The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  She succumbed to the sharp pain in her stomach, the tightness in her throat. She was going to have to tell him.

  ‘Aaron, I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I wanted to tell you…’

  ‘Tell me what?’ he said, his voice terse now.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What?’

  She told him.

  ‘My uncle Paritosh was the reason your parents died. He was driving the jeep that killed them.’

  His face whipped upright; his body jerked forward. From the corner of her eyes, Darya saw his hands ball into tight fists. She didn’t dare look at him. The stinging sensation in her stomach grew.

  The only sound for several minutes was of their synchronous breathing in the dark.

  At long last, Aaron spoke, each word carefully enunciated. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Aaron, please…’ Darya tried to touch him. He dodged her hand and slid away a few inches.

  ‘Why did you lie when I asked you?’ he asked.

  ‘I was afraid,’ Darya whispered.

  Aaron was silent.

  Darya spoke urgently. ‘Aaron, it wasn’t me… it was my uncle… and I only think it was him.’

  ‘So, you don’t know for sure?’

  ‘No, I… I guessed.’

  ‘How?’

  She told him.

  Aaron took a long, jerky breath. ‘It doesn’t matter. You lied. You knew and you lied when I asked.’ His voice cracked. His body slumped forward. Covering his face, he gave a long deep shudder. ‘I don’t… I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Aaron… please,’ Darya spoke quietly, desperately. ‘It wasn’t me. I’m sorry I lied.’

  Aaron opened his mouth to say something. His eyes were glassy, his face a crumpled mass of skin.

  ‘Aaron,’ Darya cried piteously. The fog was clearing in her head, but it was painfully slow. ‘Aaron, it wasn’t me. It was my uncle. And I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t mean to. I… I didn’t want to lose you. I wanted you to like me.’

  He gave a dry, sad chuckle. ‘Like you… sure. That’s what I do.’

  She tried again to touch him, to have him hug her, to have him tell her it was going to be all right.

  He shrugged away her advances. ‘Not now, Darya. Please. I can’t—’

  Just then a piercing wail cut him short.

  They looked up, startled, then glanced at each other.

  At once, a rumble of voices hit them from the road below. Several people were speaking at once. There was incessant honking, interspersed with loud, excited chattering.

  The door to the terrace flew open.

  It was Veda.

  ‘Dee,’ she gasped, then doubled over.

  Darya sprang to her feet.

  ‘What happened? Who was that?’

  ‘Mrs. D’Mello. They found… they found her daughter.’

  ‘Jasmine?’ Darya said, confused. ‘Found where?’

  ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘Eileen?’

  Veda nodded.

  ‘Where? How?’

  ‘Face down at a hotel room…’

  Darya breathed in sharply. Aaron got up to join them.

  ‘Dead!’

  26 June 2010

  THE MUMBAI HERALD

  Nineteen-year-old missing woman found dead after a year. Police probe sexual assault angle.

  Eileen D’Mello, nineteen, was discovered dead at a five-star Khar hotel in the early hours of Friday. The hotel staff broke open the door following a hysterical phone call from the room by an unidentified man. Eileen was found naked and arranged in an odd manner on the floor. No other details were forthcoming at this point. Eileen is survived by her mother and a sister.

  The police believe that the murderer was someone known to the victim as there were no signs of forced entry. A case has been registered at the Khar police station. The hospital staff and the other guests on the floor are being questioned.

  ‘The cause of death is undetermined at this point,’ a senior police official commented. ‘The medical examiner will conduct an autopsy.’ He appealed to people to come forward with more information.

  Eileen D’Mello was believed to be the third victim of the alleged ‘Angel Killer’ of Chapel Road. Enquiries into her disappearance stopped abruptly last year after Eileen’s mother withdrew her complaint to the police. It is now believed that Mrs. D’Mello was suffering from depression and was not in the right mental state when she took this action. The police are yet to question her or Eileen’s sister on the recent developments.

  Given a few key pieces of evidence, the police are reportedly treating the case as that of sexual homicide.

  26 June 2010

  NEWS SIXTEEN

  Allegations of witchcraft in Eileen D’Mello’s death

  There are suspicions of witchcraft and satanism in the death of nineteen-year-old Eileen D’Mello who was found at the Five Ivy Western Hotel on Friday.

  A source present at the crime scene claimed the arrangement of the body pointed to the involvement of an occult. As earlier reported, the body was found naked, arranged in a posture of prayer, as if at an idol’s feet, with her forehead touching the floor. A black robe covered half of her back and was spread like a wing on either side of her body. The victim’s face was painted black. Her eyes were closed and taped to her face. The hair on her head was spread on the floor like a fan. Her feet had black dye on them.

  It appears from the marks on her neck that Eileen was garrotted by an iron collar, although no such apparatus was found at the crime scene. Since the hotel room had been set up with an altar, the police are not ruling out the possibility that members of some occult group carried out the murder. Forensic evidence suggests that Eileen indulged in sexual activity in the twenty-four hours prior to her death. Therefore, sexual homicide continues to top the list of motives.

  The police are yet uncertain about the identity of the man who made the desperate call for help from Eileen’s room. It has now been revealed that the room was booked by MP Corporation, which had booked several such rooms at Five Ivy Western in the past few years. By special arrangement, no names were registered, or ID cards requested for bookings made by MP Corporation.

  Police are questioning the hotel’s owners, Vir Sewadar and his wife Dolly, prominent business owners in the city. They are also questioning Five Ivy Western’s staff and analysing CCTV footage for any clues that could lead to the killer’s identity.

  To remind our viewers, Eileen D’Mello, aged nineteen, was found murdered in a Five Ivy Western room on 25 June. She has been missing from her home at Chapel Road, Bandra for close to a year. Eileen is survived by her mother and her sister. They refused to comment.

  Eileen’s neighbours remember her as a bright and good-looking girl, ambitious and glamorous. When asked if it was possible, she was involved in witchcraft, they denied it; however, one neighbour said young girls at that age were easily influenced. He refused to divulge any more information. But News Sixteen will be back with more on this angle very soon.

  Amol Khare reporting.

  Serving you the freshest news always at News Sixteen.

  The Very Peculiar Young Girl

  Two days had passed since the news of Eileen’s death had broken into their lives. In the media circus that followed, the residents of Chapel Road found it difficult to go about their daily routines without being hounded. Microphones were thrust into their faces and questions shouted as people left for offices or to buy groceries. Darya used the handy tricks women used to avoid attention—dark glasses, eyes to the ground, a robotic gait. It worked well enough, but she wondered how long it would be before her luck ran out. She was tired of being on her guard all the time. She was itching for a run around the neighbourhood. However, the idea of facing reporters had made her put it off. But she knew she would need to do it soon.

  She could feel it, in every pore of her skin: her anxie
ty issues were returning.

  And there was more than one reason for it.

  After entreating Aaron to talk to her so she could explain, apologize or even beg, his curt response, ‘Need a breather. Talk later,’ troubled Darya to no end. She remembered the shock on his face when she’d told him about his parents’ death and wished she had kept herself under control, wanting desperately to go back in time and undo what she’d done.

  Don’t brood, she scolded herself, because she knew, historically speaking, it always led to regrettable consequences for her.

  Therefore, that morning, she took matters into her own hand. At 5 a.m., leaving a snoring Veda on the bed, Darya left the villa for a run, noting with relief that her guess was good: the lane was empty of reporters and cameras. She stretched to warm up and planned her route. She’d run through Carter Road and then head to Jogger’s Park. The sky was grey-black with a crisp freshness in the air. No hint of rain. A perfect morning, at least in all outward appearances.

  She was feeling upbeat, ready to conquer the road, but as soon as she passed the front gate of the villa and walked a couple of steps into the street, she changed her mind. Perhaps it was the glimpse of the girl standing by the first-floor window, staring out into the street, her face as placid as the diffused morning light, that prompted Darya’s feet to turn of their own accord and walk towards the expansive red-brick house.

  D’Mello. Darya glanced at the cursive letters in gold on the black nameplate. She reached the front door and rang the bell. The door opened after a few long minutes.

  ‘Hello, Darya,’ Jasmine greeted, her face showing no surprise.

  She was wearing a white vest over a pair of pink shorts. Her stick-thin hands jutted out of the sagging vest armholes. Her hair was tied loosely in a ponytail that curved over her slender neck. Darya noted no sign of tears or grief on her face, only fatigue, and dark shadows under her eyes.

  Darya hadn’t rehearsed what she wanted to say and stared at Jasmine tongue-tied, battling an urge to run back to the villa.

  Jasmine cocked an eyebrow in question and waited.

  ‘I wanted to ask how you and your mother were,’ Darya said, thinking quickly. ‘I wanted to say… I’m sorry for what happened.’

  ‘It had to,’ Jasmine replied. ‘She brought it on herself.’

  Darya noted the coolness in Jasmine’s tone with some confusion. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Then on an impulse, she added, ‘Would you mind if we talked for a bit? Inside?’

  Jasmine hesitated, then glanced into the street briefly. ‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘But we don’t have much time.’

  She stepped aside and gestured for Darya to enter.

  An unwelcome reek greeted Darya as she stepped into the hall: it was a gagging, damp-wood smell. The room was cavernous: brown blackout curtains were drawn snug over enormous windows, blocking any chance of light coming in from outside. The heavy wood furniture seemed to skulk inside the room like thieves. After a few minutes, when Darya got used to the gloom, she noted the accoutrements. An olive-coloured wall paper with a fading rosette pattern, two stuffy armchairs, a wheelchair in a corner, a dining table surrounded by three wooden chairs, a wooden shelf of ceramic cutlery, another glass-covered shelf of old books, a tall grandfather clock that no longer told the time, two gilded, rust-coloured fans on the ceiling inexpertly doing their job. Darya also noted three cardboard boxes, loaded on top of each other, stacked by the side of a wall. She’d seen a few more out in the passage.

  ‘Elly’s things,’ Jasmine explained, following Darya’s gaze. ‘We’re giving them away. No need for them anymore.’ Jasmine signalled to a chair. ‘Is it okay if I keep the curtains drawn? I have a headache.’

  Darya nodded. They sat on the two threadbare armchairs and faced each other.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ Darya asked. ‘How’s she?’

  Jasmine’s face softened. ‘She’s with my aunt at Kharghar, two hours from here. Sedated and well taken care of, or so they tell me. She took it really hard.’ A sigh escaped her. ‘She had hoped… for a long time…’ The words died on her lips. The edges of her eyes gleamed.

  Darya waited.

  When Jasmine regained her composure, she stared at Darya as if it were her turn to speak.

  Darya cleared her throat. ‘So, you’re here alone, dealing with relatives, news channels, funeral arrangements…’

  ‘There’s not going to be a funeral,’ she cut in.

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘Mum doesn’t want it. She really has had enough. She wants to forget the whole thing. As do I,’ she said. ‘Once we get the body back after the autopsy, we will cremate her. Put the nightmare of Eileen and her life behind us.’

  Darya stayed quiet.

  ‘Do you want tea?’ Jasmine asked abruptly. ‘Or coffee?’

  ‘No, that’s okay.’

  ‘I was going to have something anyway.’

  ‘In that case… anything that’s easy to make,’ Darya said. She got up from the chair. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Please.’

  The kitchen was a smallish affair as in most Mumbai houses, but it was sparkling clean, unlike the hall. Everything was washed and stacked on the countertop or on the wall shelves. The walls were made of polished and patterned pink tiles; the windows were glazed, bronze-tinted, which, despite being clasped shut, allowed light to trickle inside, making the space feel less oppressive than the room outside.

  Jasmine pointed to a set of steel containers next to a large stack of what looked like medicines.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Coffee,’ Darya replied. ‘That’s a lot of medicines.’ She counted the array of white, blue and amber bottles on the shelf. There were nine of them.

  ‘They’re for Mum,’ she said. ‘She’s quite sick.’ She stared at the tin container in her hand as if just noticing it. ‘Instant coffee okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Darya said.

  ‘Mum has a bad hip and weak legs. She spends most of the time at home and rarely goes out,’ Jasmine said. ‘You know how they say you can will yourself to be sick?’ She looked at Darya, who nodded as she thought she was expected to. ‘Mum is like that. Willing herself to die. As if I, her second daughter, mean nothing at all. It was only Elly. Everyone only ever talks about Elly.’

  Darya heard the hard tinge in her voice again.

  ‘I managed the house, hired a twenty-four-hour maid to assist Mum, installed CCTV cameras so I could monitor her wherever I was. It cost me a lot, mind you. Used up most of my savings. Still, she never said anything. Kept pining for Elly.’ Her words faded. She forced a smile. ‘She gave us money while she was gone, do you know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elly.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Darya asked, surprised. So, they’d known Eileen was alive?

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Jasmine said as if reading Darya’s mind. She rubbed her hands over her shorts looking like she was drying them, but Darya surmised it was to conceal a shudder. ‘Mum had guessed, I think, and she tried to tell us a few times, but we thought she was being her usual crazy self. After Elly disappeared, Mum went, quite literally, mad with grief. Her sister’s husband, my uncle Anthony, started to handle our bank accounts. He thought my father had left us that money. Maybe a private fund he’d invested in was paying dividends every month. What a joke. My father had lost a lot of money in poor investments, leaving us with nothing. Uncle Anthony didn’t recognize the creditor, didn’t try to find out more about the label on our monthly statements. I’m sure now it was Elly who was depositing the three lakh rupees into our account on the third week of every month. Uncle Anthony must have realized it too when the money didn’t come this month. I think he always knew but was afraid to dig deep. Much like me.’

  Darya mulled over this piece of news silently, at once realizing it was lucky she’d come when she had: Jasmine had wanted to talk to somebody. The floodgates had opened.r />
  ‘And now Elly is dead.’ Jasmine gave a nasty laugh. ‘We took her money happily while she sold herself. Who is the worse one here?’

  Darya shifted on her feet.

  ‘Go wait for me in the hall. I’ll be there in ten,’ Jasmine said, her tone allowing no demurral. As Darya prepared to leave, wading her way through the beaded curtains that hung over the door, Jasmine added, ‘I don’t have any biscuits. Hope that’s okay?’

  And not for the first time Darya wondered at how much older Jasmine seemed than her seventeen years.

  ‘I don’t need any,’ Darya assured her.

  ‘Can you look outside to check if those pesky reporters have arrived already? You should leave before they come.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darya replied and walked out in silent steps.

  Out in the hall, Darya walked quickly to the windows. She wanted to look outside not only to check if the reporters had arrived but also to shake off a funny sort of torpor that had overtaken her. She tried to pull the curtains aside, but they wouldn’t budge, held tightly in place as they were by thick girdles. Sighing, she turned and immediately stumbled on a footstool by her side.

  As she steadied herself, she glanced down. The stool held an empty—now overturned—plastic vase, a notepad, and a pen. Darya bent down to straighten the vase, then picked up the notepad. It had a grocery list, addresses and phone numbers, and… doodles.

  Darya breathed heavily as she moved from page to page.

  The curious symbol of a snake coiled around a sword… she had seen the symbol on the book Jasmine had given her to read, and… somewhere else too… she couldn’t remember where. In the notepad, the symbol was drawn over and over again, page over page, with increasing fervour. On one of the pages were the words: ‘mark of the goddess’.

  Darya took her phone out, almost dropping it in her nervousness, and clicked a few pictures.

  Then, something else.

  Odd-looking website URLs. A couple of dozen on the last page.

  http://mp3344oqcxt.onion/

  http://m44p33farmath.onion/

  http://m3p44loquew.onion/