The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

  Emmanuel stopped moving.

  Sadly, Daniel’s wounds proved to be fatal too. Next to his father, he breathed his last.

  When there was nothing else left to do, the remnants of the sad little family walked to a neighbour to ask for help. They threw the bodies down the balcony, setting it up as an accident. And Viktor held on to the hummingbird, to honour his brother’s memory.

  ‘It was Daniel that killed my father,’ Debbie said. ‘And he died with him that day.’

  Darya searched for something to say.

  ‘Viktor is innocent. Look at him. He’s retarded.’

  ‘But I’ve seen Daniel—’

  ‘Daniel’s dead.’

  Darya stared, open-mouthed.

  Because something else was happening in front of her.

  Debbie’s face grew soft, muddled. Tears lined the edges of her eyes. Her lips slackened.

  ‘Debbie…’ Darya started.

  Debbie leaned forward and touched Darya’s arm. With a frantic look on her face, she whispered, ‘Darya, we need help.’

  Darya pulled back in surprise.

  ‘Please,’ Debbie said. ‘Help us.’

  Benefactor

  Five hours later, acting on her father’s advice, Darya went to the Hill Road police station to register a missing person’s report. She called her father once she was out.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on at the villa but something odd is, for sure.’

  ‘You need to move out immediately,’ her father said grimly. ‘What are you still doing there? Move out now!’

  Darya knew he was right, but what if Veda turned up and Darya wasn’t at the villa? And more importantly, what had Debbie meant when she’d asked Darya for help? She hadn’t been able to say any more—Viktor had grown hysterical—but when Darya was at the door, eager to leave, Debbie had begged to meet later. Meanwhile, Darya had gone to her room and waited for daylight. When she’d come downstairs again, Debbie was nowhere to be seen. Subsequently, she’d called her father to tell him Veda hadn’t returned home last night.

  ‘I can move today,’ Darya murmured to her father, although she wasn’t sure she was actually going to do it.

  ‘You don’t need to go back to the villa again, do you?’ her father asked.

  Darya kept her tone light. ‘I’ll take care of myself. It’ll only take a few minutes to get my things.’

  Her father told her he hadn’t broken the news to Veda’s mother yet. She was doing so poorly otherwise; this would kill her. Mother and daughter rarely talked to each other anymore, so she wasn’t going to be any wiser that Veda was missing.

  ‘Shucks!’ Darya muttered. She wished she could have a drink or a pinch of what Aaron had given her, just to help calm her nerves, but after what had happened last night, it was far from advisable. She had a splitting headache and was both hungry and sleepy. ‘But we’ve got to tell her something,’ she muttered.

  ‘We will soon,’ he replied. ‘I’m hoping we can find Veda before.’ Pause. ‘Can she be taking a break by herself someplace?’

  ‘No, Pa,’ Darya said firmly. ‘She’s not me.’

  Her father sighed. ‘That she’s not.’

  ‘Hope the police find her soon,’ Darya said despondently. ‘Or she comes back on her own.’

  ‘Meanwhile, you cannot continue living there,’ her father repeated, softening his voice so she didn’t consider that an order. He must have gauged Darya was still in two minds about it. ‘Stay with Roshan’s family. They have a spare room with a separate entrance. His father has offered up the room for you. They’ll welcome you with open arms.’

  ‘Veda’s things are at the villa,’ Darya said.

  ‘Pack her things and move out. Tell Viktor or whatever his name is to inform you if Veda comes back.’

  ‘When.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When she comes back.’

  ‘Yes,’ her father replied, annoyance seeping into his voice. ‘But you need to move out.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You’ve paid them already.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, it isn’t about the money.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tiwari’s apartment is a palace. You should see it.’

  In the end, Darya told her father she’d think about it and decide in the next few hours. It all depended on what Debbie wanted to tell Darya.

  What did she need help for?

  On her way back, Darya checked for updates on Eileen’s murder investigation on her phone. Sky TV was drawing commonalities with serial murders by satanic cults across the world, Voice of India had devoted a short segment to murders by a coven of flesh-eating witches in Colombia and News Z was creating for Eileen and her family a repugnant reputation, their account replete with such lies Darya nearly gagged in the back seat of her barely moving taxi. Separately, she noted that the police were continuing to appeal for information, their tip-line number included at the bottom of the articles.

  When Darya was back in her room—having encountered neither Debbie nor Viktor downstairs—she realized her father was right. The villa was making her uneasy now; she felt physically sick in it. She had to move. She’d talk to Debbie on her way out. If Debbie was around at all.

  Darya packed quickly, throwing things into her bag, tossing in Veda’s things, feeling a pain in her chest as she did so. What if she came back? What if she had been kidnapped or was lying dead somewhere? She put on music on her phone to drown out the voices in her head and carried on packing resolutely.

  An hour later, she clasped her bags and the suitcase shut. Exhausted, both by the effort of packing and the anxiety that had built up in her throughout the day, she lay on the bed, allowing herself five minutes before she went out to call a taxi.

  Immediately, a scraping sound outside drew her attention.

  ‘Veda?’ Darya called tentatively, hopefully.

  The scraping grew louder.

  Someone was trying to open the door.

  Darya slid off the bed.

  ‘Veda?’ she murmured again, though she was certain it wasn’t her outside.

  The door crashed open.

  Stunned, she stared at the dark mass that hurtled in.

  Everything happened in a flash after that.

  A sinewy hand circled her throat. Violently, she was twisted around.

  Something sharp jabbed into her back.

  A knife.

  ‘You thought I was your pretty friend?’ he rasped.

  ‘Let me go,’ Darya managed to say.

  ‘And spoil the fun?’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Jaldi kya hai?’

  ‘Rajesh!’ She struggled. ‘LET ME GO!’

  His fingers tightened around her neck in response. He pulled her head back. She gasped for breath.

  ‘Dard ho raha hai?’

  ‘Leave me…’ But she couldn’t get the rest of the words out.

  His ragged cheek was caressing hers. The stench of stale whiskey from his mouth hit her nose like a fist. She recoiled.

  His grip loosened slightly. ‘Let go of me,’ she groaned.

  She felt his fingers stroking the back of her neck. He had begun to hum softly, a melody jarring to her ears.

  Darya’s skin crawled. The tune was the same one Debbie had been singing in Darya’s dream.

  The next moment, she didn’t know what came upon her—fear, disgust or desperation—she drew both her hands forward and with all her might and in a single stroke—to which she gave everything—jabbed Rajesh in his stomach.

  Hard bones met soft flesh. Rajesh let out a protracted groan and wobbled on his feet. He was drunk and his reactions were slow. Darya hit him again using her elbows; felt the weight of him lean on her momentarily, then collapse. As he slid to the floor, he let out a gurgle of laughter, a sound that was more frightening to Darya than his threat-filled whispers.

  Without a glance back, Darya gathered herself and ran downstairs. She tried to shout for help,
but only a splutter came out.

  ‘Kya kar logi?’ Rajesh called out after her. ‘There’s no one to help you here.’

  Her head swam.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where the missing women are?’ Rajesh shouted, his voice thick with booze, ‘Come back and I’ll tell you.’

  Darya froze, wondering if he was telling the truth. Then she started moving again. She wasn’t going to go back.

  She focused on her feet so as to not miss a step. Right now, she needed to find help, even if it meant asking Viktor or Debbie.

  ‘Help!’

  There was a moment of silence when everything went quiet around her.

  Then the door to the reception flew open. Debbie walked outside.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘That man… that—’ Darya was out of breath.

  ‘Why don’t you leave us alone?’ Debbie said, through clenched teeth. ‘What is it this time?’

  Darya pointed to the stairs and turned to look. But Rajesh hadn’t followed her. ‘R-Rajesh,’ Darya stammered. ‘He tried to hurt me.’

  Debbie’s face paled.

  Finding comfort in that, Darya babbled, ‘He has a knife. He’s drunk.’ Then, she stopped to wonder. Rajesh must also have had a key to her room. How else had he entered so easily? He hadn’t broken open the door or cut the latch. And the scraping sound she’d heard was probably him fiddling with the key in his drunken state.

  ‘Well,’ Debbie said brusquely, ‘are you sure you’re not dreaming again?’

  ‘What? No!’

  Earlier, moved by Debbie’s story, Darya had confessed she’d had terrible dreams through the night, and that was the reason she’d come down in a flurry and asked them the questions she had.

  But then she had been dreaming. Now she wasn’t.

  ‘I want you out of here,’ Debbie said.

  Darya stared at her.

  Who was this woman?

  Merely a few hours ago, she had knelt next to her, close to tears, whispering incoherencies, begging for Darya to stay, to help her. And now…

  ‘One moment,’ Debbie said. She walked away, slamming the reception’s door behind her.

  ‘Hey!’ Darya shouted. ‘Wait.’

  Within a minute Debbie returned and stuffed a torn piece of paper into Darya’s hand along with a wad of hundred-rupee notes.

  ‘Take your receipt and your money,’ Debbie said. ‘And get out of here immediately.’

  A few hours later, Darya was sitting in another room, at the edge of another bed, her unopened bags strewn around her feet. Five minutes earlier, Roshan had knocked on her door, asking if she needed anything. Only some time, she’d told him. To get her head around what had happened. To plan for what she needed to do next. Roshan withdrew immediately, but not before letting her know she could call for him any time she wanted to talk.

  Darya couldn’t shake off the memories of her last moments at the villa.

  Rajesh had come down the stairs, a few minutes after Debbie had handed her the money. He had looked at them lazily, a leer on his face, his eyes bloodshot. Without a word, Debbie had walked over to him and, leading him by the elbow, had taken him to his room. Still shaken, Darya had taken the opportunity to run up to her room, gather her bags and run down again. She had called a taxi and pushed her bags inside, urging the driver to drive away as fast as he could. And after she had recovered her breath and calmed her wildly thudding heart, Darya had counted the money Debbie had given her. She didn’t care how much she had gotten back. She was glad it was anything at all.

  Next, Darya opened the receipt.

  Save us

  no police

  to get in 201006matangi

  34C

  What…? It didn’t make any sense.

  Even now Darya wasn’t sure what it meant. Partly yes, it was obvious. But not the rest of it. Were they merely a madwoman’s scribbles? Or had Debbie handed over the wrong piece of paper? It definitely wasn’t a receipt.

  What did those scribbles mean?

  Darya sighed tiredly. Her head throbbed with pain.

  Now, on her own and for all purposes safe, Darya folded herself on the bed, which had more cushions than was necessary, but they seemed to be helping. She sought the comfort of the starched cotton, the reassurance of the AC’s dull hum. She had a room to herself, with no fear of being jabbed with a knife. Simple pleasures.

  She shut her eyes.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Darya snapped her eyes open and stretched to pull the phone towards herself.

  Help made amistake, the message read.

  Darya’s heart jumped in her chest. The message was from Veda’s number.

  Where the hell are YOU? Darya wrote back.

  In less than a second, the phone buzzed again. Darya realized her hands were trembling.

  Old homemother.

  What the hell? What was Veda writing? Was she in Nagpur?

  I am at Worli. A friend’s place. Darya’s fingers flew. We will be safe here. Come here. Call me.

  Her throat parched, she stared at the phone. She tried dialling the number, but a recorded message announced to her glibly that the phone was out of coverage area.

  Twenty minutes passed. Darya placed her phone on the bed and paced around the room.

  Then her phone buzzed again. She sprinted to get it.

  She read the word that appeared on the screen, not understanding.

  Jasmine.

  Darya shut her eyes and felt a frown deepen over her forehead.

  What was Jasmine doing with Veda’s phone? Or did Veda mean Jasmine had made a mistake? Or she had something to do with Veda’s disappearance? What the fuck was going on?

  Hastily, she typed, Jasmine is that you? Where’s Veda?

  No answer came back.

  Not for a long time.

  Not Two But Three

  Roshan was picking Darya up from her class. He had borrowed his dad’s car, an Audi SUV, and the swanky blue car was turning more than a few heads in the tiny decadent lane that housed her roastery.

  It was her last day at Warm Beans, and Darya was feeling utterly glum. So many things were going wrong at the moment, if someone had asked her how she was doing with even the slightest intention of finding out, she would’ve burst into tears.

  As soon as she got into the car, Roshan asked, ‘Care for some food?’

  Darya granted him a small sideward nod. ‘You got off early,’ she remarked, feeling mildly annoyed with him for keeping it together.

  ‘Yeah, I did. Had to meet you.’ He expertly manoeuvred the car in the madly swilling traffic. ‘Any news from your friend? What’s happening there?’

  Darya made no comment.

  ‘Tell me over snacks,’ he suggested.

  Darya observed he was heading towards the same Irani café they’d met in a week ago. It had been a week! So much had happened since the last time they’d met. For fuck’s sake, she’d ‘moved in’ with him!

  Darya sighed.

  ‘Not here?’ Roshan said. ‘Somewhere else?’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ Darya said. ‘I’m not too hungry anyway.’ She never felt hungry these days.

  Roshan parked the car and they walked towards the café. The familiarity of its unexceptional interiors was reassuring. They sat in a corner, next to a cheap gilded mirror. Darya sat facing it and observed the back of Roshan’s head, the hair that was beginning to thin. Averting her eyes, she surveyed the framed photographs on the walls: old dead folks festooned with wilted marigold garlands. The owner’s ancestors.

  ‘Tell me now,’ Roshan said. ‘What’s happening with Veda?’

  Darya lifted her hands in the air helplessly. ‘I don’t know where she is,’ she said. ‘I’m so freaking worried.’ She brushed a hand over her eyes, afraid a tear might fall. She didn’t care what Roshan thought but she didn’t want to create a scene at the café. She was miserable. MISERABLE.

  ‘Yes?’ Roshan said kindly. He pus
hed a glass of water towards her. They hadn’t ordered yet. From the corner of her eye, Darya noted the teenage waiters hovering around them, but the café was crowded, and they moved quickly to serve other customers.

  ‘Where the hell is she? Has she taken off because she was upset with me, or is she in some kind of trouble?’ It hurt her throat to get the words out. ‘I don’t know. I’m just so worried.’

  ‘No update from the police yet?’ Roshan asked.

  The concern in his voice was breaking her. Darya wanted to let go of all her self-control and bawl her heart out. She wanted to talk about Aaron, about Veda, about how she had no idea what was going on in her life anymore. She clutched the sides of the table and lowered her head. Her throat ached.

  ‘You can talk to me, you know,’ Roshan murmured.

  Without looking up, Darya nodded. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  ‘Come on, Darya, look at me.’ Then, unexpectedly, he placed a hand on top of hers. Darya jumped. A waiter looked at them quizzically. Her startled eyes met her own in the mirror, then wandered to meet his.

  Blinking back tears, she extracted her hand from underneath his.

  Roshan’s face wore a look of surprise, his eyebrows up in question.

  ‘Was that wrong?’ he asked seriously. ‘I’m sorry if I overstepped.’

  ‘N-No…’ Darya stammered. ‘I was startled, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaning back as if to put some distance between them. ‘I was just…’ He shook his head. ‘Just trying to comfort you.’

  Darya didn’t reply. She moved her eyes back to the mirror. She looked ghastly: her face had a pale sheen to it, and her eyes were blood red. What was he seeing in her? Why was he being so nice? And worse still, why was she reciprocating?

  A waiter came to ask for their order.

  Two chais, Roshan mouthed. The boy skittered away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Darya muttered. ‘I… I…’ I have a boyfriend, she wanted to tell him, but had Roshan even been flirting? Why was the disclaimer necessary?