‘Rajesh is one to speak,’ Veda commented dryly. ‘I’ve seen how he looks at me… and you.’
‘Pervert,’ Darya agreed. ‘He’s an obnoxious man.’
‘Where do you think Sapna is?’
‘Must have run away. What else?’
They debated in hushed tones whether they should go up to their room. Veda said she didn’t want to. Neither did Darya.
‘Wanna get a vada pav instead?’ Darya asked. Veda smiled. Together they trudged down the stairs and out of the house.
‘Things will quieten down in an hour,’ Darya said. ‘I’d hate to meet any of them anyhow, but especially not in the state they are in.’
‘And of course, vada pav!’ Veda said, smirking. She seemed to be in a good mood.
As they walked out of the swivel gate and Darya turned to latch it, she glanced up.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Who…?
For a flash of a second, she thought she saw a pair of eyes staring back at her from the second-floor balcony. A glint of glasses.
It crept back away, just as quickly.
‘Darya,’ Veda called to her. She was already on the street.
‘Coming,’ Darya replied. She glanced at the balcony again.
The leaves of the karanj trees shuddered. Shadows played on the white walls. Cobwebs and clotted traffic smoke clung to the ceiling like forgotten laundry.
There was no one there now.
‘What was it?’ Veda asked as Darya joined her. She had seen the look on Darya’s face.
‘Nothing,’ Darya said.
But she was sure there had been someone.
It came to her again, like a worm of doubt burrowing inside her brain.
Were there two of them?
‘Pa, since you’re coming to Mumbai, can you get my school certificates? I need to give Warm Beans a copy to get the final course diploma.’
‘At the coffee course you’re taking?’
Darya heard the barely masked derision in his voice but decided to let it pass. ‘Yeah,’ she replied.
‘I don’t know if I can meet you,’ her father said.
‘But you told me last time… or actually, Ma did…’
‘Yes, I know what she said. But I’ve got to visit a lot of people in the city and your Ma has a doctor’s appointment on Thursday. I must be back home by then. You know she never does anything on her own.’
You never let her do anything on her own, Darya wanted to retort. It never failed to amaze Darya how her father had different rules for her and her mother.
She chewed on her lower lip. ‘Okay,’ she said, trying not to sound disappointed. ‘Why does Ma need to go to the doctor?’ she asked.
‘She has not been sleeping well.’
‘Why?’
‘Old age.’
‘What about the certificates then?’ Darya asked. ‘Can you scan them for me? But oh,’ she remembered, ‘they’ll want the originals.’
After a moment’s thought, her father said, ‘Listen, I can send them over with someone.’
‘They’re my certificates,’ Darya protested. ‘They cannot be sent with just someone.’
‘He is someone I know well,’ her father replied wryly. ‘Actually, a friend’s son. You may remember him. Roshan.’
‘Who?’
‘Roshan Tiwari,’ her father said. The image of a pimply, awkward boy with spiky hair and large framed glasses popped in Darya’s head. She remembered him from when she was a teenager. He’d briefly studied in her school at Nagpur; a year younger if she remembered correctly. Brilliant. Painfully shy.
And smitten with Darya.
‘He’s doing very well for himself,’ her father added suggestively.
‘Your friend?’ Darya asked, feigning innocence.
‘Roshan,’ her father said.
‘Gosh! Are you trying to match-make again?’ Darya said, feeling maddened. ‘You know I’m dating Aaron.’
‘Of course, I know you’re dating Aaron. This boy will be bringing your certificates, that’s all.’
But Darya knew her father wasn’t too happy about her relationship with Aaron, even though he’d never told her so explicitly. She got glimpses of it when he remarked on Aaron’s oddities in passing: a man without a family was always going to be broken, he was too austere to be normal, too bizarre in his taste of books, too staid in his conduct. Darya wished she could tell her father exactly why he was odd in his ways, and why he was without his family.
Or did her father object because he knew and didn’t want to live with the guilt which would come if Aaron and Darya were to get married?
Darya sighed. She’d thought of this often herself. Was she strong enough to live with the guilt forever? ‘Forever’ was, after all, a very, very long time.
And did she even love Aaron that much?
She shook away the thought when she heard her father speak.
‘You don’t have to hang out with Roshan. Just pick up your certificates from him. I’m meeting his father in Mumbai. We’re doing some work together.’
‘What work?’
‘A new business venture,’ he replied, sounding both mysterious and pleased. ‘I’ll tell you soon, if and when the idea takes off.’
‘Why can’t I pick it up from his father then?’ she asked.
A sigh. ‘Do as I say, Darya,’ her father said. ‘For once.’
‘And when do I get to meet you?’ Darya asked.
‘I’ll be coming to Mumbai more often now.’
‘How come?’ Darya asked.
‘The new business venture I told you about a minute ago,’ he said, sounding mildly exasperated.
‘You didn’t tell me yet.’
‘Gosh, Dee.’
‘What about Ma?’ Darya asked.
‘What about her?’
‘Will she be alone at home?’
‘It’ll only be for a few days at a time. She can take care of herself.’
I don’t think so, Darya wanted to say but contained herself.
‘So, shall I send over the certificates or not?’ her father asked.
‘Ask him to be careful, with the rains and all,’ Darya muttered and rung off.
Veda said she had to meet a friend in the evening and was going to be late back. Darya decided not to ask her anything else, wondering if she even went to her office anymore. But she was not going to ask about that either.
She decided to walk to Starbucks to get a coffee. Not as good as the ones she brewed at Warm Beans, but she was craving a latte, and the Starbucks on St John Baptist Road was only a couple of minutes away.
As Darya walked down the winding lane, stepping over puddles and stones, it came to her again: the distinct feeling someone was watching her. But it was a clear evening with very few people on the road and she saw nothing amiss.
This feeling had come to her a couple of times over the past few days, along with others: racing thoughts, restlessness, odd palpitations. Was her mind playing tricks again? Were her anxiety issues back? She had stopped taking her medications after she’d moved to Goa last year. She wondered if she should start running again as her last doctor had told her to, get the blood pumping into her body to chase out the paranoia. She needed to give it some serious thought.
On her way back with her latte, Darya passed Books by the Lane, a tiny second-hand bookstore. She’d noted the shop several times, lodged between a vegetable vending cart and the house with the lettuce-green grills. She’d often marvelled at the tall, haphazardly lined stack of books inside, ceiling-high, wondering how they stayed that way.
Should she pick up a few books for Aaron? He was always gifting her stuff and planning surprises, and since he read a lot, it might be perfect.
Also, for reasons he hadn’t been able to satisfactorily explain to her, he preferred used books. He said he loved their mouldy smell, the grainy, parchment-like texture of their pages. Darya, for the life of her, couldn’t figure what there was to love in all that. Nevert
heless, she knew an old book was going to be the ideal gift for him. She congratulated herself on her insight, and with a spring in her step, walked to the store.
The owner was sitting on a low stool in the front, reading a well-thumbed copy of Lolita. He gave Darya a cold once-over as she nodded at him and stepped inside. She was his only customer at the moment. Books in precariously sloping columns hovered around her. Flecks of dust pirouetted frantically under the lone tube light.
Darya stood undecided, straining to read the titles, and debating which to pick. Then… a shuffle of steps.
Someone had come in.
Before Darya could turn, a soft voice said, ‘Hello.’
Darya turned. Blinked.
Jasmine.
‘Hello,’ she repeated, a gentle smile on her face.
Darya couldn’t explain why she felt nervous all of a sudden.
Jasmine was staring back at her unabashedly. In frayed jeans and a T-shirt, her hair straight and loose on her shoulders, her face sans make-up, her perfect nymph-like appearance in sharp contrast to Darya’s dishevelled one, her presence stood at odds with the small ramshackle store. She was considerably shorter than Darya and Darya had to look down to lock eyes with her.
‘Where’s your friend?’ Jasmine asked.
It was a strange question. Did Veda and Jasmine know each other?
Before Darya could ask, Jasmine explained, ‘She was going to come over to my place. My mom’s away.’
Another strange statement.
‘Why?’ Darya asked.
‘Why what?’
‘Why was Veda coming to your place?’
Jasmine must have noted the suspicion in Darya’s question because she put on a casual air and said, ‘Nothing important.’
Darya considered the girl in front of her. They’d glanced at each other a couple of times on the street but never talked. Darya had concluded Jasmine didn’t want to: she always appeared aloof. In any case, Darya had never had the opportunity to befriend Jasmine, but now, standing in front of her, it appeared as if Jasmine was trying to be friendly.
‘Veda had to meet someone tonight,’ Darya said finally.
‘Really?’ Jasmine replied, faint surprise on her face.
Unable to hold herself any longer, Darya asked, ‘How do you know Veda?’
‘I’ve met her a couple of times,’ Jasmine explained. She pointed to the cup in Darya’s hand, the coffee now cold. ‘The first time was at Starbucks, actually. Then she came over to my house.’
‘Oh!’
‘We were planning to meet again,’ Jasmine said. ‘She said she was looking for a job.’
Surprised, Darya wondered why Veda had never mentioned talking to Jasmine. Also, about the job. Had she quit the job at Mumbai Dost or was she planning to soon?
‘I’ll tell her you asked about her,’ Darya told Jasmine curtly.
‘What are you looking for?’ Jasmine asked.
‘I’m buying something for my boyfriend,’ Darya replied. She wished Jasmine would leave; she was giving Darya the creeps.
But Jasmine clearly had something on her mind. She stepped closer. Darya noted the cluster of freckles on her nose. She had a child’s face: pink, small, delicate.
‘You’re staying at Viktor’s Villa, right?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ Darya replied and shifted her feet awkwardly.
‘I’m Jasmine,’ she said.
Darya wanted to laugh out loud at that. Did Jasmine think Darya had been talking to her for so long without knowing who she was?
Darya’s face must have shown the mirth she felt, because instantly and looking upset, Jasmine said, ‘You know me as the kidnapped girl’s sister.’
‘Yes,’ Darya admitted before she could stop herself.
The shopkeeper had come in to check on them. He left soon enough, to ask a man who had parked his bike too close to the store to park elsewhere. He continued standing outside, after the biker was gone, leaving them alone.
‘Do you—’ Darya began, but Jasmine interrupted her.
‘That’s a nice dress you’re wearing,’ she said. ‘You look like a hippie.’
Darya had heard it many times before. It was something to do with her long, wild hair, her dark skin; her eyes, set close together, blackest of black. Or maybe it was how she dressed: loose, flowy, colourful clothes, bright and often uncoordinated. Or the flowers and baubles she wore in her hair and around her neck; she didn’t know what exactly. It turned heads, and it was an epithet she didn’t mind owning.
‘Thanks,’ Darya responded with a smile.
‘May I recommend a book?’ Jasmine asked.
‘I don’t read,’ Darya replied. ‘But I’ll buy it for Aaron.’
‘Aaron?’
‘My boyfriend.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s for you, not him. You read and tell me what you think. If you like it.’
‘I don’t read much,’ Darya said.
‘I don’t read at all,’ Jasmine said. ‘But it’s a good one.’
‘Sure then,’ Darya said. No harm in seeing what book Jasmine had to suggest. Maybe Aaron would like it too.
‘Follow me,’ Jasmine said. Darya did.
They stood at the rear of the shop, their backs touching the wall. Together they gazed up at the sooty pillars of books. Then Jasmine reached up and picked out a slim hardbound book. It had a bright orange cover with a gold-trimmed edge.
She handed the book to Darya. It felt hard and dusty in her hand. The gold was chipped at a few places.
Folk Tales from All Over.
There was no author name on it.
‘I know who the writer is.’ Jasmine winked. ‘But she prefers not to be known. The book contains old pagan tales that have passed down in local families for generations. She wrote them down so they wouldn’t be forgotten.’ She paused and surveyed Darya anxiously. ‘It’s not about Chapel Road; it has stories from many places,’ Jasmine added. ‘The main thing is it has been written by a woman for women. It’s empowering. Read it. The book was self-published. Only some bookstores carry it.’
‘Yeah?’ Darya turned it over, sceptical. The back cover was blank. No price, publisher, or a blurb.
‘Is there only one copy?’ Darya asked, looking around.
Jasmine shrugged. ‘Salman keeps a copy if I tell him to.’ Salman, Darya supposed, was the bookstore owner.
Darya browsed through the pages. They were short stories, most of them a mere two pages long. She counted ten altogether.
‘The stories are good,’ Jasmine said.
‘I’ll read it,’ Darya said. ‘How much does it cost?’
She waved a hand. ‘It’s free. My gift. Take it. I’ll talk to Salman.’
‘Thank you,’ Darya murmured.
Jasmine fidgeted. Darya waited.
‘The first one,’ Jasmine said. ‘That’s the most interesting.’
A Witch’s Tale
A long, long time ago, there lived a princess named Matangi in the remote snow-clad mountains of Northern India. She was known to be well-mannered and beautiful. Her skin shone a golden-hued opal; her hair was thick and long; her eyes were piercing and extraordinary. A crescent moon adorned her forehead, a birthmark.
The kingdom’s head priest proclaimed that the princess was the reincarnation of a tantric goddess—the one that ruled the arts of music and learning. He showed the king and queen a picture of the goddess, and indeed, the resemblance was remarkable. Only, in the priest’s depiction, the goddess was sixteen, dressed all in black, carrying a parrot, a noose, a sword and a club in her four hands. She wore black dye on her feet and sat on a corpse. Her smile was content, her eyes intoxicated, and a garland of kadamba flowers embellished her stalk-like neck.
The princess will look like this when she gets to sixteen, the priest assured the parents, and then she would also start wielding her supernatural powers, much like the goddess. The priest thought it wise not to mention that some sects considered the goddess
’s divine form—Ucchishta—an outcast—and offered leftover food to her and with unwashed hands. But that view was marginal, belonging to a few.
Meanwhile, the princess grew up with doting parents and a great many friends. She got everything she asked for. Her subjects loved her. They said she was blessed and happy and carried good luck with her wherever she went. The kingdom flourished with wealth and peace.
Everything was going well until a few weeks before the princess was to turn sixteen.
A strange affliction overtook her.
‘I am not beautiful; I am not worthy,’ she said all day.
Each morning she imagined she saw a new wrinkle on her face, the sagging of her skin somewhere, a hint of grey in her hair, and she wept. She worried she was ageing prematurely, and she’d lose her beauty and youth sooner than everyone else.
Why she thought that no one could tell, but she grew terribly sick with the constant worrying.
Her mother told her she was going to stay beautiful for a long, long time. ‘Look in the mirror,’ she said. ‘See how beautiful and youthful you are.’ But while the queen saw the princess for what she really looked like; the princess saw the worst possible image of herself. And once she saw it, no one could shake her off it.
One day she stopped eating.
Then came a day when she could barely move. She grew as pale as a wisp of cotton. She refused to meet anyone and said she had no will left to live.
Now her father, the king, grew worried. Until then, he had thought this to be a passing phase, an experience his daughter was going through in the course of growing up.
But no! This was serious.
Something needed to be done.
First, he called a famous physician. But his medicines failed to help. Then a traditional healer was summoned. His cures failed too. The king threatened to have them both flogged. In desperation, the two practitioners conferred and suggested to the king they call the head priest for help.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 35
