The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  But Darya did not hear them. That Spandan paid her attention, sought her out amidst the bevy of young and beautiful girls clamouring for him, was validating and wonderful enough.

  It was a whirlwind, not a rollercoaster. She was sucked into the vortex of the relationship with a force of her own making, and after the initial headiness of romantic love began to fade, she stared at the bottom of a pit.

  The jealousy, the anger, the need to control, the impulse to beat down anything she said... she was never good enough, no matter what she did or how much she tried. Only what he said mattered. She was a foolish child who needed minding. And he was the one who had to do it.

  The last year of the relationship was the worst. It was every few months of on-and-off and back-again because of no-other-choice and cannot-let-go. She began suffering panic attacks. Palpitations and breathlessness. Stayed depressed for long periods of time. Drank and drank, more than was normal, more than she could bear, egged on by Spandan.

  Her friends noticed, and one took her to see a therapist. But when Spandan heard of it, their fight was massive. Why was she telling everyone about their problems? he demanded. Did she have no shame? No regard for their privacy? His reputation? They had a showdown in the middle of a busy shopping street. He flung her bag to the ground, shoved her, broke her phone. A crowd gathered, watching as she wept.

  The next day she told him they were off. Thank God for the scrap of self-respect that remained.

  The past few months had been anything but easy for Darya. She felt abandoned mostly, and inadequate. Edgy. A nervous wreck. Self-blame and doubt played see-saw in her head. And some days were so dark, she cried the whole time, refusing to leave her bed to even go to work.

  One day, convinced she was having a heart attack, she begged her roommate to take her to a hospital. Then—and why she'd thought to do it, she never fully understood even later—before the doctor arrived and when her roommate stepped out for a pee, Darya decided to end it all. One stroke, all gone. The pain. The recrimination. The memories.

  In that one moment of madness, she'd thought of no one. Not her parents, her friends, her life minus the broken heart, a life that was once awesome, her dreams for herself. Nothing.

  She hadn't spoken about it to anyone since, except to her roommate who had been sworn to secrecy. She had helped Darya hush it up. Darya would never be forgiven if her parents got to know. Damn, she could scarcely forgive herself.

  Darya returned home from the hospital carrying a few palliatives and a resolve to turn her life around. No more drinking or drugs. She'd fight off her depression. She was going to reinvent herself. Meantime, Spandan hadn't stopped calling, texting, or showing up. It was not so much that they weren't together anymore—he could have found anyone—but the fact that she had dumped him and moved on that rankled him. But she ignored him. She was going to scrub him off her life.

  Weakness for violent and unsuitable men, Veda, her roommate, and closest friend, had told her. Darya hadn't spoken to her for a month after that, and again now. But she was right. No daddy issues or anything—heck, she had had a wonderful childhood, and yet... unsuitable men, unsuitable job, unsuitable everything. It was as if she enjoyed walking towards a pit full of snakes and dancing over it.

  Fucking hell.

  Her life had reached a really low point, and she hoped this was the lowest it would go. At the moment, staying rent-free in Goa seemed to be an indication from the ‘one above’ that He hadn't totally abandoned her. She had begged her father to let her be the one to come. Of course, a lot of bad things had to happen for this to transpire and Darya was sorry for them. Uncle Paritosh died. Her father suffered a heart attack not long after. Her father’s indisposition was the purported reason she was sent to wrap things up. He had acquiesced only after much convincing and giving her precise instructions so that she didn't mess anything up: ‘Send back all important papers and antiques, sell or dispose of the rest. Get rid of anything to do with Farideh—not the photos, but her things. It's like a tomb up there.’

  Maybe not a tomb, but the room was definitely decaying. She was taken aback when she saw the house again this time, after many years. She knew her uncle used to stay away from the house for months on end because of his job; he was some sort of fish salesman, though as far as she knew, he never really carried any fish, only glossy pages of catalogue. Come to think of it, she had never seen these catalogues nor found any in the house. He had long since left the job and might have chucked them all out. But why hadn't he thrown the rest of this shit? Darya shook her head in exasperation, discovering a thick stack of flyers advertising local fairs, water purifiers, and engineering entrance tuitions under the bed.

  She had always loved the house, which was now only a sad reminder of its heyday, even though it had been two decades since that incident that no one talks about took place. In the initial years following Aunt Farideh's disappearance, Uncle Pari still had hope. He had tried to keep up appearances for as long as possible, thinking that when (and not if) the police found her and brought her back, she'd have a tidy home to come back to. Their lives would be pieced back together seamlessly as if nothing had happened. The needle would be set back to the start. Of course, that never came to pass, and now the house looked comatose, a creature sucked dry of the last dregs of its vitality.

  She heard the furious waves crashing onto the shore, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet summer evening. It lifted her spirits. The tedium of the house and the shadows lurking on the walls mattered less than before.

  Yeah, in any case, it's not like I have a choice.

  The comfort of her mental chatter was interrupted by a knock, diffident at first, then louder. She lifted herself off the floor and walked to the door.

  ‘Filip Uncle!’ she cried, spotting him through the half-ajar door, hastening to open it.

  Filip Castelino stood in front of her, his eyes squinting delightedly behind old-fashioned, round-rimmed glasses. Nothing had changed, Darya thought, looking at him, but it seemed like everything had. His face was the same uniform dark, smooth, and round, giving the impression of a polished walnut; small, narrow nose; thick, bushy grey eyebrows; tufts of grey hair on his head and peeking out of his ears; thin; loose limbs; jerky movements. The same but with more grey, more age, more... weighed down. Tired.

  ‘Koxem asa?’ he said, using Konkani to ask how she was. Searching her brain and to her surprise remembering, she replied, ‘Boro.’ I'm well.

  ‘Myna, my child, why didn't you come to meet Aunty and me?’

  He had called her that—Myna—little bird—ever since she, at six years old, asked him what the odd, bouncy, yellow-beaked bird was. Myna, little, brown and black and cute like you, he had said. They used to love her—the resident parents of Heliconia Lane. Their children were growing up and turning unruly and Darya agreed to be the obedient object of their affection. Every time she and her parents visited during her school's summer break, the neighbours would swoop into Sea Swept with armfuls of chocolates, homemade treats, storybooks, and anything pink. The children loved her too. She was the city girl armed with city tales, and they spent hours listening to her stories and marvelling at her swell life.

  Uh, look at me now.

  She was going to turn twenty-nine in another month. It was time to start living up to those stories.

  ‘Not a myna anymore, Uncle. See how tall I've become.’ She raised her hand over her five foot eight-inch height to support her case.

  ‘Still brown and frail and so thin,’ he said, pulling the skin of her forearm. ‘Your mother doesn't feed you or what? Zabel Aunty will fatten you up in a week.’

  ‘I have a disease, Uncle, I forget to eat,’ she said with mock seriousness on her face.

  Filip laughed. ‘Wait till you eat what your aunty has made for you. Remember the Kulkuls you used to love?’

  Darya nodded, then wondered if Filip wanted to come in. She didn't remember if she'd asked him.

  As if sensing her conf
usion, he said, ‘I've got to go. I told Zabel I was only going to see if you've arrived. She's looking forward to seeing you. Things are not going so well... the last one-year...’ He shuffled his feet and blinked, focusing on something behind her. ‘I am sorry that Pari passed away so soon. He was so young. Only forty-seven...’

  ‘Forty-six,’ Darya corrected automatically.

  ‘Yes, so young, so young...’ he shook his head. Looked despondent. ‘Zabel cried her eyes out for days.’ He pronounced the Z in his wife's name in a prolonged, lazy way; Darya had come to associate it with a kind of grudging affection.

  ‘Are you cleaning up? Taking away his things?’ he asked.

  Darya said, ‘Yes, Pa asked me to.’

  ‘Pity your father had a heart attack, that too right after the cremation. He was feeling sick before, he told me so. The news of his brother's death must have added to the stress.’

  Darya nodded. ‘Yeah, it was too much for him to take.’

  ‘It must be difficult for you too,’ Filip said.

  The man Darya recognized as her uncle was long gone. He'd hardly kept in touch over the years, and she didn't remember much about him. But she replied dutifully now, ‘It is, of course.’

  ‘How many days are you going to be here?’ Filip asked.

  ‘One or two weeks,’ Darya replied. ‘After I clean everything up, Pa said he'd take care of the house.’

  ‘How?’

  Darya shrugged. She had no clue.

  Filip shuffled his feet again, a nervous tick that seemed to have developed in old age.

  ‘Ask him to call me,’ he said. ‘Best to have discussed when we met, but where was the time?’ He paused. ‘How's your mother?’

  ‘Not so good. Missing me and complaining loads about it,’ Darya said, pulling a face. The last few years had been especially tough with them moving back to Nagpur and Darya insisting she stay on in Mumbai. She wanted to follow her dreams, she told them. Five years had come to naught; she was not even close to achieving what she had set out to do, but she wasn't about to confess it to them... or anyone. She hadn't told them she'd broken up with Spandan, who they'd met a couple of times, or that she'd quit the job they imagined she was very good at.

  No, she wasn't going to talk about it to anyone, not even the man in front of her who was now scanning her face expectantly.

  ‘Are you alright, Myna?’ he asked. ‘Your eyes dropped like you were off to sleep.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I'm fine, Uncle. It was a long drive and I haven't slept well.’

  ‘How did you come?’

  ‘I hired a car to get here,’ Darya said. Then clearing her throat, she added, ‘But I'm going to be driving the Djinn around Goa.’

  Darya was amused to note that Filip reacted just as her father had—surprise followed by indignation. No way, young lady, her father had said, that is no vehicle for a girl.

  But you taught me to drive that thing, Darya countered. How am I to get around in Goa?

  Hire a car.

  You know perfectly well we don't get only a car for hire. I'll need to hire a driver. Where will he stay? And you do know how much it will cost.

  And so, the arguments went on. Her father could do nothing about it, she knew. These were only token protestations. She had found the Jeep's keys in the house and was going to drive that thing around, no matter what her father said.

  The Djinn was the name given to the Mahindra Classic four-seater jeep that her father and uncle had purchased, one of each, way back in 1996 from a friend in the Indian army. Her father, Vikas, had a brown one and Paritosh owned one in green. The brothers had been passionate racing fans when young and drove reasonably well as adults. Vikas had hoped the vehicle would distract Paritosh from his other and less healthy obsession, and it did help for a while. Vikas himself used his own less often, teaching Darya to drive it instead. She took to it quite effortlessly, managing to turn quite a few heads on Mumbai roads. But when her father moved back to Nagpur, he took the jeep along with him, claiming he needed it for himself.

  ‘But...’ Filip started.

  ‘It's okay, Uncle, I'll be fine,’ she cut in.

  ‘Not so good for a young girl... that dangerous, big vehicle... you should be careful, get a smaller car. You can take ours.’ he said, looking worried. Darya softened, feeling a fondness for the old man.

  ‘It only looks dangerous,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I drove Pa's for years. That too in a city like Mumbai.’

  Filip shook his head again, but less vehemently this time.

  ‘Be careful,’ he murmured. Then after a breath said, ‘Come to visit us soon.’

  Darya nodded.

  He continued, ‘Shout if you need help. Zabel has spondylitis, but these arms,’ he raised his scrawny, weathered arms, ‘can still lift heavy dumbbells.’

  She smiled. ‘You were always the strong one, Uncle. The guardian of the lane.’

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. With a soft sigh, he turned to leave.

  Darya descended the steps along with him. When they reached the bottom step, he turned to her, adjusted the glasses on his nose, and murmured, ‘Constellation will be out on rent soon. Vidisha is turning it into a tourist cottage.’

  Darya looked at him, surprised. ‘And you're okay with that?’

  He shrugged like he'd tried to prevent it for as long as he could but had now given up. Darya marvelled at how much he had changed—a far cry from the chirpy, energetic, almost crassly animated man she used to know. Growing old sucks, she thought, feeling gloomy. Her nearing thirty was a particular source of anxiety for her, being addressed to copiously by her current therapist. Unresolved yet.

  ‘She promised to look carefully before she allowed anyone to stay,’ Filip was saying. ‘Plus, how long can you prevent fate? What will happen will happen. See how Paritosh died. He had tried to fight this thing—this loneliness long enough, but finally it took its toll, no?’ He turned to look at her, blinking behind his glasses with sad, rheumy eyes. ‘Find a man and marry soon. Don't let this get to you as it got to Pari.’

  ‘Uncle Pari was married,’ Darya said resignedly.

  Filip pointed a finger at her and said, ‘Myna, acting smartass like always.’

  Darya decided to change the subject, as she was prone to do when this particular topic came up.

  Luckily, she found a ready diversion.

  ‘Who's that?’ she asked.

  A harrowed-looking woman was pottering about in the neighbouring garden. She was all in yellow: yellow pantsuit, yellow stilettos, and yellow bangles. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail accentuating an angular, pale face. A leather folder was tucked in the crook of one arm. She had been standing there for as long as Darya and Filip were talking, looking in their direction every now and then. One time, a few stray weeds caught her eye, and she bent to uproot them.

  Filip replied, ‘Vidisha's architect. She did the insides of the house. It's looking nice now.’

  ‘Interior designer, you mean?’

  ‘Hoi, that. Speak to her. She's from Mumbai too, your big, bad city,’ he said. Then looking at Darya, he said again, his voice soft, almost pleading—‘Come to visit us’—and scuffled out of the gate.

  Once he was out of sight, merging into the line of palm trees and Heliconia bushes, Darya turned to face the woman who was now looking at her.

  ‘Hi,’ Darya called out.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice deep and throaty. The woman seemed in her early forties, and as she came closer, Darya saw she had a nicely ageing face only somewhat marred by thick laugh lines.

  ‘It's hot,’ the woman complained. ‘I don't know what people love about Goa and the sea.’

  Darya resisted the urge to pass a rude comment on the pantsuit and pumps. Who in their right mind wears an outfit like that in Goa?

  Aloud, she said, ‘I hear Vidisha hired you to do up her house?’

  The woman placed the folder she was holding on the
low fence separating Constellation and Sea Swept.

  ‘Her husband's an old friend,’ she said.

  ‘Is that so?’ Darya said. ‘Which firm do you work for?’

  ‘I freelance,’ she replied. ‘Sorry, I would've given you my business card, but I left them at the hotel.’

  ‘That's alright. Only curious,’ Darya said. ‘Are you staying at Panjim?’

  ‘At the Red Tulip,’ she said. Then screwing up her eyes as if deeply troubled, she added, ‘Goa is such a crazy place. So busy and yet so slow. Never seen the two together quite like this. Waiters take a year to bring food. In fact, all service is slow. But the beaches are overcrowded. Even in the heat of May!’

  ‘The south is peaceful,’ Darya murmured. ‘Valsolem is nice.’

  ‘I don't mind the crowds. I like water sports. But not for long. And this heat... ufff...’ she wiped the back of her neck.

  ‘Use an air conditioner. Or wear looser clothes,’ Darya said, feeling miffed by all the complaining.

  Luckily for Darya, the woman seemed not to mind the barb. Or maybe she hadn't heard. Or understood.

  ‘I don't come so often now,’ she said. ‘I came here today because the plumber said he'd come to check the faucets. There were some leaks last time.’ Then glancing at her watch in irritation, ‘It's been over an hour and he hasn't shown up.’

  ‘Call him,’ Darya suggested.

  ‘Tried again and again. Damned idiot. Will have to take it out of his advance.’ She dialled a number on her phone. No one picked up.

  Darya asked casually, ‘So, how's Vidisha?’

  The woman shrugged but did not answer. Stared at her phone in annoyance.

  ‘Can I see what you've done to her place? The Salgaonkars had really let the place go, huh? Especially after Vidisha moved out and Gaurav, as you know...’ Darya said and hoped the scowl on her face showed what she thought of him and whose side she was on.