The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  When she finally fell asleep that night, her dreams were normal enough to start with. Snapshots of the day returned to her in vivid colours and shapes. Squiggles came alive in front of her closed lids. But as she sunk deeper, memories from her subconscious shifted and came forth lucidly.

  First, she saw Jasmine. It had been a fleeting glimpse that morning—as Darya had moved past Hill Road in a taxi—of a girl wrapped in a creased yellow scarf, talking with a man. Sometime during their conversation, he had moved. The bag in his hand had bobbed, catching the sun’s light.

  Darya recognized the bag first, then the man.

  It was Parthiv.

  What had they been doing together? She knew now they had looked agitated as if they’d been arguing, but what about? How did the two even know each other?

  Next, she dreamt of Debbie. Darya hadn’t told Veda, but she’d followed Debbie one time already, out of impulse. She had followed her to Hill Road, losing her a few times in between but finally catching sight of her at the Holy Family Hospital bus stop. Debbie had stood there quietly, ignoring nosey glances, in a long black kurta, a pair of dark glasses covering half her face. When the red BEST bus came hurtling to a stop, she boarded it quickly, wrapping the scarf tighter around her face. Diva Junction, Kamothe, the board on the bus read. But now in her sleep, Darya saw what Debbie had been holding in her hand. A stack of books. Folk Tales from All Over. That is the other reason she had asked Rosaline if the Mascarenhas knew the D’Mellos.

  Gently, Darya fell into a deeper sleep, sinking soundlessly into a black pit, with no clue then of the nightmares that awaited her when she next woke up.

  3 July 2010

  NEWS SIXTEEN

  Top ranking diplomats and policemen allegedly involved in young woman’s death; high-end prostitution disguised as ancient healing practices

  In a sensational revelation, News Sixteen has found that a high-ranking diplomat made the panic call from room 506 of the Five Ivy Western on 25 June to report Eileen D’Mello’s death to the police. The man, whose name cannot be revealed by the channel at this point because of a legal injunction, claims to have found her dead body after entering the room with his copy of the door key. The duplicate key had been left at the reception by Eileen’s previous client, who had left an hour before. The diplomat claims that Eileen called him from the hotel’s landline and asked him to join her.

  As previously reported, Eileen was found naked, arranged in a posture of prayer, her forehead touching the floor. A black robe covered her back and was spread like wings on either side of her body. Her face was painted black. Her lids were taped to her face. Her feet had black dye on them. We understand now that the elaborate dressing was the unique selling point of the high-end prostitution racket which we believe Eileen was a part of.

  The diplomat in question claims to have been a regular client of Eileen’s but contends this was the first time they’d decided to meet at the hotel without going through the usual intermediaries. News Sixteen has no further information on who these intermediaries are but it is safe to assume they would be top suspects in the murder investigation.

  The hotel’s owners, Vir Sewadar and his wife Dolly, have not revealed much under interrogation, repeatedly denying any involvement in the murder.

  They could not also satisfactorily explain why the CCTV cameras were inoperative on the hotel’s fifth floor or why footage from the other wings during the time period of the murder were missing. The police have slapped heavy fines on the Sewadars for flouting rules, but given their lineage and strong political connections, News Sixteen wonders if any penalty will come to pass.

  Earlier, News Sixteen had promised to conduct independent enquiries into whether Eileen was involved in a cult that practised witchcraft. From multiple sources, we have now gathered that Eileen may have been a part of high-end gang of prostitutes who consider themselves goddesses. These women claim to make use of ancient and forgotten Indian healing practices to relieve sufferers of their troubles. The who’s who of Mumbai’s top brass are said to be their clients. But who runs this group? We do not yet know.

  Could it be then that the other missing girls of Chapel Road are in the same cult as Eileen was? Are their lives in danger too? And, since the top brass of Mumbai Police are allegedly involved in this elaborate prostitution racket, can they be trusted to find out the truth? Is that why there has been little progress in finding the missing girls until now?

  To remind our viewers, Eileen D’Mello, aged nineteen, was found murdered in a Five Ivy Western hotel room on 25 June. She had been missing from her home at Chapel Road, Bandra for close to a year. Eileen is survived by her mother and a sister. Both declined our request for an interview and were unavailable to comment on the News Sixteen findings.

  Amol Khare reporting.

  Serving you the freshest news always at News Sixteen.

  The Bloody Knife

  Darya woke up, shivering and disoriented in the dark. At once, she knew she’d been dreaming, but it had seemed so real. She could, even now, feel the warmth of the passage air on her skin, the rustle of the trees outside, the slight crackle of the rain on the roof, the grainy texture of the walls scraping against her fingernails as she struggled to walk downstairs.

  Veda woke up next to her. ‘What happened?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes. ‘Was it a bad dream? You were twisting and turning so much, I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

  Darya didn’t reply. Her throat was parched. She swallowed a couple of times, looking around for water, then remembered there was none. That was the reason she’d woken up to go downstairs, to fetch some water, though now she knew all that had been in her dream.

  She blinked, trying to see in the dark.

  Veda looked at her. ‘What is it?’ she asked, concern in her voice.

  ‘A bad dream…’ Hell! It had been a dream. It didn’t mean a thing.

  ‘What did you dream?’ Veda asked.

  After a wobbly breath, Darya told her.

  She remembered feeling thirsty. There had been no water in the room. She remembered trying to put on the light but hadn’t been able to find the switch. Finally, she’d decided to go back to sleep and wait until daylight, thirst be damned.

  Then, as soon as her head had hit the pillow, she’d heard soft singing, a staccato mechanical sound that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, her skin creep. It was coming from downstairs, rising like a mist and seeping into their room through the crack under the door.

  And even though she was uneasy, something had made Darya climb out of bed, walk to the door and open it. She’d walked out and down the stairs, feeling as if she was being pulled towards the sound, like someone had tied a rope around her waist and was drawing her in.

  As she walked down the stairs, the singing had grown louder. It could hardly be called that; it was a human voice for sure, but as otherworldly as Darya had ever heard.

  When Darya had come upon the last step, she’d hesitated. The sound was coming from inside the reception room.

  ‘And?’ Veda asked, her voice hushed. ‘Did you see who it was? Was it Viktor?’

  It was difficult for Darya to speak about it. How could she relay to Veda what she had been feeling then? The creepiness of the singing, the weight of the shadows on her back, the deathly stillness of the night.

  ‘What did you see?’

  She had seen Debbie and Viktor inside the room. A table lamp was on, but most of the room lay covered in shadows. The two of them had sat inside like cadavers—pale and stiff. Debbie was on a chair, Viktor on the floor at her feet, his head on her lap. She was stroking him gently and singing.

  It was a chant, hardly a song, though Darya couldn’t understand the words.

  She had peeped in through the space beside the door jamb, unexpectedly wide enough. Debbie had been draped all in black, from head to toe, her face veiled by a gauze-like black scarf. Deep black kohl had streaked her eyes, black dye framing the tender hand that stroked the head on her lap.<
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  From time to time, Viktor had looked up at her and smiled. His lips had moved too, as if he were singing along, except he wasn’t.

  All at once, the singing had stopped. Debbie’s head had snapped up, a pale orb in the dark, her lips spread as if straining under a smile. Viktor had turned his face too, towards the half-open door.

  The walls in the room had seemed to shimmer. Darya had thought she’d seen another shadow, darker than the others, shift and rearrange itself, a watchful and malignant presence. Was it human? she’d asked herself. Was there someone else in the room apart from Debbie and Viktor?

  Deathly silence.

  Had they seen her? Darya remembered feeling quite certain they couldn’t have. How had she been so sure?

  She remembered waiting quietly, heart in her mouth.

  Debbie’s smile had tightened. Her eyes had sparkled. It was mad, oh! She’d looked mad.

  Then from the yawning darkness, her voice had emerged. ‘Come inside,’ she’d said. ‘Come on in. Don’t be shy.’

  Darya’s skin had turned cold. Her stomach had turned over.

  What had happened next was a blur in Darya’s mind. She remembered feeling faint, and her heart spluttering in her chest for a long, painful moment.

  But nothing else.

  Some moments had passed, but Darya had no memory of them. She’d felt like she’d been sucked into a deep black hole. Then somehow, she had been back inside her room again, scrambling onto the bed, burying herself under the covers.

  Someone had banged on the door. Loud, loud pounding.

  ‘Who is it?’ Darya remembered screaming. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Open the door, you bitch. Open it.’ It had been Viktor or… Debbie.

  Darya’s mind had been in a haze, her body heavy.

  It was then that she’d realized she was in a dream.

  She remembered feeling calmer, after all, nothing could happen to her in a dream. She could wake up any moment and all of it would disappear.

  ‘Open the door.’ The banging had grown louder, the door trembling under the weight of furious fists.

  ‘Go away!’ Darya had cried, covering her ears with her hands.

  More banging. More shouting. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door.

  What did they want?

  Then all hell had broken loose.

  The door had burst open and Viktor and Debbie had come tumbling inside.

  Darya had seen the glint of steel first and then the knife. In Debbie’s hands. She remembered marvelling at the contrast the steel had made against the dark passage; silver, menacing, fresh and pure. But why did Debbie have a knife? she’d wondered. Why were they so angry?

  Suddenly, Darya had come to a startling realization.

  They weren’t coming for her. They were coming for Veda!

  Veda had materialized in front of the bed. Darya hadn’t noticed her until then. Her body had melded with the shadows, an inky blot on the grey canvas in front of her eyes, and she’d been weirdly still, like a mannequin. Darya remembered thinking to herself: really… anything could happen in a dream.

  Debbie and Viktor had lunged forward.

  Come with us, they’d cried. We can heal you.

  But as soon as they’d stepped inside the room, Debbie had tripped and fallen to the floor, crying out in surprise. Viktor had hesitated for a moment, but instead of moving to help her, he’d turned and walked towards Veda.

  Darya had watched them. She hadn’t been able to move. It was as if she had been watching a movie, and dangerous things were unfolding in front of her as on a screen, happenings she couldn’t change.

  Veda had tried to run, but Viktor had grabbed her arms. She’d tried to push him away. Struggling wildly, she’d tried to move back. But he had been too strong, his rage bestial. A foul smell had emanated from him as if he were a decaying corpse. He hadn’t looked like the Viktor Darya knew.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Veda had shouted. He’d held on to her, though he’d done nothing else, probably waiting for Debbie to instruct him.

  Flipping around, Darya had seen that Veda had managed to free one arm. The two had come unto a hair’s edge of Darya, yet Darya hadn’t been able to move. It was illogical, but it was a dream. Anything could happen in a dream.

  Next, to her, Veda had strained for the lamp on the bedside table. Finally managing to pull it towards her, she’d hoisted it up and hit Viktor on the head.

  He had collapsed to the floor with a cry.

  Debbie had recovered by then. She’d rushed towards Veda, and Darya remembered Veda trying to shove Debbie aside. She remembered appealing to Debbie’s better senses. Why was she doing this? What did they want with Veda?

  Then Darya had said something she shouldn’t have. She had no idea why she said it or why she shouldn’t have. It had been a voice from her subconscious.

  ‘It’s okay, Debbie. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Turning to her, ‘Shut up!’ Debbie had screamed. ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Stop! You’re hurting me. Stop!’ Veda had cried. ‘Drop the knife.’

  And then it had happened.

  Daniel and Debbie had managed to pin a struggling Veda to the floor.

  With a soft ugh and with all her strength, Debbie had stuck the knife into Veda’s chest. A trickle of blood had seeped out and Veda’s lips had parted in surprise. She’d made one final struggle to push Debbie away. Debbie had then let go of the knife, which fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

  Then Darya had woken up.

  ‘It seemed so real,’ Darya murmured to Veda. ‘It was almost like it was really happening. In this room. Not a dream, but real.’

  ‘It sounds like a scene straight out of some horror movie, dude,’ Veda said. She was leaning on the bedstead, her face fused with the shadows. ‘They’re terribly weird, right? And after what you told me the other day… I’m not at all surprised you had this dream.’

  The knife had fallen to the floor.

  Darya never knew, even later, why she’d looked down at the floor. She knew it had been a dream. She was awake now.

  What had she been expecting to find?

  The knife.

  ‘It’s there,’ she whispered, her stomach clenching. ‘That’s impossible!’

  The knife lay on the floor, by the mango-wood bedside table, glinting in the dark.

  With a faint cry, Darya clambered down from the bed and fell to the floor.

  She examined the knife in horror. She touched its steel surface. Her fingers stopped midway as they slid on a film of blood.

  ‘No!’ she cried in shock. She had dreamt this. But this was real. She could see it, feel it in her hand.

  A voice said in her ears gently. ‘But had it been a dream?’

  Darya stayed frozen to the spot.

  ‘Are you sure you’re awake now?’ the voice said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Darya whispered back.

  ‘Or is life only a very long, painful dream?’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Wake up.’

  Darya thrashed about on the bed in a tangle of covers. Her eyes opened sluggishly in the dark and she floated, in the space between sleep and wakefulness. Her mind took a few minutes to come to the present, and she realized what a horrible dream she’d had. A dream within a dream. But parts of it had seemed so real. Could they have been… like a delirium? Had she been sleepwalking?

  Then she snapped awake and stared next to her.

  The bed was empty, the fabric smooth. No one had slept on it all night.

  ‘Veda?’ she breathed.

  Fearfully, Darya stared at the floor. No knife. She gasped in relief.

  A thin waft of humid air floated around her. Every hair on her body was standing up.

  She saw that the front door was open. How? The dark, silent passage seemed to billow in and out in front of her like a living creature.

  Darya shoved the bedspread aside and got off the bed.

  ‘Veda?’ she called, h
oping her friend would appear somehow. Her heart thumped against her chest. What was happening? Was she still dreaming?

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  But she was awake now.

  Darya heard clinking from downstairs. The heavy weight of footsteps. The sound of something being dragged.

  Her own body felt like a sack of bricks. With effort, she pushed herself off the bed and towards the door, her heart beating like a drum in her chest.

  She tried to switch on the tube light, but it wouldn’t come on. She looked back at the dark room but saw only little transparent curlicues in front of her eyes. She turned to stare back at the passage.

  And even before she had stepped outside, she knew something was different, something was wrong. The noises were tangled; there were too many layers to them: grunts, gasps, squeaks, small bursts.

  She moved towards the edge of the stairs, her legs like jelly. She was trembling and had to lean on the railing to steady herself.

  ‘Hello?’ she cried softly. She didn’t know what time of the night it was. She should not have taken the sleeping pills. It was a new prescription, not her usual one. And she’d taken too many of them. But she’d been upset, and she’d thought it would make her relax, take the edge off, get her to sleep. A sound sleep. One without dreams. Instead, it had been disturbed, her conscious and subconscious merging and diverging several times, leaving her with a confused version of what was real. She had certainly gone downstairs in her sleep. Her feet were grubby; not how she’d gone to bed. So, she had certainly seen some of the things she remembered. But what was real and what wasn’t?

  She shuddered.

  After what seemed like a long while, she was at the bottom of the stairs.

  She walked to the reception. The door was open.

  Immediately, she saw Viktor.

  ‘Dead,’ he wailed.

  ‘What?’ Darya asked, confused.

  Soundlessly, he stared at the table in front of him.

  Darya’s heart thumped against her chest. Where was Veda? Had something happened to her?

  ‘Dead,’ Viktor repeated.