He let out a pained sigh as if the memory was a physical object, wrenching his insides. ‘By that time, Aisha had also come back from college. So Dad sat us down and told us. About our nice Manek Uncle and how Dad had been paying him for years, to make … inconvenient people … disappear.’ Dhruv’s voice sounded dead now. ‘He said that Ma didn’t understand, that sometimes there is no other way left. Sometimes, for you to stay safe and sound, someone else had to … go.’
He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘They separated a couple of months after that, Ma and Dad. She couldn’t bear the idea of being with a man who had actually killed people. But before he left, Dad took Aisha and me aside and gave us Manek’s number. He said he had business rivals, who were even more ruthless than he was. People who could perhaps harm us one day, to get to him. I don’t know if he was just being paranoid and I never asked. He was run over by a car a few months after the separation.’
For a moment, nobody spoke. Aisha had not looked up since Dhruv started talking. Dhruv himself was still gazing into the distance, as if seeing something the others couldn’t. Avantika sat frozen, her mind reeling. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Aisha’s father. There was a fleeting memory of her mother—a tall, graceful woman, soft-spoken and elegant in her chiffons and silks. To discover this horror hidden underneath the facade of upper class respectability … She shook her head. The movement seemed to snap Dhruv out of his reverie.
‘That day when you ran into me outside Laxmi’s house, it wasn’t by accident.’
Avantika nodded. ‘I figured.’
‘I wasn’t lying though, I was actually in the neighbourhood taking pictures. But, then I saw someone who looked exactly like Manek crossing the road. He was heading into Laxmi’s lane and I don’t know why, but I got suspicious. I followed him and when I got close, I saw that it was Manek. Same side parting, same safari suit. He was older than I remembered, naturally, but it was definitely him. There was a row of bikes parked outside Laxmi’s building and he was crouched near one of them. When I called out to him, he stood up. I introduced myself and chatted a bit about old times, not letting on that I knew what he really did for a living. He told me he had dropped his keys and had just found them when I called out to him. Damned casual. There was nothing suspicious about him at all. Still, I felt like something was off, so I waited a bit after he left. And then … you showed up.’
‘And you didn’t say a word about it.’
‘What could I’ve said? All I knew was that he was near your bike for a few minutes. I only guessed what he must’ve been doing there, after Shibani told me you’d had an accident.’
He looked spent now, and there was a pleading air about him as if he was asking for absolution. Avantika ignored him and turned to Aisha, who was sitting motionless next to him. ‘Your turn,’ Avantika told her.
Aisha gave her an insolent stare. ‘For what?’
‘Don’t play games. Why did you send that man to kill me? Kill me, Aisha, God, what was I doing that was so—’
She broke off, staring at the woman. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘You didn’t … oh.’
Then she laughed. Dhruv and Aisha exchanged a bewildered look.
‘You know,’ Avantika looked amused, till you saw her eyes. ‘You think you’re really shrewd and cunning and stuff, but God, Aisha, you’re just like the rest of us.’ Her expression turned bitter. ‘When you’re scared, you panic and do the kind of stupid shit no sane person would ever do.’
Aisha frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You must’ve been scared shitless, na. And I think I know why. Should I spell it out?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You heard I was asking questions about Laxmi, meeting her mom, stalking Shweta, meeting Mahira and you freaked out. Because you were scared I’d find out things. Things like Laxmi was dating someone, someone her dad didn’t approve of. Or that the body in the morgue which you so conveniently turned to ashes, wasn’t Laxmi’s in the first place. How could it be? It was wearing a yellow t-shirt and Laxmi, well, she was terrified of yellow, wasn’t she?’
Avantika paused to smile at the gasp. ‘Yes, I knew. And I know you know. Blue sunflowers on a handbag, huh? So sweet of you.’
She watched Aisha’s face closely, which was getting paler by the second.
‘The thing is, though, why would me knowing these things freak you out to the extent of hiring a hit-man? I mean, the automatic suspect is usually the missing boyfriend, right? But then again, why would a friend, even a best friend, never have a yellow bag in her collection, just because her friend doesn’t like that colour? Seems a bit much, doing this kind of a thing for a friend. But for a … girlfriend? Hmmm,’ she tapped the side of her face with a finger, in a mock-thoughtful way. ‘How romantic is that, Aisha? Or, do you prefer to be called something else … A.J.?’
You had to give her credit, Avantika thought. Even while someone was tearing down her house of cards, Aisha’s face didn’t betray any uncertainty. She wondered if she could just reach out and slap some into it.
‘I told you she’s clever,’ said a voice from the other end of the room.
Avantika turned in her seat. A woman was standing at the top of the staircase, wearing a Dora the Explorer nightshirt. Her hair was cut short like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction and the ends of it were a rich plum colour. She wore a silver nose-ring and a good-natured smile. Her face was vaguely familiar, but the voice Avantika recognized in an instant.
‘Hi,’ Laxmi said. ‘Long time no see!’
Eighteen
Yawning widely, Laxmi walked down the staircase and into the living room. The haircut wasn’t the only thing different about her. Her face, once skinny and happy, was now fuller. Her eyes still shone with mischief, but there was a brittle quality to it. Avantika got up from the sofa, walked up to her and suddenly felt horribly awkward.
What did you do when you met someone who used to be your best friend, but whom you’ve not seen hide or hair of, for the past seventeen years? Worse, what did you do if you’d discovered a minute ago that she wasn’t dead as suspected, but alive, well, and had a pretty bizarre taste in nightwear? Somehow, a hug seemed out of the question. And a handshake, well, it’s hardly as if they were at the Geneva Convention. Avantika decided to go with a tentative smile, but her stomach beat her to it.
It growled.
Laxmi raised her eyebrows. Avantika grimaced.
‘Sorry, I didn’t really have a proper dinner so—’
‘No, of course, how rude of us!’ said Laxmi. ‘Let me see if there’s something to eat.’
She bounded to the kitchen and opened the large, double-door refrigerator.
Ten minutes later, Avantika was wolfing down a strawberry jam-and-butter sandwich. This is the part where I wake up, she thought, now would be a good time for that.
Here she was, in the middle of Lonavala, or possibly Khandala, eating a sandwich made by an allegedly dead woman, sitting on a couch across a girl who had paid someone to have her killed, and a stone’s throw away from a man who had known about everything, but had decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. If the Grim Reaper popped up right now and offered her a free margarita, she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
She stole a look at Laxmi and Aisha, who were sitting side by side on the fainting couch, their hands entwined. The whole thing seemed a bit unreal, to be honest.
‘Death suits you,’ she said, trying not to stare.
Laxmi gave her a wry smile. ‘There’s being dead and there’s … being dead.’
‘Ah, and which one were you hoping I’d be, A.J?’ asked Avantika.
Aisha clucked her tongue in irritation. ‘Look! … God! It wasn’t like that, okay? I’d asked Manek to stop you, not bloody kill you. How did I know he’d confuse “stop” with “kill”?’
Avantika could not believe how the woman was still refusing to take responsibility for her actions.
‘Yes, you’d think hired killers understood th
e subtle nuances between stopping someone and stopping someone forever. Murderers these days, I tell you,’ she said.
Laxmi gave her a strained smile. ‘She’s telling the truth, you know. I know it doesn’t seem that way to you, but there are some things she’s just not capable of.’
And Avantika thought of a teacher who’d lost her job for not giving a role in a school play to the right girl. ‘Empathy, for one,’ she muttered.
Aisha shot her a dirty look, but Laxmi laughed.
‘Oh God,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘You’ve never really gotten over that whole peeing in class thing, have you?’ She held up a hand, as Avantika opened her mouth to protest. ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Look, we’re all grown-ups here. Can’t you just … forget about what happened and we can just … carry on?’
Avantika stared at her in disbelief. ‘Forget it? I could’ve died!’
‘But you didn’t!’ Laxmi said, holding up her hands cheerily, ‘Let Aisha apologize properly and let’s just … move on, na.’
Avantika shook her head slowly, refusing to believe what she was hearing. Who was this woman? She was nothing like the girl she remembered from school. She brought her palms together, in a gesture of supplication.
‘This isn’t school, I haven’t had my eraser stolen! A “sorry” won’t be enough. How can you be so blasé about this? What about your parents? Your dad? Did you know he’s gone into shock? He can’t talk anymore? And your mum, she’s—’
She didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Laxmi finished it for her.
‘Let me guess, crying a lot?’ she said, with the cheery smile intact on her face. The effect was chilling. Avantika found herself speechless.
‘She’s good at that, you know, my mother,’ Laxmi continued, a bitter note entering her voice, ‘Crying, wringing her hands, making people feel sorry for her. As if any of that helps.’
‘But … but Laxmi … your mom … she’s … how can you—?’
This time it was Aisha who didn’t let her complete the sentence. ‘You don’t know anything, okay?’ she said, pointing an angry finger at her. ‘You don’t get to judge her, you don’t get to walk in here and act like you know everything and—’
‘Shut up,’ Avantika shot back. ‘Didn’t your dad teach you to speak only when spoken to? Or was it just assassination tips?’
Aisha started as if she had been slapped and even Dhruv looked aghast.
‘Hey, watch it!’ he said, ‘You don’t talk about people’s parents like that.’
‘No? How about your asshole sister? Can I talk about her like that?’
Aisha sprang to her feet. ‘Enough!’ she hissed. Turning to Dhruv she said, ‘Get her out of here right now! What the fuck were you thinking, bringing her here? She’s a fucking reporter, Dhruv! You want to fuck her, that’s your business, but don’t rat me out to get into her pants!’
Dhruv stood up, his expression stormy. When he spoke, his voice was quiet with menace.
‘Sit. Down.’
Aisha stood her ground, glaring at him.
‘Guys…,’ Laxmi began, ‘let’s all calm down—’
They both ignored her.
‘Just because you’re my sister doesn’t mean you can say whatever the fuck you want to!’ Dhruv’s voice was rising. ‘What you have done, what you almost did, could’ve ruined us! As a family. Do you understand that? Can your tiny mind realize the magnitude of that? I didn’t bring her here to rat you out. I brought her here so you could beg her, beg her to not go to the police—’
‘She had no proof to go to the police with! Now, she can, thanks to you!’
Avantika was watching Laxmi, as the argument raged. Aside from the first feeble attempt to mediate, she had been silent. Now, as she caught Avantika’s gaze, she nodded vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and headed there. Avantika followed quietly. Behind them, the argument was gaining volume.
Laxmi was suppressing a yawn, as she heaped spoons full of instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Brothers and sisters, huh?,’ she said, pouring water into an electric kettle. ‘Makes you glad to be an only child. Milk?’
Avantika nodded. Laxmi opened the fridge and brought out a tetrapack of milk. She poured some into each mug.
‘How can you be so … so calm right now?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen them fight before. They’ll get over it. Sugar?’
‘One spoon. No … I meant, how can you be so calm about … this whole thing?’
Laxmi handed her the mug of coffee. Avantika took it, warming her hands on the hot stoneware.
‘How can you … how can you let your parents think you’re dead?’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I spoke to your mom, I know how bad things were for you, growing up. And okay, I’m sure your dad wasn’t crazy about you being gay, but … I mean … couldn’t you guys talk it out with him? To … to punish them like this … this is your mom’s worst nightmare, Laxmi. And your dad … he must’ve felt … God, the man can’t talk anymore! He’s obviously been hit by this.’
Laxmi took a sip of her coffee and gave a sigh of pleasure. ‘I don’t know why he was so surprised,’ she said, ‘it’s what he wanted, after all.’
LAXMI SWAMINATHAN
1983–2018
The first thing she remembered learning was how to keep a secret. Don’t tell anyone, don’t mention it, don’t even think of it, Amma and Appa would say. And she’d nod quietly, dark eyes serious, as if she understood this. She didn’t. She couldn’t. How do you not think of something that terrified you? Trying not to think of it, meant thinking about not thinking about it. Didn’t they realize that? But she tried. Obedience, like brushing her teeth before bedtime, was a good habit they had ingrained into her early in life.
She looked away, heart thudding like a cement crusher when someone in school passed by with a bright yellow water bottle. She practised not wincing when someone wore a buttercup-print dress on their birthday. She politely refused, nails digging deep into the soft flesh of her palms, when someone offered her a lemon-flavoured candy, sweet and tart, shaped liked a lemon wedge and so very visible through the transparent plastic wrapping. And while every encounter with that horrible colour had her screaming herself hoarse on the inside, on the outside she was calm and composed, a normal young woman, without any silly fears that could make her family feel ashamed of her.
But this is the thing about keeping secrets: there’s only room for one, if the one you’re keeping is big enough. And as the years passed, she came to realize, to her horror, that she had another secret to keep. And this one, was gigantic.
She liked girls. Not in the way she liked, say books, or Boyzone songs, or Cadbury’s Crackle. She liked-liked girls. Everywhere around her, they were talking about how cute Salman Khan looked in HAHK, but she’d only had eyes for Madhuri Dixit with her sparkling smile and her flirty coyness. From the first moment the actress had come on screen, she had felt a curious flutter in her chest that had refused to die down for the rest of the three-hour movie. She’d saved her pocket money and bought postcards and posters with Ms Dixit posing in a hundred different outfits, flashing her toothpaste-commercial pearlies at all and sundry.
Her parents had been relieved. No posters of shirtless Bollywood heroes for their daughter, thank god. She was a decent girl, a good girl. Who was bursting to the seams with secrets she couldn’t tell a soul. She could feel them inside her, wriggling like maggots, crawling all over, just there, right under the skin. She started clawing at her veins. She’d be sitting in a lecture on mechanics, and her bench partner would give her a weird look and she’d realize that she’d been raking her own wrist continuously, unconsciously till the skin turned red. And still the secrets stayed inside her.
Then one day, she replaced her nails with a razor blade.
The blood streamed out, surprisingly fast and as she held her wrist under the tap, she felt the pressure ease, just a little bit. As if a festering wound had been drained. It became a ritual for her then.
The sharp, painless slice, the gush of red, and the feeling of blessed relief. Soon, her wrists were covered by a tattoo of scarlet scars, which faded to white and shone faintly against her dusky skin. She started wearing full-sleeved tops and shirts so that nobody would notice them. Nobody did. But then, it’s difficult to notice somebody’s wrists if the somebody never hung out with you. And Laxmi never did. Home–college–home. That was her life now. She had no friends apart from Aisha. No social life except her visits to Aisha’s house. No desire for anything except the moments she spent in the bathroom, trying to siphon the secrets hidden in her veins. Days passed, then months. Seasons changed, but to her, every day rose just as grey as the one before.
Till the day it all changed.
She’d gone over to Aisha’s house after college, supposedly to finish her physics journal, but really to watch MTV, hoping they’d play Madonna’s Erotic video. It was July and it had rained for days together. All her beloved shirts with their long sleeves, were hanging outside their house, waiting futilely to dry. So she’d been forced to wear a regular half-sleeved t-shirt. To hide her wrists, she’d worn a watch with a thick strap on one hand and a thick bracelet on the other. It was a pretty little thing, the bracelet, delicate-looking and elegant with rows and rows of tiny pearls. Aisha had held up her hand to admire it and the treacherous strands had slipped, revealing the fine network of scars underneath. Aisha had looked horror-struck and she’d been so ashamed of herself then. She’d refused to answer any of Aisha’s questions at first, but when the girl had pressed on, she’d broken down and confessed.
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