispy hair and looked at Ronnie from under half-hooded eyelids.
Dolly was so engrossed in conversation with Ronnie that even when Diya got up and walked around the room, she seemed unaware of her presence.
Most of the photos were of Dolly and a handsome man with a luxurious moustache. As the years passed, Dolly glowed like a burnished vessel while the man wilted, his shoulders drooped and his moustache turned white.
There were other photos of Dolly in her heyday, dressed in beautiful clothes at exotic locations.
Finally, Diya found the photograph the woman in the market had mentioned.
Dolly was standing between her mother and another young girl. Her mother’s long hair hung over her shoulder in a thick plait, while the other girl’s face was obscured behind a mass of flying hair. There was a glimpse of waves in the background.
Diya looked around the room but there were no other photographs of her mother.
‘Meera, come and meet this nice young man,’ Dolly said.
Ronnie and Diya looked towards the door, but no one was there.
‘She is a very shy girl,’ Dolly whispered to Ronnie. She got up and walked towards Diya.
‘He is a nice boy, there’s no need to be shy.’ Dolly tugged at Diya’s arm with her cold papery hands.
Diya followed the old woman to the sofa, the photograph still clutched in her other hand.
‘What is your name?’ Dolly asked. ‘I tend to forget nowadays.’ She smiled at him.
‘Ronnie.’
‘Young man, this is my niece Meera. She is an accomplished pianist.’
Diya sat next to the woman on the sofa while Ronnie sat in the chair nearby. Dolly continued chattering about Meera’s accomplishments.
Ronnie looked as baffled as Diya; he shrugged his shoulders at her questioning eyebrows.
Sitting next to Dolly, Diya could smell the old woman; a faint odour of decay hung under the fragrance of liberally sprayed expensive perfume. Dolly’s blue eyes were cloudy with cataracts and her face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. Her scarlet lipstick, though applied perfectly, had seeped into the wrinkles around her mouth. Baby pink scalp peeked from underneath her thin white hair.
‘We want to know a bit more about Meera,’ Diya said.
‘Meera, you naughty girl. Are you playing a trick on me again?’ Dolly said.
‘I am Meera’s daughter, Diya,’ she reminded Dolly.
Dolly stared at Diya in confusion. ‘Meera doesn’t have a daughter,’ she said.
Diya felt frustrated, but decided to try again. ‘Do you remember your niece who went to America?’ Diya pointed at her mother’s photograph.
‘Of course!’ Dolly brightened.
‘I am her daughter. I just came to India.’
‘How lovely! Dear child, the last time you came, you peed on my new gown; it was never the same,’ Dolly cackled.
Diya smiled, relieved that Dolly was finally beginning to remember.
‘Since I am here, I wanted to meet my mother’s family. Do you know where they live?’
‘Died a long time ago, didn’t they?’
‘The whole family died and no one is alive?’ Ronnie asked. ‘Meera’s parents died. The rest of the family, legitimate and illegitimate, is large enough to fill a town. As far as I know, most of them are alive, the whole ungrateful lot.’
Diya realized that Dolly seemed confused and was contradicting herself but she wasn’t ready to let go of the faint glimmer of hope. ‘Can you help me find them?’
Dolly held Diya’s palms in her wrinkled, vein-mottled hands. She seemed to be making an effort to remember something.
‘Ask Meera,’ Dolly finally said.
‘My mother was killed in an accident two months ago.’
Diya regretted her choice of words at the look of shock on Dolly’s face. The old woman’s eyes and wrinkles widened, sending cracks through her makeup.
‘That trickster, he has killed my precious flower!’ Dolly whispered.
Tears spilled from Dolly’s eyes and distributed in the tributaries of her age wrinkled cheeks.
‘Please don’t cry. I did not mean to upset you,’ Diya said.
Diya felt her own eyes well up at the grief she had caused the old woman who was obviously fond of her mother. She hugged Dolly and patted her frail shoulders that were shaking with violent grief.
The shaking subsided and Diya felt Dolly’s body grow limp.
‘I think she is asleep,’ Diya whispered.
Ronnie gently moved the old woman out of Diya’s arms. They propped her with pillows and waited for her to wake up.
Drool dribbled from Dolly’s mouth, bubbling and frothing with an occasional snore.
‘Is she ill?’ Diya asked.
‘I don’t think it is anything critical, maybe she is just tired.’
‘Could she be having a heart attack?’
‘I don’t think so, no …’
Ronnie did not sound convincing.
‘I think we’d better call the doctor.’ Diya did not want to be responsible for the old woman’s death.
‘Fire! Fire!’ Dolly screamed. Though her limbs flailed and her body convulsed, her eyes remained shut.
Diya shook Dolly, terrified that the woman was having a fit of some kind.
Dolly opened her eyes and looked at Diya in confusion.
‘Are you OK?’ Diya asked.
‘Meera. Oh, thank God! You are safe.’ Dolly clutched her arm in a bony grip. ‘But you must not stay here, you must go away. Wicked things are happening.’
‘I am Diya,’ she reminded Dolly, but her words did not register on the old woman.
‘It’s all right, there is no fire.’ Ronnie patted Dolly’s hand.
Dolly focussed her gaze on Ronnie. ‘You are her young man, aren’t you? If you love her, you must take her away, far away from the curse of the fire. The Chakwa is awake
again.’
‘Miss Dolly, this is not Meera. This is Meera’s daughter, Diya,’ Ronnie said gently. ‘Remember? We came to ask you a few questions.’
‘There is no time; you must go away. The fire is burning again.’ Dolly’s bony fingers scrabbled at Ronnie’s arm.
‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’ Dolly began shrieking again.
They tried to calm her, but the old woman seemed unaware of their presence.
‘What have you done to her?’ The young maid yelled at them.
‘We were just asking her questions.’ Ronnie tried to pacify the young firebrand.
The girl soothed her mistress with gentle words till Dolly once again fell asleep.
‘Why was she shouting about fire?’ Ronnie asked the maid once they were in the hallway.
‘Did you talk to her about fire?’ The maid glared at them, arms on hips. ‘She is terrified of fire. Don’t you know her mother was burnt alive when she was a girl?’
‘Was her mother’s name Meera?’ Diya asked.
‘How would I know? It was a long time ago.’
‘Who was Meera?’ Ronnie asked.
‘Don’t you ever stop asking questions? My mother will kill me if she finds out I let people in the house and they upset Miss Dolly with questions about fire,’ the maid moaned.
‘Please, we did not mean to upset her. We did not know about her tragedy, but she kept calling me Meera and she thought I was her niece.’
‘I don’t know, must be from one of her movies,’ the girl said. ‘To tell you the truth,’ the girl lowered her voice and shot a furtive glance towards the room where Dolly was asleep, ‘I think she is, you know, maybe a little mad. Sometimes she thinks she is acting in a movie and talks to me like I am one of the people from that movie. Sometimes she thinks she is a princess, and at other times, she will only answer if you call her Sister Nivedita.’
‘It must be very hard to deal with her,’ Ronnie said.
‘Oh no, the work is good and she is really nice. My grandmother, mother and aunt used to work for her and now I work here too. Sometimes she thinks I am my mother or my aunt.’
‘Does your aunt have a vegetable shop in the market?’ Diya asked.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
They showed her the photograph and told her about the search, and how her aunt had guided them to Miss Dolly.
The Trickster Page 6