The Astral Alibi

by Manjiri Prabhu

  Sonia stood beside Jatin as they watched the news report.

  “Pandit Raujibua Dharkar, fondly known as Panditji, was seventy-five. He had been suffering from a grave illness for the past several years. Panditji had performed all round the world, taking Indian music on the international circuit. He is survived by a wife and a daughter. Offering condolence to his family, the Prime Minister has expressed his grief, saying that the country has lost a great Maestro. His death is not only a great loss to Indian music but to the whole world. The Chief Minister…”

  Sonia turned as Mohnish entered the office.

  “I just did a report on that. Such a great man!” he remarked, as the voice of the news reporter droned on in the background.

  “He put Pune on the international map,” Sonia agreed.

  “Though I don’t understand much about classical music, I do know that he was the greatest, with hundreds of students trained under him,” Jatin added, as he turned down the volume of the Television. The news report was now featuring Raujibua’s performances in various shows, and photographs of his family. “I believe he married a woman much younger than him. Didn’t he? I remember reading about it some years ago.”

  Mohnish nodded. “Mrs. Rima Dharkar is thirty years younger than he was. And a good friend of mine.”

  “Really!” Sonia couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “A couple of years ago, I did a documentary on the Dharkars. They were both very co-operative and friendly, and ever since then I’ve been in touch with them. She was a singer trained under him and she fell in love with his music and ultimately married him. She’s a wonderful lady and I have a great deal of respect for her. As a matter of fact, I’ve just come from the Dharkar residence. And I have a request from Mrs. Dharkar for you, Sonia.”

  “A request?”

  “There’s something she wishes to discuss with you immediately. I promised her that I’d pass on the message to you.”

  “Discuss what? Her husband’s death?”

  Mohnish nodded. “She didn’t go into details, but I gathered that what is concerning her is Raujibua’s passing away. I believe that it was unexpected.”

  “He was ill and old. And a heart attack doesn’t announce its arrival,” Sonia pointed out.

  Mohnish shrugged. “Why don’t you meet with her once? Surely you don’t mind….”

  “Not at all,” Sonia cut in quickly. “Today?”

  “Around four? I’ll drive you down to her residence. It’s at the foot of the Sinhagad fort.”

  Sinhagad Fort—a fort synonymous with valor—was about twenty-five kilometers south-west of Pune. Here many wars were fought to conquer the fort’s steep cliff. The famous Maratha warrior king, Chhatrapati Shivaji, wanted to take the fort from the Moguls. On the night of February 14, 1672, it was his General Tanaji Malusare who scaled the back wall of the fort and entered it with the help of a ghorpad—a monitor lizard. Only then could the Maratha troops enter and capture the fort. But in the battle, General Tanaji lost his life. A grieved Shivaji had uttered the famous words Gad aala, pan sinha gela!—The fort is ours, but the lion is gone! Since then the fort was renamed Sinhagad—Fort of the Lion—in honor of the lion-hearted Tanaji. As they left the Khadakwasla dam behind, Sonia couldn’t help but think of the history of the place. As a child she had often gone up the winding narrow ghat for picnics. The remnants of the fort offered only bits and pieces of insight into its past, but somehow the stories of valor had threaded their way into the heart of each Punekar. Besides, the ridges and forests which surrounded the fort were a trekker’s delight. Though treacherously dangerous during the monsoons.

  The Dharkar estate sprawled on the same hill as the majestic Sinhagad Fort. In the centre of the land stood the Dharkar residence—the compact, modest bungalow of the famous classical singer. Single-room cottages flanked either side of the bungalow. These were the abodes of the resident students. As Mohnish’s car drove through the gate, Jatin expelled a soft whistle.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed.

  “It sure does look ideal, doesn’t it?” Mohnish agreed.

  “And it all belongs to Mrs. Dharkar now. Do they have any children?” Sonia asked.

  Mohnish shook his head. “None their own. A daughter from Mrs. Dharkar’s previous marriage. That’s why they always treated his students as children. Some of them have trained and resided in these cottages for years! You’ll meet three of them today, I believe.”

  Mohnish drove the car to the front door. A knot of people in a variety of white attires were murmuring in low voices. Others ambled along the garden aimlessly. Mohnish led Sonia and Jatin past them, into the spacious hall. A big photograph of Raujibua Dharkar was set up in the centre of the room. Garlands almost hid the wrinkled but pleasant, smiling face of the old man. The strong smell of chandan incense sticks mixed with a melancholy air of sadness. As the three paused awkwardly at the entrance of the hall, a woman detached herself from one of the groups of people. She was tall and in her forties. A white cotton sari was looped over her slightly overweight frame. A thick long plait swung below her waist, as she approached them with slow, heavy steps.

  “Mohnish!” her soft, sweet voice called out.

  “Namaste Rimaji, I want you to meet Sonia Samarth. Sonia, Mrs. Dharkar—or Rimaji, as I call her. And this is Sonia’s colleague, Jatin.”

  Swollen eyes, red-rimmed with shed tears, turned on Sonia. “I’m so glad you could make it,” Mrs. Rima Dharkar murmured. “I can’t talk to you with all these relatives around, so anxious to help and yet at a loss what to do. Please follow me to the music room.”

  She turned and they followed her into another room, much larger and more imposing than the hall. The high walls were adorned with life-size portraits of the singers in the family, along with a variety of musical instruments. A sitar, tabla, and dagga, harmonium, a violin, and a guitar. Thick, white floor-hugging mattresses which could accommodate at least twenty students covered the length of the floor. A mattress with two oversize cushions rested against the wall.

  “This was Raujibua’s favourite room, where he liked to do his riyaz and teach his students. I can’t believe that he is not amongst us.” Mrs. Dharkar sighed. “Please, sit down. I hope you don’t mind sitting on the mattress?”

  Mrs. Dharkar sat down on Raujibua’s seat, while the others settled cross-legged opposite her.

  “Rimaji, you wanted to discuss something…” Sonia began.

  The Maestro’s wife nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how to put this….” She paused delicately, then continued, “It’s a strange feeling that I’ve got. That my husband needn’t have died like he did.”

  “What exactly do you mean? He had a heart attack, didn’t he?” Sonia confirmed.

  “Yes, he did. But…I know that I’m going to sound foolish saying this, but I have a terrible feeling about this whole thing. That something is not right. Something I ought to know but don’t. Something somehow connected with my husband’s death.”

  “Do you have any concrete suspicions? Anything which may hint at foul play?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the older woman replied with a sigh. “Does that mean that what I feel instinctively is just a figment of my imagination?”

  “Not necessarily,” Sonia admitted. “Sometimes when you don’t have information, you have to rely on instinct. Can you tell me about the inhabitants of this house?”

  Mrs. Dharkar nodded. “First I must tell you about our children—Raujibua’s disciples. Sumeet, Kirit, and Bishan have lived with us for several years, studying classical music under Raujibua. They call him Guruji and me Guruma and they have been like our own children. Recently all three completed their training and just yesterday they were to leave us to begin a new life on their own. They were very devoted to their Guruji, specially Sumeet. But for the last few months, there have been…how should I put it…certain disagreements. Petty jealousies, arguments, and dissatisfaction…”

  “Dissatisfaction?” Sonia prodded for more detai
ls.

  Again, Mrs. Dharkar nodded. “Nothing very drastic, of course, and no vulgar display of jealousy, either. But I could sense the undercurrents. You see, even though Raujibua treated all his students equally, he was bound to have a favourite. Someone he would’ve wanted to carry on his name as a Guruji. And he had chosen Sumeet. And—I must say this—his choice was faultless. Sumeet is a wonderful boy. Disciplined, and a superb singer. Sumeet is definitely the right person to carry on his Guruji’s name. But unfortunately Bishan and Kirit did not seem to share our view. Both are good singers, too. But you need something more than good singing. A commitment, an involvement. And Raujibua knew his students well enough to know the difference.”

  A tall, dusky girl in her twenties swept into the music room, her eyes searching for Mrs. Dharkar. Her features were sharp and she was a spitting image of the older woman.

  “What is it, Vandana?” Mrs. Dharkar asked at once, sounding concerned.

  “There are people outside who have waited a long time to offer their condolences to you.” Vandana spoke hesitantly. Her curious eyes flicked over Sonia and Jatin.

  “I’ll be with them in a minute.” Mrs. Dharkar turned to Sonia apologetically. “Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s no problem, we’ll wait.”

  As the two women walked out of the room, Sonia glanced at Mohnish, an eyebrow raised in inquiry.

  “Her daughter, from her first marriage,” he explained. “Vandana is into computers, but has learnt classical singing from Raujibua. Although I don’t think she has much of a musical voice. Still, he insisted that, as per the tradition of his house, she had to learn.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Dharkar returned, smiling faintly. “I’m sorry about that. But Raujibua has so many well-wishers. All wishing to help. All so sincere, but it does take its toll on me. I don’t know how I am going to see it through these next few days. Of course, Vandana and the three boys are a tremendous help. Specially Sumeet. He really loved his Guruji. My husband had been suffering for several years. He had a very complicated health condition which got worse because of a weak heart. These last few years, Sumeet insisted on dismissing all the nurses and looked after Raujibua himself. Administering his medicine, accompanying him for walks, and ensuring his regular dose of exercise—his own son would not have served Raujibua better than Sumeet did.”

  Mrs. Dharkar’s eyes moistened. “But I’m straying from the main point. I was telling you how Kirit and Bishan were jealous of Sumeet. All three are exceptionally talented, but it has been obvious that Sumeet does have an edge over the others. And three days ago, my husband discovered that Bishan has been indulging in all those things that traditionally a disciple should refrain from during training. I believe Bishan said something to Raujibua which angered my husband and upset him so much that he threatened to disown Bishan. Yesterday, Raujibua was very restless. When I asked him what the matter was, he said people are not always what they seem and the best of people can give you pain and hurt. The argument with Bishan had really affected him deeply. The three of them had gifted him with an audio CD, and unfortunately it was while listening to it last evening, around seven, that he had a massive heart attack.”

  Sudden tears welled up once more in her eyes. The others maintained a respectful silence as she grappled with the reality of her loss. At length, she shook her head. “It’s going to be really hard to live life without him.”

  “But why do you feel that something’s not right here?” Sonia persisted.

  “For the simple reason that it was most unexpected and shocking. Because the Doctors had assured me that if the medication continued, nothing would happen to my husband for at least a couple of years.”

  “Perhaps his medication…”

  “No, Sumeet took special care of it. Raujibua did not miss a single dose. And I was also there to supervise and keep an eye on things. It was definitely nothing to do with careless medication.”

  “Doctors can go wrong in their diagnosis,” Sonia pointed out, very gently.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I’m not convinced,” Mrs. Dharkar remarked. “My one solace is that he passed away listening to music, as was his most dear wish.”

  Sonia nodded in sympathy. “Rimaji, what do you want me to do?”

  “I know you think that Raujibua’s passing away is completely natural. And that I am making an issue out of nothing. But I still would like you to investigate the matter—privately, of course. Talk to people, do whatever you think necessary, but satisfy me that I am wrong and that no mischief featured in my husband’s death!”

  Sonia flashed Mohnish a glance. “I understand that you’re upset, Rimaji. And that you think life has been unfair in taking your husband away from you before his time. And I’m willing to look into this for your sake. But to remove your misgivings may be easier than you think.”

  The other woman nodded. “At least it will clear my doubts. Please, just go ahead and do that. Prove that my suspicions and my instincts are incorrect!”

  “All right.” Sonia sighed. “Can I meet Kirit, Bishan, and Sumeet?”

  “Right away?”

  “If it’s possible. Not together, of course, and preferably in their rooms or cottages. I believe they have their own rooms here?”

  “Yes. This is their home. They have single-room cottages but they take their meals with the family. Give me a minute while I send Vandana to organize the meetings.”

  Mrs. Dharkar rose and exited from the Hall of Music. Sonia turned to Mohnish and Jatin.

  “Instinct stronger than evidence? Not the first time I’ve come across such a situation,” she remarked. “But this time, what if instinct wins over evidence? What if instinct is proved accurate?”

  Kirit stood by the bed, in the simply furnished room. A tambora—a musical instrument—rested against the wall. Jatin perched on the bed, which was covered with a pink-checked bedsheet. Sonia sat on a chair by the table, her hand casually riffling through the photos placed on it. A copper-plated ornate double photo frame took a prominent place on the table. Kirit’s face smiled back from one frame, but the other side was empty. Which of these snaps was going to be put on the other half of the photo frame, she wondered idly. She studied the minimal decorations of the room and Kirit’s neat appearance.

  Kirit was in his late twenties. Square-rimmed glasses sat on a chiseled nose. A pronounced jawline gave him the look of an athlete. But he was an artist. And it was evident when he spoke, soft-voiced and musical.

  “I can’t begin to tell you what I feel about Guruji’s passing away. It’s a shock and a terrible one!” Kirit sighed, moist-eyed.

  “You have been training with him—for how many years?” Sonia asked.

  “Ten years. I did go back home, on and off, but I’ve spent a large part of the last ten years slogging to achieve an accomplished singer’s status.”

  “And you think that you are finally there?”

  “Guruji thought so. That’s why he declared that my training was complete. I am now free to step out into the world and establish myself with the singing of Gwalior Gharana.”

  Sadness tinged his tone. He stared down at his square-nailed fingers, hesitating. As if making up his mind. He glanced up.

  “Guruma said that I could speak my mind to you. But how can I tell you that I feel so incomplete, so horrible? There was so much I would’ve said to Guruji. I never got a chance to tell him how much I appreciated what he did for me. I was caught up with unimportant ideas—thoughts, feelings that I had no right to feel. I believed that I was justified in what I thought, but I realise now that nothing justifies going against your teacher’s wishes. I have failed him in many ways. I have failed my father, because that was what Guruji was to me. He was like a father to me—to all of us.”

  Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. “I wish I had listened to him! He was right and I was wrong!”

  Jatin flashed his Boss a look. She was staring at Kirit, puzzled.

 
“Raujibua was right about what?” she asked the young man.

  “About everything,” the singer mumbled. “About everything!”

  The tiny yellow flowers of the mustard field bobbed with the wind. Vandana led Sonia and Jatin past the yawning hole of a huge stone well, then up a narrow mud path.

  “I’m sure Bishan is here, since I couldn’t find him anywhere at all. He is prone to swinging moods and I’ve often found him in his favourite spot. Behind the water pump shed. Look—there he is.” Vandana pointed out a lone figure leaning against a Banyan tree. “Will you wait here a minute, Miss Samarth? I’ll just explain Mom’s request to him.”

  Sonia nodded. She watched Vandana trudge over the path and tap Bishan on the shoulder. There was something about the girl that was rather appealing. Her confidence, the way she held her head?

  “A rupee for your thoughts, Boss!” Jatin said. He picked up a stalk of straw and chewed on it.

  “Just wondering if we are wasting our time.”

  “Boss, a case is a case. Even if it is to prove that there is no case!” He grinned.

  “Right!” She returned his smile, as she watched Vandana retrace her steps.

  “Go ahead, Miss Samarth,” the girl said. “But be warned. He almost snapped my head off!” A faint smile curved her lips.

  “Thanks!”

  “You can find your way back to the house, can’t you?”

  “Oh yes, we can, don’t worry. But it would be good if we could meet Sumeet immediately after this.”

  Sonia and Jatin turned and headed towards Bishan. Black wavy hair was prematurely peppered with grey. His white kurta encased broad shoulders.

  His deep black eyes glinted with anger. “What do you want?” he demanded harshly.

  Sonia raised surprised eyebrows at his hostile tone.

  “Didn’t Vandana explain? We’d like to talk to you.”

  “Why? Why did Guruma ask me to speak to you? I don’t know you. You are not even connected with the family!”

  “Perhaps because sometimes talking to an outsider helps relieve the grief?” Sonia suggested mildly. She chose a flat stone to sit on and motioned Jatin to do the same.