The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  His phone rang. He glanced at it. ‘Do you mind? I need to take this,’ he murmured. Then without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and walked out into the garden.

  Darya watched him leave. She wondered if she should use this time to look around the house. She hadn't been able to the last time with Vidisha. Would Aaron mind?

  She realized her feelings towards him had thawed somewhat in the past hour. She was growing more and more curious about him. Usually withdrawn, he'd been only kind and thoughtful in their interaction today. What was he about? And who was that beautiful woman in the photograph on the mantelpiece? She had to find out more.

  Now she hoped they had become friends enough for her to take the liberty to look around.

  Putting on an air of casualness, she got to her feet and started to stroll about.

  First, she noted the knick-knacks in the corners: Tibetan sculptures, Balinese stools, Rajasthani cabinets, Indonesian side tables. They looked grand now, but she wondered how the house would look once it was lived in and the careful arrangement disturbed. Like laundry hung on an ornate balcony; probably as unsightly.

  She walked to the kitchen. The cabinets had been stocked to the brim with ready-to-eat food packets, cooking oils, condiments, and cutlery. The refrigerator had bread, jam, and milk. There was an open can of American Garden baked beans and a bottle of Sprite on the dining table. Aaron's lunch? The kitchen was bright, airy and clean with blue walls, open shelves, and live plants in copper pots.

  Darya checked her watch. Aaron had been gone for twenty minutes. She walked to the hall and peered through the window that overlooked the garden. He was nowhere to be seen.

  The master bedroom... she should go there next.

  She was of the firm opinion that a person's bedroom revealed his personality. After all, it was one's most intimate space, a sanctuary.

  What did her bedroom tell about her? Scattered, stagnant, boring. But then she had hardly used hers in the last two years. She had made Spandan's her own, then altered hers to match his.

  She threw another glance at the garden, then retraced her steps. Soft. Quick. She walked to the door she believed led to the master bedroom and stopped. Pushed it open and entered inside.

  Her mouth fell open in surprise.

  Like a prison cell!

  The room was in sharp contrast to the frills outside. It contained a single mattress on the floor at its centre covered in a white sheet. A slim wooden cupboard and a matching wooden study table stood in the two corners of the wall facing her. The room was brightly lit by the sun through a large open window. A gentle breeze was making its way in, causing the white lace curtains on the window to dance and flutter.

  Darya felt like she had been transported to another world; a dreamlike, isolated grotto.

  She moved a few steps, almost afraid. A faint smell of sour apple greeted her. The floor felt cool under her bare feet.

  Should I? Shouldn't I?

  Oh, what the hell.

  On her toes, her heart beating like a drum in her chest, she walked to the cupboard and opened it. Empty. So, Aaron hadn't gotten around to arranging his wardrobe yet. Next, she tiptoed to the table. There was a lamp on it, inexpensive and practical, brushed steel finish. She flipped the switch on, and a bright yellow light fell in a neat circle on the table. Her eyes moved over the stack of books next to it. She picked up a few.

  She read through the titles: Atlas of Human Anatomy, Current Diagnosis, Principles of Hand Surgery and Therapy, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching, Sophie's World....

  She cocked her head to one side.

  Was that...?

  A floorboard creaked in the hall.

  She panicked. Aaron must have returned to the house.

  A few books slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. Heart pumping wildly in her chest, she picked them up and put them back, trying to arrange them as she'd found them.

  She ran towards the door. The breeze from the window had snapped it shut. She pulled it open, but the hinges creaked. She cursed inwardly. Her hands shaking, she opened the door. Then wider, and was about to step out, when...

  ...she hesitated.

  Something had caught her eye.

  She took a step back.

  What's that doing here... taped to the wall?

  ‘Darya?’ she heard Aaron's voice in the hall. His footsteps were heavy on the floor, each step sounding to her as the beat of a drum.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  She left the door ajar. Ran to the kitchen.

  Ragged breathing. Heart in her mouth. Blood in her ears.

  Then in a few seconds, he was beside her.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked, his face grim. A thin line of sweat had formed on his brow. His cheeks were flushed.

  Darya held up the bottle of Sprite. ‘I was thirsty,’ she muttered, in between gulps. ‘And you were gone a long time.’

  They All Fall Down

  Darya drove the jeep at a speed greater than she would have dared at Panjim. The roads were wide and desolate, but she kept herself occupied: counting the wiry shadows of the coconut trees on the road; waving at fishwives who walked past with baskets on their heads and cotton saris hitched to their knees; singing along with the radio which was on full blast. She stopped for a cup of chai twice. The two hours passed easy, despite the unnerving task at hand.

  She saw the board announcing Vatkola, a village she knew to be of a hundred modest households and a thousand acres of paddy fields and cashew farms. She stopped beside a man in a tin roof shanty and asked for the way to Andorra supermarket. He pointed wordlessly with one hand, continuing to stir a saucepan of milky tea with the other.

  Darya got back into the jeep and drove on. A couple of stray dogs, single floor cottages and shuttered shops later, she stopped again to ask a man on a bicycle. He pointed to her right. She turned.

  She had arrived.

  There were four buildings on the street. On one side she saw Andorra supermarket, only a rather large kirana store, and a three-storeyed house next to it with the nameplate: D'Penha Mansion. On the other side was a single floor cottage, unpretentious yet picturesque. It had a corrugated terracotta roof, light green walls, and stained-glass windows. A neat little garden in the front had three cane chairs, an old Ladybird bicycle chained to a pole and flowerpots along the path to the front door. Joseph Sea Food stood next to it, its shutters down.

  She knocked on the cottage's door. It was seven in the morning and she wasn't expecting anyone to be up, but it opened immediately.

  A woman stared back at her, her face inquiring. She was dignified looking, in her late forties. She wore a long black T-shirt over white pyjamas, had a clear complexion, her eyes set wide in a heart-shaped face, over a flared nose. Her hair fell to her shoulders in hard black curls, so plastic looking, Darya guessed it was a very badly made wig. This was further reinforced when she noted the big, floppy, mid-90s bangs lying clumsily on her forehead. The woman smelt of talcum powder; Darya noted the tell-tale crusts on her neck.

  A docile grazing animal, that's what she was like.

  ‘Are you Veronica?’ Darya asked. She'd been expecting somebody older, frailer, someone in mourning, with a sad face, in a frumpy sleeping gown... why? She had no idea. It was how her voice had sounded over the phone.

  And didn't she say she was poor?

  Poor... not destitute.

  ‘Hoi,’ the woman replied. It was the same voice Darya had heard over the phone.

  ‘Oh,’ Darya said, fidgeting. She wondered what to do next.

  Veronica was staring at her.

  ‘Konney...?’ she began.

  ‘I'm Darya,’ she explained, with a sheepish smile. ‘Paritosh's niece.’

  Realization dawned on her. Her face broke into a smile. She opened the door wider.

  ‘Come,’ she said.

  Darya hesitated.

  ‘Come,’ she repeated, gesturing like an usher in a restaura
nt.

  She had to go through with it, Darya thought. That's what she had come to do, after all.

  But she was nervous. How was she going to talk to her? What about?

  She removed her slippers by the door, wiped her feet on the coir mat that announced Welcome and entered the house.

  ‘Kosso- assai?’ the woman asked, leading the way.

  ‘Very well. Thank you,’ Darya replied.

  ‘We did not think you will be coming,’ the woman said.

  Darya was feeling less anxious now. The woman's serenity was comforting.

  The room she entered was plain and functional, in line with the exterior; the seating a series of mats and mattresses on the floor; small windows on the walls around, plain yellow curtains on them; a rectangular glass top table and four chairs in the dining room adjacent; no paintings or photographs, only an imposing gothic style wooden cross on one wall; a single TV set in a corner, a crochet cover thrown over it. Darya recognized her uncle's old Onida.

  A boy was sitting on the floor. He turned to look when she walked in.

  Darya congratulated herself on getting at least his picture right in her head. Tall and lanky, he looked about eighteen. Like his mother, he was fair of complexion, long-limbed with a placid doe-eyed face. He was in a full sleeve shirt and trousers, both loose on his body as if he had borrowed them.

  Darya exhaled slowly.

  The apprehension she had been feeling at the prospect of meeting them—her extended family—was leaving her.

  Veronica brought a chair from the dining room. ‘Sit,’ she said.

  ‘Don't trouble yourself,’ Darya muttered but sat on the chair offered.

  Veronica stood in front of her, her face expectant.

  Darya took a deep breath. What do I do now?

  What had she been expecting out of this meeting? How should she begin the conversation? She hadn't really planned anything. She'd only wanted to check if Veronica existed. And if what she'd said about her uncle was the truth.

  Now get on with it.

  ‘Do you know who this is?’ Darya asked, flashing a photograph of her father and feeling clever.

  ‘Vikas,’ Veronica replied, without missing a beat. ‘Paritosh's brother.’

  Darya put the photograph back into her purse, embarrassed.

  ‘I needed to make sure...,’ she started, but her voice trailed off. She was feeling uncomfortable again under the stares of mother and son.

  But Veronica seemed to guess what was on her mind.

  ‘Matso rao,’ she said. Holding out her hand, she asked Darya to wait and walked inside.

  By now bored of the proceedings, Joseph turned to his earlier activity, of reading what Darya saw was Women's Era. From where she sat, she noted the stringy quality of his hair, the ungainly slouch, the knobs of his spine against the fabric of his shirt. A cake of powder, mirroring that of his mom, covered his neck. Except for the occasional jerk of his hands, as he turned the pages, there was no other movement.

  Veronica returned ten minutes later with two photographs in her hand. She handed them over to Darya.

  Two glossy four by six prints. The first was of Paritosh, Veronica, and Joseph leaning on a moored boat. The photo looked about a decade old. Veronica was in a pair of boot-cut jeans and a dressy blouse, smiling up at the camera. Joseph was in shorts and his face was at an odd angle, staring away. Her uncle looked big and brawny. His face beamed. In the second picture, which did not seem very old, he seemed to have lost weight. He was posing, fish in both hands. Veronicas arm was around his waist. Proud. Possessive. A placard above read, Joseph Sea Food.

  ‘He loved Joseph,’ Veronica said.

  ‘Too much to take,’ Darya muttered and closed her eyes. Then opening them again, she sighed.

  Veronica was looking at her questioningly.

  ‘That Uncle Pari was with another woman,’ she explained. ‘You, I mean... and had a son also, and none of us knew anything about it.’

  Veronica did not reply.

  ‘My dad does not believe it,’ Darya said.

  ‘Pari was a good man,’ Veronica replied.

  ‘But he didn't marry you,’ Darya said, looking at her accusingly as if it was her fault.

  ‘Men are doing such things,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘It is common.’

  ‘No, they don't do such things,’ Darya said. ‘It is not common.’

  Veronica seemed troubled by Darya's forcefulness.

  ‘He was a good man, but men are wanting things,’ she tried to explain.

  They were distracted for a moment when Joseph got up and walked out of the room, his feet dragging on the floor. He didn't turn to look at them.

  ‘A minute please,’ Veronica said, following him.

  Darya sat unmoving, straining to hear what was going on inside.

  Clanging of plates. A low, muted conversation. A BANG. Darya jumped on her chair. Then Joseph's voice rose in an alarming whine followed by a few sharp words from Veronica. After that, it all quietened down.

  Veronica walked back into the living room.

  ‘He is hungry,’ she said. ‘He does not know how to tell what he wants properly.’

  ‘What's wrong with him?’ Darya asked.

  ‘Hanv noko,’ she said, looking gloomy. ‘Not very good doctors here.’

  ‘There are a few good ones in Panjim,’ Darya said.

  ‘Paritosh...’ she hesitated. Then shaking her head as if trying to dislodge an unpleasant memory, continued, ‘He did not like doctors.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Darya asked puzzled. ‘What is there not to like? They are doctors. We need them.’

  ‘Did not believe,’ Veronica mumbled.

  ‘So, what did you do?’ Darya asked.

  ‘Natural medicines,’ she said. ‘He did not believe, but I took Joseph. It was less costly also.’

  Darya stared at her. ‘What does that mean? Natural medicines?’

  ‘Ayurveda,’ she said. ‘There are some good people doing it nearby.’

  This account of her uncle's callousness perturbed Darya. His own son, why wouldn't Uncle Pari take him to a doctor? And what was this about not believing in them? She had never heard of such a thing from her father.

  But she decided to delve into it later. Before everything, she wanted to know—

  ‘How did you and Uncle Pari meet?’

  A ghost of a smile played on her lips. A sparkle came to her eyes.

  ‘Paritosh was selling fish to my father in Pocolem,’ she said. ‘I was thirty-five but did not find a husband. My mother died a long time ago. My sisters married. Then my father died and Pari bought this house. Told me I should come to stay here. When Joseph was born, he opened the shop.’ She gave Darya a meaningful glance before adding, ‘Neighbours feel he is my husband.’

  ‘Were you two in love?’ Darya asked.

  Blink. A slow exhale.

  ‘He was a good man,’ she said, finally.

  ‘Why didn't you two get married?’ Darya asked.

  Veronica paused for an uncomfortably long time before replying, ‘He was married.’

  Darya felt pity for the woman. But she spotted no grief in Veronica, only acceptance.

  Darya knew she had to leave soon. Her original plan had only been to check the woman out. Was she telling the truth? Did she really know her uncle? But now even though she had not seen a lot or talked for long, she was convinced Veronica was not lying.

  But now what... what after this? What else could she do? Francis and her father were right; these were murky waters; there was a danger of getting sucked in.

  Nevertheless, there was something else she needed to do. Darya felt bad about it, but it had to be done.

  ‘Veronica,’ she said, her voice urgent. ‘Are any of my uncle's things here? Can I see them?’

  Veronica took a few seconds to understand. Then asked Darya to wait. Walking inside in quick steps, she returned a few minutes later, dragging a trunk behind her.

  ‘
Yesterday I put everything inside,’ she said, placing it next to Darya.

  Darya opened it and moved the things around.

  T-shirts, trousers, a stack of fish catalogues, toiletries, a wrench, three pliers of different sizes, two bottles of Officers' Choice whiskey, two bottles of Cazulo Feni, a chipped pair of sunglasses, two pairs of slippers, a set of formal suede shoes, socks, comb, a wad of hundred rupee notes tied together with a rubber band, and an old mobile phone which Veronica informed her did not work anymore. Veronica explained that she'd been planning to put the money—a sum of six thousand rupees—in the bank and move the trunk to their storage room at the back. It hurt too much to look at his things.

  ‘Nothing else?’ Darya asked. ‘No papers?’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘Noko.’ Nothing.

  Darya shut the lid. Gazing up at Veronica, she wondered what to do next. Veronica returned her gaze, an earnest expression on her face.

  Then her voice dropped low, and Darya could scarcely hear her when she asked, ‘Pari did not leave any money? For Joseph? Or me?’

  Kumpriment kori naka was her uncle's favourite Konkani saying. Translated, it meant, do not make a fuss. He'd used it on a young Darya often... and it looked like he'd found a partner to live up to it.

  Had Farideh been that way too? Darya did not think so.

  ‘No,’ Darya told Veronica. ‘We do not think he made a will.’

  ‘Can you help with some money? If... only... maaf kor...’ Darya saw desperation jostle with pride on the woman's face and lowered her eyes to not cause her more embarrassment.

  ‘I'll talk to my dad and see what he says,’ she murmured, hardly convincing even to herself. But Veronica gave a slight nod as if satisfied and said nothing more

  As Darya stepped out, she paused at the gate, wondering if she should ask the question that had been moving around in her head for a while. Not a question really, but scattered pieces of a puzzle, made up of suggestions, hints and vague memories, not fitting together yet.

  So, taking a deep breath and trying to keep her voice even, Darya said, ‘Veronica, one more thing.’

  Veronica looked at her.

  ‘I err...’ She fumbled for the words, then decided to ask straight out. ‘Did my uncle... Paritosh drink a lot?’