‘You’re a bad girl, Aisha. I hate you.’
Two
‘And then, Kaira introduced me to this guy, Nico? He used to work in a circus in Romania, no wait, I think he’s from Romania and worked in a circus someplace? I’no … anyway we went out for drinks to Big Nasty? And ermagawd, we were there till like the place shut down? But then Nico didn’t want to go home? So then I said—’
Avantika mentally retraced the conversation, as Shibani went on. Let’s see, she had finished her coffee and was writing up the press conference and Shibani had waltzed up to her desk and said, ‘Guess what I did last night?’ and … yes, that’s it. She had said it. She hadn’t been paying attention and she had said the word. What. She had said, ‘What?’ No, she had only herself to blame.
But hey, she told herself, at least the press conference was over. She had met Aisha in the flesh and she didn’t have to go through that for at least the next two thousand years, give or take. Compared to that, Shibani’s auditory ambush was like a persistent housefly—irritating, but largely ignorable. And speaking of irritating—
She smiled sweetly at Shibani and said, ‘That sounds fascinating, Shib. You know who’s really into that kind of stuff? Uday.’
Shibani blinked. ‘Uday’s into fusion haiku?’
‘Totally,’ said Avantika. ‘Just yesterday, he was saying how much he likes to … erm … fuse haiku … with … erm—’
‘Slam poetry?’
‘Slam poetry, yes,’ she finished, ignoring the urgent cries of her brain for an explanation. ‘Why don’t you go and tell him all about it?’ she added.
As Shibani bounded away, miniskirt swishing against her thighs, Avantika sat back, satisfied. Maybe this day wasn’t going to be a total—
‘Pandit! Get in here!’ Nathan’s voice cut through her optimism.
She pursed her lips and with a resigned sigh, plodded over to his cabin. Nathan, seated in his usual spot, peered at her over the rim of his glasses and asked, ‘How was it?’
‘Fun, I guess,’ she replied, packing as much sarcasm into the three words as she could.
‘Good. Then you’ll love this. Your friend Aisha’s,’ he smiled at her grimace, ‘PR team thinks it would be great if you interview her. For the weekend supplement.’
Avantika’s mouth opened in horror. ‘What! Why?’
‘A lifestyle piece. How she got into the field, what inspires her, her favourite designers, blah blah, you know the drill.’
‘B … but why me?’
‘Because you’re buddies from school and all. Renuka seemed to think it was sweet.’
‘Renu-! Why does she get to decide this? Can’t you send Shibani? This is exactly the kind of crap she likes!’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to … disappoint Renuka. Especially since she’s so generously offered me VIP passes to the Mumbai Indians match on Saturday.’
‘So you’re just going to … you know … Jesus! This is so…’ she fumbled around for words but sometimes the English language is just woefully inadequate. She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. This was ridiculous. She was a professional. If Nathan wanted to make her life miserable, well, he’d have to do a lot worse than send her for an interview. With Aisha. Jesus fucking aaaaargh!
‘When? When is this … thing?’
‘Apparently Aisha is travelling next week, so it has to be tomorrow morning. Eleven sharp. Normally she’d have met you at some coffee shop, but Renuka said since you guys are friends, you can go over to her place. It’s at—’
‘… Pedder Road, I know.’
‘Been there, done that, huh?’
‘Yes,’ Avantika snapped, ‘Also bought a t-shirt that says “Never want to be there again”!’ And with that she swept out of his cabin. The effect was somewhat spoilt by Wayne who crashed into her at the door.
Avantika’s hands had curled into fists and it was taking every ounce of her self-control to not whack Wayne, who was mumbling terrified apologies. She took a step back and was about to walk past, when she heard Nathan ask, ‘Wayne, you want to see how an interview is done?’
Avantika spun around. ‘You do that and I quit,’ she said, pointing a finger at Nathan, who laughed.
‘In this job market? I don’t think so.’
‘Why, why are you doing this to me?’ she asked, aghast.
Nathan thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe because it’s fun, I guess.’
What does he have against me, she asked herself for the hundredth time. She had asked Uday the same question yesterday after walking out of Nathan’s office, and even he had seemed at a loss. Sure, she didn’t always think before cracking a joke, she could be more diplomatic, but surely neither of these was a punishable offence. And this interview would be a punishment. Sitting there in Aisha’s living room, asking her brain-dead questions and worst of all, being subjected to that stare the whole time—that stare that said, can we get this over with, loser?—her teeth clenched just thinking of it. She needed something to take her mind away from it all. Luckily, riding a scooter through Mumbai traffic offered enough of a distraction.
She got off the Western Express Highway at Mahim, shooting a now-mandatory glance at the Bandra–Worli Sea Link1—a cable-stayed bridge over five and a half kilometres long that offered a wonderful view of the Arabian sea and the Mumbai skyline. Had two-wheelers been allowed on it, the bridge would’ve brought her to South Mumbai, SoBo, or as it was generally referred to, ‘town’.
She often wondered about that. ‘Town’, as opposed to ‘countryside’. Apt really, for an area that contained, among other things, the city’s art district, most of its British-era architecture, most of its heritage sites, some of its most popular educational institutions, and last, but not the least, most of its old money.
A reasonable amount of which lived in the area Avantika was about to enter. Breach Candy, Altamount Road, Pedder Road, Carmichael Road—names from a time when Mumbai was still Bombay and Bombay ended at Dadar. This was a land of posh apartment buildings, parks, charming bungalows and Antilla2.
As Avantika’s scooter left the Haji Ali Dargah behind, standing serene and distant in the middle of the sea, she marvelled at how little the place had changed. Well, it had in some ways. A new mall, where Crossroads used to be. The onslaught of coffee and fast-food chains, some local, some American. And the roads had changed, of course. There were more traffic snarls now than before. Ditto for potholes. Even now, construction work was going on to repair the especially huge ones on Pedder Road, before the rains began in June. Considering it was already May, this was an endeavour that treaded the fine line between optimism and delusion. Traffic was being rerouted from the Mahalaxmi temple signal. She’d have to go all the way around Breach Candy and double-back to get to Aisha’s house. But it didn’t matter because look! Here was Amarsons and Premsons, here was Snowman’s with its chocolate softies and black forest ice-cream cakes, here was that place where she’d had her first ever Frankie3—it all came back to her in a rush, pages of memory flying so fast and furious that for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. And then, before she knew it, she was there. Bungalow 67: Ellora.
Black iron gates. Impeccable white walls colonized by armies of white bougainvillea. A two-storeyed bungalow surrounded by a profusion of green. Frangipani and laburnum, towered over a lush green lawn, bathed in sunlight and shadow. She had loved it from the moment she’d first seen it and she realized with a pang that the years hadn’t changed the way she felt about it. Or how sad it made her. Sad, because she didn’t seem to have any distant relatives willing to leave her a fortune so that she could buy a place like this. Still, a girl could hope. She parked her scooter outside the gate with a sigh and showed her press card to the security guard who had come around to shoo her away. She waited as he informed someone in the house of her arrival through an intercom, and walked in after he waved her on.
Ding-dong. No new-fangled buzzers or tasteless chirps for this
house. The door was opened by a housekeeper who showed her into the drawing room. As she sat on the colonial-style teakwood sofa, something caught her eye. It was a large black and white photograph of the seafront outside the Taj. It seemed as if the photographer had stood right in the middle of a flock of pigeons as they took flight. The Gateway of India peeped out from amidst the flurry of feathers and wings, against a sky full of dark thunderclouds.
Avantika walked over to look at it closely. It really was quite stunning. The birds in mid-flight, some so sharply in focus, you felt you could almost reach out and touch them. And the Gateway, so often the centre of every photograph that tried to capture Mumbai, relegated to the background, almost as an afterthought. It seemed as if—
‘Can I help you?’
A man was standing behind her, with a look of polite curiosity on a face that was, she had to admit, quite easy on the eyes. Mid-thirties, she decided, taking in the slight greying at the temples. Works out, too. She suddenly, irrationally, wished she was wearing something more interesting than skinny jeans and a fitted top. She unconsciously pushed back her hair, which the helmet had helpfully plastered over her forehead. Who was this? Aisha’s husband? Boyfriend? Or … oh, wait. This was him, wasn’t it? The brother. Oh, dear God.
‘Hi, Avantika Pandit,’ she said, holding out a hand, ‘I’m here to interview Aisha for the Mumbai Daily.’
He shook her hand, with a smile. He had dimples.
‘Dhruv, I’m Aisha’s brother—’
‘I know.’ It came out, just like that.
‘Sorry?’
She kicked herself mentally. It’s like she had no control over her mouth these days.
‘Um … Aisha and I were in the same class at school. I’d … uh … come over for a … party … once?’ Good God, that sounded awful.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, nice to meet you again. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Thanks, I’m good,’ she replied.
‘I’ll just tell Aisha you’re here,’ he said, just as she turned to look at the photograph again. ‘You like that one,’ he said, with a smile.
‘It’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘Who’s the photographer?’
‘Me,’ he said simply and then added, ‘on a good day.’
She smiled politely. She always got the impression that modest people were faking it. As if under all the self-effacement they were going, ‘Behold! Cower, mere mortal, before my mighty genius!’ She didn’t see the point of it. May as well say a nice thank you and move on.
‘I hope you have more good days then,’ she said.
He grinned and left and she returned to the photographs and the postcolonial grandeur of the room. Teak and rosewood tables littered the place, with knick-knacks that probably cost more than the entire location budget of a Bollywood movie. One piece stood out amongst the expensive odds and ends. It was a framed photograph of three teenagers at a party. A grinning young Aisha, long hair falling to her waist, stood with her arms thrown around two others—a younger Dhruv, with a messy 90s haircut and acne and another girl, once a familiar face, now long-forgotten. Laxmi Swaminathan peered out of the photograph, her dark eyes serious, her hair pulled back in a long, thick plait. Avantika turned away from the picture, just in time to see Dhruv enter the room. He looked a little upset.
‘I’m sorry but Aisha’s been called away on an emergency. Perhaps you can reschedule your interview for some other time?’
Avantika stared at him. She should’ve expected this from Aisha. An emergency. Yeah. Right.
‘No problem,’ she said with a forced smile. ‘Hope it’s nothing serious. Like a runaway clutch. Or a tassel explosion.’
To her surprise, Dhruv sighed.
‘I know what it sounds like,’ he said in a dull voice, ‘but it really is serious. Her best friend went missing a few days ago and they’ve just found her … body.’
There are times when you’re gliding down a staircase in high heels, when you think you’re pulling it off, being all Grace Kelley-like, and then you trip over your own treacherous feet and fall flat on your face. That had never actually happened to Avantika, but she now knew exactly what it would feel like, if it did.
‘Oh…’ she began.
‘Actually … you were in Aisha’s class, right? Did you know Laxmi?’
He may have said something else after that. But Avantika had stopped listening.
Three
Avantika got on to the scooter and started it, not quite focusing on what she was doing. Laxmi. Dead. No. Her mind refused to compute the information. She veered out of Napean Sea Road, honking mercilessly at anyone foolish enough to cross her path. Laxmi was dead. No. She couldn’t be. What difference does it make to your life, a part of her—probably the left brain—asked. It’s not like you were best friends anymore. You weren’t even friends. You didn’t even know she was missing.
It was true. She hadn’t really thought of Laxmi all these years, except in passing—on seeing a similar-looking stranger on the road, perhaps, or while passing by their school on her scooter. She hadn’t even looked her up on Facebook. And yet, Laxmi was the first real friend she’d had, the first friend who had stayed a friend through most of school. Still, her left brain insisted, it doesn’t make any sense, you feeling so worked up about it. Oh shut up, she told it. And ignoring every rational impulse to drive straight to the Mumbai Daily office at Kalina, she took a right turn towards Girgaon. They wouldn’t expect her back in office for some time. She had to find out what had happened.
Laxmi’s house was a modest two bedroom-hall-kitchen apartment in the by-lanes of Girgaon. It had been a quiet neighbourhood back in the day, and Avantika felt oddly relieved to see that it hadn’t changed all that much. She had no idea how many times she had visited the place. Most evenings after school, she’d stop by on the way to the Maths tuition class she attended with Laxmi. And of course, all those Saturday afternoons when they had worked on projects together, fuelled by Laxmi’s mom’s delicious home-cooked lunches. As she climbed up the old-fashioned staircase to the first floor, for the first time she wondered if Laxmi’s family still lived there.
The nameplate still said Swaminathan. But that didn’t mean anything1. Gingerly, she rang the bell, fully expecting a complete stranger to answer the door. An annoyed one, at that. When the door opened, she felt both relieved and utterly wretched.
Laxmi’s mother stood at the door. Parvathi Swaminathan had been a vivacious woman in her youth, but you would never have guessed it now. The corners of her eyes, the tip of her nose, were pink from crying. Her face looked swollen and her long curly hair, once shiny black and the envy of other mothers, was now grey and lifeless like the expression on the face under it. Her brow creased when she saw Avantika.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
And at that very instant, Avantika realized her mistake. She was intruding on this poor woman’s sorrow. And why? Out of curiosity. She was about to make up some nonsense about having the wrong address, when suddenly the woman’s face cleared.
‘Aren’t you—? Avantika!’ she said, her voice full of wonder.
Too late, Pandit. You idiot.
‘Hi Aunty,’ she said, hating herself, ‘I … I just heard … Um … I’m so … sorry.’
Pithy, empty words. The woman had just lost her only daughter and here she was, visiting after a decade, more than a decade, saying she was sorry. Stupid, inconsiderate idiot.
Laxmi’s mother sniffed.
‘Come in,’ she said, her voice heavy.
The house looked different from the last time she had seen it. The walls, a pale pastel shade of blue, seemed freshly painted. The 80s-style TV unit had disappeared. In its place, a sleek LED TV hung from the wall, facing a white leatherette couch and chairs, successors to the old wooden sofa set with the embroidered cushions. Laxmi’s mother gestured to the couch and asked her if she wanted some water.
Avantika shook her head and sat down, but Laxmi’s mother went into the
kitchen and brought out a glass of water anyway. Hospitality was not something Avantika needed right now, but this instinct to offer water and food to guests seemed to be hardwired into women of that generation. She shuffled on the sofa, as Laxmi’s mother sat on a chair opposite her. Silence bloomed. She cleared her throat.
‘Um … how did—,’ she began.
‘How did you … get to know?’ Laxmi’s mother asked at the same time.
Avantika decided to spare her the details.
‘Uh… Aisha’s brother told me,’ she said.
Laxmi’s mother nodded.
‘She’s such a good girl,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what we would have done without her help. She volunteered to go to the hospital, you know. Even when Laxmi’s father …,’ she turned to Avantika, a pleading look in her eyes. ‘He’s not … he doesn’t know how to express what he feels, you understand. When he’s sad, disappointed, he just … he shouts—’
Avantika nodded. She knew this. She’d seen this.
‘So when Aisha brought the news, he … you know. All kinds of things he said, as if it was her fault, the poor girl. And all she said was, “Uncle, we can decide whom to blame later, right now we need to go to the hospital”.’ She sniffed. ‘Such a good girl.’
Avantika sipped on her water, to avoid a response. Good girl. Aisha. Yeah.
‘Has Uncle gone to … ’, Avantika couldn’t bring herself to say the word, ‘… gone there?’
Laxmi’s mother gave her a distraught look.
‘He’s sleeping inside. He … he came back and he couldn’t speak,’ she said. ‘Doctors there said it’s shock. When I try to talk to him, he only weeps, that also without making a sound.’
Swear You Won't Tell? Page 3