The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  Darya didn't hurry the girl, but waited patiently, biding her time. After all, they'd waited twenty years.

  ‘Who?’ Ruksana asked.

  ‘Farideh.’

  Ruksana looked at Darya with pity in her eyes.

  ‘Ammi is gone. My mother is dead. She died two years ago.’

  Darya ate the cherries on her plate. Despite her damp mood, she was grateful for some food.

  Ruksana had also brought to her a photograph, a family portrait. Standing in front of this very house were two girls and a boy, scrawny, short, with uniformly perplexed faces, large eyes and thin lips. A plump, fair-complexioned diminutive man stood to their left. A plumper, fairer-complexioned and much taller woman in full sleeve salwar kameez stood to their right: soft smile on her face; long brown hair; doe like eyes. Her hands rested guardedly around her children as if she let go, they'd float.

  Definitely Aunt Farideh, if you ignored the unexpected girth, the ill-fitting dress and the laugh lines on the face.

  It came crashing down on Darya then, what this meant.

  This was proof, no prank. It was true.

  Twenty years... they had lived a lie.

  A ripple of anger passed through her.

  'Ammi read The Goa Times every day until she died,’ Ruksana was saying. ‘Not the Delhi Times which everybody reads here or Chandigarh Times but The Goa Times. It came to our house two days later, but we still had to buy it. She wanted to stay in touch. Keep herself updated about Goa.’ She paused to smile at that memory. Then picking from a plate of cherries and cheese, she put some in her mouth and spoke through the jumble, ‘None of us have been to Goa. She said it was too dangerous. Khatarnak. Abba doesn't want to go either, he is pukka pahari. Man of the hills. His family has lived in Manali for four hundred years.’

  Darya wondered absently if the fuchsia of her lips came from the juice of the cherries.

  ‘What's your father's name?’ she asked.

  ‘Alibhai Rehman,’ the girl said.

  ‘Ruksana,’ Darya said, leaning forward, speaking quickly, trying to impress upon Ruksana the urgency of her words. ‘I need to know everything. Tell me everything.’

  ‘I will.’

  Darya took a deep breath. ‘For starters, how did Farideh and your father meet?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to tell you Ammi is not called Farideh anymore. Her name is Noor,’ Ruksana said.

  ‘Oh,’ Darya looked up from her plate, startled. ‘Then how did...’

  ‘I know you?’ she finished for her. ‘Ammi told us.’

  A thought moved in her mind.... like a coin drop.

  Was this a dream? This couldn't be happening.... it was way too bizarre to be true. How did this girl thousands of kilometres away, know that her mother's long-lost niece by marriage was looking for her?

  ‘I didn't know,’ the girl had said over the phone. ‘I had to check. So, I called once before to check. You remember? As a friend of your uncle's.’ The young girlish voice, the one who'd wanted to meet his family after reading the obituary.

  A crazy, crazy world.

  ‘Before she died, Ammi told Mukhtar and me everything. She was resting right here.’ She patted the bed. ‘Abba knows everything, but he loved her so much. Dadi knows nothing.’ She threw a furtive glance at the door. A satin curtain hung over it, blocking the view to the rest of the house.

  Darya stayed silent.

  A part of her wanted to hurry this along. Why did Ruksana call her to Manali when Farideh was already dead? How had Farideh reached Manali? Why did she never contact her husband again? What had she done in the past twenty years? And most importantly of all, what was Darya doing so far away from home, her faith placed in a total stranger? Why had she been so foolhardy? Was it only because she'd wanted to be proved right?

  That... and she also felt... this was it. This was the story. It was important to finally bring closure.

  So, she was going to wait and hear out what this girl had to say. Never mind how long it took.

  The girl was staring at her.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Darya replied. ‘Only a bit tired.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’ Ruksana asked.

  Darya nodded. Irrational or otherwise—there was no other way.

  Ruksana took a deep breath. ‘Ammi was staying at the Tangmo monastery... twenty kilometres from here. She met Abba there. They fell in love and got married. She was staying at the monastery as a guest, not a nun. Abba and his father were helping build the monastery's visitors hostel.’

  ‘Tell me from the beginning,’ Darya said. It wasn't making sense yet. How had her aunt reached Manali... the monastery? How had she fallen in love and married when she was already...? Nothing made sense... ‘Why did she run away?’ she asked. ‘Your Ammi... my aunt? She was married to my uncle. They had a happy home in a beautiful city. Why did she leave all that and run away to Manali? It...’ Darya's struggled to control her emotions. ‘It tore our family apart... it destroyed my uncle's life.’

  You know why, right? You do know why...

  I do. I do. But...

  There was silence.

  Ruksana had stopped eating. She placed the plate aside and stared at Darya.

  ‘You don't know?’ she asked, sounding baffled.

  I think I know. Terrible as it is, I think I do know...

  ‘No tell me, Ruksana, why?’

  Darya was tired. The voices were mixing up in her head. She could not separate reality from fiction. She only wanted to know the truth.

  Please... the truth.

  Ruksana's face broke into a hard smile, out of place in someone so young, yet strangely in tune with what was happening.

  Continuing to hold Darya's gaze, she leaned forward and spoke, her voice expressionless, as if repeating her dead mother's words—

  ‘Your uncle was a bad, bad man. He beat Ammi. Tortured her. He warned her if she left him, he would kill her. That's why she changed her name to Noor and never left Manali, not for one day in her life.’

  Darya's father had called. There was a message from Spandan. A couple of calls from Francis and Filip. Darya switched off her phone.

  She looked at the wall clock: three thirty. There was not much time left.

  Ruksana was speaking again.

  Farideh and Paritosh had had an unhappy marriage. Yes, they were in love at the start, but it did not last long. He was angry often and beat her at the slightest provocation. It grew worse when they got married and moved to Goa.

  Farideh had disliked Goa from the moment she'd set her foot on it. The humid air ruined her skin and hair. Her appetite dropped. She was lonely. But Paritosh noticed none of this. He loved the place, the sea, the fresh fish, the people. And most of all the alcohol. It made him do bad things. He felt sorry for them afterward but did them again and again anyway.

  She could have left him but did not. In those days, it wasn't easy to leave. She couldn't go back to her parents who were not talking to her. And for the longest time... she thought she was in love with him... and the notion of love endures most things, even abuse.

  They were living in a one-bedroom apartment at Panjim that first year. Farideh had nothing to do all day, so she wandered around the street, made friends and learnt to cook local dishes. After a year, the couple moved to Heliconia Lane. Farideh hoped this would be the start to a new life and things were different for a while, but not in the way she'd thought, or wanted. She liked her neighbours—particularly the children—but always felt out of place. She tried to have a good time and played along as much as she could, but they treated her like an exotic foreigner. She never formed any close friendships.

  Paritosh and she drifted farther and farther away. His drinking and the abuse grew. Once he cut her hair with a garden shear for fun. Another time, he hit her with the mop handle, scarring her forehead. And then there was the tattoo...

  And no one said a word. Everyone around her knew what was happening, but they turned
a blind eye.

  In her loneliness, Farideh turned to the sea. Took long walks to kill the hours. On one of them, she met Andrew Babkin, a Russian expat who worked at a club nearby. Andrew, or Andy as he was popularly known, was a sweet and helpful man, even when high on dope, which was most times. They became friends. She told him about herself.

  One day Paritosh returned home early and saw them together on the beach. When Farideh got back home, he was waiting for her. He beat her with a gardening wrench. He had a collection of those and used them often.

  The skin of her forearm tore, the one which bore the tattoo of his name. Farideh had had enough. The next day, she asked Andy to help her escape.

  She knew Paritosh was never going to let her go and would hunt her down if she left him. So, she had to make him believe she'd met with an accident. Or that she had been kidnapped.

  The two worked out a plan. It was going to happen on her birthday, when the families would be out on the beach at the restaurant. Farideh would set the wheels in motion to fake her own death.

  Torn clothes. Blood marks. Upturned bedroom. Missing money. It took only an hour.

  Andy borrowed a green ambassador car from a friend. Farideh packed in the money and the jewellery, giving Andy some of it. She wore a burqua to hide herself.

  Then Andy dropped her off at the Madgao train station. He had everything planned for her. She was to travel to Delhi where she'd meet an old friend of his to take her to Malana, two hours from Manali. Andy had a strong network there; he'd lived in Manali and its whereabouts for many years before coming down to Goa. In Malana, Farideh was to stay with another one of Andy's friends for a few days until the furore over her disappearance died. Then she could do as she pleased. She had money and she had her freedom.

  A few months later, she moved to the Tangmo monastery where she met the quiet and unassuming Alibhai Rehman and her new life began.

  Her father should have been here, Darya thought tiredly. The thrill of her discovery had now waned. It was all too much for her to take. She would have to tell him, and he could take over. He'd know what to do.

  Darya heard an alarm go off somewhere inside the house.

  ‘You need to go now,’ Ruksana said hurriedly, jumping on her feet. She threw an anxious glance at the front door. ‘Four pm. My brother and sister will be back in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Wait,’ Darya said, half rising from her chair, an arm outstretched to ask her to sit down. ‘We are not done. I have a lot of questions still.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ the girl said. She wrung her hands and glanced at the door again.

  ‘But I have many questions,’ Darya repeated stupidly.

  The girl shrugged, looking sorry.

  ‘Itna hi hai. This is how much I can tell you. You can telephone me later if you want, I'll give you my number. Mukhtar had said we should erase the past and move on, but...’ Her eyes blurred and she added, ‘I think someone should know. I think Ammi wanted someone to know.’ She took a deep breath to collect herself and then—‘I have something to give you before you go. That's why I wanted you to come.’

  Darya watched her reach under the bed and draw out a slender bag. She handed it over to Darya.

  Darya took it but made no move to open it.

  ‘Look inside,’ the girl said.

  With her hands moving slowly, Darya opened it.

  On top was a framed photograph—of the residents of Heliconia Lane—same as the one Vidisha had shown her—only more faded. She flipped the cheap metal frame over and pried the picture loose. Turned it over. The same verse. This was the photograph her uncle had lost. Farideh must have taken it with her when she left. But what for? To hurt her uncle? Or to keep a memory of her final days?

  Next, a leather-bound copy of the Rubáiyát Khayyam, in Persian. She turned the pages. They felt woody and dry. Crumbly under her stiff fingers.

  And last. A slim gold chain with a heart shaped locket. Darya turned the knob. The locket sprung open. Two miniature photographs faced each other inside: one of her uncle, the other of her aunt. In vivid colours, touched up with paint. Both looked happy.

  She snapped the locket shut and turned it around. Engraved upon it were the words:

  Farideh Joon-am

  ‘She hated to look at it. Hated any talk of her old life or where she came from,’ Ruksana said.

  ‘And this?’ Darya picked up the Rubáiyát Khayyam.

  ‘Ammi never took it out. We read it in school. When Mukhtar mentioned it one time, Ammi scolded him a lot,’ she said.

  Darya sighed. She put the things back in the bag.

  ‘You can take it with you,’ Ruksana told her.

  She nodded. Exhaustion weighed her down.

  She did not like this story one bit. She wanted to go back.

  Her beloved aunt had hated the book, had hated Goa, had hated her old life. She had lived like a recluse for the last twenty years, up in the hills, with a new family while the old mourned her death. She felt a mixture of anger and pity well up inside her.

  They had lived a myth all these years. Farideh had left behind a falsehood, and that had been her ultimate revenge.

  ‘But she did not hate all of her old life,’ her daughter said now, as if she knew what Darya was thinking. ‘She remembered you and your mother. They were very close. You were renamed because of Ammi.’

  Darya nodded. She knew that already. She knew that for some time, her mother and aunt were almost like sisters. And for the most of Darya's life she had lived with the impression that her name reminded everyone of Farideh, and she'd hated that.

  ‘Ek, do bar, she has talked of others,’ Ruksana said.

  ‘Like who?’ Darya asked, curiously.

  ‘Zabel who cooked very well.’

  Darya nodded.

  ‘Rakhi who helped decorate the house,’ she said. ‘The women were nice to her. Only on surface, but nice fir bhi.’

  Darya nodded but felt her chest tighten.

  ‘The doctor sahiba in Panjim who treated her. She asked her to go to the police. But Ammi couldn't. She was afraid.’

  Darya was silent.

  ‘The children,’ Ruksana said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Darya murmured.

  ‘She loved them a lot. She told us. She had nicknames for them. Saint, gunda, princess. She was afraid what would happen to them when she left... how they would take it.’

  Ruksana spoke for a few more minutes. Then got abruptly to her feet.

  ‘Please... you have to go now.’ She opened the door.

  Darya staggered out.

  Thoughts raced in her head.

  Could it be? Had she told her the truth? She had travelled sixteen hours for a two-hour audience with a girl who could very well have made up a crazy story to absolve her mother of her past.

  But why bother?

  If what she'd told Darya was indeed the truth, it was madness. It was crazy-ass madness. Things had to be set right. She had to tell her father, her mother, the neighbours. The story had to be reset in their heads.

  And another thing that she'd said... what did it mean? An important link. A connection. Something had clicked in her head.

  It could be anything, but...

  It wasn't possible. It was too far-fetched. Too incredible.

  She had to find out.

  She had to get back to Goa as soon as she could.

  Phantom Caravan

  She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The sand was dry, but the grass wet with morning dew and she slipped twice. She heard, at a far distance, a tyre screech, a bird call and then... silence. Only the sound of her feet on stones... over sand... over grass... through the garden.

  She stumbled again. A prayer came to her lips. Getting to her feet, she ran faster, panting for breath. Tall grass scraped against her exposed calves.

  She turned back a few times. No one. Had they seen her?

  She hadn't expected to find the door open but when she did, hadn't thought twice before walking
in. After all, she had done it before, what could go wrong this time?

  How feverishly she wished now she could go back and undo it? Walk away when no one had answered the door? Erase from her memory what she had seen?

  She had lost all sense of time and direction. Now and then, a gust of wind smacked her face, warm and snappy. Her knees felt like jelly, but she had to be careful not to make any noise.

  She surveyed the garden behind her again. Silence. Not a rustle. No movement.

  She sprinted out of the gates.

  Then doubled over, panting.

  So, they hadn't seen her. They were probably still together, in each other's embrace. She had gotten the barest of glimpses but that had been enough.

  With wobbly steps, she walked up the path leading to Sea Swept. Grimaced when she saw her father descend down the steps of the balcao.

  ‘Darya,’ he shouted.

  ‘Pa,’ she muttered. She wished he hadn't left the hotel to come to meet her so early. She needed some time to think alone.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said, worriedly scanning her face. ‘Are you all right? What's the matter?’

  She stopped a few feet away from him and took a few deep breaths. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her legs were trembling. She wanted to let everything go. Collapse into bed. Let the nightmare pass.

  But now her father stood in front of her, looking at her anxiously.

  Keep it together.

  She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes.

  ‘Darya, come inside,’ her father said, leading her through the garden and to the house. ‘What's the matter?’ He sat her down in the balcao. ‘You're sweating. Why were you running?’

  She tried to smile. ‘I went for a run, but it was hotter than I thought.’

  He said sternly, ‘Don't lie to me, D.’

  ‘No, Pa, serious,’ she said, heaving her shoulders in mock weariness. ‘It's very hot outside. And on my way back, I fell over a shrub.’ She rubbed her arm. She had stumbled over a row of cacti close to the fence. ‘What are you doing here so early? Weren't you supposed to be at Moonshine until lunch?’ she asked.