Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged

by Bulbul Sharma

  Maria shivered.

  ‘Are you cold? Shall I switch the fan off?’ asked Francis.

  ‘No. I’m fine. Shall we walk back to the Happy Home now? I have to organize dinner,’ said Maria, feeling a warm glow of joy. How considerate he was. She loved the way he had looked at her, asking her if she was feeling cold: a gallant Prince Charming with sparkling white teeth. If only he would propose.

  ‘How long are you going to look after those old folks? They should make some other arrangements. You can easily turn your house into a nice little hotel, you know. They are called boutique hotels and foreign tourists love them. Your Happy Home is a heritage building too. Chuck that bunch of oldies out. You are sitting on a pile of money. I can get you a buyer tomorrow if you say yes. So many people from Delhi are looking for heritage houses. They will happily pay any amount you ask.’ Francis smiled at her.

  Maria stared at him as her happy thoughts vanished into the cool evening air. She could not believe what he had said. Throw her old friends out? This was their home. The Happy Home was their only home and it was her duty to look after them as long as they lived. She had promised her grandfather that. She loved it; she really cared for them and they were her only family. Throw them out! Sell the Happy Home! How could Francis say such a terrible thing? Could he really be serious? Maria turned her face and looked at him as if she had never seen him before. He caught her staring at him and smiled. Then he winked and put his fingers on his lips and blew her a kiss. His eyes seemed to glow with love and Maria forgot about what he had just said as his fingers gently touched her hand and her heart leapt with joy.

  * * *

  Yuri raised his head to the sky and began singing an aria from Puccini’s Tosca so loudly that the chickens flew up into the air and then sank down, flapping their wings in agitation. One of them ran straight to the bucket of water and leapt in as if bent on committing suicide. Yuri pulled her out, cooing, ‘My sweet little Misha. Calm down. I sing this song only for you, my darling.’ He threw a handful of puffed rice to the other chickens but they huddled in one corner, eyeing him suspiciously, wondering what was going to happen to their unfortunate relative who Yuri was holding in his hands.

  The chicken stared at him, blinked her yellow eyes a few times rapidly and then shut them as if she could not bear to see him. Yuri was looking really terrible. He had not slept all night and his eyes were bloodshot after the hours of heavy drinking. His breath was so awful that he could smell the stale fumes himself each time he exhaled. The chicken looked as if she was choking on his foul breath and her eyelids trembled with fear and loathing.

  Yuri put the chicken down gently and she fled to the safety of the water tank at once. The others followed quickly and the courtyard was soon empty except for a crow that now rushed in and began picking up the puffed rice. Yuri sat on a wooden box and put his head in his hands. He was so confused. He had tried to tell the others about the photograph but Deven had just dismissed it saying he must have made a mistake. ‘How could the dead woman come from one of those expensive villas? She was dressed like a man in crumpled, stained clothes. I spoke to Eric and he told me she looked like one of those mad women who roam the beach bothering foreign tourists. If you really believed the photograph is of her, why didn’t you get it to show us? Then it would be proper evidence. Who will believe us without proof?’ Deven had said, tapping his stick impatiently.

  Yuri had gone again and tried to tell the inspector about the photograph but he did not believe him. ‘We went to the villa and found no one missing. You gave us wrong information. Don’t waste valuable police time.’ He had then been thrown out of the room.

  Yuri looked at the chickens, shook his head and shouted, ‘You old fool. Forget it. No one believes you.’

  The chickens gave a frightened squeak. Yuri whispered a few words in Russian and threw them a handful of puffed rice again. They hesitated and then came out one by one to pick up the grains, their feathers still ruffled with suspicion. ‘I will talk to Olga. Why did she not give me the photograph? She said she would give it to me later. I will go up to the house again and face that man too. What can he do to me? He cannot kill me. I will say I am her friend and want to talk to her about something urgent. I will speak in Russian to her.’ He took care to speak softly to himself this time so the chickens would not get frightened.

  * * *

  Rosie sat at the window and gazed at the garden lit up by the moonlight. It was a warm night but the breeze was so cool on her face that she felt like someone had splashed water on her. One night, a long time ago when she could walk, Rosie had run all the way to the sea on a moonlit night like this. The sea looked dark, as if it was not the sea but a stretch of bleak land. The moon played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. She had wanted to see the turtles come out of the sea to lay their eggs on the sand. She had waited all night with several other people from her village but no turtles had emerged. She was walking away disappointed but then she heard someone shout, ‘Come back. Come back.’ She had run so fast over the wet sand that she had to gasp for breath and finally stop. Then she saw a round, dark shape struggling up the sand, leaving a trail of water like a narrow stream. A guard told them to stay away, waving a stick. They had stood silently, holding their breath as the turtle laid its eggs and slowly went back to the foaming sea. The waves rose up to greet it like an old friend and then its shape was lost forever.

  How easy it had been to walk. You just put one foot forward and then the other. You didn’t even think about it and moved forward. You could go from one place to another so easily. You could climb stairs, walk in the garden or just stroll up and down in the veranda. Sometimes Rosie dreamt that she could still walk. She was on the beach, running, the wind salty on her lips, the sand rough yet soft under her feet. Someone was running with her but she could not see the person’s face. She tried to run faster but the face kept vanishing into the mist that rose like waves from the sea. On some nights she climbed a high, snow-capped mountain, something she had never done in her life, and when she woke up she found herself on the floor. She had to wait till Leela came into the room and helped her back on to the bed. They would laugh about it together but she could see the pity in the young girl’s eyes as she lifted up her shrivelled, useless legs.

  ‘Poor Rosie, a pathetic cripple. How terrible to live like this. Better to die than be confined to a wheelchair.’ She heard people whisper behind her back. But she did not want to die. There were so many things in this world you could do even if you couldn’t walk any more. She could admire sunsets from her window, hear the birds chatter in the garden and smell the scent of a new rose when it first opened its petals. She could still eat really hot vindaloo, drink beer and laugh. Why should she die now when there was so much still left to do? Besides, they had to catch the murderer, didn’t they?

  These days, they sat around the dining table every evening after dinner and Deven discussed what they had found out during the day. Nobody had really found out anything important yet. Deven often scolded them like a headmaster. How smart he looked when he spoke in that firm, loud voice, so masterful and macho. Rosie put on her best perfume every evening and sat very close to him, though she could feel Prema’s angry looks jabbing her like darts on her back.

  Rosie shut the window and drew the curtains. She wheeled herself around and slowly rolled herself on to the bed, pulling up her lifeless legs. It took her a long time but she succeeded after a struggle. She said her prayers and lay awake wondering when the long night would pass and the birds would begin to call in the garden. The moon travelled slowly past her window, gazing at her like an old friend, and then hid behind a cloud. Her room was plunged into darkness. ‘Soon it will be dawn. Soon the sky will turn light and the birds will begin to sing. Soon, it will be another new day and I will be alive to enjoy it,’ she whispered and smiled as the moon emerged from behind the clouds to join her.

  The next day as they sat around the dining table with steaming cups of coffee, Deven was c
omplaining to the group that Cyrilo was birdwatching when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the suspect.

  ‘I was keeping an eye on that man but this lovely little green bee-eater just came and perched on the branch right above my head,’ said Cyrilo with a grin. Rosie could not help smiling back at him. He was such a child even at this age, with his mop of curly, grey hair and sparkling eyes. How well he played the piano.

  ‘Yes, while you were watching this bee-eater or whatever it is called, the man you were supposed to watch just drove away.’ Deven gave him an angry look.

  ‘I forgot why we were supposed to keep an eye on this fellow. Who is he?’ Cyrilo scratched his head.

  ‘That man is the owner of the house where Yuri saw the photograph of the dead woman. We want to know who else lives there,’ explained Deven and sighed.

  ‘I know who lives there.’ Leela picked up an empty cup.

  ‘How do you know, Miss Know-it-all?’ asked Prema.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how she knows, Prema. Tell us, Leela. Who is he?’ asked Rosie.

  Leela said nothing and just stood by the table watching them all. She wasn’t going to give them this important information so easily. She would make sure they appreciated her efforts by making them wait. She wished Maria would come back but she was still out with Francis. So far Deven had not asked her to do anything to help in this case. Leela was keen to help but they all thought she was too young and stupid. But she was not too young and stupid to cook their meals, clean their rooms, wash their clothes, give them their medicines, listen to their complaints.

  She would make them wait. Leela picked up the coffee cups one by one and slowly placed them on the tray. She counted the spoons, pretended one was missing, and took the tray back to the kitchen, humming under her breath. She knew they were all watching her. She wanted to giggle but stopped herself.

  ‘She knows nothing, silly girl. She’s just showing off,’ hissed Prema.

  ‘She’s not silly. She’s a very smart girl,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Is Leela playing games with us? This is a serious investigation and not a hobby we are indulging in. A woman was found dead right on our doorstep and we must find out who killed her,’ said Deven, pointing to the blackboard.

  Cyrilo, who was drawing lines on a piece of paper, quickly looked up. ‘Where is Yuri tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day,’ said Deven.

  ‘Maybe he’s painting on Vagator beach. You know, that place he likes so much above the rocks,’ said Prema.

  ‘It’s so dangerous. The rocks rise up like a fort and druggies often hide there. I have told him not to go there but he just laughs at me. Mad fellow,’ said Deven.

  ‘Yes, he is a bit mad. Wait, I think I saw him near the villa,’ said Cyrilo.

  ‘Which villa, Cyrilo?’ asked Deven, looking at him sharply.

  ‘That villa you told me to watch. The green bee-eater had flown away and as I looked up at the tree, I saw Yuri standing far away. I waited for him to come to the van but he just vanished. I forgot to tell you about him, sorry,’ said Cyrilo, twisting the pencil in his hand.

  ‘Your memory is really bad. Anyway, he will turn up later. When you see him tomorrow ask him if he had seen the owner of the house. I hope he wasn’t birdwatching like some people we know,’ said Deven, wiping the blackboard with a damp cloth. Though his back was to them, they could all feel his disapproval. Leela watched him from the kitchen door and decided she would wait for Maria to come back and tell them what she knew. It would be good to announce the name of the owner of the villa and watch their mouths fall open in surprise.

  Rosie moved her wheelchair closer to the table and patted Cyrilo’s hand. He looked up at her and smiled.

  ‘Why is everyone in such a bad mood? Play the piano for us, Cyrilo, please,’ she whispered.

  Cyrilo got up from the table at once, wiped his hands on a napkin and sat down at the old piano and began to play. The liquid notes drifted into the garden, lingered on the leaves of the plants and then wafted in the moonlight like dewdrops. As the warm, scented air filled the house, a beam of moonlight stole into the room. It touched all those seated around the table and in this magical, silvery light their old, lined faces shed the years and turned young once again. As they sat listening to the lyrical, smooth notes, they remembered how they had danced once, walked on the sand and run wild, chasing their friends on the beach. They remembered the laughter and joy of their younger days and wondered how they had grown so old so quickly. When had time stolen everything while they were not looking? They had never thought they would grow old. Other people grew old but not them. Their youth seemed such a long time ago that it felt like another lifetime. Cyrilo played for a long time before his fingers began to ache. He slowly brought the lid down as everyone clapped.

  Leela, feeling much calmer now, decided this was the right time to disclose her little gem. ‘The man who lives in that house is the husband of the dead woman,’ she said in a voice so low that the others had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

  ‘Really? How do you know that?’ asked Deven, walking up to her. The others just stared, their eyes full of surprise. Leela felt a ribbon of thrill run down her spine. There! She had made them all sit up and take notice of her. She wondered if she should milk this a bit more and make them beg but decided it was better not to. Better not play it out too long or else they might just go off to sleep. Anyway, she was dying to tell them everything. She could not wait for Maria.

  Leela came and sat with them. Cyrilo, Prema, Deven and Rosie kept staring at her. Each of them wore a different expression. Cyrilo was curious, Prema suspicious, Rosie surprised, while Deven combined all these emotions and glared at her, his face lined with anger, suspicion and disbelief.

  Leela lifted up her chin and said, ‘I know the young boy who works in that house. His name is Tony. He cannot talk but we communicate in sign language. He told me that this man lives in Delhi but comes to Goa, to this villa, every Sunday. His wife came for the first time last week but then disappeared. Tony saw her photograph in the house. He also saw Yuri there once with a Russian girl. This Russian girl also lives in the house but only when the other lady is not there,’ said Leela, feeling a bit breathless.

  ‘That is amazing, girl. You have found out more than any of us,’ said Cyrilo, and Rosie reached her hand out to pat Leela on the back. Prema muttered something and almost smiled but Deven did not say anything. He only nodded his head but Leela could see he was impressed. ‘This boy, can you call him here tomorrow? I must talk to him. We must find out what else he knows,’ he said.

  Leela was upset that Deven had not thanked her. The others looked impressed but not this sour-faced headmaster Deven. She was not going to help him any more. She would go straight to the fat police inspector now but first she would tell Maria what she had found out.

  ‘You cannot talk to him. I told you he’s mute. He will only talk to me. Only I can understand him,’ said Leela and went back to the kitchen. She began banging pots and pans to show them she was upset. Ungrateful old biddies. She would not make any pudding for them tomorrow.

  * * *

  The rain lashed the windows and Rana wished he had not built the house so close to the sea. The architect had said that it was high up on the cliff and quite safe. ‘Look at the view. People will kill for this view,’ he had said. Rana wondered if they would be killed by the view if a really big storm came up. His head was aching badly, and he could not move his arms. What had he drunk last night at the noisy bar Olga had dragged him to? Something had happened after they got out of the smoky room. He remembered getting into the car but nothing after that. Had she mixed something in his drink? That girl had so many pills in her bag. ‘My colourful little friends always help me,’ she would say, forever popping some pink or yellow pill. Rana rubbed his forehead. He suddenly noticed that his hands were covered with a white powder. He tried to focus his eyes.

  There was a peculiar
smell in the room, and marigold garlands all over the sofa along with a huge box of sweets. A lamp had overturned, spilling oil all over the carpet. He glanced at the shelf and saw that Rani’s photograph was missing. Olga must have removed it, probably while screaming, ‘I hate your ugly wife staring at us all day. When will you divorce her?’

  Rana tried to pick up his phone from the table but his hands would not obey. Suddenly a wave of fear flooded over him. What had happened to him? Why could he not move his hands? Where was Olga? He opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out. All he could hear was the oil dripping on the marble floor and the faint sound of a woman laughing somewhere in the house.

  * * *

  When she was a child Rosie could recite all the poems of William Wordsworth. Her parents were very proud of this talent and at every family function she was trotted out to perform her piece. Most people were not keen to listen to poetry, and the strange words describing fields of daffodils and white clouds meant nothing to them. What on earth were daffodils? They would rather sing familiar songs and clap their hands but they were too polite to say that to Rosie’s father. Too polite and too scared since he was a very bad-tempered man. He often broke plates and cups in the house if there was too much salt in his food or his slippers were not dried properly by the servants. Her mother had to rush out and buy new plates every week. The people in the village always joked and said, ‘Husband in bad temper again?’ Her family members were all in heaven now and they had taken their bad tempers with them. Her first husband and her second husband were in their graves and she was all alone in the world. The Happy Home was her last home. They would carry her out of here one day. The gold coins she had hidden would pay for a grand funeral.