Lola, though, had lost interest in Amara and the rest of the cool crowd. ‘Gosh, I’m sleepy,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to class. I don’t want to be like late. I’m really scared of that Father D’Gama.’
‘Why?’ Maya asked. Lola didn’t seem like the kind of girl who’d be scared of a teacher.
‘I was wondering about that too,’ Lola said as they walked up the stairs. ‘I think it’s because he looks a bit like a dead body.’
Maya looked around and poked Lola in the ribs as they entered Lecture Room 113. But Lola was right. She hadn’t seen too many dead bodies, but Father D’Gama could easily audition for the role.
So it was a relief when the door opened and Professor Emeritus Rustam Kekobad entered the classroom with a projector. He sniffed suspiciously for a minute, checking for signs of perfume. Then he switched on the machine and displayed paintings and photographs of the Bombay that once was. ‘Try and identify these areas,’ he cackled. ‘Let’s see which of you is blessed with a sense of history.’
The screen lit up with a black-and-white photograph of a serene road running along the sea. One side was fringed with palms, another with large trees. A couple of old-fashioned cars and a horse-drawn buggy dotted the otherwise empty road. The only possible clues were two hazy structures in the background.
‘How pretty,’ Lola exclaimed. ‘It’s impossible to believe this was once Mumbai.’
‘It was,’ Professor Kekobad replied. ‘What is more, it’s a part you know well. Can you identify it?’
‘Mahim Causeway?’
‘Old Cuffe Parade?’
‘Chowpatti?’
The answers came hard and fast. Professor Kekobad didn’t waste his breath. He merely looked supercilious. Finally, even the most enthusiastic guessers fell silent – and in this vacuum, a single hand shot up.
It was the chubby boy who modelled himself on Henry Higgins. The magenta t-shirt of yesterday had been replaced with a Hawaiian shirt in orange and green, teamed up with jaundice-yellow socks. Maya had privately dubbed him ‘Mr I-Would-Like-To-Clarify’. As opposed to Veda, who was ‘Miss In-My-Opinion’.
The professor nodded. ‘Yes, Aadil,’ he said.
‘Queen’s Road,’ said the boy, and the old professor smiled.
The class protested. The Queen’s Road they knew was a busy thoroughfare – sandwiched between buildings and railway tracks. ‘How could you have guessed that?’ squealed one of the trackie crowd. ‘Aaaaadil. You are cheating.’
‘It was not a guess,’ Aadil replied with a pompous shrug. ‘It was an inspiration.’
The professor moved to the next slides. A tranquil maidan. A round temple sitting amidst broad streets. A statue. A paddy field.
The students were so engrossed in the photos—and the extraordinary tale that they revealed about Bombay’s transformation—that nobody heard the classroom door open. Professor Kekobad spotted the latecomer and bristled. ‘How kind of you to join us,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The class turned to watch Owais, who had just arrived and was sauntering to an empty seat.
Maya turned too. And froze. A loud buzzing started in her ears, and she let out a whimper.
‘What’s the matter?’ Lola asked, looking at her in surprise. ‘Are you OK?’
Maya blinked and stared at Owais. ‘His … his eye,’ she stuttered.
‘What about his eye?’ Lola asked, puzzled.
Maya gaped and looked around the class. The knowledge slammed her like a punch in the stomach.
Nobody else could see.
Nobody else could see the blood. The blood that bubbled from Owais’ left eye and trickled down his face onto his white collar.
CHAPTER 6
Maya grabbed her bag and staggered to her feet. Pushing past desks, bumping into chairs, she made it to the door. ‘Sorry … sick,’ she gulped in the general direction of the professor, as she escaped into the corridor and hurtled out of the college.
It was only when she sank into the taxi that Maya worried about what she’d done. What would Professor Kekobad think? And Lola? What would her mother say?
Did that even matter? She had seen a boy with blood dripping out of his eye. Enough blood to stain his shirt. But nobody else had noticed a thing.
‘Am I going mad?’ Maya wondered. And sitting in the backseat of the battered taxi, she burst into tears. By the time she reached Pine View and made it to the fifth floor, she was sobbing and shivering uncontrollably.
Mrs Anand was horrified.
She took Maya’s temperature. It was normal.
Then she made nimbu pani, drew the curtains, switched on the AC and covered Maya with a puffy yellow quilt.
‘I’ve spoken with Dr Paresh Desai,’ she told her husband on the phone. ‘I think it’s a sunstroke. I’ve never seen Maya like this. She’s completely overwrought. She doesn’t want to read or watch TV or anything. I hope she’s able to sleep. I think we’ll definitely go to the doctor this evening.’
But at 4.20 p.m., the plans changed.
The doorbell rang, and Mrs Anand popped into Maya’s room, looking pleased. ‘A visitor for you,’ she whispered. ‘One of your teachers from the Summer School. He wants to know how you are.’
‘Which teacher?’ Maya sat up.
‘An old Parsi man. Are you feeling well enough to see him? It’s really nice of him to have taken the trouble to come all the way.’
‘Do I have to see him?’
‘It’s only polite. You’re looking much better. Go wash your face, comb your hair, then come out.’
‘The return of the Tiger Mum,’ Maya thought wryly. Mrs Anand found it difficult to play cuddly, concerned mother for more than two hours at a time.
Maya splashed water on her face, combed her hair, tied a neat ponytail and went into the living room with its plump green sofa and Mughal miniature paintings. Professor Kekobad was sitting stiffly on an upright chair. He looked frailer than he had in college, his bony hands twitched in his lap, and he looked like he was drowning in a flood of inconsequential chatter.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Anand was saying, ‘We are very lucky to have two balconies in the flat. That’s the benefit of living in an old building. We may not have a pool or a gym, but at least we have balconies. Unfortunately, I’ve had to put netting everywhere because of those stupid pigeons. I have a phobia for pigeons.’
Professor Kekobad looked enormously relieved when Maya entered the room. He peered intently and said, ‘Sit down, sit down.’
‘Umm ... thank you for … uh … coming to see me,’ Maya stuttered, perching on the squidgy brown armchair.
The professor nodded and turned to Mrs Anand. ‘Please don’t let me disturb your routine. If Maya is well enough, she and I can discuss our shared passion. History. I am halfway through my magnum opus, a massive work on Mumbai. So Maya and I have a lot to deliberate upon.’
Mrs Anand looked gratified and headed for the kitchen to make tea and a quick call to her husband. The professor turned to Maya and lowered his voice. ‘I have a story to tell you. But first, I have a question to ask. Will you answer it honestly?’
Maya’s mouth turned dry. ‘Okay,’ she said as her heart ballooned in an unpleasant, chest-clogging way.
‘Then tell me please, what really happened in college today? What did you see? What frightened you so much?’
Maya stared at Professor Kekobad. How did he know something had frightened her? Why did he care enough to come all the way to her house? Would he think she was mad? The questions whirled around. Maya flinched when her eyes fell on the olive-green Kashmiri rug on the floor. The thick red embroidery reminded her of blood. Crimson clots and dribbles.
‘Nothing,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Trust me,’ Professor Kekobad replied, sounding exhausted. ‘We need to trust each other. What did you see?’
‘Nobody will believe me,’ Maya choked, trying not to cry.
‘I promise I will,’ the professor replied gently. ‘Maybe I will ev
en help you understand what you saw.’
Maya looked up with a chalk-white, miserable face. ‘Blood,’ she mumbled. ‘I saw blood coming out of Owais’ eye. But nobody else saw it. And …’
‘And?’ Professor Kekobad asked in an urgent whisper. ‘And what else?’
‘I saw horns on Amara’s head,’ Maya blurted out. ‘I’m going mad. I’m never going to step into St Paul’s again. I hate that place.’
Professor Kekobad raised an imperious, bony hand. ‘You are not going mad. Now listen to me carefully,’ he said, checking that there was no sign of Mrs Anand. ‘I will only talk if you are calm enough to listen. At my age, I don’t have breath to waste.’
Maya managed a pale, watery smile. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.
Professor Kekobad scrutinised Maya’s face. ‘There is no roundabout way to say this, so I will be direct. Maya, you have a great gift. You are able to SEE. You can see what others cannot. You are able to see through illusions to the heart of the matter. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ Maya said baldly.
‘Of course, of course,’ Professor Kekobad said. ‘For you, this is all new. Over time, you would have understood by yourself. But we have no time. I need to know, will you use your powers to do the right thing?’
Maya was about to answer when Mrs Anand bustled into the room with a laden tray. ‘Tea for you, professor,’ she said. ‘And Electral for you, Maya. And please have a chicken pattice, professor. They are from RTI. I always say there are some things that only the Parsis can really make.’
Professor Kekobad took a pattice with the hungry air of one who gets few treats. He looked with interest at the bowl piled high with golden biscuits, and took two.
Mrs Anand sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea and an expectant air. ‘So how is Maya coping?’ she asked. ‘I am a graphic designer and my husband is in finance – he works with Parampara Industries. Unrelated fields, so we are often unable to help Maya with her academic interests. Is she doing OK?’
‘Excellently,’ Professor Kekobad replied. ‘That is why we don’t want her to leave the Summer School.’
‘Leave the Summer School?’ Mrs Anand, choked on her tea. ‘Of course not. This is just a little sunstroke. One of those 24-hour things. She’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow. It’s the heat. Nothing else. She’ll be at the college tomorrow morning. I hope she didn’t miss too much work this afternoon.’
Professor Kekobad put down his cup with a rattle. ‘Come half an hour early tomorrow,’ he said to Maya. ‘I will be in my office next to the college chapel. I will explain what you missed and also tell you that story I promised.’
‘That’s very, very kind of you,’ Mrs Anand exclaimed, as she ushered the professor out of the house. ‘Thank you for taking such good care of Maya.’
Maya returned to her bedroom with mixed feelings. She was still scared. But she was also intrigued. Professor Kekobad hadn’t seemed surprised about the horns or the blood. In fact, he had seemed almost … pleased? ... relieved? … triumphant?
Maya tried to read the glossy magazine that had looked so promising just a few days ago. She painted her nails a colour called Chocolate Mousse – somewhere between brown and lavender. Then she watched a dumb show on TV in which two teenage girls kept lying to their mothers and streaking their hair in horrendous neon colours.
Then she phoned Priti.
For years and years, Priti and Maya had been inseparable. Maya never really knew when they stopped being best friends and became just friends. As she picked up the phone, she wondered if they were even friends any more.
Still, habit and loneliness made her tap the familiar number.
Priti was going to Panchgani for a camp with a bunch of girls from school. ‘I wish you could come,’ she told Maya. ‘But you’re always so busy. Anyway, I’ve got to go. We’re doing a sleepover at Tanya’s place tonight.’
‘Oh,’ Maya said, feeling left out.
‘We would have asked you, but you are doing that college stuff so we knew you couldn’t come,’ Priti said breezily.
Maya went to bed feeling more alone than ever.
CHAPTER 7
The chapel of St Paul’s College made up the eastern face of the sun-splashed college quadrangle. Like the other college buildings, it had a black, stone façade, cream paintwork and tall, arched windows.
Maya crossed the quadrangle as though in a dream. She’d hardly slept all night. Her eyes felt dry and gritty. Her head pounded in the piercing light.
The heavy, wooden door of the chapel was closed. But a swing door at the corner of the building was propped open. This was set with squares of stained glass—a happy higgle-piggle of red and yellow—that gleamed in the morning sun.
‘The perfect doorway into magic and mystery,’ Maya thought. But the memory of twisted horns and pooling blood banished her flippancy. Which was probably a good thing, because Professor Kekobad looked testy as he waved Maya into his cramped, musty office. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘No time to waste.’
Maya entered this most unwelcoming of rooms with reluctance. The little office was covered with maps. Stacks of papers, books and files were squeezed into the cubbyholes that lined an entire wall. A typewriter sat on a desk in a valley created by mountains of papers.
‘My book on Bombay,’ the professor said, looking about the room. ‘A marathon work in progress. But let’s talk about other things first.’
Professor Kekobad pointed a knobbly finger at a rickety, dusty chair – the only one not heaped with paper. Maya perched on it, unsure whether it would take her weight. The professor closed his eyes, steepled his fingers and hummed under his breath.
‘Where shall we begin?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘It’s such a long story. And such an old story. And such an unfortunate story. How much do you know about St Paul’s College?’
‘Nothing really,’ Maya replied.
‘Then that’s where we’ll begin,’ the professor said. ‘St Paul’s College is about 150 years old. It was built over several decades by a series of Jesuit priests who came to India from different parts of Europe. Some from Italy, some from Germany, some from Spain and so on. Each priest brought along his own passion.’
‘One was interested in the plants of India, and his collection formed the basis of the Ebbe Herbarium. Another was interested in chemistry, so he organised a crude laboratory in a shed, that grew into the chemistry department. Another priest was a Sanskrit scholar whose collection of antiquities is the foundation of our Historical Research Institute.’
‘Department by department, the college grew. Many remarkable priests and professors contributed. But the most remarkable was Father Lorenzo.’
Professor Kekobad stopped and pointed at the wall behind Maya with a knobbly finger. Obediently, she turned to look at the portrait. It showed a gaunt face with a black beard over a white robe. Sharp, watchful eyes bored holes into her brain.
‘Father Lorenzo was a Spanish priest, but he had lived in the Vatican City for a long time. He worked as an investigator for the church and saw many strange things.’
‘An investigator?’ Maya interrupted. ‘Meaning?’
‘He investigated rumours and reports of the supernatural,’ the professor replied. ‘Stories of miracles performed or of people with unusual abilities. When World War II broke out in Europe, Father Lorenzo was sent to faraway Bombay. As the Principal of St Paul’s College.’
‘When Father Lorenzo arrived here in 1939, St Paul’s college was no more than a group of uninspiring, haphazard structures and sheds. Father Lorenzo planned the college you see today and built three enormous wings. He also designed and built the chapel. This room was his office for the last year of his life.’
Maya nodded, but she wondered what this had to do with anything. The air in the dim, cluttered office felt soupy and stale. It smelt of old books, old people and fading dreams.
Professor Kekobad grimaced. ‘I know what you’re thinking. What do I have to do wit
h a dead Spanish priest? What is this old man talking about? When can I get my chicken roll from the canteen? But now the story is about to begin. Or rather, our small chapter in an old, old story is about to begin.’
Maya squirmed. Not just because of the unreliable chair, the stifling room and laborious fan. But because suddenly, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
‘I joined St Paul’s in 1952 to study history,’ the professor spoke again. ‘I was a good student but rarely saw Father Lorenzo. He was an imposing, distant figure, preoccupied with building the college and the chapel. He personally directed the craftsmen. He personally sketched out each gargoyle in the quadrangle and planned each mosaic and stained-glass panel in the chapel. He spent so much time with the masons and carpenters and roofers that the college peons had to actually climb the scaffolding to get his signatures.’
‘And God help the workmen who ignored his instructions. I remember the fellow who was laying some mosaic inverted two colours. It hardly mattered. Who would have noticed? But Father Lorenzo made him rip it out and redo it. Or, at least, that’s how the story went.’
‘We all knew our principal, but never dreamt that he knew us,’ Professor Kekobad continued. ‘Then, one afternoon, when I had been here for about a year, I received a note from Father Lorenzo. It changed my life.’
‘What did the note say?’ Maya asked.
‘The note merely asked me to go to the chapel at 7 p.m. that evening. I was astonished and also a bit alarmed. What could I have possibly done to attract the attention of Father Lorenzo? Also, why would he want to meet me in the chapel so late in the evening? It was peculiar. But nobody disobeyed Father Lorenzo.’
Maya trembled and shifted on the chair. She felt she was stepping into quicksand – and she was not sure she wanted to be sucked in.
Almost as if he sensed her reluctance, Professor Kekobad spoke faster. ‘I reached the chapel a few minutes before 7 o’clock. It was August and rain was lashing outside. The chapel was dim, empty and lit only by flickering candles. It had just been completed. It was the first time I had entered it, so I was looking around when two other students rushed in from the storm. They were as drenched and mystified as I was. Then five minutes later, a small door at the side opened.’
What Maya Saw Page 4
