Monsoon Memories (24 page)

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you. Soon. I promise. As soon as I get a reply.’

‘Oh, Aunty, that’s not fair…’

‘I know.’ And with a kiss on the tip of her nose, ‘You have to learn to be patient.’

‘I hate adults. Always giving advice. Never sticking to…’ Huffing, she stormed to her room for the second time in two consecutive days, shut the door and, ignoring her mother: ‘What’s the matter now?!’ opened Shirin’s third—hefty—letter.

A thought occurred to her as she read, ‘Dearest Anu,’ and she stopped short. The reason for Aunt Anita’s mysterious joy. It wasn’t the obvious: Uncle Uttam calling to make up. So… could it be? She tried to recall precisely what Aunt Anita had said. Something about a) an email and b) a coincidence. Was it possible that the email was from Aunt Shirin? What was it Aunt Anita had said? ‘I’ll tell you as soon as I get a reply.’ Was she waiting on Aunt Shirin’s permission to tell her, Reena, all? Or was Reena jumping the gun?
I’ll try and get it out of Aunt Anita.
Heart thudding with excitement, she walked to the door of her room. Voices. Her mother: ‘Hormones kicking in, that’s what it is.’ No. She was better off staying in her room.
I hope she replies now, if it is her, and I’m sure it is. Who else could it be?

IMPORTANT NOTE: This detective thinks there has been a breakthrough in the case.
That Shirin has corresponded with Anita via email.
Watch this space.

Extracts from letter 3:

1) Subject breaks up with Tariq:

Anu, it was wonderful to see you at Christmas. You have changed, you know. You have gained a new sophistication and that makes you seem more beautiful somehow—if that is possible. I saw a different side to you this time. I saw you in love. Throughout your holiday (how odd that from now on, your childhood home is a place you come to on holiday!), you looked a little lost, as if you had misplaced something and were looking for it.

I am glad you were there when Aunt Winnie came with the amazing news that Vinod has agreed to marry me. Did you see Ma’s face light up? I’ve never seen her so happy, so relieved. For that reason above all else, I am pleased to be marrying Vinod.

The night before you left, when you urged me to run away with Tariq—‘Follow your heart for once, Shirin!’—I couldn’t reply. ‘You’re too sensible, too duty-bound,’ you said, exasperated by my silence. I’ve always been more eloquent on paper than in person, so I’ll try and explain now. I think I love Tariq, but I’m not in love with him, the way you are with Uttam. (Yes, I pinched that line from one of my books, but it does explain how I feel. I’ve had plenty of time to analyse my feelings, especially after seeing you, hearing you talk about your Uttam.) That is why I will not run away with Tariq. When the rejections from suitors were coming in droves, I was tempted to take up Tariq’s offer. And then, I asked myself, would it be worth being disowned by my family, causing scandal, being responsible for you not having any suitors because you belonged to a disgraced family? Could I live with the guilt? And would it be fair on Tariq if I ran away with him not so much because I loved him but because of my situation?

The day after it all got confirmed and Ma sat me down and told me I could finish my degree after marriage if Vinod wanted me to, but for now I was stopping college and concentrating on preparations for the wedding, I saw Tariq for the last time. He knew our story had a time limit, a predestined ending. He had always known. We were standing under the banyan tree by the bus stop. He touched my hand as the bus came and the conductor hopped off with an ear-splitting whistle. ‘Be happy,’ he said. I watched him through the back window: the branches of the banyan tree sweeping the ground around him, his arm raised, palm outwards as if in surrender, until the bus turned a corner, the conductor muttering something in Tulu about foolish young love as I sniffed and accepted my ticket.

I miss him.

NOTES: A thought just occurred to this detective: a possibility which might just be the truth and explain Mai’s shunning of Shirin. A possibility that this detective does not want to contemplate as she has grown to like Shirin. Very much. But a good detective considers
everything
. So here goes: Did Shirin find love—Aunt Anita and Uncle Uttam kind of love—after her marriage, with someone
other than her husband
? Or perhaps she discovered that she missed Tariq too much and ran away with him
after marriage
?

2) This extract describes Shirin’s first visit to her future in-laws’ house:

We set off in Navarathna Travels—
Super Deluxe—
the Friday after you left. Madhu cooked jackfruit poli and patholi; Ma bought chakulis, halwa, holige and chikki from Best Bakery in Pelam: gifts for the future in-laws. We said the rosary and then Valli came in his rickshaw and took us to the bus stop in Mirakatte. Madhu held me close and whispered in my ear, ‘It will be okay,’ her breath tickling my cheek. As we waited for the bus, everybody in Taipur gathered to wish us luck. And I mean everybody. At half past nine in the night! Normally they would have been in bed, snoring. I suppose it is a big event, someone from Taipur marrying into the city. When the bus finally arrived, forty-five minutes late—all the well-wishers having settled down for an impromptu picnic right there in the mud, with cashew feni from the arrack shop and egg bhurji, masala puri and chilli-coated deep-fried sardines from the cart by Sanjeev medicals—we found our seats, Ma stowed our bag overhead and we sat down. But the bus didn’t move. We waited. Finally, the bus driver turned, yelling down the aisle to us, waking snoozing passengers, ‘There are people outside waiting to wave goodbye.’ I swear, Anu, it was like we were going to the moon. Anyway, Ma pushed the curtains aside, pressed her face to the window, waved. The whole village waved back. Then, and only then, did we set off, to the kind of merry cheer only capable of people drunk on cashew liquor.

Once we left Taipur behind, Ma patted my hand. ‘Sleep,’ she said. ‘You don’t want bags under your eyes tomorrow.’ She closed her eyes and was snoring in two ticks. I looked out at the silhouettes of coconut trees, the twinkling lights punctuating the darkness, the silvery wink of shadowy rivers rippling in moonlight and I wondered what the morrow would bring.

We reached Majestic bus station at dawn. Ma shook me awake. For a moment, I wondered where I was. Then I looked out the window, saw the rows and rows of buses; beggar boys darting among them jangling tin cups of coins, identical haggard expressions on their faces; women sweeping dusty platforms, sari ends tucked into hips; hawkers peddling wares—and I knew. We took the number 276 bus from Majestic to Malleshwaram and an auto from there to Vinod’s house. His house is on the corner, at the junction of two dusty, unpaved streets. There are houses on all sides and a makeshift temple—a deity carved into a brick wall, hidden by wilting garlands of flowers attracting bees and flies—opposite. Boys play gulli danda and lagori on the road; dogs and cows wander; an old lady sells peanuts in tiny paper cones, ‘
Piping hot, one rupee only
’; a drunk staggers along, singing off tune at the top of his voice, the boys giving him a wide berth; a man sits just outside the gate to Vinod’s house, aligning spokes on a bicycle tyre, a mountain of similar tyres, rubber deflated like lips caught in a permanent sneer, stacked beside him.

As our rickshaw pulled up, the boys dispersed, the drunk urinated into the ditch beside the road next to the temple, and we were surrounded, as if from nowhere, by an army of beggars—a stick-thin woman with a bedraggled child on her waist, an old man limping, a young boy, hair sticking up, shirt torn, arms extended, eyes pleading:
Amma, enadru kodi
. Vinod’s father came rushing out wearing only a lungi and vest. He opened the gate, pulled us inside, waving at the beggars, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’

Vinod’s house has a small front courtyard, three-quarters cemented, with a washing stone and tap on one side. The tiny uncemented part serves as garden: a chikku tree, a lime tree, aboli plants. Vinod’s mother welcomed us in, showed us the bathroom, urged us to freshen up. ‘Then you can have breakfast and some rest. In the afternoon, all the relatives are coming to see you.’ There was no sign of Vinod. As if she had heard my thoughts, Vinod’s mother said, ‘Vinod and Prem have gone to the factory. They’ll be back for lunch.’

Their house is not as big as ours, but Ma said, after breakfast as we lay side by side on the hard bed in the unfamiliar room and tried to hear our voices above the din from outside echoing through the thin walls—an argument; children’s laughter; vendors’ shouts, ‘
Fresh vegetables, bhendi, bhaji, tendli
’’, ‘
Ripe thothapuri mangoes
’ ,‘
Juicy lychees
’; bhajans blaring from someone’s tape-recorder—that by city standards it is huge and is worth a lot of money. ‘And it is going to be your house soon, if all goes well,’ Ma brushed my hair away from my face and looked at me with an expression of such tenderness, I squirreled it away in my heart to cherish when I need soothing.

I woke to Ma pulling on my shoulder, whispering urgently, ‘Shirin, time to dress. The relatives have come.’ I wore the orange sari; allowed Ma to pile my hair up into a bun; put kajal on my eyes. (It itches. How do you put up with it? I had to fight the urge to rub my eyes the whole time it was on.) I dutifully smiled at all the relatives, answered their many questions, tried not to notice their assessing glances, their nudges to each other when they thought we weren’t looking. Then Vinod arrived. With his brother Prem.

Vinod. What can I say? I hardly got to see him much, surrounded as I was by his many relatives. But after lunch, I looked up, sought him out and found him looking right at me. He smiled. That smile, Anu. It lights up his face. Transforms him. I blushed. I was too shy to look at him again.

There was just one thing that made me uneasy. While we were eating, I felt hot breath on my sari blouse, my back. I turned. Prem was walking away. He half turned, smirked, but did not meet my gaze. I swear he was right behind me, very close. Why? I did not see him again. It was like he’d disappeared. His parents did not mention him or comment on his absence. Neither did Vinod. But then, the house was chock-full of relatives. Perhaps that was the reason. Still, it was odd. If Deepak disappeared in the middle of a family gathering, Ma would notice, surely. Or at least one of us would. But it was as if Prem vanished into thin air. I might be making a mountain out of a molehill, but one thing is for certain: I am not sure of Prem. He’s furtive; doesn’t meet anybody’s eye. And there’s something about him...

I told Ma that later, in the evening, as we finally sank onto our seats in the Navarathna Super Deluxe for the journey home. Worry lines appeared around her eyes. ‘I know. I wasn’t sure of him, either. But the rest of the family seems nice.’ She turned to me, held my face in her hands, looked into my eyes. I mean, this is Ma, Anu. She has never done this to me before—at least, not that I remember. ‘You are marrying Vinod,’ she said. ‘And, Shirin, I talked with him today, a lot. I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry just anyone.’ Yes. She said that. ‘He’s kind. A nice boy. He will look after you.’ And I thought: I have done the right thing, not running away with Tariq. It hurts, Anu, to think about him, but I’m sure it will get better with time. He appears in my dreams and I wake up guilty that I am thinking of him when I am marrying Vinod. I will Vinod’s kind face to appear in my dreams instead. It hasn’t happened as yet. But soon, perhaps.

NOTES: This detective’s hand aches from copying out this extract. She was sorely tempted to shorten it, but dedication is the hallmark of a good detective and so she persevered. Also, this extract raises another possibility: Vinod’s brother, Prem. Shirin is unsure of him. Does he have anything to do with what happened?
Find out.

Also, on a personal note, this detective thinks Shirin is such a lemon.
Why would anyone give up a man who loves them and subject themselves to this
? This detective wants to grab Shirin, shake some sense into her.

Reena took a long time to fall asleep that night, her mind full of questions and possibilities. Aunt Anita had maintained her unusually ecstatic mood all through dinner. Reena managed to corner her just before she went to bed, on the pretext of saying goodnight. Like all good detectives, she went straight for the jugular, carefully watching Aunt Anita’s reaction. ‘The email was from Aunt Shirin, wasn’t it?’

Aunt Anita laughed, a gushing waterfall. ‘You really are something, Miss Reena Diaz. Goodnight.’

‘Oh, Aunty…’

‘And short-tempered with it. You’ll know tomorrow. If there is a reply.’ She folded her hands as if in prayer. ‘Let’s hope so. Sweet Dreams.’

When Reena finally fell asleep she dreamt. Of marriages and love and furtive men who would not meet one’s eye. Of trips to a part of Bangalore alien to her and yet strangely familiar, populated with beggar boys and deities peeking from behind fading garlands. Of a girl with pigtails and a face that Reena shared, who played hopscotch on the road kicking up clouds of dust and who begged Reena to please, please, bring her home…

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dog-Eared Diary

M
id-afternoon, just as she was in the middle of fixing another code five (extremely urgent) issue which had brought testing to a standstill—the day seemed to be filled with code fives—a message popped up on her screen with a ping. A smiley face. ‘You’ve got mail.’ She ignored it, distracted, her mind on the problem before her. It was only after she had sorted it out and testing had resumed that she checked her Outlook. And there it was.