by Nillu Nasser
The chill permeated his bones despite the heat of the rising sun, but he stayed holding her, until the sounds of the waking house broke his spell. Then he sprang into action, taking the locket she’d given him from the dresser, placing it in a pocket just above wear his heart lay. He found his last letter to Jaya and pushed it into his sock. Even in his desolation he understood how angry Arjun would be, how he’d no longer be welcome in this house, despite Soraya’s last words.
Be a father to my boy.
He needed air. He kissed Soraya’s forehead and eased himself off the bed. Her head lolled. A painful ball of tears formed in his throat as pulled back the curtains and opened the window. Fresh and stale air mingled together. She would never see this sight again. Her gardens would exist in their splendour long after she had left this world. Her tulips drooped in homage to her, orange petals bending low to brush the earth below as if it were a prayer mat.
He returned to her, desperate to read peace into her vacant expression. Instead, she looked pained, just as she had these past few weeks. How could he think of Jaya now? It seemed callous to seek happiness after this loss, lacking in respect somehow.
Soraya’s body was cold by the time their son found them. Akash had pulled the knife from her abdomen, arranged her in a position of repose and smoothed the covers. The red of the room masked the blood. He sat by her head, committing her face to memory. The door flew open and Akash’s heart drummed against his ribcage, despite his innocence.
“Akash, I’ve been looking for my mother. She’s not with you—” said Arjun.
A long moment passed as Arjun took in his mother, her pale face and closed eyes. Akash sat at her head, solemn and still. Only a fluttering of his eyelids betrayed his emotion.
“Maa?”
No answer.
“What’s going on here?” Arjun walked to the bed and drew back the covers. His mother was fully dressed. He saw the wound in her stomach, and the blood that had pooled beneath the covers, and spread in blotches across the lemon hue of her salwar kameez. Then he saw the knife. A huge roar erupted from him, filled with anguish and sorrow, and he buried himself in his mother’s body.
“Help, somebody, help!” said Arjun. “Please, call an ambulance. It’s Maa!” He lifted her into his arms, shaking her, calling her name. “Maa, Maa, look at me, please. Open your eyes.” A sob escaped from his throat.
“Arjun, I am so sorry.” Akash’s words rung with inadequacy, but what son wants to hear that his mother took her own life? Arjun was strong in anger. Blame me, son. Let me be a pariah, if that’s what you need.
The ivory handle of the bloodied knife gleamed against the sheets. Arjun looked from his father to the knife, taking in the crimson smears on the older man’s t-shirt. His face morphed into someone unrecognisable and Akash was turned to stone, not prepared for the venom though he had willed it.
“Get away from her!” said Arjun, disgust and anger pulsing across his face. “Please, somebody come!”
He set his mother down on the bed with infinite care, before turning to his father and shoving him hard against the wall. Akash crumpled on the floor in a heap, the back of his head sore, his mind a whiteout of anxiety and grief. Are you proud of me now, Soraya?
Arjun bent down to his father, his face ashen, and held him by the collar. “You will pay for this.”
Footsteps hurtled towards them.
“I know.”
Chapter 29
Jaya considered her warrior self in her reflection. Was it true that presenting a strong external self healed the internal one? She could not be sure, but surely the two halves of her personality would knit together if she willed it. The wounded woman and her lion counterpart, the one who could determine her future, who was neither victimised nor pitied, who took no prisoners.
She closed her bedroom door, not quietly as she usually would have done, but loudly, announcing her imminent arrival to her parents downstairs, eager to disrupt their stone slumber in front of the flickering box.
“There you are, Jaya.” Always the hidden censure in her mother’s voice. “We need milk. Can you bring it on your way in?”
“I’ll be late, Maa.” A warning in the sharpness of her voice. She no longer accepted her role as maid. It brought her neither gratitude nor affection. It certainly did not bring her fulfilment. What did bring her happiness was her work at the theatre, spending time with Ruhi and her nephew, art, long walks. That was what she would be doing more of, no apologies. “I am going to the beach after work.”
“What do you want on the beach? You’ll get dusky.”
Jaya’s patience wore thin. “What is wrong with that? If you need milk, you and Papa can go over the road yourselves. It’s not far. There are some rupees in the kitty in the kitchen.”
Her father piped up. “But we are tired.”
Jaya snapped. “I am tired after a long day.”
“It is your responsibility as a daughter...”
Jaya refused to rise to the bait. “I do my duties well.”
Her mother’s legacy to her had been unwelcome. Centuries of female schooling handed down by matriarchs: to endure, to suffer in silence, to assimilate. Jaya didn’t want to be the good girl anymore, conditioned by society to fulfil everyone else’s needs before her own. She wanted the freedom to be flawed, to be ugly, to be piercingly honest if she chose. No more excuses. No more apologies.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, heavy with books to choose from after her walk, and closed the door behind her.
A female inspector handcuffed him. “Akash Choudry, of no fixed abode, you are being arrested for the murder of Soraya Mansoor of Juhu Beach.”
Akash did not protest. His mind spun like a compass, thoughts loosened from the magnetism of north. He had been unable to provide Arjun with a father’s protection growing up, but he could do it now. He could hide the fact Soraya took her own life.
Soraya had died on a Friday, the holiest day of the week for Muslims. Akash was certain she would have smiled at the irony of it for a non-religious woman. They hadn’t spoken of the timing of her death with regard to the calendar, only for its impact on Arjun. Would it be more distressing for Arjun to witness his mother’s deterioration, or would a cleaner break be better in the long run? Soraya had been adamant that the truth be shrouded from Arjun. She didn’t want to risk her son convincing her to change her mind. What were a few more weeks, when she knew Death would be waiting all the same?
Akash focused on Arjun, sitting on the porch, head in hands. He willed him to look up so Arjun could witness the love in his father’s face, know that he was not alone. Behind him stood Muna, helplessly trying to console the crying baby. Akash flushed in shame as his head was pushed into the car by the policewoman, though he’d done nothing wrong.
A crowd had gathered at the roadside. Rumours had already spread of Soraya’s death. She was well known in Juhu, not only for her restaurants, but as a long-time inhabitant of the area, a single mother who stood out, successful in her own right. The onlookers jostled, peering into the car as the police drove Akash away. The inspector sat next to him. A colleague of hers occupied the driver’s seat, focused and still, carefully manoeuvring past the small crowd as he pulled away from the house. Akash fixed his gaze rigidly ahead, squirming under the glare of those gathered, taking solace from the cold metal of Soraya’s pendant in the pocket at his heart. His second letter to Jaya remained hidden in his sock, though both items would be found soon enough.
It had been a long time since he had ridden in a car, or even a rickshaw, but Akash took no joy from it. The city sped past, a different one to the place he had discovered inch by inch on foot. He saw a pale reflection of Soraya in the sheen of the glass and swallowed hard before looking for her again. She had gone.
“Where are you taking me?” he said.
“To the station,” said the inspector. Her voice was low, a calm beacon in the midst of his wretchedness. She turned to face him and he noticed how easily she
could be mistaken for a man with the angular lines of her face, the hair cropped short. “It’s not far. You’ll be questioned there.”
Handcuffs chaffed Akash’s wrists and he fidgeted on the cool leather seats more from nerves than discomfort. Their journey took them past Bombay High Court dominating the early morning horizon with an imposing array of triangular stonework, gothic arches and spired towers. Above him, the tricolour saffron, white and green of India’s flag fluttered in the wind. Akash gulped, overwhelmed by the symbol of the justice system. Not long afterwards, they pulled up outside a square block with slits for windows. A flurry of journalists waited. Somebody had already alerted them to the death. Akash shrank back as the vehicle drew to a halt. The wiry officer in the driver’s seat climbed out of the car.
The prospect of living without freedom hit Akash. “There’s been a mistake!” he said, a quiet urgency in is voice.
“We’ll find out soon enough. A couple of weeks here will give both you and us the chance to think.” The inspector had a glint in her eye. “Let’s get you inside.” She opened her door.
Akash wasn’t stupid. He had known this could happen after Soraya’s death, that it was likely. It had seemed callous to question Soraya about himself in the final hours of her life, to make it about him when she faced her final journey. Now, it struck him how his allies had all but disappeared. Tariq was holed up on the other side of the city, powerless to help, wondering where Akash was. Soraya was dead. Their son thought the worst of him. The Indian courts were no friend to the poor. He had no fancy lawyer at his disposal. Could he live in a cell for the rest of his life? Would he survive without the sky above him and the dust between his toes? Could he give up the chance of seeing Jaya once more?
“I didn’t do it!”
“All in good time, Mr. Choudry. You were found at the scene of the crime. We will need the autopsy and crime scene results. There is plenty of time for explanations.”
Her colleague opened Akash’s door before pulling him out into the sunlight. Eager faces thrust dictaphones towards him, but Akash captured only fragments of the onslaught.
“We have seen a rise of violence against women in India, Akash. Our readers want to know... did you do it?”
“Were you jealous of her success?”
“Is it true you were living at her house at the time? How could you accept her hospitality and then take her life?”
The voices rose above his head as his police escorts, their expressions grim, guided him through the throng. The inspector held his elbow and guided him into a building deprived of light. Inside, grey plaster bulged on the walls and wooden benches gave the impression of gloom, like they had been pilfered from an abandoned church. There he sat, in a hallway devoid of oxygen waiting to be processed. His stomach rolled, thinking of Soraya’s lifeless body, how the fingers of her hand curled like a dancer’s even in death.
A police officer beckoned him, pulling him aside with brisk movements, searching him with hands that resembled meat cleavers and functioned with the certainty of experience. The man located his locket and Jaya’s letter within seconds, confiscating them. Akash cried out, stripped of his dearest possessions.
“These are mine, for now,” said the policeman, sneering. “What secrets are you hiding, huh? We’ll soon find out.” He yanked the locket open, smirking at the pictures it held, then reached for the letter. Akash jerked forward to retrieve it, only to be pushed back.
“That’s my prisoner, Gulam. Hands off,” said the female inspector.
“Ever the killjoy, Inspector Fortes. He’s all yours.” He shoved Akash towards her. “I’d keep his cuffs on, though. Animal like that.”
“Come with me, Mr. Choudry. It’s time for your explanations,” she said, ignoring her colleague.
Akash followed Inspector Fortes into a sparsely furnished room. His Adam’s apple throbbed. For all their time on the streets, and the petty crimes Akash and Tariq had committed, they’d not once been arrested. If Akash were away for too long, Tariq would worry. Akash craved nothing more than the company of someone who knew him to be innocent, no questions asked. The inspector indicated for him to sit opposite her. He shuddered, feeling like an animal in captivity, doomed to wait for small mercies beyond his control. She removed his restraints, and he eased into the chair, massaging his wrists first, then kneading his temples.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“It depends what you have done. You have the right to a state-appointed lawyer.”
Tariq used to joke that there was no crime in Bombay unless a rich person was the victim. A lawyer wouldn’t help. It was best to get this over with.
She pressed the record button on a tape deck. “Interview at 11.42 in the morning of 12 March 2003, with Akash Choudry, 46 years old, of no fixed abode, regarding the death of Soraya Mansoor, 45 years of age, of Juhu Beach. Let us begin.”
Air-conditioning chased goosebumps up Akash’s bare forearms.
“Where were you in the early hours of this morning?” said Inspector Fortes. Her posture was exemplary, as if a rod had been attached to her back.
“At Soraya Mansoor’s house in Juhu.”
“Where specifically?”
“In the Red Room, the bedroom she allocated me for my stay there.”
She leaned forward. “Where she was found dead?”
“Yes,” said Akash, resignation creeping into his voice.
“Why were you staying with Ms. Mansoor?”
“I was staying at her request.” Would he be failing Soraya to tell the truth of her death, although it would hurt Arjun? When Soraya asked him to be a parent to Arjun, what did she mean?
“And before that?”
“On the streets of Bombay, under bridges, on pavements, in church courtyards, wherever I could find shelter.”
“What relationship did you have with Ms. Mansoor?”
“We were lovers over twenty years ago. I am the father of her child.”
“Of Arjun Choudry?” said Inspector Fortes, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Yes.”
“When did you become aware of this paternity?”
“Less than two weeks ago.”
She found this of interest, and scrawled illegible words onto a ring-bound notepad in front of her, underlining the words in a heavy hand.
“I see. And did you harbour any resentment towards Ms. Mansoor? Because of her wealth, the late knowledge that you had a son?”
“No. I was grateful. She gave me a family, she invited me into her home.”
“Where you killed her.” Inspector Fortes’s voice lashed out like a whip, filling every corner of the room. “With this.” She placed a clear bag on the table. It held Soraya’s knife with its serrated blade, about six inches in length. Dark smears of blood dulled the blade in contrast to the ivory white of the handle.
Akash shrank back, horrified. Could he tell the truth, though suicide was forbidden in Islam? Arjun would think his mother had chosen to leave him, though she would have given anything to have stayed. He remained quiet, the truth captured by the straight line of his lips, poisoning him.
“You like the idea of prison, Akash? The thought of a full belly, a roof over your head?” The inspector chose her words carefully, speaking with slow deliberate annunciation, striking fear into him. “Let me get one thing straight. A man such as you would not survive long in prison. The guards, they will not protect you. The filth in there, they have no conscience. They would smell your weakness, and you would pay. Is that what you want?”
“No!” said Akash. “I can’t sleep in a lightless box. Maybe this is the punishment for all I have done.”
Inspector Fortes placed her hands on the table before her. A stillness came over her. “And what have you done, Akash?”
“My wife. She...I...ran. I didn’t come back.” He clenched his fists.
“Your wife?” A look of puzzlement crossed her face.
“My wife. Jaya. I left her when she needed me.
”
“Leaving someone is not a crime punishable by law, Akash. We are talking here about Ms. Mansoor. Have you committed a crime before? Something you would go to prison for?”
He shuddered. “No.”
Inspector Fortes leant across the table, smoothing her hands over the glossed wood. “All these years you have lived on the streets of this city. You fear prison, don’t you? It’s the sky you crave, the stars, and the sands?”
He met her gaze for the first time. “Yes.”
“There is no freedom for a man who has committed murder.” She paused. “But I think you are your own worst enemy. The only thing that can help you is the truth. I’ll get to the bottom of what happened this morning. I’ll need the autopsy and crime scene results before deciding how to proceed. Until then, you’ll be put in a cell here at the police station. You understand, I can’t release a man such as you, unemployed, no fixed abode, arrested for such a serious crime.”
He nodded.
“For the tape.”
“Yes, I understand.”
She turned off the tape and stood to cuff him again. They walked the length of a corridor, to the back of the building, where he could see men piled behind bars like animals in a cage, with no room to sleep and barely any to stand. She handed him over to the officer in charge, and nodded to him solemnly. As she turned away, she said to a colleague, “I know criminals. That man isn’t a criminal. He didn’t do it. I can feel it in my bones.”
Chapter 30
Jaya didn’t expect to find her family waiting up for her when she reached home, not after the way she had spoken to her parents. Neither had she expected a call from Ruhi on the emergency phone buried at the bottom of her handbag. The ringtone, an old Lata Mangeshkar track from the 1980s turned up to the highest volume setting, pierced the quiet of the beach. Jaya was so engrossed in her novel, by Jhumpa Lahiri, that it took her a few seconds to recognise the sound as her own phone.
