Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged

by Bulbul Sharma

  ‘Err . . . we just want to know. We are from the Happy Home and since she was found in our garden we thought we should find out more about her,’ muttered Cyrilo.

  ‘Aha. You think this is your own little murder and you want to play detective. Well, have fun. No harm, after all at your age, what else can you do? Talk to Eric, he can help you. By the way, the woman had come to Trionim to buy a house. She should have gone to the graveyard and booked a plot instead.’ The old man said this and walked out of the tea shop, whistling.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Prema.

  ‘My great-uncle Bob. He claims to be a hundred years old. Drinks like a fish but can still row his fishing boat faster than any other fisherman on the Chapora river. I will get your tea in clean cups right away.’ Roy got up from the table.

  As they sipped their tea—hot, milky and sweet, just the way Cyrilo liked it—they wondered if they should meet Eric the undertaker or go home.

  ‘My back is hurting a bit and I need to have a nap now,’ muttered Yuri.

  ‘Yes, I want to go to the toilet urgently,’ said Prema. ‘This one must be dirty. I hate dirty toilets.’

  As they drove back to the Happy Home, they felt they had done a good day’s work. They were tired but also mentally much more energetic, as if life had thrown them a bouquet of fresh flowers and the scent was exhilarating. They felt exhausted by all the hectic physical activities, and their knees hurt, but this was a new kind of ache in their bones. Suddenly the blood in their veins was running briskly and they felt years younger. It was good to have something to do. It was good to wake up in the morning and look ahead to another exciting day. It felt rejuvenating to be alive once more.

  When they got back they found Rosie sitting by the door. She was holding her favourite mirror in her hand and looking into it. Her face was flushed with excitement. Her eyes, lined heavily with kohl, sparkled like two glass beads.

  ‘So glad you people are back. I’ve been waiting for you. I saw the boy again. He was passing by my window and I called out to him. He came in and sat down with me. He told me that the woman had come to the Happy Home last week. He told me the dead woman was here, right outside our door.’

  ‘How did you understand what he was saying?’ asked Prema suspiciously. She was sure Rosie was making this up to impress the men. She was always seeking attention.

  ‘He can write, you know. He wrote it all down in a small notepad he carries around his neck. He is so sweet and clever. I might adopt him. He could be my little page.’

  ‘Did he say why the woman had come to the Happy Home?’ asked Yuri.

  ‘No. He just wrote that in his notebook and ran away.’

  ‘We found out that the woman had been stabbed in the neck and then hung from the tree. Someone must have killed her and then dragged her body here. But why?’ said Cyrilo.

  ‘Poor thing. Imagine being pushed and pulled even when you are dead. May her soul rest in peace,’ said Rosie.

  ‘She was obviously being punished for some evil deed from her past life,’ said Prema. ‘We all have to reap rewards and punishments in our next life for our deeds in this life. That is why I lead such a pure, blameless life.’

  ‘I too have lived a blameless life and will be born as a white swan in my next life,’ said Cyrilo.

  ‘This rule applies only to Hindus; you are not included,’ said Prema.

  ‘Prema, you will be born as a cat, I’m sure,’ said Yuri. ‘A sweet, cute cat with sharp teeth.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t like cats. I must put my teeth in before dinner,’ said Prema, and she rushed off to her room.

  ‘Do you think that woman had come to the Happy Home to meet us?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘She was looking for a house to buy. A man at the vegetable shop in the market told me that too. Maybe she thought the Happy Home was for sale,’ said Deven thoughtfully.

  ‘I hope not. We will be homeless then. Maria will never sell this old house,’ said Yuri.

  ‘Listen, I think we should drive to those new villas near the road and see if we can find somebody who knew her. I have a feeling she came from there,’ said Deven.

  Yuri looked down at his hands. Should he tell them now that he had seen her photograph in one of those very villas? But then he would have to tell them about Olga. Somehow he could not bring himself to talk about her. They would make fun of him. Prema would have something nasty to say. No, he would wait. Let them find out who the woman was. The police must have worked it out and the inspector would be coming soon to tell them.

  ‘Life is so fragile. It’s like a pearl necklace that can break any moment and scatter all the precious pearls. One day you are a rich woman driving around in a big car, abusing everyone and the next day you are dead,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I hope I have a quick, painless death,’ said Yuri.

  ‘I don’t want any kind of death just yet. Right now, I just want something to eat. I wish I had eaten a few more cakes at the feast. They had delicious coconut sweets.’ Cyrilo headed towards the dining room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MARIA AND LEELA were in the kitchen kneading dough for the bread that was baked every afternoon. Leela pushed the dough down on the stone slab and rolled it up again deftly in one quick movement, just the way Maria had taught her. Later, the house would be filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and the scent would linger till late evening.

  Rosie loved the aroma. The next day for breakfast they would have thick slices of hot buttered toast and home-made jam. Sometimes, Maria made them scrambled eggs on freshly baked buns. Rosie watched them working and moved her wheelchair slowly along the shaded path, taking care to avoid the bright sunlight. She tried to keep to the edge of the path but the wheelchair kept rolling down on the grass. She had to struggle to turn the handle to move it back.

  Rosie knew she had to buy a new wheelchair, a motorized one that could zip across the garden, but she kept postponing it. She had had this old wheelchair for eight years now and it was like a trusted old friend. Its rubber wheels squeaked in soft tones, and the smooth wooden handle felt warm under her hand. She could not let go of her old wheelchair yet. It would probably last till she died, so why waste money? Rosie looked down at her hands. How thin and scrawny they looked now; she often thought they were not her hands but some old woman’s. I’m an old woman now but in my heart I’m still a young girl.

  Her hands had once been soft and plump like Maria’s. She loved painting her nails a vivid shade of red to match her lipstick. Everyone said she looked like the Hollywood actress Ava Gardner, with her large eyes and thick, wavy hair. Rosie had once gone to a movie to see this actress and was shocked to see how ordinary-looking she was. She has pretty eyes but she looks nothing like me. I think I’m much better looking. But she couldn’t really say that to anyone.

  Now when she looked at herself in the mirror, a strange reflection looked back. A woman with gaunt cheeks, mottled skin and puffy eyes. Who was this ugly old woman? Even if she put on a lot of make-up now Rosie could never bring her old self, her real self, back. When you grow old you become a different person outside though your inner self remains the same, longing to escape from the aged body, Rosie thought, leaning back in her wheelchair, allowing the evening breeze and the happy birdsong to soothe her sad thoughts.

  The cicadas called outside in cheerful notes and the garden lay in darkness like the vast, unending sea. A soft, sweet fragrance floated into the house from the rose bushes. Someone was singing loudly in the house next door and Rosie hummed the words to herself. She remembered singing this song as a young girl. Slowly, as she sang, the years rolled away and she was a young girl running around in her mother’s garden. She tripped over rose bushes, jumped over puddles and heard various sweet voices calling out to her. She was so happy, so carefree, climbing the branches of a beautiful tree covered with flowers, and life shimmered in front of her like a mountain, so full of promise and joy. Now she had almost reached the end of her journey. The hill sti
ll shimmered with promise but it seemed so far away.

  * * *

  They had finished dinner at the Happy Home and were now sitting around the dining table. An owl hooted outside and another one replied at once.

  Maria pushed the coffee cups away and brought her chair closer. ‘Well, now we have three bits of new information,’ she said, but before she could add anything further, Deven gave her a look as if to say, ‘Now I will take over.’

  Maria stopped and gave him a little bow. Deven stood up. He pulled a chair out and started speaking in a loud voice, as if to a large audience instead of just five people.

  ‘I will now give you all the facts. Please listen carefully. Fact number one: she was drugged, strangled and brought here and hung on a tree. Fact number two: she was from outside Goa. Fact number three: she had come to Trionim to buy a house. What can we deduce from all this?’ asked Deven, and when they all stared at him silently, he shook his head with a sigh.

  He walked to the blackboard he had placed in one corner of the dining room and then turned around to look at them, his spectacles resting on his nose. No one knew what to say. Cyrilo reached for another coconut biscuit and quickly popped it in his mouth. He began to chew carefully so that Deven would not notice the crunching sound. Coconut cookies were so noisy. He wished he had some soft chocolate cookies with him that he could munch silently. He wondered where Yuri was. He had been acting strange for the last few days. He must talk to him later, find out what was bothering him.

  Leela, who was clearing the table, suddenly stopped. She looked at them for a few moments and then said, ‘You know, I think I saw her at the beauty parlour when I was cleaning the brushes last week. She was getting a pedicure. A very ugly, tall woman she was. Almost looked like a man. She asked if someone could thread the hair on her chin but none of the girls wanted to. She looked a bit crazy and kept laughing for no reason and talking to herself. She kept shouting to someone on her mobile phone too.’

  ‘Why were you cleaning the brushes at Joni’s parlour?’ asked Maria. ‘I hope she pays you. She is a great one for getting free work done.’ The expensive face cream had given her a rash and she was going to ask Joni to refund her money but she knew this time Joni would refuse.

  ‘Listen. This is very important, what Leela has told us. If the woman she saw at the parlour is the dead woman, she was obviously living here and not just visiting from Panjim. She must have rented one of the new villas on the hillside . . . you know, those expensive ones with swimming pools,’ said Deven.

  He turned to Maria. ‘I want you to go to Joni and ask her if she knew anything about the lady. Be casual so she doesn’t suspect we are snooping.’ He tapped his pencil on the table.

  ‘I would love to have my own swimming pool. Just imagine getting up in the morning and having a swim,’ said Cyrilo, smiling, but he changed his expression and coughed sheepishly when he saw Deven glaring at him. ‘Good work, Leela, clever girl.’ Cyrilo tried to look serious.

  ‘Please pay attention to what we are discussing,’ said Deven.

  Rosie glanced at him. He’s really turning into one of those detectives you see in foreign television dramas. Just like that fellow . . . what was his name? No. Not Poirot; he was bald and fat. This detective was very good-looking and always narrowed his eyes and frowned just like Deven. His name was . . . Sherlock Holmes. Yes. That’s it. Deven has become the Sherlock Holmes we saw on television last week. She giggled.

  ‘I will go to the beauty parlour tomorrow and ask Joni,’ said Maria and got up. She would return the cream too and try to get her money back. Francis had said he would come tomorrow and she hoped her rash would have cleared up by then.

  The trouble with Francis was that he was so unpredictable. He never kept his promises and she was always hanging around waiting for him to show up or send her a message. On the other hand, Bobby Menezes was reliable and always kept his word. He was a real gentleman, so polite and considerate. Even as a young boy, he would always speak to her politely. The other boys would jump and rush about the school garden but Bobby would stand under the banyan tree and examine the leaves. Maybe she should call Bobby over just to make Francis a bit jealous, but that was not fair on poor Bobby. He was such a kind, sweet man. His soft brown eyes always reminded her of a spaniel she had once had. Life was very confusing. You could be cruel to a kind, loving person but love a cruel, heartless person to death. ‘I’m not going to hang around like this for Francis. He can’t take me for granted. I’ll show him that I too can play games,’ muttered Maria, but she knew in her heart that she would find it impossible to do so.

  The next morning she woke up at dawn, and baked a new batch of cinnamon cakes and two dozen mushroom patties for the Tip Top Cafe. Baking always made her feel calm and she did not think about Francis all day. Kneading the dough, mixing the sugar and butter till her arms ached, watching the cakes rise in the oven and finally taking them out in a cloud of the delicious buttery, cinnamon aroma made her feel good. It took her to a cosy, warm place and made her feel content. Baking was as wonderful and calming as meditation. She also got dozens of cakes to sell at the cafe.

  After giving everyone breakfast, Maria got into her car and drove with Leela to Joni’s beauty parlour near the Chapora bridge. It was a wet, humid day and her hair rose like a frizzy halo around her head. Maria wondered if she had time for a quick blow-dry at the parlour as she knocked on the glass door. It’s not for Francis. I just want my hair to look good, she said to herself as she hit her head on the metal wind chime that rang loudly and discordantly in protest.

  Joni’s beauty parlour was in a mess. A pile of clipped hair lay in one corner and discarded robes were scattered all over the floor. Loud music blared from the radio and hairdryers added their own harsh, whining sounds to the cacophony. In one corner, a big pot of wax bubbled and groaned like a witch’s brew. There was such a strong smell of hairspray that Maria began to sneeze. She pushed some robes aside and stepped over a tub of soapy water before waving to Joni, who nodded and pointed to an empty chair, her mouth full of hairpins. Maria moved a pile of old magazines and sat down while Leela stood near the door, looking at everything with great interest. Her large eyes sparkled as if she was in a toy shop and not an untidy beauty parlour. She really seems to like all this. I will ask Joni to train her next year. I will pay her, thought Maria.

  Joni finally finished and came and sat down next to her. She very reluctantly took the cream back and refunded the money. ‘It was a very good cream. You should have a facial done. Must be careful at your age. You already have so many fine lines around your eyes.’ Joni pointed to Maria’s face, as if she had not understood her. Maria knew she was upset about the cream so she ignored the rude remarks and asked about the woman instead.

  ‘Yes. A peculiar-looking woman did come in last week, Leela is right. We had never seen her before. I remember she had tufts of hair on her chin. She kept boasting that she had just come from London and had had her skin peeled there. It looked awful, almost as bad as your skin. Why do you want to meet her?’ asked Joni suspiciously.

  ‘I was told this woman was looking to buy a house here. I know someone who’s selling a house near us so could you give me her address?’ Maria hoped Joni would not ask who. She knew everyone in Trionim.

  ‘I think she came from one of those new villas. Yes, I’m sure of that. She said her husband had built some of them and was planning to buy more land for a hotel in Trionim. She did mention something about buying a house too. I don’t have her name or address. I wasn’t really paying much attention. Women who come to the parlour talk so much that my ears get tired of their voices. They should just sit quietly and not go yak, yak, yak,’ said Joni, counting out the money for Maria. ‘Why don’t you buy this new hair colour that has just come from Mumbai? You have quite a few grey hairs now.’ Maria quickly walked out of the parlour, dragging Leela away from a tray of nail polish bottles.

  ‘So that woman was from here. It was very clever of y
ou to notice her. Though it’s odd that we never saw her in the market,’ Maria told Leela as they drove to the cafe.

  ‘She looked like a very rich lady. She had a big diamond ring on every finger and a diamond nose ring too. Rich ladies like her don’t come to the market. They send their servants.’

  * * *

  His face half hidden in the shadows, Yuri stood under a peepal tree, staring at the villa where Olga was staying. The windows were closed. The sun had gone down over the horizon and the sea was a sheet of shimmering grey. Gulls called to each other as if sharing the gossip of the day that had just ended. Yuri wondered what to do. ‘Maybe I will go around to the back garden and knock on the kitchen door,’ he said to himself. There was a car parked in the driveway, a brand-new red BMW. That meant Rana Hooda was here and Olga would not be able to talk to him, but he had to see the photograph again to make sure it was the dead woman.

  It was really urgent. He hated hiding something so important from the others when they were running around trying to find out her identity. If it was the same woman why would her photograph be in Rana Hooda’s house? Who was she? His mother? She looked quite old; she could certainly not be his wife. He had to talk to Olga again. Yuri tried not to think of how keen he was to see her again and it wasn’t just about the photograph. ‘You are an old fool, Yuri,’ he whispered as he walked into the garden like a thief, his heart racing madly as if he was running.

  Inside the house, Rana looked at his phone again. ‘My wife has not called me for twenty-four hours. That’s quite amazing. I have never known her to be so uncommunicative. She has to tell me every moment of her day. A blow-by-blow account. She has to find out every detail of what I’m doing. Drives me crazy. Even when I’m in London, she wastes thousands of rupees on stupid, useless phone calls. She cannot go to sleep unless she has called me a few rude names every night.’ Rana had now switched the topic of conversation from the route of the monsoon winds to his miserable married life.