Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged

by Bulbul Sharma

  The inhabitants of Trionim had long forgotten Goa’s glorious past and were now focused on the activities in the little village. The twenty-odd houses had been here for more than a hundred years—Maria’s Happy Home for the Aged was one of the oldest—but many of them were in a neglected state. Their tall, elegant pillars, red-tiled roofs and shell-studded windows were falling to bits as wild creepers grew like green ropes to strangle the houses. The Happy Home was, fortunately, in good shape thanks to Maria’s grandfather’s efforts. Denzel Souza had made sure that the house was painted regularly and any missing roof tile was replaced before each monsoon. But after his death, the house went into a sharp decline as if mourning the loss of its beloved owner. The income from the cashew crop also grew less as much of the land was sold to pay for the upkeep.

  Now the walls were covered with grey patterns of damp and mould, and a filigree of old cobwebs had embedded their circular patterns into the wooden beams across the high ceilings. The vast garden was neglected except for the vegetable patch tucked away behind the house. The trees, planted almost a hundred years ago, surrounded the old house, leaning over the roof and casting their cool shade over the shuttered windows like trusted old friends. The house still had an air of dignity; when you looked at it, you knew it belonged to an era of grace and elegance and demanded respect.

  Several new houses with brightly painted walls and huge, complicated iron gates had recently been built on the outskirts of the village, where once there used to be sprawling paddy fields. They looked like eyesores, like poisonous little mushrooms that had sprung up after the rains, but nothing could be done about them. They all belonged to people from Delhi and Mumbai, who only came here during the winter months. The rest of the year these houses sat lonely and quiet, and stray dogs slept in the empty swimming pools. The village people disliked these new constructions and never tired of criticizing them and their inhabitants. At every gathering they sat around exchanging new gossip about ‘those people’ but in their hearts they secretly envied them.

  They too longed to have bathrooms with tiles that had patterns of pretty English flowers and fruits. They too wanted kitchens that were not blackened with ancient marks of smoke and soot but lined with polished granite. How wonderful to have roofs that did not leak during the rains. But it was not done to praise these new houses standing like cardboard boxes in the paddy fields. Though they discussed them endlessly, when they walked past them, the villagers pretended they did not exist. They shut their eyes and tried to think that the paddy fields were still a sea of green, unscarred by these ugly toadstools.

  Maria’s grandfather used to own most of the paddy fields and the forest beyond where he had planted hundreds of cashew trees. Every year the family would camp in the forest during the feni-making season, everyone except the old man and his wife, who felt it beneath her dignity to camp with the hired labour from god knows where. Maria’s grandmother was a famous beauty in her time and claimed that pure Portuguese blood, untainted by any ‘native black’, ran in her veins. Her husband, dark-skinned with curly hair, could not claim such noble origins and was proud to say he was of mixed blood like many other people in his village. Maria’s mother came from the distant north. Though she was a devout Christian, she was never accepted by her snooty mother-in-law, who called her a barbarian from the wild north—a land she had never visited and had no desire to.

  ‘How my foolish son was caught by this milk-drinking peasant girl, I don’t know,’ she would mutter as she walked around the garden, holding her parasol like a shield, watching her daughter-in-law through narrow green eyes. Maria’s mother, Sonia, did not care and carried on drinking milk and doing whatever she wanted. She created a kitchen garden in the empty space behind the house where the stables used to be long ago. She planted chickoo, guava and mango trees and kept chickens in the barn. She was the one who set up the feni-brewing plant in the cashew plantation much against her husband’s wishes. ‘You should stay at home and look after our daughter,’ he would tell her.

  They were found dead by a fisherman who was spreading his net out to dry. No one ever found out how they died. The village people said they had tasted too much freshly brewed feni; others said they had died of snake bite. Maria, fortunately, was safe. She was taken home by the fisherman. ‘Protected by the gods,’ said everyone in the village.

  Maria had a vague memory of her parents but she was not really sure what they had looked like. Their faces kept changing. Their voices she could not remember at all. She had conjured up her mother’s face from a single photograph that hung in her grandfather’s study; the fake aunt had thrown all the others away. Her mother was smiling under her crooked wedding veil, a naughty, twinkling smile like a young child’s, holding her husband’s hand.

  In death too they must have been like this, Maria thought, lovingly holding hands. There were many formal photographs of her father taken by the village photographer in various stages of his life—as a plump, fair baby in a frilly dress and cap, as a thin teenager with a strange, jaunty hairstyle and as a handsome young man in a smart suit and hat. The backdrop was always the same: a fountain with three doves perched on its edge. The fountain was still in the garden but the dove figures had crumbled away long ago.

  Maria was about five years old when her parents had died and she remembered the ‘aunt’ telling her that they had gone to heaven and she would never see them again unless she behaved herself and became a very good girl. They were watching her all the time from heaven and would know at once if she told a lie, broke anything or did not finish the food on her plate. If she picked her nose, if she said a rude word, if she showed her panties when she was sitting on a chair, they would know at once. This cruel, thin-lipped woman kept a notebook by her bedside in which she claimed to write down all Maria’s misdeeds of the day and listed out the punishments due to her. A broken saucer was a sharp but painful twist on her right ear, a rude word was a rap on her knuckles with a small wooden ruler. Sometimes she would give her a quick slap on her back for no reason at all. ‘Just to keep you in order. Children should always be kept in check,’ she would hiss, her cruel eyes gleeful.

  Till she was twelve Maria was terribly afraid of every little thing because she was sure her parents were watching and writing down all her faults and misdemeanours in their little black books. Her grandfather would try to protect her but he was afraid of the aunt; besides, he could barely hear or see any more. His mind was getting confused and he often thought she was his beloved wife. ‘If I say anything to her she will stop talking to me and I cannot bear that,’ he would say and give Maria a handful of sweets to stop her tears.

  Then, one morning when Maria was thirteen, she woke up with blood on her bed sheet. She cried out in fear, clutching her nightdress. When she ran to her great-aunt’s room to beg for her forgiveness and ask to be punished, she saw that the house was filled with people. Strangers hugged her, sobbing loudly, patting her head. The door to her grandfather’s room was shut and women dressed in black stood wailing outside. Maria found her great-aunt in the garden, sobbing.

  Maria knew something terrible had happened and she was to blame for it. She ran and hid in the coal cellar under the kitchen and did not come out till mice began to nibble at her shoes. The house was strangely quiet and the rocking chair in which her grandfather sat all day was empty. The fake aunt suddenly vanished, taking with her the large black suitcase and grey boots. Her little black book with Maria’s misdemeanours lay on the floor of her bedroom. Maria did not dare pick it up but she sat staring at it for a long time, afraid it would fly up any minute and give her a stinging slap on the face.

  Her life changed after that day, but Maria could not stop looking up at heaven whenever she broke a saucer or told a white lie, because she knew that now, along with her parents, her grandfather was watching her too—six pairs of eyes. Maria tried her best to be a good girl. She knew that the invisible fake aunt was hovering somewhere nearby, waiting to pounce on her. She said her p
rayers every night kneeling by her bed, the dust tickling her nose as she whispered under her breath. She never went near the aunt’s room, which was locked up, but she sometimes heard the old lady’s voice scolding her.

  Leela’s parents looked after her and let her run around in the garden all day. When she was eighteen, an old lady called Rosie turned up one night with five suitcases and a parakeet in a cage and asked if she could stay. And then the others came, one by one, and the old house filled with people again. People she loved and wanted to look after. Kind, gentle people who never scolded her or looked at her with hatred in their eyes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS QUITE late by the time the police took the body away and the crowd left reluctantly. A few young boys lingered at the gate, trying to peer in, while a couple more perched on the garden wall. They seemed to be hoping for more dead bodies to appear or some other sort of drama and went away looking rather disappointed, muttering about the police not being helpful or allowing them to see the body. ‘After all, it could have been a friend of mine,’ said one young man.

  ‘This was your friend? A woman who dresses like a man?’ asked his friend.

  ‘I didn’t say she was my friend. I said I might have known her if the policeman had let me see her properly.’

  ‘Yes, I wish we could have had a good look. I’ve never seen a dead body.’

  ‘Your grandfather died just last week.’

  ‘Yes. But he was family. Dead members of the family do not count since they look the same dead or alive. My father, mother, uncle and aunt all look the same to me.’

  The boys then ran off to the tea shop where other people from the village had gathered to discuss this important event in Trionim’s history.

  Maria closed the garden gate firmly and locked it. She did not want any curious onlookers to come into the house. She then went to the kitchen and washed her face several times with cold water. It made her feel calmer. ‘Dinner. Let’s plan dinner,’ she told Leela, who was singing softly under her breath as she washed dishes in the sink. This morning’s gruesome events did not seem to have upset her in any way. For such a young girl she has really strong nerves, thought Maria. ‘A light dinner should be fine. Chicken soup with boiled vegetables.’ She was sure none of the old folks would like any dinner after such a harrowing and sad day.

  She was mistaken. None of them had lost their appetite. They had all been a bit subdued at lunch, confused and bewildered by everything that had just happened, but their spirits seemed to have revived. In fact, they were more hungry and lively than usual as they gathered around the dining table, chattering loudly about the other dead bodies they had seen.

  It was amazing how many unusual deaths Prema had encountered. Not a single person she had known had passed away peacefully in bed after reaching a ripe old age; each and every one of them had died a violent and sudden death. Prema listed out all her deceased relatives one by one; then Rosie started on her list. Hers was not as shocking but she quickly added, ‘One cousin committed suicide just like this,’ she said, pointing a painted fingernail at the garden.

  ‘Suicide is the coward’s way out,’ Deven said to them in a gruff, accusatory tone, as if they were to blame, and Cyrilo muttered something about his late uncle who had drowned in the sea. ‘We were never sure if he had really drowned since we never found his body. My aunt would always lay an extra plate for him at the dining table and none of us were allowed to sit in his chair,’ he said.

  Maria wished they would stop talking. Yuri was the only one who was quiet. It seemed so disrespectful to talk like this, as if they were discussing a horror movie: The ten best deaths I have seen. Maria was still quite dazed at what had happened. A dead body in her garden! Why had this woman come here to die? What connection did she have to this house? Maria looked up and saw Yuri watching her. He seemed to have tears in his eyes but he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. She wondered why Francis had not come today. Just as well, because she was still wearing her old dress and her hair was its usual tangled mess since she had had no time to wash it.

  Leela bustled around the table, urging them to get up and leave. She had found some leftover dal, tomato curry and rice in the fridge which she had heated up and served after they had each finished a big bowl of chicken soup. But they still wanted more. ‘I can smell fish. Are you frying some for us tonight?’ asked Prema, sniffing the air. Her eyesight was very bad and she often stumbled over furniture but refused to go to the eye doctor in Panjim to get her eyes checked. ‘What can he do? My eyes have seen enough. They need to rest now,’ she would say while squinting.

  ‘No. You are not getting any fish till Friday. Just finish what’s on your plate and go to bed now,’ said Leela, slapping down a plate of rice on the table.

  ‘You are getting too cheeky, girl. I would give you a slap if my wrist was not so stiff with arthritis.’ Prema tried to grab Leela’s long plait as she went past her.

  ‘How can you talk of fried fish when we have just discovered a dead body?’ said Maria, and they all looked at her with surprise.

  ‘Calm down, dear. People die all the time. Nothing to feel so upset about. People are born and then they die. Please pass me the chicken,’ said Rosie, patting her hand. Yuri nodded, smiled and said, ‘Death is not bad. Worries all gone. All goes well after you are dead.’

  ‘It’s just a change of garments according to our holy books. But they mean a proper death, not an ugly one like this,’ said Deven in a low voice. Cyrilo helped himself to some more rice while Prema tapped her fingers on the table, still hoping for the elusive fried fish to arrive.

  Maria shivered as she watched the old residents chatting and chewing their food noisily. Prema was making a dreadful noise, rattling her false teeth. Maria turned her face away and stared at the garden now bathed in darkness. She just could not get the terrible image of the dead woman’s face out of her mind. Why was she dressed in a man’s clothes? Inspector Chand and his constable had refused to touch the body.

  ‘Leela, Leela. Is there any ice cream?’ shouted Cyrilo. ‘It’s so hot today.’

  ‘I also feel like eating something sweet. Can we have carrot halva tomorrow, Maria? You make it so well. Please put lots of cashew nuts but make sure you grind them well. My teeth cannot chew whole cashew nuts now,’ said Prema.

  ‘The older you get the hungrier you feel. Teeth gone, eyes gone, legs gone but stomach doing very well,’ said Cyrilo with a smile.

  ‘The woman was found dead right at our doorstep. Do you people realize that? How can you talk about carrot halva at a time like this?’ shouted Maria, suddenly losing her temper.

  ‘Okay, Maria, forget about the carrot halva. Anyway, sugar is bad for you, poison for everyone regardless of their age. In Ayurveda they say you should avoid all white things. Flour, potatoes, sugar.’ Deven wagged a finger at them.

  ‘Who cares? I love deep-fried floury, white snacks. What is life without sugar and flour? I have some chocolates in my bag. I saved them from that birthday party we went to. We can have them later. Maria, do calm down. That Inspector Chand will soon find out why that poor woman killed herself. Let us say a prayer for her and then eat our chocolates.’ After she said this Rosie turned around in her wheelchair to reach into a large bag that always hung from the handles.

  As Deven, Cyrilo, Yuri, Prema and Rosie bowed their heads and began to pray, Maria hesitated and bowed her head too. An old, familiar feeling of guilt flooded her as she thought about the six pairs of eyes watching her from heaven. She quickly began to chant an incoherent prayer.

  Leela emerged from the kitchen with a tray on which sat seven glass bowls, filled to the brim with bright pink ice cream, and seven silver teaspoons: the last surviving spoons from Maria’s grandmother’s cutlery. She carefully placed the tray on the dining table, stuck the teaspoons into the bowls and then folded her hands in prayer. ‘Keep us safe, oh lord. Mother Mary protect us. Krishna, please watch over us too,’ she sang in a beautiful clear voice. The e
ntire house rang with their prayers and a flock of wood pigeons roosting on the guava tree fluttered their wings in response.

  ‘Ah! Good, good. Strawberry . . . my favourite flavour,’ whispered Rosie, her eyes half shut. Everyone stopped praying and quickly opened their eyes. As soon as the sweet, slightly plastic flavour of the ice cream touched her lips, Maria felt sick. She couldn’t bear to sit around pretending nothing had happened. She knew she had to do something. She had to find out why this unfortunate woman had died, but before that she had to find out her identity.

  Why had she come here? No tourists ever did since the beaches were rocky and there were no good restaurants except the Tip Top Cafe. Though last week a crowd had suddenly arrived to see the old church. Maybe the dead woman was a tourist. Maybe she owned one of the new houses in the paddy fields. But why had she come to the Happy Home? What a horrible way to die. Poor woman. I hope she won’t haunt the Happy Home now. There are so many ghosts here already, thought Maria.

  The residents watched her as they spooned ice cream into their mouths. They sensed that Maria was upset but did not know what to say to make her feel better. Rosie passed the chocolates around. Everybody took one and the table fell silent as they ate them slowly, noisily, making each one last. ‘Mint and dark chocolates . . . so delicious,’ Rosie murmured, taking Maria’s hand in hers, and Maria felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Inspector Chand sighed and looked at his empty cup and Maria knew he wanted more tea. He had spent the entire morning at the Happy Home interrogating Maria. He was a helpful and friendly man; in fact, a bit too friendly, thought Maria. She did not like the way he tried to brush against her hand when she passed him the bowl of sugar. Now if only Francis would do that. But maybe he was just shy and she should encourage him a bit more. Deep in her heart, though, Maria knew very well that Francis was not shy at all, on the contrary, he was quite bold, but she felt better thinking about him as a timid man who needed encouragement. Bobby was shy and timid but she found him boring. All he did was talk about his plants and trees at the spice farm.