What Maya Saw

by Shabnam Minwalla

  ‘This is like the best shopping I’ve done in a 100 years,’ Lola exclaimed. ‘Oooh. Look at those cakes. They look amazing.’

  Maya laughed, but uneasily. The remark about 100 years made her think of things she would rather forget. She buried herself in the menu and finally chose an almond croissant and vanilla milkshake. Lola decided on a cheesy quiche, a Red Velvet Brownie and a cappuccino. Then they gloated over their haul and mourned all that they should have bought but didn’t.

  ‘I really wish you’d got those lime green shorts,’ Lola grumped.

  ‘I feel a bit odd in shorts,’ Maya confessed. ‘My friend Priti always says I have blobby knees. Actually, I’m a bit nervous about the tank tops too. My arms are a bit skinny. Priti always says …’

  ‘Maya,’ Lola said firmly. ‘Take a chill pill. Your arms are perfectly fine. I’m sure your knees are perfectly fine too. I’ll give you an expert opinion when we get to your place. What doesn’t sound fine is your friend Priti. Basically, she sounds like a total hater.’

  ‘No, no,’ Maya protested. ‘Priti is just very frank. Oh good, our food.’

  Lola rolled her eyes and then got busy shaking brown sugar into her coffee. ‘Has Priti told you that your eyes have the brightest sparkle? That your face is a perfect oval?’ she asked. ‘That your skin is the loveliest golden? Or that you have the naughtiest smile? That behind that prim, tight ponytail—that has to go soon—you are loads of fun?’

  Maya blushed and started to defend Priti, but Lola shushed her. ‘I’m not going to change my mind. Priti is a hater. Now eat.’

  Maya was a couple of bites into her flaky croissant when the door of the café swung open. A couple entered in a cloud of perfume and highlighted hair. The boy was wearing a tight white t-shirt and strutted in that see-how-much-I-work-out kind of way.

  ‘Pratik Purohit,’ whispered Lola, with all the triumph of a lifelong celeb-spotter. ‘Is he a Theobroma regular?’

  ‘No clue,’ Maya said, watching the beautiful pair.

  The girl with Pratik Purohit had the polished, plucked look that belonged to a billboard rather than the dusty streets. She glanced around the noisy, crowded café with an air of entitlement. ‘All the tables are taken,’ she complained. ‘I need to sit.’

  ‘I’ll fix it in a minute,’ Pratik announced. ‘Waiter, how long will we have to wait? We really don’t have time.’

  The girl raised an irritable eyebrow. She had startling green eyes and looked familiar. Maya felt sure that she was one of the cool, confident creatures who posed under the banyan tree at St Paul’s.

  ‘I’ve seen her at St Paul’s under the banyan tree,’ Lola said, echoing Maya’s thoughts. ‘She’s the one with green eyes who looks older than the others. Amazing yellow shoes. Bet they’re designer. Gosh, but aren’t the two of them snooty? Just listen to him.’

  ‘Waiter, can’t you do something? Do you know who I am?’ Pratik was yelling as he stepped into the path of a waiter carrying three tall iced teas. The glasses wobbled dangerously, almost falling into Maya’s lap. ‘You must have heard us the first time. We need a table. We need it fast.’

  ‘Yes sir, five minutes sir,’ the waiter mumbled. ‘If you just wait at side—’

  ‘You are asking me to get out of your way? You are telling me to wait at one side? Who is your boss?’ Pratik asked in a voice so harsh that the entire restaurant swivelled around to watch. ‘You are five seconds away from losing your job. You don’t tell Pratik Purohit to wait for a table – not in that tone of voice.’

  The waiter stammered, ‘Sorry sir, I will ...’

  ‘Forget it,’ the green-eyed girl placed a perfect hand on Pratik’s arm, then turned to smirk at Maya. ‘Who wants to be here anyway? There are some really sad types here today. I mean, look at that girl. Like, pleated skirts went out of fashion some decades ago.’

  Maya felt sick with mortification. She could feel 30 pairs of eyes stare at her purple pleated skirt. ‘Gosh,’ Lola’s voice came from far away. ‘What’s her problem?’

  Maya looked up again at the girl with green eyes – and choked.

  In slow motion, the perfect, porcelain face started to crack. A zigzag of lines sliced the smooth forehead. For an appalling moment Maya thought the face was shattering like an egg.

  Then she understood what she was seeing. That impeccable face was disintegrating into a mass of wrinkles.

  Maya dropped the croissant from numb fingers. Her ears buzzed and her lips trembled. Something brown and oily seemed to curl around her heart and fill her with loathing. ‘That girl …’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Her face,’ Maya whispered. ‘Can you see?’

  ‘What?’

  Maya looked up, into eyes filled with spite. Then the creature smiled, revealing black, rotting teeth. Maya’s vision was streaked with indigo. ‘Maya, Maya,’ Lola’s voice came from across a great abyss. ‘Who is she? You’ve turned all cold. Maya, stop this. You’re freaking me out.’

  The panic in her friend’s voice tugged Maya out of her daze. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. Then she picked up her croissant and took a bite but couldn’t swallow. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. But her quaking hands gave her away.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Lola asked again. ‘Do you know each other? I’ve seen her at St Paul’s. But I just can’t understand why she said all that about you. Are you fine?’

  Maya rubbed her eyes. Questions and fears were resounding in her head so loudly that she could barely hear Lola.

  The Girl with the Green Eyes was a Shadow.

  Had she followed Maya to Theobroma? Or was it just a coincidence that she and Pratik Purohit had landed up here? Were they stalking her?

  Somehow, Maya had believed that the Shadows belonged to the secretive arches and twilit staircases of St Paul’s. She’d convinced herself that all she had to do to escape them was to stay away from the college. But now they were out and about, following her into her favourite cake shop on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Saying horrible things to mortify her in public.

  Did they know where she lived? Were they trying to warn her off? Did they want something from her?

  Maya shook her head and stirred the froth on her vanilla milkshake. ‘No, no …’ she said, half to Lola, half to herself. ‘It’s just nothing. I think she’s someone I know from long ago. We had a fight.’

  Lola didn’t look convinced. ‘Okayyyy Maya,’ she said, exhaling noisily. ‘Whatevs. Tell me when you’re ready.’

  They finished their meal in an awkward silence. Maya ducked her head and stared at her plate. She couldn’t bear the curiosity and pity on the faces of the other diners. Finally, the meal was done and they emerged into the electric glare. ‘Will you come to my place?’ Maya asked. ‘Please? I’ll call and ask my mum to make us her world-famous-in-Colaba nimbu pani.’

  Lola looked sniffy for a moment, but then she nodded. ‘I guess. My aunt is not the nimbu pani sort.’

  The girls jumped into an asthmatic black-and-yellow taxi that wheezed its way past Colaba market and the fire brigade. ‘You’re staying with your aunt?’ Maya asked, as much to fill the silence as from curiosity.

  ‘Till my parents move from Bangalore. Soon I hope.’

  ‘Is she nice?’

  ‘Nice enough. She’s given me a big room in her apartment and she works most of the time. I manage. Lots of peanut butter sandwiches, and I’ve become a real expert on the best vada pavs in Mahalakshmi. And home-delivery biryani.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Anyway, I was thinking of tying your hair in a loose plait and applying a little eye-liner. And just a tiny smudge of eye shadow,’ Lola mused, pulling the rubber band from Maya’s hair. ‘Or why not leave it open. We’ll see.’

  At Pine View Building, Maya paid the cabbie and walked into the compound. Mr Pinkwhistle was sniffing a little girl in a blue pinafore and perky ponytail, but he rushed to Maya and greeted her with extravagant adoration. Maya sank to her knees to give him a kiss.

/>   She tickled the dog, who bestowed soppy licks upon her. But the minute Lola tried to pat him, Mr Pinkwhistle retreated. ‘Mr Pinkwhistle loves children,’ Maya explained. ‘But he’s scared of unfamiliar adults. He won’t go near strangers. Oh oh, sorry Mr P. We’ll play tomorrow. We need to flee now.’

  Maya indicated the figure of Mr Ranglani hovering hopefully at the window of Relax Real Estate. She hustled her friend into the building, muttering, ‘Red alert. Oily man alert.’

  The two girls staggered into the elevator with their parcels as Maya’s phone vibrated. Again, she tasted fear – an acrid tang that not even the best nimbu pani in Colaba could banish.

  ‘It’s too hot to be gallivanting like this,’ Mrs Anand said, once the girls had plonked onto the sofa. ‘Hydrate yourselves quickly.’

  She handed out sweet, cold nimbu pani and peppery banana chips. ‘It’s very yummy, aunty,’ Lola smiled. ‘Thank you so much. The best cure for this heat.’

  Mrs Anand beamed and launched into a conversation about Bangalore. ‘My husband has a cousin in Koramangala,’ she explained. ‘So that’s where we always stay. I love the Nilgiris.’

  Maya knew she should rescue poor, polite Lola. But she was wrapped in a charcoal haze and could only slouch in her armchair and stare outside. The evening sky was broken up into pallid blue diamonds by a fine, nylon net. The net was meant to stop pigeons and crows – but would be of little use against the Shadows.

  Mrs Anand got up to answer the doorbell, and Maya tried to rouse herself.

  ‘You’re looking as sad as cold porridge,’ Lola remarked. ‘Isn’t that a great line? I read it in a book. Or more likely heard it on TV. Come on. Let’s try a few styles. Then I’ve got to leave. I don’t dare go back to Summer School without doing Father D’Gama’s homework.’

  Maya led Lola to her bedroom, which bore the signs of Mrs Anand’s careful ministrations. The cushions with the patchwork fish had been plumped. The green and cream curtains neatly gathered to one side. The desk scrupulously dusted and stacked.

  ‘Nice room,’ Lola said, looking around. ‘Why don’t you put up a couple of posters. You know. Messi. Or Viraat Kohli. Or Taylor Swift? My room in Bangalore was covered with posters. There was even a 1D poster on the ceiling. But in Mumbai, I’m going to be more … more … choosy. Or as you super-brains would say “more discriminating”.’

  She picked up the frayed, faded stuffed donkey near Maya’s pillow. ‘Favourite toy?’ she asked.

  ‘Donkey Do,’ Maya replied. ‘He was my BFF when we were both two. I know he doesn’t really belong in a cool teenage room. But still and all.’

  ‘I totally understand,’ Lola said. ‘I have at least six dolls who share my room. Anyway, sit down. Let me start. I’m trying a hairstyle that I saw on YouTube.’

  Lola picked up Maya’s shiny blue hairbrush and got to work. She only broke the silence to issue businesslike instructions. ‘Clips. The tiktik kinds. Quick.’ Or ‘Don’t move’.

  Maya’s phone buzzed constantly. She tried to ignore it. But the ball of fear in her stomach was growing harder and pokier by the minute.

  Lola brushed and pinned and mumbled. Then, finally, she cocked her head to one side and said, ‘Nice. Go look in the mirror.’

  Maya walked to the mirror and blushed. Lola had tied a slightly messy French braid. The soft sort with tendrils floating around the face. Even in her demure skirt and blouse, Maya looked more sophisticated. Less earnest. More like the girl she wanted to become.

  ‘Wow,’ she squealed. ‘It’s lovely. But I’ll never manage it myself.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Lola retorted. ‘Your mom just told me that you have an IQ of 142. Don’t tell me you can’t spare a little brain power for a hairstyle.’

  Maya flushed and held her head in her hands. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she groaned. ‘I wish my mum would just bloody shut up.’

  Lola chuckled. ‘Don’t be lame. I’m delighted to have a friend who’s a genius or whatever. And your mom’s promised me an awesome meal next week. I’m just as thrilled about that. Now let’s get down to business.’

  She stuck her head into Maya’s cupboard, rattling hangers and messing neat piles. ‘I’ve bad news for you,’ she said. ‘Ninety percent of this has to go. Now. Like in the next five minutes. I won’t be caught dead with you if you dare to step into St Paul’s in this brown dress, even if it does have pink heart-shaped buttons.’

  She shook out the offending garment and gazed at it with awe. ‘I swear,’ she murmured, ‘not even the deserving poor deserve this. Okay. Let’s tackle this in a scientific way. Be quiet for a bit.’

  Maya watched in nervous silence while Lola furrowed her brow and made four piles before explaining her system of classification.

  Pile 1: Out in the next five minutes.

  Pile 2: Out in a week after we’ve done a little more shopping.

  Pile 3: Can stay on condition of good behaviour and for when you are hanging out with other super-geeks.

  Pile 4: Can wear in normal public.

  The last pile had two pairs of jeans, one flowery skirt, one flowing pink skirt and one dress. ‘Surprisingly sexy,’ Lola said, examining the black lycra dress. ‘Now stop looking as if you’ve broken your iPad. I know your mum will freak a bit. But you’ll just have to think of something. Maybe say these clothes feel tight and won’t let you top the next exam. Like whatever.’

  ‘Or maybe, you can be totally honest and tell her that you need to change your style, now that a certain cute Sri Lankan has strolled into your life.’

  ‘What,’ Maya squawked. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Lola giggled. ‘I have an inbuilt crush-o-meter. You can’t fool me. Anyway, see you Monday. Owl, black tank top, pink skirt, loose hair clipped on the side. OK, got to go now.’

  Lola turned rosy with pleasure when Mrs Anand hurried to the door with a Tupperware box. ‘Lemon rice and chutney for your dinner,’ Mrs Anand explained. ‘Very simple, but you should eat home-cooked food sometimes.’

  ‘Thank you. So sweet of you,’ Lola burbled as she got into the lift. ‘Byeeee.’

  ‘Give the box to Maya on Monday,’ Mrs Anand instructed.

  Maya smiled at her mother. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being so sweet to Lola.’

  ‘I’m happy you have a new friend, Maya,’ Mrs Anand said. ‘And I felt sorry for Lalitanjali. I know you girls feel that your mothers are pains but she actually seems to be missing her mother.’

  Maya retreated into her bedroom and tried to read ‘Stargirl’ but was too distracted. Her phone was pregnant with messages – and she could hardly avoid them for the rest of her life. So Maya put down the book and picked up her phone. There were 27 WhatsApp messages waiting for her.

  Most were on the school chat, wishing Sunday a super happy, fabulous birthday.

  There were three Sanayas in Maya’s class. Sanaya D was called Sunday. Sanaya R. was called Sunray. Sanaya B. was shy and invisible. Nobody called her anything much.

  That left messages from two other numbers. One was unfamiliar. The other ended in 8787. With clumsy fingers, Maya pressed on it.

  ‘Howz the weather in Pine View today?’

  ‘Btw purple’s not your colour.’

  ‘Bruises turn purple.’

  ‘So give it to us. Now.’

  Maya’s heart jumped into her throat and she sank down on her bed. What did they want? What was going on? Were they trying to scare her away?

  Well, they had succeeded. She couldn’t deal with this taunting and stalking anymore. She was going to tell Professor Kekobad that she was out. What difference did it make to her if Owais and Amara and that girl with the green eyes—Pratik Purohit’s friend—stayed young for another 100 years? Good for them.

  Sniffling and feeling calmer, she checked the second number. ‘Veda here,’ it said. ‘Just reading fld. Will speak 2 t. Need 2 chat.’

  ‘What on earth?’ Maya wondered. ‘How am I supposed to know fld? Who’s t? Anyway
, it’s not my business any longer. I’m not a part of this anymore. I’m going to call and tell Veda right now. They can manage without me.’

  Maya pressed Veda’s number. The phone rang thrice before Veda answered.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ she said, sounding flustered. ‘Maya. You’ve heard.’

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Maya, ‘I called to tell you that I—’

  ‘He’s in a coma,’ Veda said, and her voice broke. ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who?’ Maya asked bewildered, ‘Who’s in a coma?’

  ‘Wagle, of course?’

  ‘Wagle. Who’s Wagle?’

  ‘The assistant librarian, of course,’ Veda said waspishly. ‘You really are slow today. He was closing the library last evening when somebody attacked him. There was a struggle and he fell or jumped from the window. He landed in the quadrangle. It must have happened just seven or eight minutes after we left the college yesterday. They say he might die.’

  ‘Who attacked him?’

  ‘The Shadows?’ Veda sounded exasperated.

  ‘But … but … why would the Shadows attack the assistant librarian. How do you know it’s them?’ Maya wailed. She couldn’t bring herself to use the man’s name. Wagle seemed a very inappropriate name for a man in a coma.

  ‘Because there was something in the library that they wanted,’ Veda said. ‘But poor Wagle’s not very clever. He’s good with the stamping and shelving and routine. But he would never know where Father Lorenzo’s memoirs were kept.’

  ‘The memoirs,’ Maya yelped, forgetting that she no longer cared. ‘They’ve got the memoirs?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Veda said. ‘The memoirs are with me. I sent you a message. Don’t you read your messages?’

  ‘You sent me a message saying something about some …

  f t p …’

  ‘Flm,’ Veda scolded. ‘Father Lorenzo’s Memoirs. I checked out the diary at lunchtime. Then in the evening the Shadows must have gone to find it. They must have been furious that Wagle couldn’t help them and so attacked him. Poor, poor man.’

  ‘But do the Shadows know that you have the memoirs?’ Maya asked.