The Trickster

by Vinaya Bhagat

  ‘Why does she think I am an impostor?’ Diya asked.

  ‘Well, she is just greedy. She thinks your mother would have contacted us if she was alive.’

  ‘Even I am wondering why my mother did not contact you all these years.’

  Now that Gowrish had given her the opening, Diya was determined to find out the truth. Even if the answer had something to do with the Chakwa, she would at least know the danger and maybe even a way to stay safe from it.

  ‘There is no point in speculating about your mother’s motives. I am sure she had good reasons. Why else would she choose to stay away from those who loved her?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Diya probed.

  They walked on and Diya was afraid that Gowrish would not answer; but after a few minutes, Gowrish stopped under a large tree. He seemed to have come to some decision.

  ‘Nana was a proud man. Family and status meant a lot to him. I married against his wishes and he cut all ties with me for fourteen years. I am sure your mother thought he would not approve of your father. People change, they realize their mistakes, however grave, and want to repent. She had nothing to be afraid of; if only she had not run away, life would have been so much simpler.’

  Possibilities, speculations, ifs and buts …

  ‘Our lives don’t always live up to our dreams and desires. Once events are set in motion, seldom can we change their course.’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘Was your father a good man? Was Geeta happy?’

  ‘My father was the best husband and father anyone could wish for. We were happy. Sometimes I did wish that we had relatives or that I had siblings, but we were content with our lives: We had each other. Now they are gone and …’

  A sledgehammer of grief, heavy with the force of fear, shattered Diya’s fragile composure and tears flowed down her cheeks.

  ‘My child, please don’t cry,’ Gowrish said, tears gathering in his eyes. ‘I feel so helpless. I wish I had the courage to do the right thing and help you heal.’

  They walked along the path littered with the remains of flowers.

  ‘I lost my parents when I was young, and your grandparents raised me like their own child. When your grandparents were killed, I was once again orphaned …’

  Diya almost fell over when she heard that her grandparents were murdered. ‘Who killed my grandparents?’

  Gowrish flinched and averted his eyes under the relentless query of her gaze.

  ‘Our family is cursed. This wealth is poisoned by greed,’ Gowrish said, spreading his arms around, encompassing the green hills.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever wondered why I have blue eyes?’

  ‘Well …’ She had not thought about the origin of Gowrish’s piercing blue eyes.

  ‘In 1872, my great grandfather was appointed as the Governor of this province. He was a British nobleman from a great family. His English wife came with him, but he also took other wives and mistresses. My grandfather was one of his mixed-race progeny. He may not have been white, but he was the Governor’s favourite. He had his father’s blessing to do whatever he wanted. It so happened that he wanted this estate. One night, he came with fifty soldiers and captured the estate.’

  ‘And …’ Diya prodded.

  ‘He and his soldiers killed the family who owned this estate. The only survivors were a young woman and a child.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘The young girl was Sindhu, the daughter-in-law of the house, and the child was her son Ravi.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘My grandmother, Sindhu, was a beautiful woman. Maybe that was why my grandfather spared her life. Eventually he took her to be his wife.’

  ‘Why did Sindhu marry him when he had killed her husband and family?’

  ‘He spared her young son’s life. Sometimes mothers have to make difficult choices for their children. I am sure her love for her child was greater than her revulsion she had for her family’s killer. In any case, she became his wife and they went on to have two daughters.’

  ‘And was Ravi your father?’

  ‘My grandfather was already married and had a son from his first wife. That son was Rao Bahadur Ishwarappa. Nana and I were his sons. For all practical purposes, my grandfather’s second wife, Sindhu, raised his children. She is the grandmother I remember. She must have made peace with her life because she only treated us with love and kindness. To my grandfather’s credit, he might have been a greedy man and taken another man’s wife, but he stayed true to her; he did not marry again or take any mistresses.’

  ‘What happened to Ravi?’

  ‘My grandfather gave him a share of the land. My uncle Ravi and his family lived nearby until recently. Now they have sold their estate to a coffee company and the last owner lives abroad. My wife was, in fact, his only daughter. There was no blood relation between us, but your grandfather still disapproved of our marriage.’

  ‘But in the end, it turned out Ok. I mean, it is not a happy ending but they managed to have a life,’ Diya said.

  ‘The irony is that while the robbed were happy with less, the greed for more destroyed the robbers,’ Gowrish said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My father’s younger brother fell in with the wrong company, so my grandfather made my father the custodian of all his wealth. When I was ten, my uncle set the house on fire. My father, his two wives, my father’s French mistress, my half-brother, and another child died in the fire.’

  ‘Oh!’

  The gory revelation shocked Diya.

  ‘What happened to your uncle?’

  ‘He ran into the burning house and perished in the flames. Maybe he realized his mistake and tried to rescue them. People have many theories and my grandmother Sindhu, who was still alive, believed that a tricky supernatural spirit was behind it. Maybe she did not want to believe that a boy she had brought up as her own son was capable of such a dastardly act.’

  A shiver ran through Diya. Was the tricky creature the Chakwa?

  ‘What was this tricky creature called?’

  ‘I have no doubt that my uncle was responsible for the crime. Human greed is far more dangerous than any supernatural force.’

  Gowrish turned and walked away from her. Diya knew he was crying and she did not want to intrude on his grief, but she had to know the truth.

  ‘Was it called the Chakwa?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Gowrish’s voice choked, and the web of broken blue veins on his face began to pulsate like apoplectic worms on the verge of exploding.

  ‘Diya, those flames haunt me every day. My mother and father thankfully perished inside the house and I never saw their bodies. My grandmother and Nana shielded me from all of that. But they could not stop me from seeing the plight of my father’s French mistress. When the house caught fire, she somehow managed to escape. A beam fell and she dodged it, but her dress caught fire. She ran through the yard, driven to madness by the pain of her burning body. People ran to help her, but she was beyond help. She ran around the yard and cried in pain until her body gave up. That is one of the most difficult memories of my life.’

  ‘And your grandmother thought the Chakwa was responsible for the fire?’

  ‘The official story is that the house caught fire and my uncle jumped in to rescue his family. My grandmother told everyone that there was a curse on the estate and its owners. She told an old story about a young man who was tortured and killed by one of the owners of this estate. They gouged at his eyes and twisted his feet around. The young man cursed the family and ever since, his spirit has been haunting whoever owns this estate. My grandmother claimed that she saw a young man in white clothes set fire to the house. Rumour has it that two days after the fire, they found a set of footsteps vanishing into the ruins of the house, but there were no return footsteps’

  Diya felt the ground slide from underneath her as the Chakwa once again reared its fiery head. The Chakwa’s
one-way footsteps had led into every carnage in her life. If what Gowrish said was true, the Chakwa had just stepped out of the realm of myth into reality. A tide of fear rushed through Diya as she saw the fear and anguish on Gowrish’s face.

  Gowrish opened his mouth and gulped. He tried to speak but his words were indecipherable; only his pain was coherent.

  Diya tried to avert her eyes from Gowrish, but his agony and grief hypnotized her.

  Gowrish started sobbing like a baby, his face contorted with the pain of his memories.

  ‘I am sorry I upset you,’ she said.

  Gowrish stumbled and swayed like a massive tree in the face of a storm. Only, this storm was within, as his grief churned inside him, taking him back to his childhood hell.

  Diya took him by the arm and led him to an old stone platform under a tree.

  Gowrish flopped on the platform. Had it not been for the support of the tree, he would have fallen.

  Diya’s tears flowed freely as she witnessed Gowrish’s agony. Whoever had come in contact with her in recent times had suffered – Mrs Bhat, Zorro, and now Gowrish who looked on the verge of apoplexy.

  They were too far from the house for anyone to see them or hear her shouts for help. Diya wondered if she could leave Gowrish and run for help.

  ‘I think I should get help. You need to see a doctor.’

  ‘No, please don’t go. I beg you. I don’t want to die alone.’

  Gowrish’s face contorted with fear.

  ‘Please don’t say such things; nothing will happen to you. Let me find someone who can help.’

  ‘I will be fine in a minute.’ Gowrish closed his eyes and leaned against the tree.

  His lips moved but Diya could not hear any sound. She leaned closer.

  ‘Don’t tell Raghav what I told you.’

  ‘Sure,’ Diya promised.

  She was sure Raghav did not like his father talking about the family’s bloody history. It was contrary to the airy, upper-class persona of sophistication that he portrayed. Hadn’t he said something about how proud he was of the family’s history?

  Gowrish’s rattle-trap breathing slowed and he sat up straighter.

  Diya wanted to ask him how her grandparents were killed, but she was afraid he would not be able to withstand another avalanche of grief.

  ‘I am feeling better now,’ Gowrish said after a while. He got up without support and, though he was still shaky, he did not seem to be in imminent danger of toppling over.

  ‘I am sorry I could not show you around the estate, I am tired. I will be fine by evening and then we can go; anyway, interesting things happen only in the evening.’

  When they were near the house, they heard the screech of Raghav’s car followed by the usual blast of music that accompanied his arrival.

  ‘Promise me, Diya, that you will not tell Raghav about what happened back in the woods,’ Gowrish clutched her arm. ‘If Raghav finds out that I have been telling you about the family history, he will be furious. He has specifically forbidden me to upset myself or you with the past.’

  Gowrish looked at Diya, and finally she nodded.

  ‘But you should see a doctor; you are not well,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Yes.’

  As Raghav came closer, Gowrish stood straighter.

  ‘Raghav, how did it go?’

  ‘Thrashed them, as usual.’

  ‘Well done!’ Gowrish thumped Raghav on the back.

  Diya was glad Gowrish had recovered so quickly; he still seemed shaky, but there was no sign of his intense grief as he chatted with Raghav about the match.

  The house was deserted; there was no sign of the servants, though a tantalizing aroma filtered through the closed door that led into the kitchen.

  They finished lunch in easy amicability, and the cloud of gloom lifted. Raghav was being irreverent as usual, and his exuberance was contagious. Diya felt foolish for attaching undue importance to superstitious notions.

  ‘I will meet you on the porch for coffee, and then I will show you the coffee-making operations.’

  Gowrish looked much better and Diya hoped she would get the opportunity to find out if the Chakwa was, in any way, responsible for her grandparents’ death.

  It’s out of curiosity and not fear, she told herself.

  THE TOUR

  A

  fter lunch, Diya sat on the old stone steps and opened her Kindle, but her mind kept wandering, and the words slid under her eyes without registering. She could not bring herself to go inside the cavernous house. Instead, she walked about on the grounds, steering clear of the woods.

  Birds hopped on the grass, heedless of her presence. A big black bird with rust coloured wings was the boldest of all. It followed her closely – always around, always in sight, but just far enough to take flight into the lowest branches of the trees if she came closer.

  Diya fetched a pair of binoculars from the living room. The case was old and dusty but the binoculars were powerful.

  The bird hopped towards her with curiosity but as she approached, it took flight, perched on an upstairs window ledge and stared at her through gimlet eyes.

  ‘What are you searching for?’

  Diya jumped at Raghav’s sudden appearance.

  ‘Scared you, did I?’

  ‘No,’ Diya said, suppressing the tremor in her voice.

  ‘What are doing with the binoculars?’

  ‘Bird-watching,’ she said.

  ‘May I?’

  Raghav took the binoculars from her hands and looked at the house.

  ‘Was the bugger bothering you?’ he said. ‘He is a cheeky fellow; at first, he used to come over if we ate outside and peck through the leftovers in the plates. Now he is so bold that if you are not paying attention, he will come over and snatch food from your plate.’

  The bird once again flew down and danced around their feet.

  ‘Shoo … go away, you ugly brute!’ Raghav took a swipe at the bird with the binoculars.

  The bird squawked and escaped into a nearby tree.

  ‘If you really want to go bird-watching, this is neither a good spot nor a good time. I will take you tomorrow morning, and if you want, I will lend you my camera for some photography.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘In any case, I have promised father that I will show you around, so why don’t we start our deluxe coffee estate tour now?’

  ‘Why the change of plans? Is your father going somewhere?’

  ‘No, he says he is not feeling well. He’s probably still hung-over from drinking late in the night with his cousins and friends.’

  ‘Oh …’

  In the short time that Diya had known Raghav, he had always been obedient and respectful towards his father. His harsh words and blunt attitude surprised Diya.

  He must have seen the surprise on her face, because he laughed aloud.

  ‘It’s an open secret that my father is an alcoholic.’

  Diya was worried that Gowrish’s ill health had more to do with revisiting the family’s gory history than alcoholic overindulgence. She was sorry that Gowrish was not feeling well, but she was also disappointed that she would probably not get a chance to talk to him alone. She was determined to go back to Sunny’s home on Monday and had hoped to find out from Gowrish about the manner of her grandparents’ death. He had clearly said they were killed. The question was by whom or what.

  ‘Where shall we start?’ Raghav broke into her thoughts.

  ‘You are the boss, you know best,’ Diya said.

  ‘How about the woods?’

  Diya rolled her eyes and Raghav laughed.

  They followed the same path that Diya and Gowrish had taken in the morning.

  The hills that were silent as a tomb in the morning were now alive with the buzz of voices and roar of vehicles.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘This is the picking season. The day is over and the workers are coming back with the beans.’

  Dilapidated t
rucks filled with workers zoomed past them, leaving clouds of dust in their wake as they vanished beyond a bend. While most workers were ferried up the slopes in these noisy contraptions, a few people were walking up the mountains with sacks on their backs.

  ‘Let’s follow them. The fun is about to begin.’

  Raghav guided her back up the hill, but instead of going left towards the house, he kept going straight and down a small path between the trees.

  The path opened into a large terrace covered with drying coffee beans. Small buildings lined the terrace on the left while the right side sloped down and overlooked a clearing where rattle trap trucks and jeeps were parked. Beyond that was a tall stone wall topped with barbed wire.

  The pungent, almost rancid, smell of the beans attacked her senses, penetrating through every pore. Diya was sure she would never be able to smell anything else again.

  As they approached the buildings, the low hum of machinery grew louder. Most of the small buildings were locked and there was no sign of humanity around.

  Only sound and smell ruled.

  Diya did not know how she became aware of the dogs. Their barely-audible growl was no match for the roar of the machinery and her nose was numbed by the stench of coffee beans. Yet, she could feel their eyes on her.

  The dogs were staring at her from behind a barred window. The place did not look like a kennel or a cage, but more like a storeroom, similar to the rooms that flanked it. Raghav vanished into one of the rooms next door to the dogs.

  Did he expect her to follow? Diya stayed put; although the dogs were behind a few feet of thick concrete, they were no less scary.

  More dogs joined the ones at the window and they stared at her, their sharp teeth glinting with drool. They did not wag their tails, bark or playfully jostle each other. They just stayed still and watched her. If it was not for the heaving hearts under their smooth shiny bodies, they could be mistaken for statues.