The parakeets swooped down, greeting them with shrill cries as if celebrating some event in the garden. ‘Look. That’s where we found her. I cannot go out of the house without getting a shiver down my spine. Each time I look at the tree, I see her body hanging, her hair flying in the wind.’ Maria shuddered and Bobby quickly pulled her away.
‘Wait. I just thought of something. It was odd that her hair was not tied up. Leela said she was a very fashionable lady with a big bun on top of her head. Who had untied her hair? Why do all this before killing someone?’ She turned her head away from the tree.
‘You said she was dressed like a man. Did her clothes fit properly?’ asked Bobby.
‘What do you mean?’ Maria looked puzzled.
‘I mean, did it look as if she was wearing trousers and a shirt like some women do? I have a lawyer friend who always wears a white shirt and black pants. In fact, she dresses very much like Deven,’ said Bobby.
Maria wondered briefly who this lady lawyer friend was. She could not imagine Bobby knowing any other woman except her.
‘No. Her trousers were very baggy and loose and the shirtsleeves were so long that her hands were hidden.’ Maria shut her eyes to visualize the image of the dead woman. She hated doing it but it seemed important all of a sudden.
‘That means she was dressed in someone else’s clothes. I think the murderer was trying to hide her identity, delaying the police from starting their investigation.’
Maria stopped and stared at him. ‘That’s very clever of you, Bobby. We never thought of that. I must tell Deven. No, wait. Let’s go to the spice farm first, otherwise he’ll get that blackboard out again and it’ll get late.’
Bobby laughed and opened the car door for her. ‘There is a very healthy crop of tender fruit on the mango tree. You will get lots of mangoes this season if the rains do not damage the fruits.’ There I go again, wasting the precious time I had alone with her, he thought as Leela emerged from the house carrying two huge baskets and a large fruit cake.
* * *
Rana Hooda slowly made his way to the other room. The floor was wet and slippery with oil and he was afraid he would slip and break his neck. He had recently heard of a man in Delhi cracking his head on a glass table and dying instantly, with a glass of whisky still in his hands. Where was Olga and why had she brought so many marigold necklaces? It was as if they had been at a wedding. Suddenly, Rana stopped. His heart froze and he found he could not breathe. He looked at his fingertips and saw they were stained red . . . no . . . vermilion. What had he done? Had he married that girl? But he couldn’t remember anything at all.
Rani would kill him if she found out. She would take everything away from him: his cars, his factory, his farm, and even his dog. Everything belonged to her. You came as a lowly clerk to work in my father’s office and you earned nothing. All this is mine and will remain mine till I die, he heard his wife’s shrill voice scream in his head. No. He could have never married Olga. It would be bigamy. She knew that. She was not a fool. She kept nagging him to divorce Rani but he didn’t have the courage to tell her that he would be ruined, he would be on the street, if he ever did that. This fantastic villa, the BMW and the yacht anchored on the Mandovi river would all vanish with one snap of Rani’s fingers. They could do nothing while she was alive. He was a prisoner and the jailer was his wife.
Rana carefully stepped over a marigold garland and picked up his phone. There was still no call from his wife. Three days had passed. Rana hoped nothing was wrong, at the same time wishing she was at the bottom of the sea along with her stupid mobile phone. He was surprised that no one had called to find out where she was. If she hadn’t reached Mumbai her relatives would have called him. Maybe she had gone somewhere else from Mumbai. But she would have told him about her plans. Where was that woman?
* * *
Yuri opened his eyes and saw the light dance on his hands, making strange patterns. He wondered if he had died. The room was bathed in soft grey shadows that glided across the wall, floated over his bed and gently covered his face. His entire body seemed to sway and dance in the grey light and he felt at peace. He never wanted this feeling to go. He shut his eyes and let the shadows caress him. Then he heard the sound. It was a faint whisper but he knew someone was in the room. Yuri could hear whoever it was breathing. He dared not open his eyes. He did not want to see death standing by his bedside.
The breathing was louder now and someone touched his arm. A shiver ran through his entire body and the shadows suddenly vanished. The room was lit up. He could sense the glow seeping through his closed eyelids. He waited, his breath tight as a fist in his chest.
Why should he be afraid if he was dead already? There was nothing to fear now. He had always wondered how he would die and how calmly he would face the end, but now that he was being held in its embrace, he could not feel anything but this intense fear. Yuri wanted to scream, to escape, but he felt his breath being snuffed out. The last thing he saw was a pale white hand with long, twisted fingernails hovering over his face.
* * *
As they huddled in Bobby’s office, Maria could hear the frogs calling in the pond. She was reminded of her childhood days when the rains would bring hundreds of frogs out in the garden and she would sit in the veranda and count them with her grandfather. The scent of lemongrass swirled around her, making her feel so relaxed and calm that Maria thought she would fall asleep. She wanted to stay at the spice farm forever. If she married Bobby, she would build a small cottage by this pond and spend weekends here. She would have to bring all the old folks with her but they could roam around happily and enjoy the ancient trees, spice plants and coconut palms.
‘Here it is. Mrs Rani Hooda. 45 Greenside Villa, Vaddy, Trionim. It has her phone number too,’ said Bobby, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from a drawer in his desk.
‘Shall we call her?’ asked Prema.
‘Have you no brains left? Are you going senile? What do you mean call her? Is she going to answer the phone and say “Hello. Remember me? I am the woman you saw hanging from the tree in your garden. I am dead but will try to return your call as soon as I can,”’ said Deven.
Leela giggled and then kept quiet as Prema glared at her.
‘Listen, Deven, you smarty-pants. What I meant was let us try the dead woman’s number and see who answers. There is no need to be so sarcastic and rude. I think you are getting senile. You are certainly a very grumpy old man,’ Prema muttered.
‘A bad temper is the first sign of dementia, my father used to say,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Well, we all know your father was not senile. He was just plain insane,’ said Prema.
‘As far as I know, Prema, you never met my late father. So kindly keep your opinions to yourself. My father was a noble and kind man. The entire village still remembers him with respect.’
‘I hope they’ll remember you as a silly old man,’ said Prema and Cyrilo make a face at her.
‘They will certainly remember you as the rudest woman to have ever lived in Trionim. Maybe they’ll erect a statue in your honour and the pigeons will lovingly decorate your head with droppings,’ muttered Cyrilo.
Leela smiled. She knew the oldies were going to argue for at least the next fifteen minutes. They really enjoyed attacking each other like crows fighting over food. Maybe it made them feel alive and young. She picked up the piece of paper and looked at it again.
‘This is the same address as the Russian girl’s, Miss Maria. Isn’t it? The inspector told us that day,’ said Leela.
Everyone stared at her. Maria read the address again and said, ‘Yes, it is. You are right, Leela. Do you think there are several apartments at this address?’
‘Could be. These new villas are built cheek by jowl like on an anthill. The builders want to pack in as much as they can to maximize their profits,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Yet people are happy to buy them, happy to pay huge prices for a tiny flat,’ said Bobby. ‘This lady said her husband
was a top builder in Delhi and they wanted to take over the entire stretch along the Chapora river to build hotels and luxury apartments. Very expensive, exclusive villas and not those cheap types you see everywhere now in Goa. Then she offered me the job of doing the landscaping.’
‘She would have paid you lots of money. Why didn’t you accept it?’ asked Rosie as he wheeled her out of the office.
‘I’m very happy working here on the spice farm. I do not want to go anywhere else. This is my whole life. The trees, plants and seedlings I have grown in the greenhouse and the spice shed are like my children and I can never leave them. I am planning to build a bigger greenhouse next month to grow rare medicinal plants. Anyway, I did not like that woman. She began ordering me about as if I was her bonded slave, even though I had not accepted her offer.’
Rosie noticed that Bobby was less shy and timid now. It was as if his beloved trees and the fragrant groves of cinnamon and cardamom had given him the power to be a confident man. Bobby in his spice kingdom was a noble prince.
Maria too looked at Bobby, surprised at the change in him. This is his life and it gives him so much joy. He is lucky to have found a passion that also gives him an income. He does not want to be rich desperately, like Francis. Francis is so eager to get ahead that he would do anything, go anywhere as long as he makes money. He wants me to sell the Happy Home too. Maria suddenly remembered Tina and her perfect hourglass figure. Tina was the daughter of one of Goa’s wealthiest builders. Now she knew why Francis was courting her. He had tried to get her to sell the Happy Home and when she had refused he had lost interest in her. He had found another girl with a bigger house and more money. Francis never wasted time.
Standing in the shade of a mulberry tree, the birds singing all around her, Maria knew she did not love Francis any more. She suddenly felt free and, as a wave of happiness swept over her, she wanted to laugh. She wanted to shake the mulberry tree for some reason and eat all the fruit that would fall on her but then she remembered the dead woman’s face and felt all her happiness wash away.
‘We will go and check this address. Will you come with me, Bobby?’ Maria turned to look at him. He stood uncertainly, his hands on Rosie’s wheelchair, and then he smiled and said in a low voice, ‘I will always be happy to help you. Have I not been there for you all my life, Maria? You mean everything to me.’
Rosie in her wheelchair, Deven under the pepper vine, Prema by the coconut tree, Cyrilo on the bench and Leela at the lily pond behind them all gave a happy sigh of relief. Bobby had spoken at last. The trees smiled down at them and the frogs croaked suddenly, as if they were offering congratulations. Bobby had finally declared his love for Maria. The mulberry tree shed a few leaves as Maria looked up at Bobby with surprise and love in her eyes. Rosie began planning the dress she would wear at Maria’s wedding. She slowly started moving her wheelchair away so that the couple could be alone. The others followed her and the heady scent of jasmine, roses and cloves mingled with love floated over all of them.
* * *
‘I just can’t understand what has happened to Yuri. He is so confused. I think he is trying to tell us something but his speech is so slurred I cannot understand what he says. That doctor has given him a very strong painkiller since he keeps groaning in pain,’ said Deven.
‘I really don’t know how he injured himself. Do you think he fell down in his room? He seems so fit. He’s in much better shape than you, Cyrilo,’ said Prema.
‘I know that, Prema. But how did he get back to the bed? He should have been lying on the floor. He has very bad bruises on his wrists and neck too,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Poor fellow. We should not have left him alone. Maria could have gone to the spice farm to get the address from Bobby,’ said Deven.
‘The one good thing is that the doctor will not allow the inspector to take him to the police station to question him about the stolen jewellery till he recovers fully,’ said Prema.
‘At his age that could take months. He may not recover from this fall. My uncle fell down the other day and now he cannot recognize his own wife,’ said Cyrilo. ‘Though he could just be pretending to escape from her tongue-lashing. Poor man, one day dashing around on his scooter, the next like a vegetable dribbling all over his bib.’
‘I hope I die before my brain goes all soft and dim. I pray to god every day and ask him to take me while I am still fit and able,’ said Prema.
‘Glad to know you are fit and able. Now we will not have to hear the list of your ailments every day, I hope?’ said Deven.
‘Don’t be so proud. Death is waiting for us around the corner; waiting and watching. Your turn will come soon,’ hissed Prema, pointing a finger at Deven and then at the kitchen where Leela was loudly clanging pots and pans as she washed them.
‘I did not know death was waiting for us in our kitchen. You’d better not eat so much, Prema, or else Mr Death will pounce on your stomach tomorrow at breakfast,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Death is not very far from us. We are all waiting in the departure lounge. We should be happy and content with whatever extra time the Almighty is giving us and not quarrel and say cruel things to each other. Each day is a precious gift from heaven, each breath is a bonus,’ said Rosie in a quiet voice.
The others looked at her sheepishly and Deven patted her hand.
‘You are so right, Rosie. We must be grateful for everything we have. We must make sure Yuri recovers soon. The doctor has given him some strong antibiotics so that he does not get an infection from the wound on his arm. He suspects Yuri had a mild stroke and that is probably what made him fall down suddenly,’ said Deven.
‘I will keep my bedroom door open in case he needs anything at night. Poor fellow, he looks terrible,’ said Cyrilo.
‘I think he’s trying to tell us something because every time I go into his room, he points to the window. He cannot talk. But he still manages to raise one arm and point to the window,’ said Rosie.
‘Let’s go and see him. I want to give him some amla juice. We can all have some,’ said Prema.
‘Amla juice gives me wind but you three have some. I will have coconut water later,’ said Rosie, moving her wheelchair towards the door. Prema went into the kitchen to fetch the bottle of amla juice and behind her back Cyrilo made a grimace and pointed to his throat.
‘Yuck,’ he whispered.
‘Why is it that everything that is good for you tastes so bad?’ Rosie asked Cyrilo. He shook his head and laughed.
When they reached the veranda, Cyrilo and Deven lifted Rosie’s wheelchair and placed it on the ramp that led to Yuri’s studio. The sky was grey today and the leaves on the trees seemed much darker, as if they had been drenched in sepia ink. The sparrows were missing from the rose shrub and only a pair of doves cooed quietly to each other. Leela was now chopping vegetables in the kitchen, her knife making loud tapping noises on the wooden board. She was singing softly and looked up and smiled when they passed the kitchen window.
‘What are you giving us for lunch today?’ asked Cyrilo.
‘Boiled cabbage and stale bread,’ said Leela.
‘Excellent. My favourite,’ said Cyrilo, laughing.
‘You know very well that today is Wednesday and we are having rava-fried bananas, tomato rice and dal,’ said Prema.
‘And custard and cake,’ added Rosie.
‘When I was a child my mother used to give me fried bananas if she was in a good mood. It was not very often since she was always so angry with me. I tried so hard to please her but failed,’ said Deven.
Rosie was surprised to hear him talk about his childhood. He very rarely shared his memories with them. Cyrilo, Yuri and Prema had all told Maria about their lives before they came to live at the Happy Home but Deven was a closed door. Anyway, she would never ask him. Why show vulgar curiosity like Prema. But it was all very mysterious. At their age the past was a close companion; they spent so much time travelling back to the good old days.
‘How far ba
ck can you remember?’ asked Rosie.
‘Well, I can remember I was about five. We used to live in a huge old house in a village in Punjab. My mother said we had moved there after Partition. It was her uncle’s house and since he had no children he invited her to stay there with his family. He was a kind man and knew so many stories from mythology. It’s strange I cannot remember my father at all. He died when I was seven. I wish I had got to know him a little bit,’ said Deven. Rosie was surprised at how easily he was talking today. Usually he was quiet and polite but never this chatty. This horrible murder business had certainly made them closer. I hope we stay like this all the time. I don’t want only bad and evil things to bring us together, thought Rosie.
‘I can remember swinging on a tree swing my father made for me. He put a strong rope through a plank of wood and hung it on the mango tree. The swing is still there, you know. My nieces and nephews must be playing on it. It makes me so happy that my father’s handiwork is still giving so much joy to children,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Why did you come to live in the Happy Home when you have your own home in Goa?’ asked Prema.
No one spoke. It was an unwritten rule that none of them asked each other why they chose to live here instead of with their families. It was assumed that the subject was too painful to discuss, a dark, hurtful thing they had pushed to a remote corner of their minds. The Happy Home had given them shelter. They were fortunate to be here. They had each other, and Maria and Leela looked after them better than their own families. Their twilight years were going to pass here.
‘I like staying here. We all like staying here, don’t we? This is our only home. Family is something only lucky people have. Anyway, who needs them? Family only demands things from you and gives you very little. As long as I have you all as my friends I am very happy.’ Cyrilo opened the door to Yuri’s studio.
Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged Page 14