The Turning - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Nivedita glared in exasperation at the juniper. Despite all her efforts, it insisted on growing sideways, refusing to go straight. The saleswoman at the nursery had assured her that that, in fact, added to its value, as it was rarer. But Nivedita was scornful of a market logic that placed higher value on abnormalcy. She had no stomach for irony, either!

She had been trying to work off her restlessness by pottering about in her terrace garden. Tired of pottering around, she dragged out an easy chair and flopped into it, gazing idly at the result of her labours.

The garden was flourishing: the greens were green, the flowers were blooming, the pomegranate just coming into flower. It would soon ripen into fruition.
Contentment stole into Nivedita slowly, insidiously, as she lay back in her chair enjoying her blooming garden.

What it is to be a plant in a pot, she mused. If it were watered and fed, it flourished. If neglected, it died. That was all that was required for a plant in a pot to die . . . neglect. . . nothing else . . . no overt act. No razors . . . no blood . . . no mess . . . Nivedita closed her eyes, trying to block out the images that zigzagged into her mind.

Trying to forget. . .

. . . It was Nivedita who had discovered her. Her mother, lying stained by her own blood. Her wrists slashed inexpertly; the rivulets of blood drying into snake-like cords; the bloodied razor still clutched in the feeble death-clasp. Her face frozen, the death-mask of pain and terror still etched on to it. Her eyes wide open, her empty stare an accusation . . .

Her dishevelled long hair lying tumbled on the pillow. In life, it may have looked alluring. In death, it merely added to the indignity of the kimono ridden up to the thigh, the pendulous breasts pathetically exposed: one brown nipple sticking out incongruously, making one final desperate cry in death for the attention it had not received in life. Her mouth a lipsticked slash of red, acknowledging the ultimate defeat. Or snatching the ultimate victory.

Nivedita had stood there, stunned and catatonic. Vinod had yet not returned from the hospital. The servants had left for the day. Nivedita had then quietly crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. She had lain thus until Vinod had returned and found her. . . and roused her. . . and called the family Doctor, who called the Police.

The cogs had started turning, rolling the machinery into action . . .
post-mortem . . . police inquiries . . . impertinent questions about the personal lives of their parents which they had been compelled to answer.

The police had been satisfied that it was a case of suicide. But for Nivedita, it was murder. A murder that just had to be avenged!

"You murdered her," she had told the image in her mind, lying on her bed, recovering from her fainting spell. "You murdered my mother. And you shall pay for it. I'll make you pay for it!"

The ringing of the doorbell roused her back to the present. It was her Aunt Suchitra, back from a trip to the bazaar.

"Busy with anything?" Suchitra asked her.

"Not really," she replied, listlessly.

"Then come on. Come, help me in the kitchen. I'm making some fresh khakhras. Arun told me your Dadi likes those. She is coming from Baroda tomorrow." She put her arm round her niece's shoulders, and hugged her comfortingly. "It'll be all right. It'll be all right, my dear.
Have courage!"

Nivedita roughly pushed away her aunt, crying bitterly, "That's a lie! Nothing is all right. Nothing will be all right. Not as long as she is alive!" She started sobbing, suddenly. "It's not fair! It's just not fair! Why should she be alive, and my mother dead? She stole my father, now she's killed my mother. I hate her, hate her, hate her. . ." The sobs grew more and more shattering, the voice rising to a crescendo before breaking under the burden of its own misery.

While she was debating what she should do to calm her suddenly hysterical niece, Suchitra felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Vinod, back from the lawyer's office. It appeared that their mother had died without leaving a Will. Not that she had had much to leave, anyway!

"You carry on, Maami," he told her quietly. "I'll deal with her."

Suchitra thankfully escaped, unable to quite quell an uneasy feeling about Nivedita. The girl did not appear to be quite sane about this business! True, there was the shock of finding her mother with her wrists slashed. But still . . . this obsessive hatred of that other woman!
Even now, after all these years!

Suchitra did not like it. She did not like it at all. She wished sheand Arun could get away. After all, she had hardly known Karuna or the children. The rare meetings were mainly at family functions, and you couldn't get intimate in those! Well, it was only for a few more days now, Suchitra consoled herself, shrugging off Nivedita's hysteria mentally, as she made for the kitchen.

In the living room where Suchitra had left them, brother and sister stood staring at each other. She tear-drenched, mouth moving convulsively. He, cool, calm, implacable. Just a look from him worked.

Staring at him half fearfully, half pleadingly, she gradually calmed herself into a semblance of normalcy, hoping for her usual reward. But Vinod had something else in mind for her that day. He took her by the arm and led her to her room and made her lie down on the bed. Then he went out and returned carrying a hypodermic syringe and a vial. "This will help calm you down," he said, injecting the needle into her vein, ignoring her disappointed protest at this departure from his usual therapy.

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