Authors: Anish Sarkar
I looked over at D. She was dressed simply, in a fitted black tee and blue jeans. I allowed my gaze to follow the swell of her breasts, the line of her narrow waist and the curves of her full thighs. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she had no make-up on. I noticed that her shoes were pushed to one side, and she was driving barefoot.
‘Stop staring.’
‘If you insist,’ I said, turning away. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
We passed Vagator beach and continued north. I know Goa pretty well but this was now unfamiliar territory for me. A few minutes later, we came up to a rocky hill, and I could see what looked like some ruins at the crest.
D pulled over and stopped. ‘We get out here and walk.’
I looked down at my shoes with dismay. An old pair of loafers, not the best for walking and definitely not suitable for the terrain ahead. I had stepped out to withdraw money from an ATM, not for a cross-country hike.
The ground was uneven, with patches of wild grass and rocks of different sizes strewn around but thankfully, it was dry. As we tramped up the steep slope, I realised that the ruins were actually the ramparts of an ancient fort. I was out of breath by the time we reached the top but D didn’t seem exerted in the least.
I walked up to the reddish, crumbling wall and looked around—the view was spectacular. It was vaguely familiar but I was pretty sure I had never been there before. To the south were the adjacent beaches of Vagator and Anjuna, and to the north was a green promontory which I couldn’t identify. The majestic Arabian Sea stretched westward endlessly.
D came up next to me and said, ‘This is the Chapora Fort.’
‘It’s beautiful. A legacy of the Portuguese, I guess?’
‘Actually, this fort was originally built in the seventeenth century by Adil Shah, one of the Muslim rulers of Bijapur, to protect against invasion by neighbouring Hindu kingdoms. The Portuguese occupied the fort soon after and rebuilt it. There were several battles with the Marathas subsequently and the fort changed hands a few times until the Portuguese finally abandoned it near the end of the nineteenth century.’
‘That’s very interesting, Professor.’
D laughed. It was both throaty and musical. I guessed she didn’t laugh too often but when she did, it came straight from the heart. ‘Well, history was always my favourite subject.’
It was getting on to noon and the sun beat down strongly. There weren’t too many people around but I figured that the evenings would be crowded and perhaps with all sorts of riff-raff. D and I sat down on a large stone block under a watch-post which had survived the forces of time and weather almost intact.
She said, ‘I make it a point to come here whenever I’m in Goa.’
‘Don’t you live here?’
‘No. I’m visiting a friend.’ She paused. ‘The Mercedes is his, by the way.’
For a moment, I wondered if she was some really top-class prostitute, the type that only consorts with the rich and famous. I know of many businessmen in Mumbai and Delhi who think nothing of taking along such escorts for long trips in India or abroad, lavishing expensive gifts and huge amounts of money on them. You could pass such women on the street and easily assume them to be high-society wives or successful professionals. I suppose they were the latter anyway, in a manner of speaking.
I dismissed the thought from my mind because there was no way D could be a whore. She had too much class, obvious but understated—the kind that only comes from real pedigree and old money. I knew there was more to her than met the eye.
I asked, ‘Who
are
you?’
‘A woman trying to find the meaning of her existence. A wife unable to come to terms with her monster of a husband. A mother in waiting for too long. A daughter unsure of how to handle her legacy.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘Take your pick.’
I was digesting this when she asked, ‘Who are
you
?’
I replied drily, ‘A professional and emotional vagabond. Standing at life’s crossroads and trying to figure out which road leads towards survival.’
She smiled and said, ‘Touchè.’ Her teeth were perfect, except for raised premolars on either side which I found endearing.
‘Are our random meetings really a coincidence?’
‘Yes. Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘The other night…’
She interrupted. ‘I don’t want to talk about that, okay?’
I fell silent. Maybe she regretted that encounter but she was the one who had picked me up a second time and brought me here. Suddenly I wished we could start all over again and erase the memory of that anonymous, emotionless sex we had in the Marriott, even though it was probably the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
I said, ‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’
‘He’ll kill both of us if he ever finds out,’ she said seriously. ‘And I mean that literally.’
‘Who?’
‘My husband.’
I looked around nervously, and D giggled at my instinctive reaction. ‘Don’t worry, he’s far away right now.’
‘If you’re unhappy, why don’t you leave him?’
‘I can’t. It’s complicated.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s not talk about him.’
‘Then let’s talk about you.’
I had been right about D on both counts.
She belonged to an old Parsi family in Mumbai, whose lineage could be traced back to the eighteenth century. Her father had inherited enormous wealth, accumulated over centuries from the time his ancestor had established one of the largest brokerage houses of the Bombay Presidency during the British Raj. He himself ran the stock-trading firm set-up by D’s great-grandfather, which continued to flourish on Dalal Street and was hugely profitable. I suppose it’s true that money begets money.
She had grown up in a sea-facing bungalow on Malabar Hill, the only child of doting parents. Her mother died of cancer when D was seven years old, bringing father and daughter closer together. She attended the best school in south Mumbai, wore expensive clothes and shoes, learnt swimming at the Willingdon Club and holidayed in Europe every year.
But her father did not want D to become another spoilt, rich kid, and instilled strong values in her. He taught her to be kind and sympathetic, truthful and honest, hard working and grounded.
‘I love the good things in life but I’m not dependent on them,’ she said matter-of-factly.
She had gone to an Ivy League business school in the US for her MBA, her high GMAT scores securing her a place comfortably. That’s where she had met her future husband, who was a year her junior. It was a brief, tumultuous romance and they got married secretly when she returned to India. It wasn’t to remain quiet for long, however, and her father had been livid when he had found out.
Orthodoxy ran deep in his blood and he summarily disowned her for marrying outside the community.
She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s been downhill ever since then.’
We sat quietly for some time, and then she said, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ I had barely begun to talk about my schooldays when her expression suddenly changed. She stood up and said harshly, ‘It’s getting late. I need to return.’
We walked back to the car. D drove without speaking a word. I was taken aback at her abrupt change of mood but knew better than to ask her anything—this was a woman who liked to do things on her own terms.
When she dropped me, I waved and said, ‘You have my number. Call me if you want.’ She zoomed off without waving back or saying anything.
I felt an overpowering attraction for D but had I known then who she was, I probably would have never wanted to see her again.
41
Sara
My biggest regret in life is that I can never have a child of my own.
Jai would invariably put me off every time I mentioned anything about a baby. I realised only later how much fatherhood would have cramped his style! Two years into our marriage, I stopped taking the pill without telling him.
I knew it was wrong but I didn’t care.
I was counting on him changing his mind when he learnt that I had conceived.
Except that I didn’t conceive.
I secretly bought ovulation kits and ensured that we had sex during my most fertile days of the month. I researched the best positions for getting pregnant and tried all of them out. Every time my period was even a couple of days late, I would take a pregnancy test, full of misplaced hope.
Twelve months went by and I realised something was wrong. I had read that a year was the outer limit for conceiving naturally. After that, you needed to go to a doctor. I made a trip to my gynecologist who administered a battery of tests and finally told me what I had been dreading.
The strong chemicals in all the medication I had been taking since childhood had screwed up my endocrinal system. Apparently, the right balance of two important hormones is necessary for proper ovulation and in my case, their levels were off the charts! So it turned out that my ovaries were producing eggs of pathetic quality, which hadn’t a hope in hell of being fertilised by even the strongest or swiftest sperm.
The doctor, who was also a friend, was very sympathetic. She told me to remain positive, given the continuous advances in reproductive medicine. She referred me to the top fertility specialist in Delhi but his prognosis was no different. He said that we could try in-vitro fertilisation but the chances of success were miniscule. And more importantly, there was a high probability that even if the procedure succeeded, the embryo would have genetic defects impossible to detect.
I had the options of consulting more doctors, trying alternate therapies, going to any of the numerous godmen who claimed to perform miracles, or simply praying to God for one. I did nothing. There seemed to be no point in walking down a path that would only pile on the agony and frustration. I had to accept the verdict and move on in life.
There was another reason. I couldn’t discuss any of this with Jai. I was sure he would blow his top if I told him what I had done, and no amount of sympathy for my condition would douse that anger. He wasn’t interested in a family and would never understand what I was going through.
In hindsight, I suppose it’s good that I didn’t have a child with that bastard.
A close friend of mine has adopted a girl, even though she is single. She keeps telling me it’s the best thing to have happened to her. I’ve thought about doing the same thing but haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. It’s not that I have anything against adoption. A life is a life and a baby is a baby, after all. And if I can give an orphaned or abandoned child a good home, I guess it’s probably even more satisfying than having one of my own.
My problem is my health, that little man drumming away inside my head.
The doctors have told me that anything can happen at any time.
I could simply not wake up one morning, or live to the ripe old age of eighty! With that Damocles’ sword hanging over me, how can I take up the responsibility of raising a child, especially alone?
So I do the next best thing—I run a children’s store.
I’m financially pretty well-off after the divorce. I successfully sued Jai for half his assets and even his pompous asshole of a lawyer couldn’t do anything about it, given the evidence I had collected. I’m sure Jai has undeclared bank accounts and shares and properties but what I ended up with was substantial so I wasn’t complaining.
I’ve grown up in a very middle-class environment. My father retired as a manager in a public sector bank but I’ve somehow always ended up being close to people above my station, so to speak, be it friends, boyfriends or my ex-husband. Maybe it’s to do with my subconscious aspirations but there’s also something about my personality which strongly attracts rich, upper-class men.
Anyway, the point is that I’m now quite wealthy in my own right, unimaginably so in the reference frame of my upbringing.
I had set up the store with part of my settlement. We sell toys, books, clothes, shoes, infant essentials, chocolates and medicines. It’s a one-stop shop. My motto is that if your child needs anything, short of a haircut or vaccination, I have it for you. It’s a fairly compelling value proposition and I’ve built up a loyal customer base over the years. There is increasing competition, of course, but the personal touch I bring has ensured that we continue to do well.
I had now been away too long. Even though I had a daily checkpoint with my store manager over Skype, I was beginning to get worried that such a prolonged absence was going to hurt our business. Thankfully, the man is completely trustworthy and very competent but even he was getting really stretched with me not being around.
I wondered again how this rollercoaster ride was going to end.
Perhaps Omar was right.
Maybe there was nothing more we could do here in Goa. The police would eventually find the man who killed Anna Grishin and with that, the mystery surrounding Rachel’s death would hopefully be solved as well.
We couldn’t just walk away, though.
I was pretty sure we were the only people who had figured out that not only was this whole affair much more than the murder of Anna Grishin but that it had its roots way back in the past.
42
From my earliest memory, I knew I was different.
I was a normal boy, physically and otherwise, but there was a strange restlessness in my mind which never went away. I couldn’t figure out either its cause or remedy but I recognised its manifestations only too well.
First of all, I had great difficulty concentrating on anything. It was naturally a major handicap in school. I had a poor memory, would regularly lose things and make careless mistakes while writing. I often got hauled up by my teachers for not paying attention but the real issue started after classes got over. It was simply impossible for me to focus on doing my homework or completing a project or preparing for an exam.
My second problem was more complicated. I was constantly squirming or fidgeting, would inevitably interrupt anyone talking to me, and hated to stand in a queue or waiting for anything. I couldn’t sit in one place for any length of time, preferring to run around the house or climb walls and furniture. I was extremely stubborn and made it a point to break rules whenever possible, knowing I would invariably get away with it. I was called hyperactive, impulsive, defiant…All the adjectives were true.