Peacock in the Snow

by Anubha Mehta

  Today I had a whole afternoon to myself. This was such a luxury. I wondered how I would pass the time. I still liked swinging on the hammock in my room and then landing on the low jute divan. It made me feel like a child again. Yes, childhood. What a wonderful thing it was. Where had our carefree days gone? We all were so busy growing up that we had forgotten to connect with the things and people that mattered.

  Maya. Oh my dear lord. Maya. Every time I thought of childhood fun, I thought of her. What a whirlwind she was. What fun. What times we had while growing up. It was always us against the whole world and us, meddling, inquisitive, and always in trouble. We both had an incorrigible nose for mischief and diligently followed its scent.

  I took down her wedding album from the top shelf of the corner bookcase. There we were, dancing without a care to the crazy strokes of her wedding drum; there we were sniggering at the groom being forgotten on his horse by his own guests; there we were whistling at Veer kissing a stunned Maya on the podium; there we were rioting around him for our gold rings. And there she was, looking like a goddess, her flawless features accentuated with peacock shades from her gown, her big eyes flooded with tears as she held on to her mother. I will have to capture all this colour, all this emotion on my canvas somehow, someday. Maybe I will ask her to sit for a portrait this summer. God, I have missed her.

  Aha, here it is. Her phone number, I knew I had kept it somewhere. I could not believe that we had not spoken in almost a year. But I did not care. I picked up the phone and dialled. A manservant answered in a formal voice at the other end of the line.

  “May I speak to Maya please?” There was a pause. I repeated, “Hello?”

  “Yes … Madam Maya is busy.… We have not seen her….”

  That was very strange.

  “Then may I speak to Veer please?”

  “Master Veer is on a business trip….”

  Of course, it made perfect sense now. With Veer away, no wonder no one had seen her around. She would be wandering around at the first excuse. That was Maya. No one could hold her back.

  I made up my mind to miss my class and go visit her right away.

  ***

  Reaching Maya’s house from mine was worth the long drive in the dark. I left before dawn, to be greeted by the first rays of the rising sun. A half-asleep gatekeeper reluctantly opened the entrance to the Rajsinghania property. I entered into a forest. Tall dark trees, lush velvet grass, mushrooms, and berries sprouting under leafy domes. The lavender flowers of the jacaranda trees mocked the blood-red of the rose bushes. The mature olive branches scolded the bright green younger ones. The melody of an occasional koyal conquered the croaking of morning crows. And the hissing undergrowth played a duet with the swishing of the crisp breeze that blew wildly into my hair. Everything was waking up in complete sundry harmony.

  Did Maya live in paradise? I definitely had to paint here. Next time I would come with my easel and canvas.

  As I approached the main entrance, my fiesta died. The stone steps were cold and the towering door, intimidating. It was dark inside.

  “Is she expecting you?” a uniformed butler asked in a way that made me think about what I was wearing.

  “No. I am here to surprise her.”

  It seemed a long way as I followed him down broad corridors lined with large doors, each opening into enormous rooms, breezy verandas, and then finally into a more serene side of the house.

  “Please follow the path to the lily pond, where you will find Madam Maya. She likes to take her morning tea there.”

  She was sitting on a lawn chair under one of the grandest peepal trees that I had ever seen. Its roots had sprung out of the ground as if gasping for air and then dived back down again as if being recalled by a spell. She was completely blending in with her surroundings, a woollen blanket around her shoulders, her hair the usual mess, a frown between her brows, and a distant look that I knew only too well. It meant nothing but trouble. She was so engrossed that she did not hear my footsteps on the grass, or even see me approaching her from the corner of her eye. It was not until I was standing directly in front of her that she noticed me. She looked thinner, and, to my surprise, she was white as a sheet. This was a new Maya that I was looking at.

  Her eyes lifted and met mine. Then my ears gave way to her fervent screams. The old Maya was back. We danced and hugged and laughed and danced some more.

  “You nutcase! How are you here?” she kept repeating breathlessly. I was so glad that I had come. She looked so lonely.

  When the frenzy had died down and my legs had collapsed into a cushioned lounge chair, I turned to her and asked, “Maya, what’s the matter?” Sometimes I wished that I didn’t know her so well.

  “What do you mean?” she pretended.

  “Maya!”

  “Nothing, Anita. I swear.”

  “Liar.”

  “Why do I have to tell you anything, Anita?”

  “Because you cannot resist telling me, because we are partners in crime, because we live for such moments….”

  “Oh really?” she teased, a glimmer of herself coming back into her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She was quiet again, and I knew she was struggling to keep something back. Whatever it was, it was big. That much I could tell by now.

  The butler chose that moment to wheel in the trolley of tea, rescuing her. Hot piping sips inside our bellies did wonders. I spread myself on the soft wet grass, looking up at the overarching branches of the peepal. Then I looked at Maya again. It was rare for her to be so quiet. Yes, there was something different. I could clearly see now. She was pale and subdued. And I did not like it.

  My glance fell on something under her blanket. It was a striking cloth print, a black and white polka dotted fabric. Who wore such fabrics these days? But that was no cloth. It held rough sheets of yellowed paper—a diary with a polka-dotted cover! Ah ha! So this was the root of Maya’s distraction. I had to look at this diary.

  Maya was watching me. She knew what I was going to do. We both sprang at the diary together. Of course, she had the advantage of already holding it. She clung tight as I tugged at it.

  “Let go, Anita.”

  “Why? What is in it, Maya?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Then show me.”

  “No.”

  We were back in kindergarten, playing tug-of-war over a favourite treasure. The diary was really heavy, and my hand gave way. I let go. Maya held on at the other end and fell on the carpet of thick grass. The diary landed in the dew-soaked mud. We both exploded into laughter and simultaneously dove to grab the strewn pages.

  Maya got to them first. But when she stood up there was something else in her hand with the diary. This time I was as surprised as she was. The diary had opened up to a hidden cavity under a mass of pages. And from that cavity emerged the most exotic treasure I had ever seen: a pair of glittering gold bracelets with their joints in the shape of peacock heads, embedded in colourful precious gems.

  “Oh my God!” Maya screamed. “They are hers!”

  “Whose?”

  “I saw them on her wrists in the photograph. Now I know why the diary was so heavy all along!”

  The glint of the gold from the peacock heads blinded us as the morning rays reflected off them. Maya pulled out a torn black-and-white photograph hidden under the diary’s cover and started comparing the bracelets to something in the photo.

  “Anita, come, look. They are a match! Anita, surely this is a sign!” She could barely find her voice.

  I was utterly confused. Whose diary was it? What did it say? Who did these bracelets belong to? And why was Maya so involved?

  Maya sat down at the edge of the pond, staring blankly at the blooming lotus soaking up the last drops of dew on its rubbery leaves. When she spoke, her voice was calm and steady: “Anita let�
��s go inside. I will tell you a tale like you have never heard before.”

  14.

  NO WONDER MAYA had looked so pale. Now it was my turn to look like a ghost. Maya was right. I had never heard a more intense story. And I could clearly see the effect that this had had on my friend.

  There were so many questions that lingered, but the strange part was that the answers were not in the past, but in the present—here, in Maya’s world. Why were there no photographs of Veer’s beautiful and talented grandmother anywhere in the house with a doting husband like Prakash? Why was her name not printed on Veer’s wedding invitation, as was customary in Indian weddings? And, for God’s sake, why did Maya resemble Gayatri so much? I told Maya that this was just a coincidence. Lots of people in the world look like unrelated people. I tried to think of some that we knew in school. Maya just laughed at my attempts at making sense of it all. I was glad that I had gone to visit Maya. I think she needed me like never before.

  Over some more steaming tea, crisp toast, and fluffy eggs, we hatched a plan for how to uncover the rest of the story. The only person who held the key to this mystery was Sheila, the last living person who had known Gayatri, Prakash, and Sachin. She was our only link, and if anyone knew anything, it was her.

  Maya forced me out of my jeans and chappals and into her lemon chiffon dress, much to my dislike, just in time for her mother-in-law’s party. It was early evening when we left our rooms to attend cocktails in the east lounge. But before we reached the lounge, we made a stop in the kitchen. On occasions like this, all the servants assembled there waiting for their turn to serve. And this was where we found Sheila.

  It was chaotic. There were children running around, dishes clanking, water running, and uniformed bearers bustling in all directions amid the intense fumes from deep fried corn batter.

  “There’s Sheila.” Maya pointed to a crouched figure propped up in the shadows on a three-legged stool. She was shelling fresh green peas with her bent fingers. Her face lit up when she saw Maya.

  “Hello Sheila. I want to talk to you. May we go someplace quiet? It is very noisy out here.” She took a moment to straighten up. She was very old and wrinkled, but those eyes were sharp as a tack. We followed her through the pantry to the unlit part of the house.

  I was sure that Maya was familiar with this part, but to me, as an outsider, it was downright eerie. The long evening shadows from the branches of the peepal drew stretched arms on the walls, as if trying to reach us. The wind had started whispering as we settled in an open atrium of sorts.

  Maya did not waste any time. She opened her purse and pulled out Gayatri’s conspicuous diary. Sheila stopped breathing. Then, just as I thought she was going to faint, Sheila asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “Rosy gave it to me. She found it hidden inside Gayatri’s old suitcase full of her clothes.”

  Sheila was glaring at us intensely, from Maya to me and back. I could feel a storm building inside her, but she still did not open up.

  As if completely unaffected by Sheila’s reaction, Maya continued, pointing towards me: “Sheila, this is Anita, she is like a sister to me. Whatever you can tell me, you can say before her. Now, tell me. I am looking for Veer’s grandmother’s music teacher. Do you know where he is?”

  Now the colour completely drained from her face. And this time she really stumbled. I extended my hand to lead her to a nearby settee.

  “Sheila, please don’t be afraid. I am family, and it is important that I know….”

  She finally spoke. It was barely a whisper: “Maya-Beti, why do you want to know? No good will come out of it.”

  “It is too late, Sheila. I am too entrenched in this, and you cannot deny me.”

  There was a long silence. The distant noise from the kitchen seemed so normal, so irrelevant. The sun was setting quickly, and soon it would be dark. The crickets had started chirping, and the night birds were calling occasionally. Seeing that nothing was stirring Sheila, Maya pulled out the last trick from her purse: the peacock-head bracelets.

  “And these were hidden inside her diary.” When Maya wanted something, I knew how persuasive she could be. Sheila started sobbing. It was the beginning of her breakdown. “Sheila, I am Gayatri’s family now, and it is no coincidence that we have met. I am sure Gayatri intended this to happen.”

  Sheila finally let it flow, her tears, and her tale, but not without some hesitation. “By talking about this,” she said, “I shall be breaking the sacred trust of the late Gayatri Madam. I am sure I will be punished by the dead.”

  Maya placed her hand on Sheila’s shoulder, and I went to sit beside her for comfort. “No such thing will happen. You are doing the right thing.”

  Sheila began: “I still remember the dark moonless night when Gayatri Madam went into labour. In between her contractions, she handed me her diary with instructions to hide it in her suitcase, saying ‘I trust no one but you, Sheila.’ And that was the last time I spoke to her.

  “At the end of the third day of excruciating pain, Gayatri Madam delivered a healthy baby boy, Master Umang. And then she started fading. First her pulse weakened, and then the midwife suspected internal bleeding. We servants found it odd that Master Prakash had not come to see her after the delivery. She needed to be transported to a hospital. Eventually he came, but only after three days. By that time, she was already very frail.

  “She sat waiting for the Master, poised on her four-poster bed, looking so grand, wearing a Chantilly lace gown and with white jasmines in her neatly oiled hair. She handed me the baby for his bath. A strange calmness came over her pale face. She looked happy and at peace, despite her condition. I forgot to bring the baby’s washcloths, so I entered the room once again, unnoticed. It was a room with mirror panels.”

  Sheila stopped. Neither Maya nor I disturbed her thoughts. We waited patiently. I remembered Maya telling me about seeing such a room.

  It was a long time before Sheila spoke again, this time in a trembling voice: “In the mirror behind the jacquard curtain, I saw Master Prakash standing next to her.” Again, silence.

  “Yes, Sheila?” Maya nudged.

  “Ahh, his large bony hands were on her throat, and it seemed like she was looking directly at him.” Sheila had stared sobbing. I handed her my handkerchief. “But what has stayed with me all these years, was not his act. It was her look. A look of salvation, of ecstasy that I saw reflected in the mirror. She was not protesting, she was not afraid. It was as if she was welcoming the Master strangling her. I ran out. I am a coward. I have carried the burden of this secret for decades.”

  She paused to cry some more, and I put my arms around her shoulder.

  Maya was in shock. I knew that she was thinking about the flash of an image she had seen on the same mirrored panel in that room. It all seemed so bizarre. Was this an old woman’s imagination?

  “I feel lighter by telling you, Maya-Beti, but you do understand that I could not go against the Master. Who would have believed me? And I would have been silenced before I knew it. Besides, no one was there for the children.” Sheila took a deep breath and started again. Now she was on a roll, as if the last inhibition had been shed with the revelation of her darkest secret. As if nothing mattered anymore.

  “He killed her. He was a savage. Now I had to protect the last remaining wish of hers, her diary. Thinking it was the safest place, I hid her diary under her clothes in the suitcase that she had carried from her mother’s house. So you can image the depths of my misery when, a few months later, her suitcase vanished. I have been tormented over how I failed to fulfil her last wish. Today I can go to my grave in peace, knowing now that the diary was not lost and certainly did not end up in the wrong hands.” She wiped the tears with the corner of her scarf.

  “The entire household came to a standstill. For weeks. After Madam Gayatri passed away, the Master looked devastated. Then, one day, as I was
cleaning his room with Ram Kishore, his manservant, a curious letter lying on his bedside table caught our eye. The writing had been slashed violently in pen. Ram Kishore, who could read a little, read it aloud. It was written by Madam in a shaky writing. In it, she confessed to the claustrophobia and misery she had felt before Sachin re-entered her life. We knew that this letter had cut our Master very deep. One evening, during a few hours of drunken weakness, the Master confided in Ram Kishore about how cheated he felt by Gayatri’s longing for another man. After that evening, the Master entered a very dark place where he shut down all communication with the outside world. New governesses were hired for the children, and the extended family helped out the best they could. When the Master finally emerged from his quarters, five long months later, his first instructions were to remove all photographs, paintings, and artefacts—anything that reminded him of Madam from the entire house. The west wing, which had Madam in every brick and every corner, could not be salvaged. So it was sealed and forbidden. It was as if she had never existed. For the next few years, the Master entrenched himself deeper into his work, keeping long hours and sometimes not even coming home at night. He drank excessively, and as his business soared, his heart sank irretrievably.

  “Then one evening, when the festival of lights, Diwali, was being celebrated in the streets, the Master locked himself in his room with a crate of Johnny Walker and never came out. His ashes were scattered alongside those of the Madam’s in the lawns on the west wing, as per his wishes.”