What Maya Saw

by Shabnam Minwalla

  ‘Are you serious?’ Aadil asked in high-pitched alarm. ‘Why? Who? I’m liking this business less and less with every passing second.’

  ‘I don’t know who it was,’ Maya answered, rubbing the tender spot on her forehead. ‘I fell and blacked out. But I think I know why. The Shadows think I have Father Lorenzo’s diary. Maybe they were hoping that I was carrying it around in my satchel.’

  Veda looked triumphant. ‘Well, at least they didn’t get it. You don’t seem badly hurt. But you must have been frightened.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Maya agreed. ‘But they took away my pad. The one in which I was working out the … the … clues in the chapel.’

  ‘You found a clue?’ Aadil asked, dropping his BBC-commentator accent for an unguarded moment.

  ‘Just one,’ Maya said. ‘Though I don’t really know what it means.’

  She stood up and limped to the mosaic border that ran along the walls of the chapel. ‘Do you know what this pattern is?’ she asked, running her finger along the small, smooth tiles.

  ‘It’s a Greek pattern,’ Veda said, sounding as if she was going to launch into a TED talk on mosaics.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Maya interjected. ‘But the name of this pattern?’

  Veda furrowed her brows. Aadil shook his head. ‘Do enlighten us,’ he said.

  ‘It’s called the Greek Key Design,’ Maya replied.

  Veda and Aadil looked thunderstruck.

  ‘So is this the venerable padre’s way of telling us we’re on the right track?’ asked Aadil.

  ‘Good work Maya,’ Veda said with grudging respect. ‘Pity you let them get your pad though. Now the Shadows know as much as we do.’

  ‘I couldn’t really help it,’ Maya bristled. ‘It isn’t really my fault that they think Father Lorenzo’s diary’s with me.’

  Veda had the grace to look guilty for a nanosecond, before she walked to the chapel wall and started tracing the mosaic border. ‘Let’s look at it closely. If there’s a variation in the pattern,’ she said, ‘it might tell us something.’

  That made sense. Maya headed to the other side of the room and followed the pattern. The walls of the chapel were painted cream. The red-and-black mosaic ran along all the walls, about four feet from the floor, and she followed the pattern with her finger.

  Aadil spoke into the tense silence. ‘Veda, my strawberry,’ he said, ‘have you started reading the diary of …’

  ‘Shhhh,’ both girls whipped around and hissed.

  ‘A bit paranoid, aren’t we?’ Aadil quipped.

  ‘Tell that to Wagle,’ Veda barked.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ Maya said, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. ‘That girl Minty—you know that cute, tiny girl who is a model in a TV ad—she’s also one of them. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. So now there are four Shadows that we know of. Owais, Amara, Minty … and that Girl with Green Eyes. I—’

  ‘Minty is a Shadow?’ Aadil interrupted in wintry tones. ‘I find that a little difficult to swallow. Anyway, to get back to my question. Have you started reading that-which-must-not-be -mentioned?’

  ‘Yes,’ Veda said.

  ‘And have you found anything, my monosyllabic mangosteen?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Veda said, before nodding at Maya. ‘Anything?’

  ‘No,’ Maya said. ‘Not a stone out of place.’

  The mosaic border ran along the entire room till it terminated on either side of the carved wooden screen that stood behind the altar. ‘There’s nothing in the mosaic, but maybe the clue is in the screen,’ Veda said. ‘It could be that the mosaic is leading us to the screen.’

  ‘Could be,’ Maya agreed.

  ‘Maybe and maybe not,’ Aadil sniggered. ‘On the one hand, on the other hand. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.’

  ‘What IS your problem?’ Veda snapped. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful? You’re the filmmaker. You’re the one who knows all about symbolism. So get up and help here.’

  Aadil approached the screen with reluctance. Maya looked over his shoulder at the wealth of carvings, but all she could see in the grey light was a profusion of leaves, wreaths and flowers. ‘It’s too dark here,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to see the details.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Veda said, producing her phone, training a beam of light on the wooden screen and moving it across the carved leaves and flowers. For two long minutes, all they could identify were more leaves and flowers and curly tendrils. Maya had almost lost hope when Aadil exclaimed, ‘Stop. Move a bit lower. There. Can you see it?’

  Maya peered – and realised that camouflaged amongst the vines and tendrils was the figure of a woman with clasped hands and a flowing gown. Veda directed the light at the face, which bore a distinctly pious expression. Seconds later, they spotted the second figure. Also female, also demurely dressed and prayerful, but this time holding a lamp.

  Five minutes later, they had identified seven figures on the screen – all women in gowns standing in a row with angelic expressions. ‘Not bad,’ Maya cheered.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s quite a clue we’ve found,’ Aadil scoffed. ‘A bunch of holy women standing in a line.’

  ‘We still haven’t looked at the bottom part of the screen,’ Veda protested. ‘There might be something there.’

  ‘More prayerful characters,’ Aadil predicted. ‘We’re wasting our time.’

  Veda hmppphed and started examining the bottom half of the screen. The torch stopped at the very moment that Maya squealed and pointed. Tucked away among the foliage was a face the size of a CD. Far from being good and holy, however, its expression was haughty and leering.

  ‘You’re wrong, Aadil,’ Veda said. ‘This face is anything but prayerful.’

  ‘Very unpleasant, as is the company it keeps,’ Aadil admitted as the torch revealed another face, wearing a contorted, sly expression. Then another that looked downright murderous.

  Minutes later, they had counted seven evil, sneering faces. ‘Seven gentlemen you’d not want to meet on a dark night,’ Aadil shrugged. ‘But then, I’m not sure you’d want to meet the seven simpering ladies either.’

  Veda didn’t laugh. She just stared at Aadil and said, ‘Seven.’

  ‘Yes seven,’ Aadil quipped. ‘As in seven colours of the rainbow, The Magnificent Seven, the Seven Samurais, the Seven Deadly Sins, the—’

  ‘Exactly. The Seven Deadly Sins and the Seven Virtues.’

  Veda tapped on her phone, nattering about the poor signal and dongles and wifi. ‘Here,’ she finally exclaimed. ‘These are the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride, envy, wrath, gluttony, lust, sloth and greed. In my opinion, this face is Wrath. And this is Gluttony. See, it’s stuffing grapes into its mouth.’

  Maya leaned forward to look at Gluttony. He had a round face with pouchy cheeks – like an obese squirrel. And he was smirking as he smashed a bunch of grapes into his gaping mouth.

  Gluttony reminded her of something. Before she could seize the elusive thought, however, Aadil snickered, ‘Veda, my melon, you and your invaluable opinion are right again. But does it really mean anything? Is it at all surprising that a Church should have a panel displaying the virtues and sins? It’s a bit like a bakery advertising chocolate cake. Why’s it worthy of attention?’

  Veda looked crushed, but only for a moment. ‘I think it’s important,’ she maintained. ‘I can’t figure it out exactly but there is some connection … with something I read … I have to check.’

  The uncertain silence was broken when Aadil jumped to his feet. ‘I’m not sure we can do this,’ he erupted. ‘I’m not sure we should do this.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Aadil?’ Veda asked. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful and difficult?’

  Aadil looked apoplectic. ‘The problem is that I’m not convinced. I’m being plagued by questions that nobody cares to answer. Why are we looking for the keys? If the potion is so dangerous, why don’t we just destroy it? If we find the keys, what will we do with the stuff anyway?�
��

  Maya nodded. The same questions had been scratching away at her like an itchy sweater. She didn’t like Aadil, but he made sense.

  Veda, though, looked exasperated and said in her most superior voice, ‘In my opinion, there’s no such thing as magic. So there’s no such thing as a magical potion. I believe that there’s a scientific explanation for it.’

  ‘So?’ Aadil asked.

  ‘So,’ Veda replied, ‘don’t you think the liquid should be analysed? It might prove invaluable to scientists. It may help to cure people, to advance medicine. I think that’s what Father Lorenzo would have wanted.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Aadil applauded, more sarcastic than ever. ‘So now you have a hotline to the dear departed priest. How soul-cleansing for you.’

  Veda took a deep breath. ‘Laugh if you want Aadil but that’s what I believe.’

  ‘Maybe, my guava,’ Aadil shrugged. ‘But I don’t have to go along with Your Opinion this time.’

  ‘Anyway, do we have an option?’ Maya asked, trying to play peacemaker.

  ‘No,’ Veda replied. ‘We can hardly run away from St Paul’s forever. And even if we do, they know where Maya lives. They’re becoming more violent. They’re desperate to get hold of the diary. I don’t want to sit around waiting for them to throw me out of a window. I just want to finish this. Let’s just find the keys and end all of this.’

  ‘Let me say my piece,’ Aadil interrupted. ‘First, I’m not convinced about this quest business. Unlike you, I don’t devote my waking hours to books about moronic do-gooders spending weeks eating stale bread and walking to the Mountain of Magic Rocks or the Keeper of the Healing Cauldron in order to save the world.’

  ‘Second, there is no reason why I should believe Maya. With all due respect, she could be hallucinating. We don’t know anything about her. I was willing to accept that Amara and Owais were wierdos. But now you tell us that Minty is a Shadow too.’

  ‘I don’t buy it. Minty’s my buddy. She’s great. She’s trying to introduce me to some people in advertising. This could be the start of my career. I refuse to believe that she’s some kind of zombie-with-a-twist. She’s caring and really nice.’

  ‘They’ve gotten to you,’ Veda said. ‘Aadil, can’t you see they’ve gotten to you?’

  Aadil ignored her. ‘Third. Even if all that you say is true, they might know that Maya is some sort of Shadow Hunter. But what do they know about me? Nothing. Nada. Kuch nahi. And I’d prefer it that way.’

  ‘And as for the two of you, I suggest you drop the Lara Croft act. Just give them the diary and end things once and for all. Ta ta, bye bye. Have a nice 111 years.’

  In a secret part of her soul, Maya was sorely tempted. ‘But will they let us go so easily?’ she wondered aloud. ‘I just keep feeling that till we get hold of that liquid we won’t be safe again.’

  ‘Also, they’re killers!’ Veda exclaimed. ‘I can’t even bear to think about what has happened to Father Furtado. And Wagle.’

  ‘Granted, my persimmon, they are killers. But I don’t want to be their next killee.’

  Aadil shouldered his backpack and walked out of the door as the lunch bell rang. Veda followed him in a flurry of turquoise blue and hurt.

  Maya took one last look at the wooden screen before she stepped into the merciless heat of the quadrangle. Something about the screen was important. But the moment she tried to seize it, the thought slithered away.

  In the canteen, there was no sign of Lola, Owais or Amara.

  There was no sign of Sanath either – which made no difference because Maya was officially off him. Or so she told herself about 17 times a minute.

  Maya sat at a table, exhausted and sad. The bump on her head throbbed. Her ankle ached and her shoulder felt sore. The Schezuan-sauce-and-aloo-bhaji smell turned her stomach.

  Blinking and sniffing, she hurried out of the college, flopped into a taxi and headed home. She was waiting for the elevator at Pine View when the chowkidar came running to her with an agitated expression.

  ‘Mishter very sick,’ he panted.

  ‘What?’ Maya asked, befuddled.

  ‘Mishter Doggie very sick,’ the chowkidar repeated in Hindi.

  ‘What happened?’ Maya asked, as she charged alongside the chowkidar. Mr Pinkwhistle was never sick.

  ‘One laddij and her small daughter had come for meeting Ranglani saab,’ the chowkidar explained in his customary mix of Hindi and almost-English. ‘I took the laddij to Ranglani Saab’s office. Then I came out to water plants, and I found Mishter. He was vomiting and crying. I think somebody gave him bad food. He is so weak he can’t walk.’

  ‘What did the woman look like?’ Maya asked, unable to digest a word of what the chowkidar was saying.

  ‘She was a young madam,’ the chowkidar said noncommittally. ‘She was wearing pants. She was mother of small girl. She didn’t look like danger log.’

  ‘Was there anybody else around?’ Maya asked. ‘Mr Pinkwhistle never takes food from strange adults. Maybe one of the neighbours gave him something.’

  The chowkidar clucked in dismay. ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ he reiterated.

  Maya ran across the last stretch of the compound and flung herself down near Mr Pinkwhistle, who was lying listlessly in a corner near a pool of vomit and half-masticated Cheesling biscuits.

  Maya stopped short. Only she gave the dog Cheeslings. It was a part of their bond. ‘Who gave you these biscuits?’ she sobbed. ‘Mr Pinkwhistle, why did you take food from strangers? What has happened to you?’

  The dog looked up at Maya, his brown eyes brimming with love. He raised his head with enormous effort and licked her green slipper. Then his head flopped down. ‘Mr Pinkwhistle,’ Maya cajoled. ‘Look at me, Mr Pinkwhistle.’

  But the dog just whimpered and shivered.

  ‘Hold on, Mr Pinkwhistle,’ Maya begged, choking with dread. ‘I’m calling the vet. Just wait 15 minutes. Please just hold on. You’re my best friend, Mister P. Please be okay.’

  She galloped to the elevator, charged into her house and rushed to find the number of the clinic. She was punching the number into her phone when the doorbell rang.

  It was the chowkidar.

  There was no point calling the vet. Mr Pinkwhistle was dead.

  CHAPTER 19

  A pearly light was seeping into the room when Maya woke up the next morning. Her eyes were raw and her heart ached. But her head was clear and her thoughts focused.

  Suddenly, this had become a personal battle. The Shadows would pay for what they had done to innocent, kind Mr Pinkwhistle.

  Anger zinged through Maya like an electric shock as she lay in bed. She remembered the message from the 8787 number. ‘This time it was the dog. Next time it will be you.’

  The memory of that message—and of Mr Pinkwhistle’s last lick—filled Maya with blazing determination. Lying very still, Maya recreated the chapel in her head, recalling details with uncanny clarity. Her fury had ripped through a veil of confusion and she was able to visualise the procession of virtuous ladies and wicked faces, carved on that dusty wooden screen. Envy looked sly and dangerous. Wrath looked angry. Gluttony was stuffing his face with grapes … grapes … grapes … something about the grapes …

  Of course.

  One of the gargoyles in the quadrangle was also stuffing its mouth with grapes.

  Maya leapt out of bed, her head buzzing with ideas. Was there a connection between the screen in the chapel and the gargoyles in the quadrangle? Could the gargoyles be based on the seven vices and virtues as well? And if they were, did it mean anything? Hadn’t Professor Kekobad said something about one of the gargoyles being smashed last month?

  In the kitchen, Mrs Anand was reading the newspaper and holding a jumbo mug of coffee. She looked perturbed when Maya wandered into the room. ‘You’re up early,’ she said. ‘Are you fine? Are you feeling a bit better? Do you want to stay home today?’

  ‘No,’ Maya said, gratefully sipping the coffee that her mo
ther handed her. ‘In fact, I need to go early to St Paul’s. Group assignment.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Anand asked, taking in the puffy eyes and the bruised forehead. ‘Yesterday was a bad day, what with your fall and … and Mr Pinkwhistle …’

  ‘I’m fine. Can we leave in half an hour?’

  ‘I’d planned to make pancakes for you,’ Mrs Anand said. ‘But that’s all right. You eat Chocos. I’ll get ready. If you need me at any time in the morning, just call. I’m designing a logo for a new playschool so I’ll be at home.’

  Maya fixed herself a bowl of Chocos. Then she showered, pulled on a grey t-shirt and sensible jeans and tied her hair with a fat orange scrunchy.

  Twenty minutes later she was in the silent, empty quadrangle of St Paul’s, looking up to see the gargoyles that embellished the tops of two buildings. The grimacing stone figures jutted out from the walls, just beneath the roofs of the two structures that made up the longer sides of the quadrangle. Maya looked up at them, then crossing her fingers, she began to count.

  Seven on one side, seven on the other.

  Maya sat down under an arch and pulled out a crisp, white pad. Then craning her neck she examined the gargoyles, one at a time.

  At first all the gargoyles looked grotesque and cat-like. But a closer inspection revealed distinct personalities. The first feline face wore a haughty expression. The second was twisted and screwed up. The third was agape with fury. The fourth was stuffing grapes into its mouth …

  Maya checked her list and felt a tickle of excitement. Pride. Envy. Wrath. Gluttony. Lust. Sloth. Greed. They tallied perfectly with the Seven Deadly Sins.

  Greed had lost a bit of its head and body. Could it be the gargoyle that had been vandalised about a month ago? The one that Professor Kekobad had told them about?

  Maya stood up and crossed the quadrangle so she could see the gargoyles that looked down from the opposite building. Here, too, the faces were fantastical. But the expressions were benign – or as benign as a distorted, cat-like face can be.

  Again Maya referred to her list: Prudence, Justice, Temperance, Courage, Faith, Hope and Charity.