Authors: Shakuntala Banaji
Hands shaking, Thahéra prepared the evening meal; not her normal fare but dishes she had not cooked in weeks. Her movements were automatic – chopping, bending, stirring, shaking in herbs and spices that she rarely used. Her eyes were glazed and her breathing shallow, the bare bones of panic, hiding the true nature of her fear.
She could scarcely remember how old she was when she saw blood for the first time, watched her father dig his nails into her mother's throat and realised that the choking gasps the woman was emitting were not normal, nor voluntary. Hiding behind a bush, she'd seen him hauling her by the hair along the tree-shadowed ground calling her 'whore' and 'witch' at every gasp. Those words then had meant nothing to her.
Later, with the flinty curiosity of early childhood, she had poked at the purple marks around her mother's throat and watched the blood flow again, feeling the fragile arms tremble, watching the eyes close tight and the teeth bared in a rictus of pain. It wasn't long before her sister started dragging her on expeditions into the forest, and the memory of that day faded. But there were new bruises and she always found them, however hard her mother tried to conceal or disguise them. She thought it was a game and laughed with pleasure when she discovered one in an unusual place. She was a smart child.
After her mother went, Thahéra's nature, kind and resilient, sometimes desperate in a quiet way, led her to seek love from others in the village. Morose old women who patted her hair and encouraged her to massage their feet; teenage boys who paddled beside her in the lake during the summer and touched her shyly under her clothes. When her sister – crying and wringing her hands with fear – insisted that she should get married to her own brother-in-law, the man their father had chosen, she acquiesced.
Her life changed very little after marriage.
Her in-laws were sullen but left her to herself; her husband, whose nature was secretive and silent, visited rarely from the plains, and had seen his youngest son only once in all these years. When his mother died, he ceased visiting altogether. Then Thahéra's father told her he was moving in with her and would be the man in her household.
Unused to his immediate presence as she had become, she panicked at first and ran to Gauri for help, spewing out her fear for her daughter and the sorrows of her life.
Gauri had told her to leave the village. 'Who would want to live with such a man? He has forfeited his right to be looked on as your father. Get out of here, go at once, take all you have with you and do not come back!'
But where would she go with two toddlers and a ten year old? Unlike Gauri, she did not wish to leave her children. And Gauri was bitter at men in a way that Thahéra had never been.
Eventually her father simply moved his belongings into her husband's cabin and that was the end of it for he was away with his flocks for much of the year.
The children grew up cheerful and charming. They told her jokes and kept her informed of village gossip. Even her eldest, her stepson, would sometimes smile with her and the little ones, though usually he was a silent lad and kept himself to himself. He's waiting for his father, she often said, knowing that he would have to wait a long time. It was only after her father stopped going up with the cattle, when the thump of his stick and the spewed abuse from his mouth came to haunt their cabin more and more, that she noticed a change in the boy, saw him growing cold and angry, watched his eyes drop when she entered the room and then follow her around in surreptitious jerks. 'The old devil's been filling his head with stories again', Gauri would murmur, in her usual angry way, but Thahéra couldn't quite believe it.
During the beatings which happened with greater and greater frequency, she would send the children outside, or to their aunt's, to prevent them from seeing the worst of the bloodied skin and bruised muscle, but most of all to prevent them from overhearing the words which she chanted until his own rage hurt the old monster more than he could ever hurt her:
'You are not a man … you are not a man
…' on and on and on.
And so, the weeks and months and years had spread themselves behind her like a silvery wake, until one winter's day when the man known as her father was off somewhere in the woods, she looked up from her stove to see a pale form silhouetted against the light in her open doorway.
How well she remembered that day: the slow stumbling minutes between sentences, as she struggled to comprehend the words spoken by the man with the creamy skin. All the village had gathered to stare at him and he had smiled and chatted, so calm in his sky-blue coat and his enormous boots. Even her sister had been welcoming, for once, agreeing to let the foreigner stay in their father's rotting cabin – for a generous fee, of course. If they'd thought he would stay a few days and then make for a new destination, they found that they were mistaken. He remained in their midst through the spring, through melting snow and thawing ice, until the sun in the mornings was bright enough to cause the buds to open. And when her father went away for a day or a night Thahéra would be sure to spend hours with her new friend – so what if he was to be married? She too had a husband, and she was doing nothing wrong! – teasing and pestering him, removing his attention from the maps and books he was trying to read, forcing him to look at her, to look at her wide smile and her grey eyes and her handsome body. Nothing gave her so much pleasure as his gaze. Or at least nothing, until he touched her breasts.
Those weeks had been distinct from every other period of her life: charmed, self-contained, happy. Even the puzzlement she experienced when the second foreign man showed up was muted and pale in comparison to her pleasure in her lover's company. The very nature of her infatuation meant that she grew careless and failed to notice her own lack of care. And so, when they end came, it was more distressing than it should have been: so crushing, in fact, that until the advent of the stranger from Delhi four weeks later, she had tried to blot it from her mind.
*
'How long did Adam stay in Saahitaal before
you
reached there?' At Tanya's question Sara's shoulders slumped. She paused for so long before replying that her companion had to prompt her.
The two women had drunk their tea. Heads bent towards each other over the empty cups and torn napkins, they looked like two old friends meeting again after a long time and sharing confidences. In reality, Tanya was speaking softly, forcing Sara to lean towards her because she had a Dictaphone switched on in her handbag. They were seated in the palm-shaded café area of the resort grounds and soft Goan melodies played constantly in the background. The conversation so far had been polite but strained. Tanya had asked questions to which she knew the answers and, in the main, Sara had appeared to be straight with her, explaining that she had indeed recognised her friend Cameron Croft as soon as she turned the body but that she had been afraid of being framed for the murder by the Delhi police and had therefore decided on a story with Adam. All this, she insisted, she had already told Muzumdar and Ribera.
'Sara. I need to know how long Adam was with your friend Cameron before you got to Saahitaal. If you weren't there, you can't vouch for him. Can't you see that it's important for us to establish that?'
Sara's voice was guilty. 'I wanted so much to tell your colleague … Detective Karmel.'
Tanya took a deep breath, her heart beating faster at the mention of Kailash's name.
Karmel would have been sympathetic, she knew, and courteous too: he would have smiled to disarm Sara's fear. Perhaps he'd even touched her, taken her hand. Tanya felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of Karmel alone in a room with this woman, this
pretty,
foreign
woman. Annoyed with herself, she ran a hand through her curls. 'You were right to be cautious and restrained.' But Sara was already speaking, a haunted look in her eyes.
'Eleven days. Adam got there eleven days before I did. Cameron and I had an arrangement that this was to be the case.'
'Now why was that? You had news for your friend which you didn't feel up to giving?'
'I don't know why I'm telling you this.' Sara was sweating. She wiped her brow with a napkin and then rested her forehead on her palm. 'Adam is gay. Homosexual. You know?'
'No. I didn't. But I do now. Go on.'
'He and Cameron had been having sex … I mean a relationship … on and off for years. I knew, of course.' Her voice was troubled and she picked at a scab on one of her knuckles, making it bleed.
Tanya noted her discomfort. 'With your permission? Did it bother you?'
'Well….' She fell silent, biting her lip.
'You liked Adam? You liked Cameron? You weren't jealous?'
'Cam … Cameron and I were engaged. I already told Mazumdar.'
'I see.'
'No you don't
! I
wasn't
a jealous bitch. I really tried not to care, to give him the freedom he needed.' Sara wiped her face again. Tanya surreptitiously checked the tape in her bag and decided to alter course. This was too personal, cathartic for Sara perhaps, but maybe not germane to the case.
'May I ask you, Sara, why did you allow your fiancé to leave you and go off to India for such a long time?'
'That's a different story. Do I have to?'
'I want to hear about it. Take your time.'
'Oh God! It’s just so irrelevant.' Sara looked ashen, her damp hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes awash with tears. 'I miss him.'
'I'm sorry.' Tanya touched her hand. 'You must have been through hell these past few weeks. I know you never had a chance to say goodbye.'
'You know what? You're the first person I've been able to share this with! I can't believe that no one else – not even my mother – understands or knows what I've been through.' She was sobbing. 'You're really kind. Like your colleague. But … oh my God!' looking at her watch, 'I have to go to the hospital in Anuraville now.' She paused. 'You see, I've been sick. Some kind of fever. I have to have a blood test. Can you join me again in the evening? I'll tell you everything then, I promise.'
Tanya was loathe to let the moment pass, to allow Sara to cool down or to change her mind. But then, pressing her might be counterproductive. Obviously these white girls were just as sensitive as Indian ones. Not something her mother had ever led her to believe. There was more to be learned from life than she'd imagined.
They parted, arranging to meet again in nine hours. She'd agreed to postpone her flight till the morning. It was worth it, if it meant she could help her father – and Kailash Karmel.
As he traversed the gloomy landscape, Karmel heard someone call him. Or perhaps it was a sound inside his head. Turning, he found himself almost at Stitching Woman's door. He climbed the steps, almost against his will.
The eerie silence inside her house was made more unbearable by the heat from a great fire. After the damp and cold outside, the fire should have been comforting; but it was simply too hot.
He felt himself begin to sweat. The flames leapt dangerously high in the confined space; he was blinded by the smoke.
In one corner, Stitching Woman's daughter sat, staring at the fire. In another corner lay a bundle of rags. He could smell the blood on them almost as soon as he stepped through the door. It was a smell he remembered vividly from his days on the street, foetid and faintly sweet. He felt as if he had interrupted some odd ritual.
Stitching Woman was bedraggled; her wispy grey hair awry, her neck dirty, the wrinkled skin of her cheeks drooping more than ever. All her potency seemed to have deserted her. Taking the old woman by the hand, Karmel drew her towards the door. Her skin felt brittle, crisp and fragile, like long dead leaves. He forced himself to speak gently. 'Did you kill something and throw it on the fire?' When she didn't respond he asked more roughly, 'What on earth are you doing?'
'Trying to protect her.' Her lips were cracked.
'Where's the father of your daughter's baby?'
'
You
find out.' She pulled her hand from his. Her voice was soft but her tone was sly.
'Perhaps I should be asking not where but
who
…?' Abruptly, Stitching Woman spat, on the ground, but in his direction.
'Look stranger, you aren't in your big Delhi world now. I don't have to tell you anything. I don't have to give you respect.'
Karmel shuddered, wondering if this beautiful girl had crossed paths with Cameron Croft, the charismatic foreigner. Perhaps her baby …
Oh God, No!
He tried to calculate the months it should have taken.
'What are you so afraid of, both of you?' The young woman stared at him and he stared back. Her voice was intelligent and clear.
He shook his head. 'I'm just curious. It's your mother who is afraid.'
'My mother is
angry
. I have endangered our lives.'
'How? By becoming pregnant? You aren't married?'
The girl looked at her stomach; she sighed. 'She's right. Fifty years, she's lived here in Saahitaal, since she wed my father, and everyone comes to her with their troubles, but now they pity us!
Us!
' She said it as if it was unimaginable that anyone should pity her. He concentrated on her voice, listening for clues.
'I've brought trouble to our door and
he
will surely come for me! Mother is trying to ward him off!' She gave an almost involuntary laugh.
'Who do you mean? Thahéra's boy?' The fire crackled; then Stiching Woman spoke, making him jump.
'Your Thahéra and her sister – they're responsible. Gauri too. I know all about them. You tell them that.
I know everything!
' She was shaking. 'You ask them why they haven't done something to stop
him
.
Ask them
!' Her voice rose and her daughter covered her ears with her hands. 'You big man from a big city! What have you achieved? All these questions and what's the use? We still die, do we not? And you think you're safe? Have your wits about you, stranger.' The noise and the heat were almost intolerable; feeling dizzy, Karmel edged through the doorway. 'Won't you question my daughter further, stranger? No? You don't want to do your job? Then go to Thahéra, you fool –
Go! Go now!
' Her voice rose to a shriek and Karmel sped down her steps, hurrying for the shelter of his own roof.
What did Thahéra's family have to do with Stitching Woman's daughter?
Why haven't they done anything to stop him?
Whom did she mean? The boy, Thahéra’s stepson? Was he the killer then, that sullen lad? Karmel's footsteps squelched and shushed their way down the hillside but all he heard was the voice of Stitching Woman in his head:
you think you're safe? You think you're safe!
And then that typical detective's question: was it a warning or a threat?
He had been wrong to trust Thahéra and her sister and their friend Gauri. Stitching Woman had implicated them all. They were all tied to the crime somehow – that poor desolate body lying in the rain was their responsibility. What if Adam and Sara were just a distraction, despite all their lies…? Then these women were sheltering a murderer, and he could not give any of them succour. He felt betrayed and angered.
Yet his heart insisted on viewing Thahéra as a friend rather than a suspect and his chest felt constricted at the thought of any harm coming to her. Perhaps he
was
in the wrong profession. Perhaps he should simply give up – everything – the city, this case, his identity. Maybe then she would be willing to hold him, to kiss him and touch him and sleep in his arms and say the things he hoped she thought.
His sense of claustrophobia increased as darkness enclosed him. In the city, even at night, the rain glimmered faintly with refracted light – here the rain was black and cold. Without warning there was a flash of lightning, right in his path. He leapt back. Electricity bounced and snapped its way across the sky, illuminating the swaying forest, the muddy gushing stream which had been the path, the raised cabins on either side and, at the very end of the row along which he was making his way, the figure of a person, standing on the path within arm's reach.
The light extinguished itself. The world disappeared.
Karmel shrank back, his knees weak; he tried to imagine the shape of the person he'd seen. Male or female? Even that was impossible to gauge. Trembling encompassed his whole body as he hurried on; he felt his sight blur even further and realised that rainwater was running into his eyes having soaked through his hood. There had been a stealthy grace about the form on the path, as if it were certain of its mission. If someone wanted to attack him again, maybe this time they would finish the job.
Karmel started to run.
A gigantic peal of thunder subsided and he heard a childish voice calling to him. Panting, Karmel stopped. Chand appeared thrusting a covered lantern before him. He appeared in great distress.
'What is it, kid? Tell me.' He bent down and took the boy by the shoulders. At first there were only inarticulate sobs. Karmel stroked Chand's hair.
'I've been looking for you everywhere, sir. I called to you but you went inside to talk for so long and I didn't know if I should interrupt you. Sonu says that you are searching for a woman. He says that you know her but you will leave without finding her. You will know her only on your return home. That's what he says, sir. '
Karmel pondered the meaning of these words. If Chand had told his brother about Karmel's task then the boy's message had only one implication. Shaking with excitement he asked, 'Was it a white woman? Did your brother say?'
'I told you sir, what he said. Now I have to go.'
'Where can I find this woman? Can you ask your brother?'
'I can't help you, sir.'
'Chand.
Why
can't you help me?
What
is it? Did you find out something else?'
Karmel, kept his hand gently on the boy's wet shoulder. As he spoke he felt the shoulder shaking. He was eager to know what Chand had discovered but weighted up the options: scare the child further or let him go? He knew that he could persuade him to speak if he really tried.
An almost inaudible murmur. 'Forgive me.'
'Look, young fellow, it's late now and you're probably tired. I've had enough for one day. Go home and sleep. If you change your mind, come to me in the morning and tell me what you've found out. Okay?' Chand didn't respond. He stared at Karmel with sad eyes, then started to back away.
When he knew that Karmel could no longer hear him over the splashing of the rain, the boy wailed, 'Be careful sir. May God protect you! My brother has warned me,
there will be another death
.'