The Trickster

by Vinaya Bhagat

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about the truck? Colour, number …’

  ‘I think it was white, at least it was light coloured and …’ Diya touched the bruise on the back of her head where the pebbles had struck. It was now the size of a cherry but there was no blood.

  ‘And what, Diya?’ George questioned.

  ‘I think the driver had a gun.’

  Diya shivered once again, convinced that someone or something was coming for her; whether with a gun or fangs and claws, she did not know. A sense of fatality threatened to overcome her but she refused to succumb to fear.

  For all she knew, this could have been just a random act of terror by some psycho, an opportunistic crime. If the driver had really wanted to kill them, all he had to do was spray them with bullets. Maybe killing them was not his goal.

  ‘Diya, I need to talk to George. I will be back in a few minutes. Are you Ok to stay alone?’ Ronnie’s voice broke into Diya’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  Was this an isolated incident or did a common thread connect it to her parents’ death?

  Was there a single puppeteer pulling the strings?

  Something rustled and Diya looked up. Ronnie was standing in the doorway. Maybe it was a trick of the light or the way he was standing, but he looked like a statue of light carved out of the dark night. An avenging angel sent to protect her. Maybe that was what he was, her ray of light; someone to help her face the volley of misfortunes life kept hurling at her. Who was to say there was no happily-ever-after?

  A smile blossomed on Diya’s face.

  ‘Hey …’ Ronnie said.

  His voice was husky.

  ‘Ronnie …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were saying something.’

  ‘I was wondering if you had clothes to stay for the night.’

  ‘Yes, I think some of my stuff is still here from last time, so I am good.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  The blood on Ronnie’s face had dried and an ugly blue-black bruise had mushroomed around it.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘I think you should see a doctor.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I can take care of it. What about you, are you hurt anywhere?’

  ‘Just a bump on my head.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Ronnie put his hand on Diya’s cheek and leaned closer; she thought he was going to kiss her, but he gently parted her hair to look at the bruise.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘I’ll give you something for it. It should be fine by morning,’ he said.

  ‘You aren’t feeling dizzy or nauseous?’ he asked, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because I am feeling weak with hunger. We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.’

  ‘What about coffee and biscuits we had at Arun’s place?’

  ‘That’s not real food.’

  ‘Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.’ George was standing in the door leading to the kitchen. He had a forbidding look on his face.

  Diya wondered if George had guessed that she and Ronnie harboured more than friendly affection for each other. George was always cordial but aloof; maybe he disapproved.

  Her fragile joy crumbled like a glass bauble.

  If George, who was young, disapproved of the two of them together, how would the elders react?

  She had to be careful; she did not want to jeopardize the family she had found for something that might turn out to be just a crush.

  THE SURVIVORS

  ‘A

  re you sure you want to go?’ Ronnie asked.

  ‘Yes, I am sure. I am not going to let fear paralyze me again.’

  ‘Good!’

  He squeezed her hand.

  ‘But this time, we will take reinforcements.’

  The reinforcements were George and his friend Shiva, a burly young man with curly hair who dwarfed even Ronnie’s muscular frame. George and Shiva followed them to Arun’s home.

  ‘Diya, Ronnie.’ Arun welcomed them like long-established friends. ‘Ah! You brought friends …’ He seemed a bit puzzled, but welcomed Shiva and George, too.

  They followed him into the house where a middle-aged woman and a man in his thirties were waiting.

  ‘Diya, I want you to meet my dear friend Mala and her son Shyam.’

  ‘Hello, Diya,’ Shyam said, but Mala remained silent.

  Mala must be in her fifties, fair with black curly hair twisted in a neat bun.

  Diya felt an instant sense of recognition, like looking at herself in a mirror, a few decades into the future.

  Could Mala be her grandmother? But she was too young. Maybe she was her mother’s older sister.

  ‘Ronnie, while the ladies talk, why don’t we stroll around the garden with your friends and Shyam?’ Arun put an arm around Ronnie and Shyam.

  Ronnie gave Diya a reassuring smile as he left with Arun.

  ‘Arun tells me your mother’s name was Meera.’ Mala spoke flawless English.

  ‘He also gave me this photograph.’ She handed Diya her mother’s photograph.

  ‘Is this your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This photograph is quite old. Do you have any other photos of your mother, something more recent?’

  Diya showed Mala some photos on her iPhone.

  Mala flipped through the photos. Every once in a while, she looked up and stared at Diya.

  Diya felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of Mala’s intense gaze.

  ‘Your mother was my niece, my sister’s daughter.’ The woman’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t know why your mother chose to call herself Meera, her real name was Geeta.’

  ‘I guess that was because she ran away with my father and didn’t want anybody to trace her.’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’ Mala asked.

  ‘No, she never told me anything about her family except that when she was in college, her family was killed in an accident. Based on the events of the last few weeks, I have wondered if it was because the family disapproved of my father and cut all ties with her.’

  ‘If only we had known, we would never have cut ties with Geeta,’ Mala said.

  ‘Are my grandparents alive?’

  ‘Alas, no ...’

  Diya felt a sense of loss; somewhere in her heart, she had harboured a foolish hope that her mother’s family was alive.

  Mala must have sensed her disappointment.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But there are other family members, and all of us are happy to meet you. All these years, we thought she was dead too.’ Mala’s voice choked. ‘Pardon me, but I am just not myself today. I am happy and yet sorrow fills me. It’s heart-breaking to know that Geeta died just a few weeks ago, but I’m glad she lived a happy life. I have lost her twice now.’

  ‘I understand,’ Diya said.

  ‘How selfish of me to think only of my loss; it must be difficult for you to have lost both your parents. The family will be overjoyed to meet you. We must go at once.’

  Diya wondered who else was in the family; maybe her mother’s siblings and their children. It would be nice to have cousins her age, but what she longed for the most was someone who knew her mother; she wanted to meet someone whose memories would be her bridge to her mother’s past.

  ‘But before we go, let me tell you a bit about the family,’ Mala said. ‘Rao Bahadur Ishwarappa, your great grandfather, belonged to a very noble lineage and was one of the richest men in South India. He was also a man of voracious appetite, to put it mildly. He had three wives and many mistresses including a French dancer named Céline. While he sired many an offspring, he had only two legitimate sons Gowrish and Basavaraj, whom everyone called Nana.’

  Mala paused and looked at Diya. ‘Hope this is not boring for you.’

  ‘Oh, no, please go on.’ Diya
was fascinated by the history of her mother’s family.

  ‘Good, it’s important for you to understand your heritage and the respect everyone has for your family,’ Mala said. ‘Where was I? Yes, Nana was twenty and Gowrish was a child when Rao Bahadur died. The responsibility of not just the estate but his father’s wives, mistresses and their children fell on Nana’s young shoulders. You might hear someone call him stingy or strict but those people are jealous and want nothing but money. Nana was shrewd and an excellent landowner; he took care of everyone including his stepbrother Gowrish who was just ten. Apart from them, there were three sisters and one brother. Nana was your grandfather and my elder sister Latha was your grandmother. Nana took care of everyone but the estate came first. So he never indulged in luxuries or let anyone else waste money.’ Mala paused. ‘It’s a convoluted family, and in these parts, most of the big families are related to each other in one way or the other. Arun, for example, is my husband’s cousin.’

  ‘All my life, I believed that my parents were orphans. Now to know that I am not alone in the world but have a large family feels good,’ Diya said.

  ‘You will meet some of these people in the next few days and I want you to understand the complexity of the relations so you can be on guard about their motivations,’ Mala said.

  Diya wondered why Mala thought that she would need to be on her guard.

  ‘Now that you are familiar with the cast of characters, it’s time to visit them,’ Mala said dryly. ‘We will go to your ancestral home. Gowrish and his son Raghav live there now; his wife died a few years ago. I am sure they will be delighted to meet you.’

  RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

  D

  iya and Ronnie rose with Arun, Mala and Shyam. Shiva and George rode on the two motorcycles. Diya and Ronnie glanced at each other when Shyam turned into a familiar lane with a tall stone wall topped with barbed wire on one side and a dense forest on the other. It was the same estate they had visited the previous day. Shyam parked in front of the huge gates. The estate was not deserted but there was no sign of the young man or his dogs. Two men were trimming the hedge, while a huge man dressed in white from head to toe paced around.

  In any other setting, the man in white would have looked gigantic but here, surrounded by the mountains, he looked like a part of the landscape.

  When he saw the group, he took a measured step forward. His face was lined and cragged like the folds and crannies of the mountain, topped with wind-distressed snowy hair.

  ‘Mala, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Gowrish, I want you to meet someone.’

  ‘God save my soul!’ Gowrish whispered.

  ‘Meera, you are safe! But how …’ He looked back at the house. ‘I must be dreaming. How else is it possible that you are standing in front of me, just as you were before?’ He muttered and looked confused.

  There was no doubt Gowrish had recognized her.

  ‘You look so …’ Gowrish started speaking but a bout of coughing overtook him; he tottered to the hedge and was violently sick.

  There was a flurry of activity as the servants fetched chairs, water, and towels. They helped Gowrish clean up and settled him in a chair.

  ‘Gowrish, I am sorry I forgot about your heart. I should have warned you,’ Mala said.

  Despite her words, Diya noticed that Mala didn’t really sound sorry.

  ‘Warned me about what?’ Gowrish asked.

  At close quarters, the fine spider mesh of broken blue veins across Gowrish’s cheeks and bulbous nose stood out on his blotchy red face. Diya couldn’t help but stare.

  ‘Gowrish, we thought she was dead; but all these years, she’d been alive. This girl is her daughter.’

  ‘How? There is no way she could have had a daughter. I would have known.’

  ‘Gowrish, listen to me!’ Mala sounded impatient. ‘We thought Geeta was dead but she was alive. Diya is her daughter.’ Mala thrust Diya forward. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  Loud music shattered the quiet of the mountains. A yellow sports car with red and black stripes screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. The man they had encountered the previous day got down from the car. He was humming as he swung a tennis racquet and took aim at imaginary balls in the shrubbery.

  ‘What’s this? A delegation to stop deforestation?’ the man laughed.

  ‘My son, Raghav,’ Gowrish explained, sitting up straight.

  ‘Had a good match, Raghav?’ Gowrish asked in a breezy tone. He seemed to have miraculously recovered at the sight of his son.

  ‘I always win.’ Raghav smiled and took another swipe at the imaginary ball.

  ‘Arun, Mala, Shyam, it’s a rare pleasure.’ Raghav shook hands with Arun and clapped Shyam on the back.

  ‘Mala came for something important.’ Once again, Gowrish started coughing.

  ‘Father, take it easy.’ Raghav patted Gowrish’s back.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, just an upset stomach. Mala has brought this girl with her,’ Gowrish said.

  ‘Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting the lady and her boyfriend.’ Raghav proffered his hand to Ronnie who shook it grudgingly.

  ‘Have you found any clues about your mother’s family?’ he asked Diya politely.

  ‘Raghav,’ Gowrish cleared his throat. ‘This girl is the daughter of my niece Geeta who we thought had run away from home.’

  ‘This makes me your uncle,’ Raghav guffawed, turning to Diya.

  ‘You are far too young to handle an uncle’s responsibility,’ Gowrish said gravely.

  Raghav sobered up quickly at his father’s rebuke. ‘I wish I had known this yesterday; then these poor lovebirds would not have had to go on a wild-goose chase through the mountains.’

  ‘Did you come here yesterday?’ Gowrish looked at Diya in surprise. ‘When?’

  ‘You had already left for the golf course,’ Raghav said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He glared at his son.

  ‘How was I to know?’ Raghav looked hurt.

  ‘Raghav is too young to remember Geeta. He was at boarding school most of the time anyway.’ Mala came to Raghav’s rescue.

  ‘Yes, and there are no photos since the fire,’ Gowrish said. A look of pain passed over his face and he clutched at his chest.

  ‘You must not think about the past, Gowrish,’ Mala said gently.

  ‘Yes, you are right. Now is not the time to dwell on sorrow, it’s time to rejoice. Meera, I mean, Geeta’s daughter is home. But where is Geeta, why has she not come along?’

  ‘She and my father died in an accident a few weeks ago,’ Diya said.

  ‘Oh! I must say this whole episode is a shock to me. All these years …’ Gowrish’s face reddened and the broken blue veins on his cheeks and nose stood out like an alien creature struggling to escape from under his skin.

  ‘Life, not death. Remember,’ Raghav whispered and patted his father’s back.

  ‘Yes, this is not a time to mourn. This is a time to celebrate,’ said Gowrish, as he wiped the tears beginning to trickle down his face. ‘What is your name, child?’

  ‘Diya.’

  ‘Diya, I cannot tell you how glad I am to meet you.’

  ‘I am glad to meet you, too,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s getting late. We must leave,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Go where? This is Diya’s home, why would she have to go anywhere?’ Gowrish looked puzzled.

  ‘I am staying with my father’s family. I must return home,’ Diya protested.

  ‘You must come back tomorrow; we have so much to talk about. And you must meet the rest of the family. I cannot be selfish and keep the pleasure of your company to myself.’

  ‘I will try.’ Diya glanced at Ronnie. He had missed classes today but asking him to do that every day was imposing on his and the family’s kindness.

  ‘I have a better idea. We will throw a party on Thursday. I will invite the whole family. That way, you will get to meet everybody and they will not comp
lain later.’ Gowrish threw back his head and laughed. His laughter echoed like a sonic boom through the mountains.

  ‘But ...’ Diya protested.

  ‘No, no, we must celebrate! This is the best news we have had in decades,’ Gowrish said.

  Diya felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, she had no desire to meet strangers. But she’d come in search of her mother’s family, and now that she’d found them, she could neither turn back nor disrespect their wishes to meet her.

  THE RESORT

  Mala and Shyam drove Diya home so they could meet her father’s family.

  ‘It must be hard for you to know that your niece is dead,’ Elizabeth said to Mala.

  ‘Yes, I am shocked, but we cannot dwell on that now. All that matters now is that Diya is safe.’

  ‘Yes, you are right.’

  ‘Diya, why don’t you stay with us for a few days?’ Mala asked. ‘If it’s Ok with you, Mr Varghese?’

  ‘I …’

  Diya was about to refuse, when she saw a flash of white across the wall. A group of men dressed in white were walking through Mrs Bhat’s garden.

  ‘Finally, the poor soul will get some rest.’ Elizabeth crossed herself.

  Diya had thought she was over the deaths but even this small reminder was enough to bring back the horror of Mrs Bhat’s blood-soaked gloves and Zorro’s mutilated body.

  A change would be good and it would also give her a chance to get to know her mother through Mala.

  ‘Is it Ok, Uncle Sunny?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sunny smiled.

  It was dark when they went back up the mountains. Thankfully, the road was free of homicidal maniacs.

  A cheerful, yet understated sign welcomed visitors to the Heritage Coffee Estate and Resort.

  The estate looked like a surreal impressionist painting in the dim glow of the lights peeking between the trees.

  The air was fragrant with a bouquet of night blossoms, potent enough to take the edge off of the stench of fermenting coffee beans.

  ‘It’s lovely!’ Diya said.

  ‘I always think it looks more beautiful by night than day,’ Shyam laughed. ‘Hides all the grisly machinery and makes everything seem exotic.’

  ‘Where is the resort?’ Diya asked.