arminvey

The Eye Surgeon

2010-04-08T11:25:00.000-07:00

THE EYE SURGEON

(Dedicated to Dr. Kulin Kothari)

It’s not just the Eye:
It’s a dimension of Life
That adds so greatly to Life,
That the Eye
Surgeon restores.

Eliminating in a stroke
Or two … or three …
All that’s attendant
On the tag
`Handicapped’!

Colour – print – form – beauty –
All that the Eye can see or know!
But what the Heart can see and know
Is beyond even
The Eye Surgeon’s control.

Armin Wandrewala

(Sitting in bed on
Friday, March 26, 2010 at 11.10 am
Exactly a week after the surgery.)

PYTHON HILL

2009-08-24T03:20:00.000-07:00

PYTHON HILL

Sinuous
Recumbent in the Sun.

Several footfalls fall
Many mouths mutter;
Profundities profanities inanities;
Truths untruths halftruths;
Some minds attuned to
what the tongue utters
Some distorted with
deliberation.

The Python lies recumbent
Under the sky
Indifferent.
Bears all footfalls
Without discrimination;
Without shrugging.

Much like the Earth that
bears the Python itself.

Atlas dare not shrug.

Armin Wandrewala
Feb 20, 2009

After a walk on Python Hill, near Sahyadri Study Centre,
Krishnamurthy Foundation, India.

Python Hill is a fairly low hillock just outside the boundary of the Sahyadri School and the Study Centre … it is indeed in the shape of a python, along the river …

INERTIA

2009-08-21T21:41:00.000-07:00

I N E R T I A

TIME FLIES

And how!
Even a Century!

Thoughts collide into brainbursts;
Words spill over into babel;
Ceaseless motion into unceasing inertia.

Feet flying, unable to fly.

Feet are not wings
and mindless industry
will not avail
to change the nature
Of things.

Destiny charts its own course
In Time chosen.

TIME CRAWLS

Slower than a centipede.
Lumbering on
Tortuously.

Thoughts sputter in tired spurts;
Words chewed on with futile deliberation;
Motion wearies into slowmotion.

Feet drag
as though constrained
by ball and chains
shuffle by tortuous shuffle
Without volition.

Destiny conspires
With Time stolen.

TIME STANDS STILL

Suspended in midmotion.

Trapped amid
opposing options; torn between
conflicting choices;
Dilemma petrifying All.

Suspension of Will;
Silence of Voice;
Cessation of Motion;
Termination of Thought.

Feet standing still.
Stilled …

Destiny awaits
Human volition.

The Turning - EPILOGUE

2009-03-01T08:45:00.000-08:00

EPILOGUE

After the manuscript of this novel was completed by the Author, the Supreme Court of India (Mr. Justice Kuldip Singh and Mr. Justice R.M. Sahai) handed down a landmark Judgement, on May 10, 1995, holding that the second marriage of a Hindu husband after his conversion to Islam is a void marriage in terms of section 494 of the Indian Penal Code (which prohibits bigamy).

To put it in the words of Their Lordships, ". . . the doctrine of indissolubility of marriage, under the traditional Hindu law, did not recognize that conversion would have the effect of dissolving a Hindu marriage. Conversion to another religion by one or both the Hindu spouses did not dissolve the marriage." Their Lordships then go on to state, " . . . It is obvious from the provisions of the (Hindu Marriage) Act, (1955), that the modern Hindu Law strictly enforces monogamy. . . In that situation parties who have solemnized the marriage under the Act remain married even when the husband embraces Islam in pursuit of other wife. A second marriage by an apostate under the shelter of conversion to Islam would nevertheless be a marriage in violation of the provisions of the Act by which he would be continuing to be governed so far as his first marriage under that Act is concerned despite his conversion to Islam. The second marriage of an apostate would therefore be illegal marriage qua his wife who continues to be Hindu.. .

" . . . Since it is not the object of Islam nor is (it) the intention of the enlightened Muslim community that the Hindu husbands should be encouraged to become Muslims merely for the sake of marrying again, the Courts can be persuaded to adopt a construction of the laws resulting in denying the Hindu husband converted to Islam the right to marry again without having his existing marriage dissolved in accordance with law."

In their Judgement, Their Lordships have once more highlighted the crying need for a Uniform Civil Code . . .

******

The Turning - Chapter Twenty-two

2009-03-01T08:44:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After they had dropped Kuntabai home, Scherezade turned to Zerxes. "Did you think I was at all in any danger?"

"No way!" was the emphatic reply. "While he was in the room with you, I had the door of the bathroom slightly open, my revolver trained on him. It was only when I saw him coming towards the loo that I got into the bathtub and pulled the curtain across. I gathered he had come there to put on the gloves. Then the minute he left the bathroom, I was right behind him. Not to mention Patil and Rodricks. Think I'd take any chances with your neck?" He glinted down at her glowing face.

"I've sometimes wondered." she answered, her expressive eyes veiled by her lashes . . .

* * * *

The telephone bell was ringing when they reached his flat. Zerxes hurried over and picked up the receiver. It was Patil, speaking from the Police Station. Vinod Shahane had broken down completely and confessed to killing both Dina Sattar and Nivedita Shahane.

"Only, he refused to acknowledge Dina's death as murder," Patil said. "He insisted that it was justice, for trying to rob him of his inheritance. That she had brought it upon himself, the day she married his father!"

"Yes, Inspector. Dina brought a lot upon herself and upon others around her, the day and the way she married Prakash Shahane," murmured Zerxes, gently putting down the receiver.

******

The Turning - Chapter Twenty-one

2009-03-01T08:37:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"What made me suspect Vinod Shahane at all?" Zerxes repeated the query, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

They were in Banoo Maa's large comfortable drawing room. Zerxes and Scherezade, Fredun and Rashna, Jamshed and Shirin, Tagore and Irani, Banoo Maa herself, and surprisingly, Kuntabai Shahane. Patil and Rodricks were not present. They were busy questioning Vinod at the Police Station. And Sam Avari had already divined the whole story.

Zerxes let his eyes wander deliberately over each of the occupants of the room, except Scherezade, and ultimately brought them to rest on Kuntabai Shahane.

"This is going to be painful for you." he said.

"You needn't worry about that." The old lady sat straight and rigid in her chair. "1 want to know what really happened. I must know . . . " she trailed off, almost in a whisper to herself.

"Vinod, I think, has always been rather mediocre academically, with an ambition that outstripped his mental capacity." Zerxes still addressed Kuntabai.

She nodded. "Prakash bought him a seat in the medical college," she supplied. "He would never have got in, otherwise."

"Are you suggesting, Zerxes, that a mediocre intelligence could have planned and committed a near-perfect murder?" asked Fredun incredulously. "After all, had Dina not Willed her body to a teaching hospital, the fact that she had been poisoned would never have come to light."

"True, but then Dina's was not a really a planned murder at all! It was almost a chance taken on the spur of the moment, when an unexpected opportunity presented itself suddenly. Such murder cases, as you Sushil, will agree, are the most difficult to solve. They leave barely any trails, hardly any clues."

Tagore frowned thoughtfully. Fredun seemed disgusted with the whole affair. Shirin listened avidly, drinking in Zerxes' every word. "He's so handsome," she sighed to her frowning spouse.

"So Vinod was ambitious beyond his capacity." went on Zerxes. "He too was annoyed and disturbed by Prakash Sattar's conversion and second marriage. But for reasons of his own. Purely mercenary reasons. However, he thought it prudent to remain in touch with his father. I suspect he was in touch with Dina too! Possibly he had visited them at their house occasionally. Anyway, it was Vinod who accepted the monthly cheques from Prakash for their maintenance. And probably other monetary help as well. And he knew the one thing pertaining to Prakash Sattar that almost no one else in his family did. That Prakash Sattar was terminally ill.

"It was the certainty of his father's death in the near future that made Vinod worry more and more about his inheritance. He seemed to have made some inquiries concerning the effect of conversion on the question of succession. He evidently had realized that he could not inherit from his Muslim father and certainly not as long as Prakash's Muslim wife lived. If Prakash predeceased Dina, Vinod could kiss good-bye to Prakash's crores!"

"Was no one else aware of Sattar's terminal illness?" asked Jamshed.

"Prakash's lady friend, Sonali Roy certainly knew. She's a Doctor herself. Her son Abhijeet also knew. Abhijeet is a close friend of Vinod, which is something Sonali knew but Prakash did not. I'm inclined to believe that Abhijeet must have confirmed to Vinod what Prakash may well have hinted to his son."

A spasm crossed Kuntabai's features, but she said nothing.

"So Vinod realized that he stood in danger of losing the chance of inheriting his father's money," went on Zerxes. "Especially the fortune Sattar seemed to have amassed in the last ten years or so, after his conversion and remarriage."

"what exactly is the law on this point?" the question came from Rashna, unexpectedly.

Zerxes smiled. "The interpretation of the law is not so exact as you seem to imagine. But this much was clear, even to Vinod. That if Prakash predeceased Dina Sattar, she being the sole Muslim heir would inherit to the exclusion of everyone else, even his non-Muslim children.

"1 do not think that Vinod had actively considered murdering Dina straightaway. But the benefits of her predeceasing Prakash must have certainly teased his mind a good deal. It would make all the difference in the world to him! Prakash was worth well over ten crores, by then. Vinod would be able to do what I suspect he always wanted to do. Set up his own consultancy, his own clinic, and invest enough to yield him returns to be able to live as lavishly as he always wanted to, whether his medical practice flourished or not!

"Fate seemed to play into his hands. Karuma Shahane, unless I'm much mistaken, had a strain of mental imbalance in her genes," he suddenly veered off, looking again at Kuntabai.

"That's true," she confirmed. "Karuna's maternal grandmother was prone to severe depression. Possibly that was what. . .." she broke off, then went on. "My husband and I had opposed the match initially, but Prakash was besotted with her. She was very lovely in those days. And when not depressed, she sparkled with gaiety. But it hardly lasted long." The old lady lapsed into momentary silence before proceeding. "I've often felt that the strain was passed on to Nivedita also. The child was tiresomely volatile. And she grew distinctly worse after Prakash left to marry. . ." she broke off, unable to go on. Her own hatred of Dina had died with her death. But she still could not bring herself to mention her name with equanimity.

"Karuma decided to kill herself on the tenth Anniversary of her husband's second marriage." resumed Zerxes. He looked at Tagore. "It definitely was suicide. But why she waited for ten years, only she or perhaps a psychiatrist could tell! Whatever the reason, her death brought Prakash Sattar back into his old home. In contact with his children and mother.

"His daughter's rejection of him on the day of his first wife's funeral caught him on the raw. Aggravated his sense of guilt which had been gnawing at him for the past so many years. He decided, with subtle encouragement from his son, to go back there for Karuna's twelfth day ceremonies. And there, Vinod was confronted by an unexpected and, for him, irresistible opportunity to get rid of Dina.

"For it was Dina's birthday, the very day after Karuna's twelfth day. Prakash had taken the precaution of buying her present in advance; in fact, a day before Karuna's twelfth day. A bottle of 'Joy' perfume. The police were able to track down the supplier, and the date of purchase was confirmed. Prakash's peon got the bottle before Prakash left his office. And he had left earlier than usual, that day. His secretary has confirmed that. She also confirmed that she had gift-wrapped the bottle, on that day itself.

"It was, fortunately for Vinod, a bottle with a screw-on top, not an atomizer. Prakash had had it gift-wrapped in silver paper, tied with gold thread. Again, simple to substitute. Silver paper is silver paper. No botheration of getting the exact match of a designed gift-wrapping paper. The greeting had been written on the card, which was stuck onto the package. All well in advance. Remember, Prakash had told Dina that he was going on a business trip - the maid has testified to that. He went down to his old home, instead of out of town, straight from his office. The gift-wrapped perfume bottle was in his overnight bag.

"At his old home, he shared a room with his son. Vinod must have noticed the package. Seen the card. Realized it was for Dina. The possibility of murder then struck him. His father had left the house for quite some time. Vinod had enough time to open the package, see what it contained, realize it could be tampered with, and prepare a poisoned substitute."

"But where did he get the poison from?" the query, from Shirin, was accompanied by a bird-like glance of wonder. "I mean, nitro . . . whatever. . . such an outlandish name!"

"I'm coming to that," said Zerxes. "Vinod's cousin Sunil has a factory for making hair-dye. Vinod himself used to dabble in the business a bit. Apparently, he showed interest in anything that made money! The staff recall seeing him at the factory off and on. Aniline, a product of Nitrobenzene, the poison used to murder Dina Sattar, is also used in the manufacture of hair dyes. Among other thigns. Vinod must have known that there was a stock of Nitrobenzene in the factory. He chose Nitrobenzene for its peculiar properties.

"For one, its colour: it is a pale, lemon coloured liquid, soluble in alcohol. Ideal to blend in with a bottle full of perfume. It does have a smell rather like bitter almonds, but then 'Joy' has a rather strong smell of its own. The poison is extremely lethal. A few drops in the bottle would do the trick. And it is more efficacious when inhaled, or absorbed through the skin, rather than ingested by way of mouth.

"The ideal opportunity, the ideal medium, the ideal poison had presented themselves, all at once, to Vinod. Moreover, he was reasonably sure no one would think of him in connection with the murder of Dina Sattar, when there were other more credible suspects with such glaring motives."
"Didn't he realize one such suspect would be his own father?" queried Jamshed.

"He couldn't have failed to!" replied Zerxes dryly. "But he is a singularly cold-blooded young man, with a curious moral vacuum. I don't think the thought of fastening a murder committed by him onto his father would worry him much. Besides, he knew full well that his father didn't have long to live!"

"He was not Prakash's real son." The words rang out with the cold distinctiveness of a death knell. Astonished eyes turned towards Kuntabai. No one had expected this!

"Vinod was not Prakash's real son," she repeated in a flat tone. "He was adopted by Prakash and Karuna when he was about ten years old. They had been childless for so long . . . Then, two years after they adopted Vinod, a baby girl was born to them. Nivedita."

"So he was well aware that Prakash wasn't his real father. And that Nivedita was not his real sister," mused Zerxes. "No wonder he was able to kill her off without a qualm!"

"But didn't the PM report say that Nivedita had committed suicide?" asked Fredun.

"The PM report stated that hers wasn't a 'post-mortem' hanging," corrected Zerxes. "That doesn't mean it wasn't murder. I'm convinced it was. Evidently, Nivedita had stumbled on some evidence, some clue, with regard to Dina's murder, linking Vinod to it . . ."

He broke off for a moment and looked quizzically at Tagore. "The new, poison-free bottle of 'Joy' perfume that was found at the Shahane residence . . . in that rock garden where Nivedita stored the wax figurines for her particular brand of voodoo . . . Patil told us that it was Vinod Shahane who led them to it. That's why they were even more convinced that it was Nivedita who had switched the bottle of perfume for the poisoned one!"

"Yes, that's right," said Tagore, gleaming appreciation at Zerxes.

"Wrong conclusion," drawled Zerxes. "It was that one single factor which made me centre my suspicions on Vinod, in the first instance. Obviously, Nivedita found that bottle somewhere in Vinod's possession, or in his room. I think," he cast a deprecating glance at Kuntabai. "I think you were aware that there was something going on between them."

The old lady bowed her head without speaking. Those nocturnal sounds . . . those thumps . . . just the night before Nivedita was found dead, she thought to herself. Hey Ram!

"With the result, Nivedita was completely in Vinod's power," went on Zerxes. "Totally dependent on him. Mentally, emotionally, sexually. And I suspect even financially. It was Vinod who disbursed the money sent by Prakash. Once Nivedita discovered the bottle of 'Joy' in his possession, Vinod realized he'd have to silence her. He had been careless about that bottle. He could not then take any chances. Could not be sure that Nivedita would not blurt out the wrong thing at the wrong moment to the wrong person! And it was he who later put the bottle in the rock garden."

"Wasn't the boy worried about waking someone in the house while he was doing all this?" Kuntabai asked, roused to indignation, at last. "Prakash was sleeping there, in his room with him. What if he got up and found Vinod missing, and set out to hunt for him? He could have wandered into his daughter's bedroom!"

"Prakash had had three pegs of whisky just before retiring to bed. And Vinod had mixed them," was the dry response. Pausing a moment, Zerxes continued, "However, you are right, in a way. Prakash, apparently, did get up to go to the loo, sometime early in the morning. But by then Vinod had finished whatever he had to do, and returned to his own bedroom. He knew that Prakash had left the room for a short while. Prakash himself confirmed that. But Vinod deliberately lied to the police about that. That too made me wonder. . .

"Now Nivedita wouldn't think it odd, Vinod coming into her room at night. After all, he must have done so, often. He knew well how to play on her emotions. That note was probably written at his dictation. And what does it really convey? An indication of guilt? For Dina Sattar's murder? But then, Nivedita did in fact think that she was, to some extent at least, responsible for Dina's death. That her voodoo had worked! And Vinod, I'm sure, preyed on that. Remember, she writes 'I love you', to Prakash. Not 'I loved you' as she would have, if she had had suicide in her mind. And if Vinod had in fact dictated that note, he would not have dared to give her any indication of what was coming."

"Then how did he manage to. . . to hang her alive?" asked Fredun, almost mesmerized in spite of himself.

"I'm coming to that," said Zerxes grimly. "The old sex angle again. That was why he used the sheet as the ligature. Nobody who wanted to commit suicide would use a bedsheet as a ligature. A bedsheet is a damn unsatisfactory ligature. Unlike a belt or a cord; or even a saree or a dupatta, in the case of a woman. But my guess is that he got Nivedita involved in some sexual game with the bedsheet. And then literally conned her. to her death. But he was careful not to actually have intercourse with her, that night. No sperm was found when the post-mortem was done."

"Wicked," expostulated Nivedita's grandmother. "Absolutely wicked." Shaking her head ruefully, the old lady lapsed into silence again.

"What was also wicked was the way he tried to fasten the murder of Dina Sattar on to Nivedita," said Zerxes. That was what drove Prakash to an earlier death. The thought that his own daughter was capable of so coldblooded a murder! He knew that she had every opportunity. He hadn't realized, so had Vinod!

"Vinod had seen the gift-wrapped bottle. He knew that Prakash was going to be out of the house for dinner. He had enough time. He went out himself, bought a bottle of 'Joy', took it to his cousin's workshop quite close by, put Nitrobenzene in it, gift-wrapped it afresh in silver paper, tied it with gold thread, wearing his medical gloves all the while. Then he detached the card written out by Prakash and affixed it to the poisoned package, and substituted the packages. The mistake he made was in leaving the substituted bottle of perfume about, I probably somewhere in his own room. Where Nivedita saw it. Thus he was forced into a second murder."

"I don't know on what basis you chaps say this guy is mediocre," said Fredun. "I think he's been damned clever! Diabolically clever! It was Dina's Will which upset probably one of the cleverest murders of the decade."

"Yes," acknowledged Zerxes, not bothering to point out the difference between academic brilliance and native, animal cunning. "That was a blow for Shahane. No one knew that Dina had done that, except for Banoo. And perhaps Fatima?" he looked interrogatively at Banoo Maa.

"No. Fatima had not been allowed to read the Will. She had merely signed where Dina asked her to. I alone knew the contents."

"The second accident, from Vinod's point of view," went on Zerxes, "was you mistakenly walking off with the poisoned perfume bottle, Shirin," looking straight at Shirin and winning Jamshed's amused respect for ever. "Both Scherezade's and your bouts of illnesses indicated that the perfume bottle contained something noxious. That was the common factor; and in both your cases, the symptoms were almost identical.

"I think Shahane perhaps hoped to be able to destroy the bottle before it was discovered. And even if it was discovered on Dina's dressing table, the first person the police were likely to suspect was Prakash. He had bought the perfume, he had presented it to Dina. Vinod was well aware of his liaison with Sonali Roy. That, among other things, would supply the necessary motive. And the medium of the poison, by its very nature, would render Prakash's alibi of being away on the day of her death, useless!"

"Was money his only motive?" asked Jamshed.

"Lucre, pure and simple," affirmed Zerxes. "Prakash's wealth would have ensured for him both the life-style he craved, and the security he needed. Otherwise, once Prakash died, he would be in dire straits for money. At least the kind of money he was getting used to.And he didn't fancy having to go to Dina with a begging bowL"

"But how would Dina's murder have helped him to succeed to Prakash's Estate?" asked Tagore. "Isn't there some law about nonMuslims not being able to inherit from Muslims?"

"Yes, if there is any Muslim heir alive. Otherwise, it's a bit of a gray area. And Shahane decided to take the chance. Possibly, he hoped to spread the word around that Prakash had converted back to Hinduism after Dina's death. He had not anticipated Prakash himself dying quite so soon. But after he did die, he made sure that he was given a Hindu funeral. I think old Faiz-ud-din, his lawyer, put him up to that. That's why the sudden, unexpected emergence of a "third wife' of Prakash Sattar gave him such a jolt. He knew that it was possible. Sattar had a yen for women. And he used to travel regulartly to the Gulf countries. Vinod just had to get rid of the third wife, soon, or his killing Dina Sattar, and resultantly Nivedita, would be in vain! The Estate would go to the third Muslim wife!"

"That was extremely brave of you, Scherezade," smiled Tagore. "In fact, without your and Faiz-ud-din's co-operation, we'd have had a hell of a time proving anything at all!"

"How could you have made her take such a risk?" asked Fredun angrily, glaring at Zerxes.

"There was no risk involved," answered Zerxes quietly. "I was right there in the bathroom, behind the shower curtain. Patil was hidden inside the wardrobe, and Rodricks was out on the balcony, behind the curtain. None of us would have let any harm come to Scherezade." He looked at Fredun a trifle grimly. "The whole plan, in fact, was your daughter's idea! You should be proud of her.
And now," he turned to Kuntabai Shahane, "if you are ready to leave, Madame, may we drop you home?"

"Thank you Mr. Avari" she answered gravely. She swept a dismissive glance around, nodded graciously to Banoo who nodded back equally regally, then walked out towards the dark staircase, leaving her son's second wife's relatives to take their leave of each other without her constraining presence.

*

The Turning - Chapter Twenty

2009-02-27T20:44:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

Vinod stared at the Bank Manager in frustration. "But surely a lawyer's letter should be proof enough that I am the sole heir?" he rasped.

The Manager's prim mouth folded in further. He looked with distaste at the young man almost bending over his desk in desperation.

"No control, these young people," he thought to himself disapprovingly. "No control at all! Just out for what they can get!" The Manager was old-fashioned. And Vinod had rubbed him up the wrong way. "I'm sorry Mr. Shahane, but this letter won't Do. Won't Do at all!" he pronounced ponderously. "The Bank will require Letters of Administration or a Succession Certificate from a Court of Law declaring you to be the sole heir of Mr. Prakash Sattar, before we can permit you to operate his accounts." He looked Vinod over with an air of having settled his hash to his satisfaction. His son, indeed! Even the surnames differed!

"Damn," muttered Vinod to himself, narrowly escaping an errant cyclist as he sped back to the hospital. Damn! He'd have to call up his lawyer and try to get an appointment for the next day again. "Hope the old bugger gives it," he said to himself. "I've got to get the dough in the next couple of weeks." Else he'd lose the premises. And the earnest money he had already paid.

* * * *

Mr. Alif Faiz-ud-din (he insisted on two hyphen marks) was a cadaverous old man with a lined, scholarly face. He was indeed a great scholar, an acknowledged authority on Mohammedan law. It was he who had advised Prakash Shahane. As he now advised his son, Vinod.

He had hemmed and hawed. Vinod had had an hour of his time just a day back! He had ultimately succumbed to his client's insistence and had given Vinod an appointment for 5.30 pm the next day. Then he had made another call from his direct line, not routing it through the operator.

Vinod kept his appointment punctually. The old bugger was a stickler for time, and he had no wish to irritate him unnecessarily, by being late. On the contrary he was prepared to expend both tact and flattery to get him to move as fast as possible and get those damn letters, whatever the hell they were!

He was ushered into Faiz-ud-din's cabin at the stroke of 5.30 by a clerk as ancient as Faiz-ud-din himself. Vinod took a step into the cabin and halted, his smile freezing on his lips, his outstretched arm faltering, his antennae warning him that something was wrong somewhere.

With her back to the door and consequently to Vinod, stood a tall figure clad in a black burqa.
Vinod was disturbed. Faiz-ud-din never overlapped his clients' timings. In fact, he scrupulously kept a proper gap between appointments! Then who the hell was this dame and what was she doing in the old man's cabin at the time allotted to him?

The old lawyer himself was on his feet. "Come in, Vinod, come in, boy," in a genial tone that immediately struck Vinod as being all wrong.

Faiz-ud-din had neVer been genial. Never called him 'boy'! It appeared he was trying to tell him something. To warn him.

"You are just in time to meet your step-mother," announced Faiz-ud-din.

Vinod's face was frozen expressionless. The old lawyer droned on. Vinod's numbed mind heard his next words through a kind of haze.

". . . married her in the U.A.E. on one of his visits there. . . she'd been staying there all this time . . . Mrs. Merunissa Prakash Sattar . . . your step-son, Madame: Vinod Shahane."

The sound of his name cut through the haze enveloping Vinod's dazed senses. And then another voice impinged. Her voice. She had lovely voice. Low, husky, distinct. Rather a young voice, his subconscious registered. Surely too young to have been his father's wife? Now his widow?

Vinod quelled the urge to break out into hysterical laughter. His old man seemed to have been a pretty rum fellow! Three wives, and God knows how many mistresses!

She was tall, and that was all he could tell about her. The thick heavy veil hung down almost to her waist. The slit for the eyes was extremely slight, and netted, into the bargain. He could make out neither the shape nor the colour of her eyes, through it.

She would be staying on in Bombay for some time, till she sorted out everything regarding her husband's Estate, Faiz-ud-din informed him.

The veiled lady nodded confirmation. She would be visiting Prakash's flat at Cuffe Parade shortly; but right now she was putting up at a hotel and getting her bearings. This was her first visit to Bombay, to India. And she had so many things to do . . . lawyers to see, business matters to clear up . . . her husband had died so suddenly . . . her voice broke.

Vinod asked her which hotel she was staying at. She told him, adding shyly that as he was Prakash's son, her step-son in fact, would he drop in and see her at her hotel sometime later that evening? She was totally alone, and she would so much appreciate the help of Prakash's son! Vinod pulled himself together, and promised to visit her that evening at around 7.30 . . . 8. She then took her leave.

No sooner had she left than Vinod almost rounded on Faiz-ud-din.

"Who the devil is she?"

"Exactly who she says she is! Your father's third wife," replied the old lawyer coldly. His demeanour underwent a lightning change.

Vinod flopped into a chair, ran his hand over his face in a gesture of despair. Then he asked Faiz-ud-din, "Where do I stand now?"

"Nowhere," was the unambiguous answer. "Merunissa Sattar is the sole heir."

"But don't I get anything as his son? Surely a son is entitled to inherit, along with the widow?"
"If your father had not converted, yes," replied the lawyer. "Or conversely, if you had converted along with him. As it is, he died a Muslim. And you are a Hindu."

"But I performed his last rites as per the Hindu religion, as you advised! He was born a Hindu. Doesn't that mean anything?"

Faiz-ud-din gave a wintry smile. "If this Muslim widow of his hadn't turned up, yes, you might have succeeded in inheriting his Estate. There would have been no one to challenge you then. Now there is! From what I have seen of the latest Mrs. Sattar, she'll put up a hell of a fight if you drive her to it. And she has the law on her side."

Vinod asked Faiz-ud-din suspiciously, "How did this woman come to you in the first place?"
Faiz-ud-din looked at him with deep reproach. "You shouldn't really be asking me such a question! You know quite well that your father was one of my clients. Who else would his widow turn to after his death, if not to me?"

"Did you know about his third marriage, then?" asked Vinod sceptically.

Faiz-ud-din looked reproachful again. "Of course not," he told Vinod. "But this woman must surely have known about me! That I was handling her husband's affairs!"

"Strange coincidence that she should have landed up just at the time of my appointment," murmured Vinod resentfully, still suspicious.

"Now there you are mistaken," said the old lawyer deliberately.

"Merunissa Sattar came to me a couple of days ago. I made a few inquiries with my contacts in the Gulf; ensured that she had indeed been married to your father. Then I deliberately called her today at this time, so that you could meet her in my office, in my presence."

"Damn the woman," Vinod muttered savagely. "How could. . .
how could Father have done this to me?" Just when everything was going so well, he thought to himself bitterly. Faiz-ud-din could at least have warned him! But he said nothing. He did not wish to offend the old lawyer. He still had need of him. Now, perhaps more than ever!

* * * *

While Vinod's world was collapsing about his ears, the veiled lady had taken a cab to one of the modest, inconspicuous three-star hotels at Juhu and gone up to the room she had booked the previous night. She showered, changed, had a snack, made two telephone calls, got into the burqa again, and waited.

At around 8.45 in the evening there was a knock on the door. She opened it to admit Vinod Shahane.

"Please come in," she said in her low, rather seductive voice.

Vinod felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He ruthlessly suppressed it. There was no time for anything but the business at hand. However, it was a pity! His warped mind regretted that he had to pass up a chance of enjoying sex with his 'step-mother'. Some instinct told him she'd be a bombshell, in bed!

His eyes followed her veiled figure as she went to the telephone and picking up the receiver asked him, "What will you have? Coffee? Tea? Cold drink? . . ."

He moved quickly and disconnected the telephone. "No nothing, thank you," he said, smiling down into her veiled face. He only had a few minutes, he explained, and then he had to leave. He had an important dinner engagement he just couldn't miss.

He quickly took in the layout of the room. The bed was at the far end. Close to the bathroom were the mandatory two chairs and a coffee table. He led her there and compelled her to occupy the chair closer to the bathroom, by the simple expedient of himself occupying the other.

"Pardon my asking," he began smoothly, "But when did you . . . er . . . marry my father?

"You see," he went on, as she remained silent, "it was quite sho . . . quite a surprise to me. Father had never said anything about you."

"How could he?" asked that low musical voice, a hint of pathos in it. "He felt it would upset Dina. And she had sacrificed so much for him."

"You knew about Dina?" "Of course!" The voice was a trifle impatient now. "I knew everything there was to know about your father." Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of contempt in her tone?

Vinod became restless. He had not wanted to get into an involved conversation with the lady. Might as well finish what he had come to do, and be done with it! No sense in wasting time with chit-chat. Her voice was really too sexy! But sex, right now, would be a dangerous indulgence! The sperm would be tested and from that the blood group determined and . . . no, he couldn't risk all that.

Also, the shorter the time he was in the hotel, the safer for him. He looked into the netted slit and asked, just the right amount of embarrassment in his voice, if he could use the bathroom.
"Certainly." slight surprise showed itself in her voice at that request. It had hardly been ten minutes since he had entered her room!

He stepped into the bathroom and locked the door. The bath-tub was curtained off. From his pockets Vinod pulled out a pair of fine, transparent surgeon's gloves and a thin cord about two feet long. He then sat down on the commode, drew on the gloves, flushed the toilet, concealed the cord in one of his gloved hands and softly opening the door, stepped out.

Stealthily stepping up to her chair, Vinod whipped the veil off her face from behind, slipped the cord round the slender neck and pulled.

*

The Turning - Chapter Nineteen

2009-02-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She crumpled the umpteenth sheet of paper and flung it vaguely in the direction of the waste-paper basket beside Zerxes' chair. They were in his study in his flat. It was Sunday. The ball of paper fell onto his lap instead, for the umpteenth time. He rose and advanced towards her purposefully.

Abandoning any pretense of working, Scherezade surrendered. The couch was comfortable enough. And big enough. And they were acrobatic enough.

There was a discreet knock on the door just as they lay in each other arms, exhausted and replete. Zerxes frowned. Normally, Krishna knew better than to disturb him on a Sunday when he was working in his study. Especially if Scherezade too was there. Working with him.

"What is it?" he called out.

"Sorry to disturb you Sir, but Tagore Sahib is here and insists on meeting you and Madam," was the apologetic response.

Zerxes reluctantly let go of Scherezade, got off the couch and pulled on his clothes. Tagore here on a Sunday afternoon meant something urgent. Then he remembered. Sushil had been away for a week. He must have just about returned that morning. Zerxes wondered if he had managed to get any information. Seeing that Scherezade too had buttoned up her coat-dress, he opened the door and called out to Sushil to join them in the study.

"I think you're quite right," were Tagore's first words as soon as he walked into the study. "As you know, I've been away for a week. Just returned this morning. I've had a talk with Irani and Patil. The boys have information that he's just signed an agreement for some rather posh premises for a clinic on Pedder Road. Worth at least a couple of crores. Now he himself certainly doesn't have that kind of money!"

Zerxes said, "Then, Sushil, I don't see what further proof you need. I think you should detain him straightaway and question him."

"So one of you clever Johnnies at the Bar can get him off on some technicality later on? For lack of sufficient evidence? Dear boy, this is a murder rap we're talking about! And he's not from the run of the mill criminal classes." Tagore shook his head. "No, Zerxes. Your instinct seems to have been right. No doubt he is our man. But how the devil do we prove anything? And what about the girl's death?"

"I'11 need to think that one out. But he's killed them! He's killed both of them! But you're right. No way we can prove it, absolutely. No concrete evidence."

"Perhaps there is a way, darling. . ."

Both men turned to Scherezade.

*

The Turning - Chapter Eighteen

2009-02-16T09:29:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was one O'clock at night. Zerxes flung down the book he was reading, yawned, stretched, and walked up to the window. It was a full moon night. He gazed unseeingly at the silver-dappled waves below, framed by the rectangular cleft window of his study.

What had he missed? What?

He racked the recesses of his memory. He must look up the treatise by Tyabjee. Could Sattar have been given a Hindu funeral? Why had he been given a Hindu funeral? Had there been any motive for that, apart from sentiment? Vinod Shahane did not appear to be unduly sentimental! What were the consequences of Sattar having been given a Hindu funeral?

His mind went back to his conversation with his father earlier on that night. . .

For once Sam Avari had paid more attention to his visitor than to his fish. And not entirely because the visitor had been his only son. He had heard Zerxes out in silence.

"So the police are inclined to accept that it was Nivedita Shahane who murdered Dina Sattar and then committed suicide," he had mused. "Are you?" he had suddenly shot at his son.

Zerxes had answered with a decisive negative. "It is perhaps the most convenient, almost the ideal solution," he had acknowledged wryly. "But I'm pretty sure it is not the correct one."

"Why do you say that?" Sam had asked his son.

"It's a bit too pat," Zerxes had answered. "Almost stage-managed. Besides, I can't get rid of the nagging feeling that even the police themselves are not quite sure that this is the right solution!"

His father had nodded in agreement. "I know Sushil well enough to realize that he has doubts on this one," he had acknowledged.

Zerxes had drained his coffee cup and placed it deliberately on the low stool next to the sofa, a frown creasing his dark brow.

Zerxes had looked at his father speculatively. "What do you think, Dad? What's your opinion?"

"My opinion my son is that the solution to the puzzle of the Dina Sattar murder may well be within the realm of your expertise. I suggest you brush up your Muslim personal law a bit. Unless I'm much mistaken, it all ties in with this conversion business. And once you have solved the case of Dina Sattar, the cause of Nivedita's death will be clear enough." . . .

And so Zerxes had been reading up his Muslim law. He glanced at the clock, and decided that he had read enough for the night.

Tomorrow, he'd pop over to old Faiz-ud-din and borrow some more tomes from him.

* * * *

Aliff Faiz-ud-din's office was barely a twenty-minute drive from Zerxes' flat. Zerxes drove himself there at about 10 in the morning. The old man hardly ever went to Court nowadays, but better to go early! One could hardly get any parking space in the cramped lane leading to his office.

He parked his car a little away from the decrepit old building housing Faiz-ud-din's office. About to get out of the car, his gaze was suddenly arrested by a figure coming out of the building.

Zerxes remade his plans rapidly, then turned the car around and sped off towards Crawford Market. To the office of DCP Sushildutt Tagore. Instead of going to Faiz-ud-din.

Tagore heard what Zerxes had to say without interrupting and surprised him by saying that Irani too was of that view. "You're probably right! We'll keep a watch on him," Tagore promised. "But we'll need something definite, soon," he warned.

*

The Turning - Chapter Seventeen

2009-02-16T09:11:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the day of Prakash Sattar's death, the sun rose languorously, reluctantly, as though unwilling to face yet one more death in the 'Sattar' family. Created by Prakash. And ending with him!

The monsoon clouds hung suspended in the gray sky, unwilling to let go of their burden. And so it remained throughout. An overcast sky, with not even a drizzle.

With no one to water her plants, and the rains playing truant oftener than not, Nivedita's garden was beginning to dry out. But the cacti in her rock garden flourished. It had completely destroyed the delicate Krishna Kamal creeper.

Vinod was delayed going to the hospital by the arrival of the Police. Irani himself stood at the door, accompanied by both Patil and Rodricks. A tottering Prakash joined them in the drawing room.

Kuntabai, on learning of the arrival of the Police, had retired into the kitchen. The Khannas were still in the room allotted to them.

"Now what is it, Inspector?" asked Vinod in an annoyed tone. "Why this intrusion so early?"
Ignoring Vinod and his irritation, Irani looked at Prakash and said, "We have your daughter's post-mortem report, Mr. Sattar. We thought you'd be interested in knowing the results."

Prakash nodded, unable to speak. His face had an ashen, unhealthy pallor. His eyes were dull and listless. Irani went on in a gentler tone. "The doctors are of the opinion that she committed suicide. Hers was not a case of post-mortem hanging."

Prakash gazed at them blankly, as though he hadn't heard. Vinod found his voice. "And that note you took for testing? Was that written by her?"

"Yes," answered Irani. He looked at Prakash again. "The handwriting on that note was definitely Miss Shahane's."

"So she did murder Dina!" Vinod blurted out before he could stop himself. He then tried to cover up, adding hastily, "But she was not responsible for her actions, Inspector!"

"That may well be academic, now. She herself is dead," the Inspector reminded him rather austerely. He looked at Vinod narrowly. "May I ask why you're so very sure that Nivedita killed Dina?" he asked.

Vinod shrugged. "As you say, Nivedita is dead. Nothing can hurt her now. Come with me, Inspector."

He led them all to the terrace. To the rock garden. And lifted a few of the rocks. Among the rubble, among a misshapen lump of wax covered with pins, a fairly new-looking wax figurine depicting a female figure stuck with just one pin, and a lace-edged lady's handkerchief, lay a new, full bottle of 'Joy' perfume.

"When did you dis . . ." began Irani sharply, when a thud behind them made them all turn.
Prakash had followed them out. And had fallen on seeing what the rock garden contained.
Patil hurried over to him and felt for his pulse. Vinod raced to his room for his medical bag. Rodricks rushed to the telephone. Patil, his hand on the pulse, shook his head at Irani. There was no need for a Doctor. Prakash Shahane Sattar was dead.

Irani felt there was no sense in revealing to the bereaved family what else had been stated in the PM report: especially, that Nivedita Shahane was not virgo intacta.

* * * *

Insisting that his father had reconverted to Hinduism, Vinod arranged for Hindu funeral rites for his father. In this he was supported by Kuntabai. They had their way.

Vinod lit his father's funeral pyre on that dull gray evening, and watched the flames leaping towards the laden clouds.

The Home Secretary, after condoling with Kuntabai and Vinod, could not hide his relief as he shook hands with Tagore. Sensible chap, Sattar. To quietly pop it, himself! Even that dame. . . committing suicide like that! No prosecution necessary, thought the Minister to himself, thankfully. No need to drag up all that conversion business, where Sattar was concerned. The case could be wound up neatly. And the file buried in bureaucratic oblivion.

A little distance away, Zerxes Avari, dragged to the funeral by Scherezade, watching the Minister's mobile face, divined the thoughts going on in his mind, and smiled grimly to himself.

*

The Turning - Chapter Sixteen

2009-02-15T20:47:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

While his Superior and subordinate were at the Shahane residence, Patil was cooling his heels in the musty, ill-furnished waiting area (it could hardly be dignified by the word 'reception') in the office of Messrs. Kabraji, Kabraji and Desai, Advocates, Solicitors and Notary. Awaiting the pleasure of the senior-most partner, Gustad Kabraji, who saw no reason why he should not make a Police Officer wait for his turn like any other client.

Kabraji had grudgingly given Patil an appointment for 10.30 am. After a decent wait of about fifteen minutes, Kabraji rang the bell and ordered the aged peon to send 'that Policeman' in. After all, he reasoned, the chap was a public servant and shouldn't squander his time (paid for by the public) waiting about in Solicitors' offices. He had the true lawyer's capacity for appreciating all sides of a truth!

Patil entered a Chamber which appeared even shabbier than the waiting area outside. The immediate impression was one of chaos. Files, briefs and books littered the floor and occupied almost every inch of a huge wooden table, behind which stood a dried-up, irascible looking little man of around sixty or so, wearing round bifocals and a harassed expression.

"Come in, come in, Inspector. What's your name?" he peered at the card in his hand. "Shocking business, this! Shocking! Sit down, sir, sit down. Zerxes dikra, push those papers off that chair and let the Inspector sit down. You two know each other, don't you?" He paused, looking inquiringly from Patil to Zerxes Avari, who had now risen in his leisurely fashion from a low couch half-hidden by the side of Kabraji's piled-up table.

Patil held out his hand to Zerxes saying dryly, "Yes, I know him. And of late I seem to keep bumping into him!"

Zerxes gave his slow, disarming grin. "Shall I efface myself, Inspector? Would you like to have a private talk with Mr. Kabraji?"

"Nonsense, nonsense! Of course you can stay, dikra," decreed Kabraji before Patil could respond to Zerxes' offer. "The Inspector can have nothing private to say to me. Nothing at all! Besides, you're as much connected with Dina and her family which," he frowned shrewdly at Patil through his spectacles, "is what I imagine the Inspector has come to see me about."

"You are quite right, Sir," said Patil smoothly, deciding it would be better not to rub the acerbic old man the wrong way. Besides, he was bound to take Avari into his confidence later on. It might be better, in fact, if Avari did stay on. "1 have no objection whatsoever to Mr. Avari's presence."

"You can't have any," the Solicitor told him simply. "1 won't have the damn Police dictating who should be in my office, and who should not. And now, sir, what can I do for you?"

"I am informed you have been acting as Mrs. Dina Sattar's Solicitor, Sir," began Patil.

"Then let me tell you sir, that you are misinformed," snapped the old lawyer. Observing with satisfaction the surprise in Patil's face, and the knowing amusement in Zerxes', he went on, "I've acted for Dina Sooneji, as her Solicitor. Never for Dina Sattar. You must be precise, Inspector! Precise! Only thing, in Law! Make messes otherwise," he ended severely.

Patillooked at Zerxes helplessly. He had the feeling that unless he took a firm grip of the situation straightaway, this crabby old Solicitor would reduce him to the status of an Articled Clerk.

A futile effort! Patil was no match for wily old Kabraji, who leavened his eccentricities by a puckish sense of humour and real goodness of heart. He was the remnant of a fast-vanishing breed.

"Well Sir, Dina Sooneji," allowed Patil. "Same lady."

His error was pointed out to him again. "No sir, not the same lady! I believe, as Dina Sattar, she had changed beyond recognition. But get on with it, my good man, get on with it," he urged somewhat unfairly. Poor Patil was indeed itching to 'get on with it'. "I don't have the whole morning to waste on Policemen asking me damn foolish questions."

Patil swallowed. And was badgered into coming straight to the point.

Asked if he had ever drawn up a Will for Dina Sattar, Kabraji frowned and muttered, "Of course not! Dina never gave any instructions about any Will. Don't think she ever made one. Never one to listen to advice, that girl." He shook his head slowly, probably thinking of the amount of sound advice given by him and rejected by the ungrateful Dina.

"Well Sir, you may not have drawn it up, but Mrs. Sattar did leave behind a Will," Patil spoke almost apologetically, as though he had been the culprit who had dared to make a Will without Gustad Kabraji's permission, advice and guidance.

"What's this?" rapped out Kabraji, glaring now at Zerxes. "Dina died leaving a Will? You never mentioned anything about that to me," he said accusingly.

"I was coming to that, Gustad, when the Inspector sent in his card. I realized what he had come to see you about and felt it would be better to let the Inspector himself broach the topic to you, without my preempting him," Zerxes murmured.

"Pre-empting be damned! Where's the bloody thing?" barked Kabraji.

Zerxes took out the document from a folder lying on the couch beside him and gave it to the irate Solicitor. Kabraji glanced through it with surprising speed and flung it onto his over-burdened table. It floated to the floor, near the Inspector's feet. He bent and picked it up, glancing through it himself before handing it back to Avari.

"Call that a Will?" snapped Kabraji, glaring at Zerxes. "Stuff and nonsense! That woman must have gone mad! Makes her own legatees attest the Will! Bequeaths the whole of her Estate away from her legal heirs! As though she could! After she had converted! Bah!" He pushed his glasses, which had been sliding down, further up his nose and fumed on: "This is what happens when people decide that they know better than their lawyers! Decide to take things into their own hands! Make a mess of everything!" he snorted.

Patil, who had been listening interestedly to all this, asked, "Are you suggesting that most of the bequests are invalid, Sir?"

"Opining, not suggesting," Kabraji corrected him. "Anyone with a modicum of legal knowledge could see that they are invalid. And you're no fool Inspector, hey?" He suddenly changed his tone.

"Nor am I a Solicitor, Sir!" was the deprecating reply. "I'd be glad if you would explain just which part of the Will is invalid."

"Bequests to witnesses, null and void. Bequest of more than one-third of her Estate to her niece, who is a stranger, invalid," reeled off the lawyer.

"Pardon me, Sir," interrupted Patil, knitting his brows. "Why is her niece a stranger? And why is the bequest to her invalid?"

"The niece isn't a Muslim," was the grim reply. "So she's a stranger' in that sense. She's not an heir. Under the Muslim law, Inspector, the testator cannot bequeath more than one-third of the Estate away from the heirs as per Muslim Law, without their consent. As I understand the circumstances in this case, Dina's sole legal heir under the Muslim Law would be her Muslim husband. That Sattar fellow."

"Would Mr. Sattar inherit the entire Estate of his second wife, in the circumstances?" asked Patil.

"No no, of course not! Didn't you hear what I said?" frowned Kabraji irritably. "The bequests to the maid and to Banoo Kanga being void, would revert to the Estate. Scherezade presumably would inherit one-third of the Estate. Especially if Sattar doesn't contest that. The law is none too clear about a non-Muslim inheriting from a Muslim under a Will. Then Sattar would inherit the balance two-thirds."

Patil looked at Zerxes. "Was Sattar aware of his wife's Will?"

"Not before her death, I think," answered Zerxes, looking at the Inspector through slitted green eyes. "But yes, after her death he was aware that she had died leaving a Will, and that she had Willed her body to a teaching hospital for medical research. I don't think he was aware of the disposition of her Estate."

"So, before her death he was not aware that she had Willed away her body for medical research?" queried Patil.

"No. He was definitely surprised on finding that she had left a Will at all. And that he came to know after her death, and after the body had been sent to JJ Hospital," supplied Zerxes.

"Thank you very much, Gentlemen," said Patil. To Kabraji he added courteously, "I won't take up any more of your time Sir. Thank you for your cooperation."

"You are welcome, Inspector, you are welcome." said Kabraji cordially, rather to Patil's surprise. "An interesting change, I can't deny, from drawing up Wills and advising people on their marital problems."

Patil took his leave. Zerxes followed shortly and fell into step beside him.

"So, are you off to the Shahanes', Inspector?" asked Zerxes conversationally.

"To the Shahanes'?" echoed Patil. "Why? What's wrong?" he asked sharply, noting the look on Zerxes' face.

Zerxes told him.

"No I didn't know anything about that," said Patil sounding quite shocked. "I had left my house very early in the morning. I had some other business elsewhere, before my appointment with Kabraji. They wouldn't have been able to contact me from the Station. How did you come to know, Mr. Avari?"

Zerxes told him. Patillooked thoughtful. From a public call office, Patil called up the Cuffe Parade Police Station. His colleagues had returned. He was asked to go there directly.
Patil hesitantly requested A vari to come along too, if he could spare the time. DCP Tagore was also there.

"I think this business about the Will needs to be clarified," Patil said. "And you're definitely better equipped to do so than I am."

Zerxes agreed to accompany Patil without any demur. He had decided to let his legal practice take a back seat for some time, till this tangle was sorted out. The only problem was, thought Zerxes to himself moodily, that the case seemed to be getting more and more messy!

Was Nivedita's death suicide, or murder? The PM report should be out soon. He must have a talk with his father after that! Evidently, Tagore had got the old man interested. And involved. He glanced at his watch. Just around 11.40. Scherezade would be at work by now. She had insisted on resuming. And he had not really opposed, knowing that it would be better if she got back to her work. Gave her imaginative mind less time to brood! He'd call her up from the Station and pick her up for lunch.

At the Station, Patil reported his conversation with Kabraji, explaining why he had requested Zerxes to accompany him. Adding slyly that in this particular case, he hoped Mr. Avari would cooperate with the police instead of putting spokes in their way!

"Ah!" Tagore gave an exaggerated sigh. "That'll depend on whom we suspect, my dear Patil." Turning to Zerxes, he then asked seriously, "So to whom exactly does Dina Sattar's Estate go?"
"As Kabraji has opined, one-third of it could still be inherited by Scherezade, especially if Sattar does not contest that. The rest goes to Sattar himself."

"The Commander's been able to discover the name of the lady with whom Sattar was. . . er putting up at the Hotel Blue Diamond in Poona, Sir. Sonali Roy. Seems he's quite seriously involved with her! Been carrying on for quite some time. A youngish, rather attractive widow. She's a Doctor, and so's her son, Abhijeet. Abhijeet apparently works in the same hospital as Vinod Shahane and the two are quite friendly," Irani reported.

Tagore said quietly, "Then you'd better check up on the lady, Inspector. We must get her to confirm this. And inquire from her why Sattar delayed for so long in setting out for Bombay, after being informed that his wife was seriously ill."

"That gives the husband the motive all right," mused Patil.

Zerxes smiled. Noticing the smile, Irani asked shrewdly, "You don't agree with Inspector Patil, Mr. Avari?"

"Oh, he had a motive all right," answered Zerxes. "But motive enough for murder? A man in his circumstances? We must not forget the circumstances, Inspector. Sattar had not yet exhausted his quota of four wives. What do you think, Sushil?"

"I think I agree with you," replied Tagore. "Also, if it were Sattar who killed his wife, would he have been foolish enough to put the poison in the perfume he had himself presented to his wife, thereby nullifying the alibi created (if it was meant to be one), of being out of town when she died? He could have put the poison in a myriad other media.

"But he does remain a prime suspect, all the same. When it comes to murder, human beings are just as incalculable, as in anything else. And if the girl's death turns out to be murder, then probably he's our man. He was present in that house when she died. Probably he alone is the common factor in both the cases. In the meanwhile, let's keep our options open as far as the Dina Sattar case is concerned."

"I agree," said Irani. "What we are looking for," he went on, now addressing Patil and Rodricks rather than the others, "is someone who had a motive and the opportunity to slip the poison into the bottle of perfume as being the most convenient medium. So let's get cracking on that, boyos." he ordered crisply. "Till we get the PM report on Nivedita Shahane, we'll concentrate on the Sattar case, disregarding the second death."

"That makes sense," approved Tagore. "Nivedita's murder, if it turned out to be such, would be for one reason alone. That she knew something about Dina's murder. And the field of suspects would be far narrower. Very few people had the opportunity." Abruptly, he asked, "Has anything more been learnt about the mystery man who visited Dlna Sattar the night before she died?"

Zerxes raised a brow. "What's this?" he inquired.

"Dina was visited by somebody the night before she died?" "That's what the watchman on duty that night testified to. That a strange man had demanded to be allowed to visit Dina, claiming she had called him to check out her Television set. He was apparently some TV mechanic, or something, wasn't he, Patil?" "Yes Sir", replied Patil, adding, "and the watchman says Mrs. Sattar confirmed this, when she was contacted over the security intercom. Apparently, she was alone when he went up. Sattar had left for Poona, and even her maid had gone out for quite a while!

"Sounds promising," Tagore drawled. "You must have no doubt got the description from the watchman. Has his identity been established, as yet?"

"Not yet, Sir," answered Irani, a shade defensively. "The watchman's description is too vague and general. Could fit just about anyone who is short and slightly stocky, with a cocky air, moustache, and no glasses. The chaps are working on that.

"But in the meanwhile, Patil has discovered something interesting. He has visited Dina Sattar's Bank Manager and her bank statements, in her own individual account, show heavy cash withdrawals at periodic intervals. Now there's nothing to show that the lady has been buying any jewellery or expensive stuff of late. The money simply seems to have disappeared." He cocked a bushy eyebrow at the DCP. "I can sniff some blackmail here."

Tagore frowned. "Possibly. But in cases of blackmail it's normally the blackmailer who gets murdered, not the victim."

"Perhaps she refused to play ball any longer and threatened to go to the Police, or to inform her husband," hazarded Irani, refusing to be baulked of his theory so summarily.

"Yes, that's quite possible," conceded Tagore, adding dryly, "All the more reason we find the mystery visitor, as I imagine he's the one you suspect of being the blackmailer."

Zerxes rose and moved to the phone, dialling without seeking anyone's permission. "Ms. Scherezade Vatcha, please." He arranged to pick her up for lunch and left with Tagore.

After they had left, Rodricks turned to Irani and asked diffidently, "Do you think it's wise to take this A vari chap so much into our confidence, Sir? Considering his. . .er. . . relationship with one of the suspects?"

Irani exchanged an amused glance with Patil. "If, boyo, you seriously think Scherezade Vatcha murdered an aunt she evidently loved dearly, for the sake of some jewellery which she may not even get, I think it's time to retire you from the Force on the ground of an overactive imagination," he said with withering scorn.

Rodricks stood his ground. "It's not just the young lady, Sir. Even her father's been acting funnily. And there's been no love lost between him and the deceased for quite a few years."

"Yes, 'Drew, but why now, after so many years?" asked Irani patiently. "If Dina Sattar had been murdered shortly after her conversion and marriage to Sattar, I could have understood Fredun Vatcha committing murder in a fit of righteousness. As it is, our suspects seem narrowed down to the husband and to the mystery man. That is, if Nivedita Shahane's death turns out to be murder. If it is suicide, we don't have to look any further."

"You think she could have murdered Dina Sattar, Sir?" asked Patil.

Irani nodded. "Her mother's suicide could have triggered off her death wish for Dina into something more concrete. She had been to the house on the morning of her birthday. She knew it was her birthday. She was alone in the Hall, while Sattar and his wife were breakfasting. You both have seen the house. From the Hall, she could have easily slipped into Dina's bedroom, put the poison into the bottle of perfume, and slipped back into the Hall. Maybe," he said, remembering something he had read from both Prakash Sattar's and the maid's testimony, "that is why she did not wait to see Dina, but went off before Dina had finished her breakfast and come out to the Hall"

"But the poison? Where would a kid like that have got the poison from?" inquired Patil. "Something so unusual as Nitrobenzene, at that?"

"Ah! That's where we had a bit of good luck, when we questioned Suchitra Khanna," said Irani. "It appears that one of Nivedita's cousins, a chap named Sunil Shahane, has a workshop where he manufactures hair dye, quite close to the Shahane residence. This Sunil Shahane was present at Karuna's funeral. Now 'Drew has done a bit of research into this poison. Aniline, a product of Nitrobenzene, is used in the manufacture of hair dye, among other things. The cousin's workshop could well have been Nivedita's source."

"So it all fits in . . . Nivedita poisoned Dina . . . and then committed suicide in a fit of remorse," said Patil slowly. "But why should she feel remorse?"

"That, Avinash, is human nature for you," said Irani, getting up and stretching himself. "And now, boyos, get the Commander to check out where Prakash Sattar bought that bottle of perfume and when. It shouldn't be too difficult. Most of these Johnnies have their favourite smugglers."
"What about the first husband?" asked Rodricks suddenly. "Are we eliminating him completely from any suspicion?"

"Oh, he remains a suspect all right," answered Irani carelessly. "But I don't fancy him much. No motive. In homicide, boyo, motive is everything. Unless it's a serial killer or some such weirdo. The motive may appear inadequate; it may appear stupid to a lot of people. But some motive must exist! And so far, I can't see the shadow of a motive where the first husband is concerned."
"What about Sattar's son, then? That Vinod fellow? Maybe he too has had resentment against Dina, as his sister had, and never showed it? After all, he's a Doctor. This esoteric poison may well point to someone with medical knowledge," suggested Rodricks.

"Yes, I'll be willing to examine that red herring, Andrew, if you show me one piece of evidence saying Vinod Shahane was anywhere near the Sattars' residence before Dina died," said Irani. "And as for the 'medical knowledge', I suggest you look up in some good medical dictionary: it'll tell you all you want to know about Nitrobenzene."

Rodricks was silenced. Apart from the sarcastic tone, the use of his full first name by Irani was enough to warn him that the Boss was getting impatient. This was a hint that he wanted more evidence, and quickly. Irani had set up a punishing pace for his 'boyos', and did not intend to let it slacken till the case was solved.

* * * *

Zerxes had fetched Scherezade from her office. He took her to Gaylord's for lunch. It was one of her favourites. Scherezade, normally a light luncher, decided to pig it out that day, startling Zerxes by ordering a Lobster Thermidor, Chicken Cecilia and two plates of garlic bread.

"You won't be able to work after all this," he protested.

"Don't intend to," flashed Scherezade, biting into a hot buttered roll of garlic bread. "What are your plans?"
"I've arranged to meet my father after lunch. There are certain points about the case I want to discuss with him."

"No Court?" she asked him.

Zerxes shrugged. "Rishad and Himanshu will manage, for today." He looked at her for a moment and then said deliberately, "In the morning, I'd gone over to meet old Kabraji. I met Patil there," Then he told her about the new development. About Nivedita.

The lobster turned in Scherezade's stomach. She shuddered, pushing her plate away.

"Hel-low, Zerxes!" The cheery voice seemed to sound just above her head. Scherezade looked up to find a striking young man standing there, vigorously pumping Zerxes' arm.

Zerxes pulled away his arm, grimacing. "Come off it, Abhijeet," he said mockingly. "you can't be all that glad to see me!" Noticing where Abhijeet's glance had been hovering, he introduced Scherezade. To Abhijeet Roy. Dr. Abhijeet Roy, he amended.

"What's the busy Counsel doing out of Court?" grinned Abhijeet.

Zerxes said deliberately, "I'm a bit busy with the Dina Sattar murder."

"Oh! And what's your interest in that murder?" asked Abhijeet curiously. "Has anyone been arrested? Are you representing any of the accused? Come on, spill the beans!"

"Why don't you join us for coffee?" offered Zerxes rather to Scherezade's astonishment, lifting a long forefinger to summon the waiter. A chair was promptly placed at their table, and Abhijeet plonked himself on to it, needing no further invitation.

"To get back to your question," continued Zerxes, "no, no one has been arrested as yet. Nor am I representing anyone as yet."

"Then what's your interest in it?" Abhijeet repeated the question.

Indicating Scherezade with a slight gesture, Zerxes replied, "Dina Sattar was her aunt."

"Oh! I'm dashed sorry. Awful thing to happen. Murder in the family and all that!"

The coffee was brought to their table. Stirring it, Abhijeet volunteered, "Even the old man doesn't have long to live, now." Looking into Scherezade's astonished eyes he nodded, saying simply, "Terminal."

"Prakash Sattar?" asked Scherezade unnecessarily.

Abhijeet nodded again, as though imparting momentous news. "His son's pretty upset about it. The old man hardly has a few months left." He suddenly looked at his watch and exclaimed, pushing back his chair and getting up jerkily, "Christ! Look at the time! Gotta rush. See y' guys around!" With an airy wave he was gone.

After he had left, Scherezade asked Zerxes, "For heaven's sake who was that? And how come he knows so much about Prakash Sattar?"

"Abhijeet, my love, is the son of Sonali Roy." Then, as she still looked blank, he continued, stretching out his hand across the table and holding both her hands in his strong, long-fingered clasp, "Sonali Roy is the lady with whom Prakash Sattar has been having an affair these last couple of years."

A spasm of pain crossed Scherezade's face. No wonder Dina Fui had not been looking too happy.

They finished their coffee in silence. Scherezade's face had a set look, making her look almost grim. Zerxes frowned, then asked her gently where she wanted to go for the rest of the afternoon.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "I'11 go back to the office, after all."

He nodded, relieved. "Better," he said. "But see if you can get away earlier than usual." Normally, she was in her office, and he at his Chambers till at least about 7 every evening. "I don't think I'll be with Dad for more than a couple of hours. It's 3, now. I'll pick you up at about 5, 5.30. That suit you?"

* * * *

He was prompt to the time he had promised. By 5.15, Scherezade was in the car with him.
To her surprise, he drove over to her parents' place. "1 want to have a word with your father," he explained.

The family was at home. Fredun had just returned from work. So had Firdauz. Fredun seemed both preoccupied and ill at ease. Rashna disappeared into the kitchen on their arrival, on the pretext of making some tea. Firdauz sat flipping desultorily through the latest copy of 'Glad Rags'. He was rather proud of his body!

Zerxes took Fredun aside and asked him without preamble, "Do you know of anything in Dina's past which could render her open to blackmail?" Fredun was stunned by the question, and looked it.
"Why? Was she being blackmailed?" he asked.

Zerxes shrugged. "That's a possibility the Police are examining. So if you do know of anything, I suggest you come out with it and let them know. It just might throw some light on who the murderer may be." As Fredun seemed to hesitate a bit, he added dryly, "Please appreciate, Fredun, that we all are, somehow, involved in this! It's in everyone's interest to at least try and ensure that the real murderer is caught. Otherwise," he met Fredun's eyes steadily, "some of us will remain under the shadow of suspicion unnecessarily, and all of us will spend the rest of our lives wondering who the murderer had been. Or who it could have been!"

Fredun looked at him with something very like horror in his eyes. This aspect of the matter had not previously occurred to him. He thought for a moment. "I don't know anything, but Banoo Maa just might. If there's anything to know, she's the one person who will know. Would you like to phone her?"

"I think it would be better if Scherezade and I went over to her place instead. Why don't you join us there, if you like?" suggested Zerxes. "If Rashna doesn't mind, of course!"

"Rashna won't mind. And yes, that's a good idea. I'll come along with you."

"Then you'd better take your vehicle," Zerxes suggested. "We may need to go somewhere else after seeing Banoo."

* * * *

"Blackmail?" echoed Banoo Maa, when the question was put to her by Zerxes. "Is that what you really suspect?" The old lady looked at him, seeming stricken. Then she turned away and said, "I suppose it will all have to come out, then! It can't remain hidden any longer."

"That's one of the attendant ills of a murder case," said Zerxes gently. "The investigation brooks no secrets. Relevant or not. That's because till the murderer is caught, very often the Police themselves can't be sure just what is relevant and what is not."

Banoo appeared to have hardly heard him. She began in a low toneless voice, "After she and Khurshed had divorced, Dina got involved with someone. He's dead now, so his name need not be dragged in. He was a no-good womanizer." She glanced fleetingly at Scherezade and swallowed, as though trying to digest something nasty all over a again.

Zerxes waited patiently, aware that it was best that the old lady be allowed to tell the story in her own way, at her own pace.

After what seemed a long moment, Banoo Maa continued, "Dina became pregnant with his child. He was not married. Dina was sure that once she was pregnant, he would marry her and they could have the child. She was so excited! She thought God had given her a second chance, after taking away little Hanoz from her. But that rascal never had any intention of marrying her! When he came to know she was pregnant, he disappeared. Dina had waited till it was too late for an abortion. She had the child. It was a lovely little girl. We had gone to Poona for the delivery, so no one in Bombay would know." Tears ran unchecked down the wrinkled old cheeks. Scherezade went up to her, put an arm round the frail old shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. Giving herself a visible shake, Banoo Maa went on.

"The child was given away in adoption almost immediately after her birth. It had all been arranged beforehand. A close friend of Dina was childless. She and her husband took the child away within a month of her birth and brought her up as their own. Dina used to visit them often. Of course, the child was never told anything about Dina being the real mother."

"Where do these people stay?" asked Zerxes. "In Poona?"

"No, they're from Bombay. They had come to Poona for the delivery. They took away the baby from Poona only. They're a very nice, very rich Parsee couple. Dina was keen that her child be adopted by Parsees only," she said, shaking her head at the inconsistency of human behaviour.

She then rose with some difficulty, and from her old roll-top table, pulled out a diary, opened it at a particular page and gave it to Zerxes.

"This is the name and address, Dikra. Do what you have to, but ask your DCP friend to be discreet. Let my poor Dina's memory not be tarnished any further!"

Fredun had sat all through this almost immobile. Now he got up with a jerk and started pacing about the room, as though sitting still had become a torture that could not be borne any longer.
Looking up at the hurt in his face, Banoo Maa almost forgot her own. Her straight-forward, unimaginative Fredun. How on earth was he going to take all these revelations about his once beloved sister?

With an effort, Fredun brought his features under control. He stopped pacing, and stared at Banoo Maa. Something had suddenly struck him. Still staring at Banoo Maa, he asked almost eagerly, "Maa, do you member Fatima's husband? That Makbul? He used to beat up Fatima get money out of her? That is why Dina persuaded Fatima to leave him and live with her and Khurshed in their house, full time. If I member correctly, he was quite a nosy chap. And even after Fatima left him, he used to suddenly land up at Khurshed and Dina's, to get some money out of Fatima, didn't he?"

Banoo Maa stared at him. "Yes, he did. But. . . do you think he's been visiting Dina's place even after her marriage to Prakash, and trying . blackmail her? No, Fredun, that sounds too far-fetched."

"Just a minute," broke in Zerxes. "Do any of you know what this Makbul fellow does for a living? If he does anything at all?"

"Well dear, he was working as a Television mechanic at one time, that much I do know. Now what he does, I haven't the faintest idea," replied Banoo Maa.

"Television mechanic, was he?" murmured Zerxes, a sudden gleam of interest showing in his green eyes, recalling what Patil had revealed at the Station. "Is he short and stocky, with a moustache?" he asked.

"Yes, I suppose that would be a good description of him," replied Banoo slowly, looking at Zerxes, puzzled.

Zerxes rose abruptly, stretching out his hand to Scherezade. "We'll pay Fatima a visit. Sattar's still at the Shahanes. Come, sweetheart."

From Banoo Maa's, Zerxes and Scherezade drove straight to Prakash's, leaving behind a mystified Fredun and Banoo Maa.

Fatima, when confronted by them, sobbingly admitted that her husband Makbul used to come to visit her off and on. But she insisted that he came to see her, not her Bibiji.

"He says bad things about Bibiji, Sherrie Baby," cried the maid, weeping and clinging to Scherezade's hands. "He tells me, Fatima, to leave Bibiji and go with him. He says Bibiji is bad woman. She has child she does not keep. The Chinoys, at Bandra, they keep Bibiji's child. He seen Bibiji there, when he go to make their Television allright. He heard them talk about baby. He knows!"

"Why did you allow him to come here, then?" demanded Scherezade.

Fatima sniffed and looked slyly at her. "What to do, Baby? I need a man sometime. I stay with Bibiji. But he comes here. To meet me, Fatima," she almost crowed triumphantly.

Over her head, Scherezade exchanged a glance with Zerxes. It seemed clear enough. There was nothing more they could say, or ask.

Zerxes' face signalled a message to her.

She asked Fatima, "Where does your husband stay, Fatima?" Then, as a wary look crept into the maid's eyes, she said firmly, "You must tell us, Fatima. If you loved your Bibiji. And if you don't want the Police landing up here."

Visibly alarmed at that, the maid told them. "But you don't tell police, no?"

Scherezade released her hands from the maid's clutching hold and followed Zerxes out of the house. "How could she?" she raged as soon they were out of the house. "After all my aunt had done for her. How could she even let him step inside the house?"

Zerxes drove swiftly to the slums along the sea-side at Cuffe Parade. He told Scherezade to remain in the car and got out himself to make the necessary inquiries.

The koli fishermen, suspicious and wary at first, ultimately succumbed to Zerxes' persuasive tongue. One lungi-clad figure called out to another, till quite a conclave had formed. Finally, one of them directed him to the hut where apparently Makbul had been living with a plump, comely fisherwoman.

She welcomed Zerxes coyly. Admitted that Makbul was her 'aadmi'. Spat out that he had disappeared. When? Oh, since the 28th of June.

The day after Dina Sattar's murder.

*

The Turning - Chapter Fifteen

2009-02-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Prakash was awakened by Vinod, who was shaking him by the shoulder. He was standing by the twin bed, fully dressed. "Come, Father," he said. "Get up. At least let's have coffee together, before I go off to the hospital!"

Prakash peered at his watch which was lying on the bedside table. It was 7.30 in the morning. He rose, and within about fifteen minutes was at the breakfast table. Everyone else was at the table. Except Nivedita. But then that was hardly surprising any more.

"Shantabai has gone to clean the child's room," said Kuntabai, as though reading her son's thoughts. "She'll have her out of bed soon enough. High time the girl stopped mooning around and got herself something to do. We'd better start looking for a nice boy for her, Beta," she said, casting an almost accusing glance at Prakash.

At that moment they heard a high-pitched wail coming from the direction of Nivedita's room. Followed by a frenzied: "Baba, oh Vinod Baba, come . . . come soon . . . oyee maa . . . a . . . a . . . "

Prakash and Vinod were out of their chairs almost simultaneously, racing towards Nivedita's room. Arun too followed, casting his wife a puzzled glance. Kuntabai sat as though frozen to her chair.
Vinod reached his sister's room first. Shantabai was beating her chest and wailing. Vinod tried to prevent his father from entering the room, but was too late. Prakash took one look inside the door and quietly crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

The sight of his daughter's body, hanging grotesquely at the end of a sheet from the rod of the ceiling fan above her bed was too much for him.

Arun by now had reached Nivedita's room. He stood, shocked and undecided between the apparently dead daughter and the prostrate father. Vinod, who seemed to have himself well in hand, after one glance at his sister, did not have any trouble deciding his priorities. Nivedita seemed too far gone. But his father required urgent attention. He set about quickly trying to revive him.

Arun led the sobbing Shantabai out of the door, then informed the ladies (who by now had had the premonition of disaster) as to what had happened, and went back hurriedly to his niece's room.

Prakash's eyes were just beginning to flicker as Arun entered the room again. With some difficulty, between the two of them, he and Vinod managed to get Prakash to Vinod's room where they laid him out on the bed. Then Vinod telephoned his father's personal physician. And also their own family Doctor. A death certificate would be required for Nivedita. He himself would rather not sign one!

The family Doctor, however, insisted on calling in the Police, and himself rang up Gamdevi Police Station. Dina Sattar's case had made headlines, after all. Prakash Sattar was a prominent figure in the city. And the Doctor was well aware of the malicious gossip in medical circles concerning poor Dr. Dhondy. This girl appeared to have hanged herself all right, but he had no wish to take any chances!

The Senior Police Inspector in charge of Gamdevi Police Station was a man both cautious and perceptive. On hearing the news of Nivedita Shahane's apparent suicide, he called up the Cuffe Parade Police Station and conveyed the news to his counterpart there.

"Hell, Akshay, are you sure it's not some kind of hoax?" demanded an incredulous Sheriyar Irani at the other end of the wire. He had thought there was nothing that could shock him any more, after his twenty years in the Force. He had not bargained for such wholesale deaths one after the other, all connected to one family! First wife, second wife, now daughter, thought the Inspector to himself.

He buzzed Rodricks on the intercom. Patil was coming in late. He had an appointment with that Sattar dame's Solicitor, remembered Irani, who kept a track of his officers. He'd better go over himself with Rodricks, thought Irani. Akshay Varma of Gamdevi and he got along well together. This may be connected to the Sattar murder. Or it may not. But it had to be investigated.

Then he called up Sushildutt Tagore. Who on a sudden impulse called up Zerxes Avari, catching him just as he was about to leave his flat to join Scherezade for a quick breakfast at the Sea Lounge, before his appointment with Gustad Kabraji.

By the time Irani and Rodricks reached the Shahane residence, at around 8.30 or so, Akshay Varma was already there with his team. The family Doctor had now retired into the background, allowing the Police Doctor to take over. The photographers had finished their job, and two constables brought the body down. There was no doubt about it. She was dead.

The Police Doctor examined the noose, the area around the neck, the eyes, the lips, the face, and went into a huddle with the two Senior Inspectors. They heard him out in silence. Irani frowned a little, then slapped his thigh as though coming to a decision, and nodded to Varma.

"I think we'd better have the post-mortem done, in the circumstances," said Irani. "Rodricks has discovered that Sattar's daughter had visited Dina Sattar on the day before her murder, which also happened to be her birthday. Only on that day! She had never been there before. And she hated Dina, by all accounts. My chaps hadn't got around to questioning the girl as yet. They'd have done that today. If this is suicide, she's picked a damned convenient time! If not, someone else has panicked a bit. Which means she knew something!"

Then he and Varma went in search of Vinod. In the living-cum dining room, the family Doctor was trying to persuade Kuntabai to go to her room and relax. The old lady still sat at the table, chanting some verses like an automaton, paying no heed to anyone or anything around her. Suchitra Khanna had an arm around her, but didn't seem to know quite what to do.

Irani found Vinod and Arun Khanna in Vinod's room, trying to persuade a now fully conscious Prakash that it would be best if he got admitted into a hospital for some time. Prakash's personal physician was there too, trying to lend the weight of his authority. Prakash was resisting feebly. He seemed to have hardly any will left. Irani thought he had never seen anyone age so fast. Varma's Sub-Inspector came tentatively to the door, and signalled to his Superior to come out. Both he and Irani went over.

"What's up, Rafik?" Varma asked abruptly. Rafik Merchant, the SI at the Gamdevi Police Station held out a piece of paper which appeared to have been tom from a notebook. "It's been dusted for fingerprints, Sir," he said. "We found it on the bed, under her pillow." The note contained a scrawl in childish, rather ill-formed handwriting. The message was brief and rather stilted:

"I am sorry I did that. I just had to!
Don't be angry with me, Papa. I love you."

"Well, I suppose that's clear enough," said Varma.

"Hmmm . . ." Irani seemed lost in thought. His eyebrows snapped together, giving him a ferocious look. He looked up at Varma. "The PM will tell!"

"You don't believe this is suicide?" asked Varma.

Irani shrugged his bulky shoulders. "You heard what the Doc said. No saliva dribbling. Hardly any petechial haemorrhage around the ligature. That's fishy! Of course, these signs are not conclusive. But this could well be a case of poshnortem hanging."

"You think someone killed her first and then strung her up to give an impression of suicide?"

"We can't rule out that possibility," said Irani thoughtfully.

"Besides, I've got a nasty feeling in my gut. In fact, Akshay, I'm wondering whether we should review the case of Karuna Shahane."

"By God, Sheriyar! You don't think Sattar himself is responsible?" Varma sounded sceptical.

"It's too early to rule out anybody. And there's a lot about Mr. Prakash Shahane Sattar that won't bear close scrutiny, I assure you," replied Irani dryly.

"What about this note?" asked Varma.

Irani looked at him with a slight, grim smile. "Under the circumstances, what message does the note convey to you?" he asked.

Varma looked at his colleague, a slight frown in his eyes. "It seems as though this dame was responsible for Dina Sattar's murder, and then committed suicide in a fit of guilt or remorse!" he said.

Irani's smile broadened. "That, my friend, is exactly the message someone wants us to get! We'll know whether that is true or not, once we get the results of the PM."

They went back to Nivedita's room, to find that the Police Doctor was packing up his instruments.

"What, according to your estimate would be the time of death, Doctor?" asked Varma.

"She's not been dead too long," said the Doctor. "Rigor mortis has commenced, but is not as yet completely established in the entire body. I'd say not more than six hours, seven at the most. He looked at his watch. "It's about 9, now. I'd say she died some time around 2 to 4 this morning, on a rough estimate."

Varma gave the note back to Merchant. "Get the experts on to it. Apart from the fingerprint chaps. Handwriting analysis, chemical testing, the works. Get samples of the deceased's handwriting from the brother. And ask our chaps if they can estimate when the note was written. It's written in ink, so that may help a bit."

The SI seemed to hesitate a bit. "Do we take the fingerprints of everyone in the house, Sir?" he asked.

"Yes dammit," replied his Senior irritably. "We can't afford to take any chances this time," he snapped out, wincing a little as he recalled the readiness with which they had accepted Karuna Shahane's death as suicide. Of course, it still could be suicide, and everything that followed could have nothing to do with her death.

Both Senior Inspectors were well aware that if Nivedita Shahane's death turned out to be murder, the suspects were all within the four walls of that house. All her closest family: father, brother, grandmother, uncle and aunt. There were no signs of anyone having broken into the flat. In fact, there was no question of anyone having been able to break into the flat. The flat was on the 5th floor. The windows all had secure decorative grills fixed on them. On the door of the main entrance was a sophisticated Yale latch. Everything was intact. No, no one had broken in.
And if Nivedita had been murdered, it could only be because she knew something or had discovered something about Dina Sattar's murder, Irani opined, in a hurried conference with Varma. There was hardly any other motive for killing the girl And that made Prakash Sattar the hottest suspect! Prakash Sattar, who had had both the motive and the means to murder his wife. And who had been present under this roof last night. Who had been alienated from his children for so long. After all, Irani had known of cases where fathers had coldbloodedly murdered their own children. As had mothers!

After Nivedita's body had been taken away, Sheriyar Irani looked inquiringly at Varma. Varma understood, and nodded his acquiescence.

"Yes, I don't mind if you do the questioning," he said genially, realizing full well that whether this turned out to be murder or not, Irani was at least as concerned as he himself, in the investigations. If not more.

Besides, Irani knew all about the circumstances concerning Dina Sattar's death. Varma, as yet, knew next to nothing. Irani would know better what line of questioning to take with these people.
They weren't going to be easy to interrogate, Varma thought to himself, noting the taut, angry look that came into the face of Vinod Shahane, who had come into the room and heard what he had said to Irani.

"Now look here," began Vinod belligerently, "My sister's just killed herself. My father's prostrate. My grandmother is in a state of shock. You can't do any questioning now. Besides, what's there to question?"

"We are still not absolutely sure that your sister did kill herself," Irani said quietly.

"Then wait till you are sure, before you start badgering us at such a time!" replied Vinod rudely.

Irani looked at him stonily. "Your father had used some very similar words when Dina Sattar died," he said, a hint of steel in his tone. "If you absolutely insist, we shall defer the questioning till we get the PM results. But are you sure you want to insist?"

Vinod looked sulky. "Very well," he conceded with ill grace. "But I'd be obliged if you could spare my father and grandmother, at least."

"We'll be very gentle with them," promised Irani, willfully misunderstanding the stiffly mouthed request.

There was a small study just next to Vinod's room, which Irani and Varma decided to use for interrogation. The Police Stenographer was installed at a table. Vinod shouted to Shantabai to get some tea. Shantabai, still weeping, resentfully declared herself unable to do any work.

"I'll make the tea," offered Suchitra Khanna quietly and went to the kitchen, sweeping the muttering maidservant with her.

Arun came in quickly to join his nephew in the study. He was asked to wait outside. "We'll see everybody, one by one," said Varma firmly, closing the door on him before he could protest.

"Now, Mr. Shahane," began lrani. "Could you please first give us the names of all the persons who were in this house last night?" "My grandmother, Kuntabai Shahane, my uncle and aunt, Arun and Suchitra Khanna, . . ."

"Do they normally stay hete? interrupted Varma.

"No, they are from Calcutta. They came over when my mother died. Arun's her brother. They were to go back to Calcutta yesterday." He suddenly broke off, as though realizing the significance of what he had just said.

"Indeed," said Irani. "And why did they delay their departure?"

"That has nothing to do with the Police," muttered Vinod sullenly.

"You will allow us to be the best judge of that, Mr. Shahane," Irani's voice hardened almost imperceptibly. "Kindly answer the question."

Vinod shrugged resignedly and said, "They decided to stay a bit longer in view of Dina Sattar's death."

"But Dina Sattar died three days ago. And yet they were to leave yesterday."

"Well," Vinod said helplessly, "They postponed their departure again on knowing that she was murdered."

Both Inspectors frowned. "Why should the discovery that Dina Sattar had been murdered make your mother's brother and his wife delay their departure to Calcutta?" asked Irani.

Vinod seemed to swallow. He looked embarrassed. Irani waited patiently. Ultimately Vinod looked up, met Irani's eyes fleetingly and said, "Because my sister was very badly affected by that news."

"Why should she be?" asked Irani with the air of one genuinely seeking enlightenment.

Vinod swallowed some more, stared at the floor for a while, and then abruptly looked up as though he had come to a rather painful decision.

"You see," he said, "my sister has always hated Dina. She blamed her for everything, including our mother's death. And for many years, she has wished Dina dead. More so after our mother died." He sighed, and said, "You might as well know. you're bound to, sooner or later."

"Know what?" asked Varma.

"Nivedita actually used to pray for Dina's death," he said in an unhappy whisper.

"Since how long?" asked Irani sharply.

Vinod shrugged helplessly. "Ever since my father got married to Dina," he said. "Nivedita never forgave Dina for taking him away from my mother, from us."

"Did you or your sister ever visit your father at his Cuffe Parade residence?" asked Irani.

"No, never," replied Vinod, surprised at the question.

"Did he ever come here?"

"Only on the day my mother died. I thought it was necessary to let him know. He came here just before the body was taken to the crematorium."

"Do you mean to tell me your father had not bothered to see you and your sister for over ten years?" Irani deliberately let the contempt and incredulity show in his voice.

"Nivedita was pathological where Dina was concerned," was the defensive reply. "And some of that hatred initially transmitted itself to Father also. In fact, she kicked up quite a rumpus in public, at the funeral."

"And you?" asked Irani quietly.

"I used to be in touch with him a bit, over the telephone. But not much. I did not wish to upset my mother, you see," he explained ruefully.

"If your sister was so much against Dina Sattar," said Irani casually, "then why did she go to visit her at her residence on the day of her birthday? In fact, the day before she died?"

Even to both the Inspectors' suspicious, trained eyes, the surprise on Vinod Shahane's face was absolutely genuine. He obviously knew nothing about his sister's little visit!

"You're joking," he ejaculated, looking at Irani blankly. "No way would Nivedita have gone there, ever!"

"Would she have known it was her birthday, that day? Did you?" inquired Irani.
Vinod frowned.

"No, I don't think she would have known that. I certainly did not. Father never mentioned it to me, at least."

"How did your sister seem yesterday, Mr. Shahane? Did she seem depressed or morose?" asked Varma.

Vinod said, frankly, "As I've told you, Inspector, she's not been herself for quite some time. She's . . . for the last few years she's been displaying the symptoms of acute depressive neuroses. She's often had bouts of hysteria. And she's always had an obsessional phobia where Dina was concerned. I think," he added carefully, "she had got to a stage where she had ceased to be fully responsible for her actions."

"What are you trying to suggest, Mr. Shahane?" asked Irani quietly.

Vinod seemed taken aback. "1 am not suggesting anything, Inspector," he said. "1 am merely giving you my opinion of my sister's mental and psychological condition."

"Ah yes, you are a Doctor, aren't you? And where do you practise, Dr. Shahane?"

"I'm attached to a hospital, right now," answered Vinod shortly, adding, as though he couldn't help himself, "But I'll be setting up my own Consultancy soon."

"Your father seems to have stayed here last night?" Irani asked, veering from the earlier topic suddenly.

"Yes. My grandmother suggested he do so."

"Is this the first time he's stayed here for the night, after his second marriage?"

"No, he had stayed over the night before my mother's twelfth day ceremonies. "

"Your mother's twelfth day would have been. . . let's see. . . the day before Dina Sattar's birthday? Two days before she was murdered?"

"Yes," said Vinod, adding stiffly, "but I don't see the connection."

"We are just ascertaining the facts, Dr. Shahane," said Irani mildly.

Changing the tack of his inquiry, Irani asked him rather formally, "Can you give us the details of your movements since you last saw your sister, Dr. Shahane?"

Vinod's lips twisted in the semblance of a smile. "There's hardly anything to tell about my 'movements', as you put it, Inspector! My sister came down to dinner. My grandmother insisted on that."

"Insisted?" prompted Irani gently.

"Nivedita had retired to bed with a headache. At dinner time, after my father had come over, Dadi insisted that I call Nivedita to the dining table. I did so. We all had dinner together. My father, grandmother, Arun maama, Suchitra maami, Nivedita and I."

"Any servants?"

"There is a woman who comes part-time in the evenings to prepare the chapattis, heat the food, lay it out, and then clear up. But we always serve ourselves. I don't like servants hovering around while we are dining."

"Quite. What time did this part-time servant leave?"

"Around 9.30. Her husband, who is a chauffeur for one of our neighbours, also finishes his duty generally around that time."

"After the servant left, did you all retire immediately to bed?"

"Nivedita did, pleading a headache. Come to think of it, she really seemed to be in a queer mood yesterday," said Vinod, wrinkling his brow in an effort of concentration.

"Queer? In what way?" asked Irani.

"Even more morose and depressed than usual. Totally disinclined to talk. Even to Dadi, whom she adored. Come to think of it, she appeared to have something weighing on her mind rather heavily."
"Did she say anything to anyone before retiring to her room?"

"No, she just sort of looked around wildly at everyone on the table, blurted out that she had a headache, and then ran off as though the devil himself was after her."

"She never came out of her room afterwards?"

"Not to my knowledge," replied Vinod. Then he furrowed his brow. "Wait a minute - Yes, she did. She came to borrow Crocin from me. Then she went back to her room. Arun maama and Suchitramaami retired shortly after Nivedita."

"Which room are they occupying?" inquired Irani.

"The spare guest room. That's next to my room, which I was sharing with my father last night."
"And your grandmother?"

"The one next to Nivedita. My mother's old room," answered Vinod.

"Are you and your father both heavy sleepers?"

"I am. I am not so sure of my father's sleeping habits, after all these years," answered Vinod a trifle dryly.

"And what time did the two of you retire? And your grandmother?"

"Dadi, Father and I more or less retired for the night together. Maybe around 11 or so. Father came with me to the room, then went out for a short while to telephone his servant at his place that he wouldn't be going there for the night, and then to borrow pajamas from Anm Maama."

"Did you have any alcoholic drink before retiring?"

"Yes. Father felt like a drink. We both had whisky."

"Both of you had the same whisky?" queried Irani.

Vinod answered stiffly, "It was from the same bottle, if that's what you mean." "Did you or your father get up for anything during the night?"

"As I said, I'm a heavy sleeper."

"So you didn't get up. Hear anything at all?"

"No," answered Vinod rather sharply, adding,

"I did not get up till about 6.30 in the morning. I took in the milk and the morning papers, then shaved, showered and dressed for the hospital. Dadi was up before me, praying on the terrace."
"Does she normally do that?" asked Varma.

"No, but I guess this morning it was quite bright, so she felt tempted to go out for a while," Vinod answered somewhat lamely.

"What happened after you showered and changed?"

"I woke my father at about 7.30. I have to be at the hospital by 8.30 am."

"Who found your sister?"

"The servant. The other top-work woman who comes in the mornings. Shantabai. She's been with us for years. Acted as a nanny to Nivedita when she was small,"

"What time does she come in?"

"Normally at around 6.30. Today she was about five-ten minutes late. She went to do Nivedita's room at around 7.45, after doing all the other rooms. All the others were at the table for breakfast. Today Suchitra maami had prepared it. Shantabai went to Nivedita's room and let out a scream. We - my father and I rushed to her room. Arun maama followed. And we found her," he ended, shuddering slightly.

"The door of her room wasn't locked?" queried Varma.

"Obviously not," answered Vinod, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Otherwise Shantabai wouldn't have been able to get in." "Obviously," repeated Irani, rising and holding out his hand.

"Thank you for your co-operation, Dr. Shahane. And now, we'll ask your father just a few questions, if Dr. Bidwai has no objection."

"I'11 go and ascertain from him," offered Varma, forestalling Vinod's protest and going quickly out of the room, before him.

Dr. Bidwai did not object. Prakash seemed to have made a rather quick recovery. But he cautioned Varma that his patient mustn't be tired out or asked too many questions. And at the slightest sign of flagging, they should immediately call him. Both Inspectors readily promised to do so, and shut the door on both him and Vinod, who was trying to get an edge in.

Prakash Sattar was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, the blanket now pulled down to his knees. On seeing Irani, he essayed a smile that was ghastly to behold, so pathetic was the attempt! "This time I shan't ask you to await the autopsy results before answering your questions, Inspector," he said weakly.

Irani smiled back bracingly. "And just to take us cops down a peg or two, this will turn out to be just what it seems," he said.

Sattar winced. Irani, a decent soul with some sensitivity, for all his bluff heartiness, said quietly, "I'm sorry Mr. Sattar. This is a very bad time for you. But we have to clear up a few things. Where only you can help us."

Sattar spread out his hands in a futile gesture. "Ask me what you will, Inspector. I'll answer the best I can."

"Thank you. We understand it was your wife's birthday, the day before she died?"

Prakash frowned. "That's true. But what's that got to do with her death? Or my daughter's, for that matter?"

"I didn't say that it had," said Irani mildly. "But we can't rule out the possibility of some connection between the two deaths."

Prakash's face seemed to take on an even grayer tinge. His conscience was playing havoc within himself. In a fit of unaccustomed fancy, he could almost feel his past rise up in retribution against him . . . the tide of his fortune turning. Turning to devour him . . . and his!

Resolutely, Prakash pulled himself together. Tried to attend to what Irani was saying.

"Can you tell us how you and your wife celebrated her birthday?" repeated Irani.

Prakash recovered his astringency. "It was my wife's forty-ninth birthday, Inspector," he answered dryly. "Hardly a birthday she'd want to celebrate with a lot of fuss!"

"I believe you left town that evening itself?" Irani did not bother to prevent the tinge of malice from entering his voice.

"I had some urgent business in Poona," said Prakash, adding, "As I said, the birthday was no big deal for my wife. Anyway, we'd invited her family over for lunch."

"Just who was present at this lunch?" Prakash told him. On further questioning as to the timings of the arrival and departure of the various relatives, he confessed to being a little hazy. But they all had left almost together, by around 3 pm.

"Did anyone else come to visit her?" Prakash looked at both of them in turn, as though trying to assess how much they already knew. Ultimately deciding not to take any chances, he said reluctantly, "My daughter had come over. But she did not meet Dina."

"How so?" asked Varma.

Prakash ran a tired hand over his drawn face. "As you are probably aware, Nivedita hated Dina. For a long time, she refused to meet her or have anything to do with her. Even with me, as a matter of fact. We re-established contact after her mother - my first wife - died. Nivedita seemed to have had second thoughts about Dina then and expressed a desire to meet her." His lips twisted. "Maybe the loss of her own mother brought about that change of heart. I don't know. I just don't know!"

"Didn't you find that rather peculiar, Mr. Sattar? Normally, wouldn't her mother's death have strengthened your daughter's hatred for your second wife?"

Prakash looked at Irani with rather a sad smile. "Who can tell with women, Inspector? Can you always predict how your wife will react?"

Thinking of his no-nonsense, sharp-tongued wife, Irani smiled. "More or less."

Prakash sighed. "I envy you, Inspector. But, to come back to Nivedita, you must remember that she was not quite. . . rational when it came to Dina." He smiled a grimace. "Vinod insists she had an obsessive compulsion to hate Dina. Who knows? Maybe that compulsion reversed itself." He shrugged. "I was too thankful at the change in her attitude to think of analyzing it. Even if I could!"

"Was your daughter aware that it was Mrs. Sattar's birthday, when she came to visit her?"

"Yes," replied Sattar heavily. "She was. I had told her so."

"In what context?" was the inevitable query.

"When she told me she wanted to meet Dina, I suggested she could come over on her birthday. In fact, I would have preferred some other time, but I was going away to Poona and wasn't scheduled to be back for a week or so. Nivedita did not want to wait that long."

Irani's shaggy brows rose. "She was in that much of a hurry to meet your second wife, then?"
"Possibly she wanted to do it before her own mood changed," said Prakash irritably. "Anyway, what does that matter, now? What are you trying to imply, Inspector?"

Ignoring these questions, Irani rapped out, "Did your daughter give Mrs. Sattar any present?"

"As I was telling you, Inspector, ultimately my daughter changed her mind and left without meeting Dina."

"Where were you and Mrs. Sattar when your daughter came in?"

"Both Dina and I were having breakfast in the dining room. Our maid showed her into the Hall. I went out to the Hall first and asked her if she wanted me to be present when she met Dina. She declined, so I went into my room. Dina told me later, that Nivedita had left the house without seeing her. Must have been nervous, I suppose," he hazarded.

"How long was your daughter alone in the Hal1?"

"I really can't say. Passage of time can be quite deceptive. May have been five minutes - may have been fifteen!"

"Did you give your wife any present, Mr. Sattar?" Irani wondered if it was his imagination, or whether there was really a flicker of apprehension in Sattar's eyes, for a moment.

Ultimately he said in a blustering tone, "Of course I did."

"And what was the present?"

"A bottle of perfume. My wife loves perfume. I have been giving her perfume for her birthday for the last couple of years."

"What perfume was it?"

"'Joy'."

Irani thought for a moment. Then he said deliberately, his eyes on Prakash's face, "I must inform you Mr. Sattar, that the poison which killed your wife was put into the bottle of 'Joy' perfume."
Prakash was startled into saying, "So that's . . ." He caught himself, and closed his eyes. He appeared to struggle with his breathing. After a few moments, his agitation quietened down. He opened his eyes and looked at Irani. "I did not put any poison in the bottle of perfume, I assure you Inspector. I do not know who did or how it got there, but I did not! I had no reason to kill my wife. I am genuinely upset by her death."

"I'm sure you are," Irani said sardonically.

Despite feeling sorry for him, Irani had taken a dislike to Sattar. But he was too seasoned a Policeman to allow that to affect his professional judgment. He knew well, with his years of experience, that the twinge of apprehension which showed in Sattar's eyes could well mean anything. Apparently, he had noticed the disappearance of the bottle,and had been worried about it.

Irani recalled the telephone call that had come in from Poona just last night. That Sattar had been staying at the Hotel Blue Diamond with his 'wife'. The telephone call from Fredun Vatcha had been received by a male receptionist, while Sattar himself was out. The message had been given to this 'Mrs. Sattar', whoever she may be. Wouldn't take his boyos too long to find out! If Sattar was carrying on with another woman, thought Irani to himself, he definitely had a motive to get rid of Dina. From what Irani could gather, Sattar's business and political connections would not take kindly to him divorcing her, considering the manner in which he had married her, in the first place!

He turned to Sattar again. Better finish with the chap, and get out before Doc Bidwai decided to throw them out. Sattar was looking none too well!

"What did you do last night, after your daughter retired for the night with a headache?"

"We stayed and talked in the living room for a while. My mother, my son, and I. My brother-in-law and his wife had retired shortly after Nivedita. Then, after my mother too had retired, my son and I went to his room. I then remembered I had not yet phoned my maid and told her I'd not be going to Cuffe Parade that night. I also had to get pajamas from Arun. I did that, and then joined Vinod again. Vinod suggested a drink - I had about three pegs of whisky. Then we went to bed."

"Did Vinod have a drink too?"

"Yes, he too had whisky. But just one peg. My son is not too fond of alcohol, Inspector."

"Are you a light sleeper Mr. Sattar?" asked Irani.

"No Inspector. I'm normally dead to the world when I sleep. And with three whiskies inside me, definitely so!"

"S0 you did not get up at all, during the night?" Sattar seemed to hesitate, frowning a bit. Then he said, "Come to think, I did get up once. Just once. To go to the bathroom."

"Any idea of the time?"

"I do not look at the clock every time I relieve myself, Inspector," Prakash essayed a grim attempt at humour, "Especially in the dead of the night. . . or . . . maybe it was very early morning. I'm not too sure."

"And did your 'going to the bathroom' disturb your son, at al1?" suggested Irani smoothly.

"Vinod was awake when I got back to the room," answered Prakash.

"Got back to the room?" repeated Irani. "Isn't there an attached bathroom in the bedroom you were sharing with your son?"

Prakash snapped irritably, "Yes, there is. But I was more likely to awaken Vinod if I used the attached bathroom. Or so I thought, anyway. So I went to the common bathroom."

"And where is that situated?"

"Just off the living room."

"Do you have to pass Nivedita's bedroom, to reach there from Vinod's room?"

"Yes." the tone was choleric, now. "And I may tell you, Inspector, that you had better have a care. You are overstepping your limits. I did not," he went on, cutting off Irani's exclamation, "go into my daughter's room, nor did I even open the door. If that is what you are implying."

"I have not implied anything of the sort, Mr. Sattar," answered Irani levelly. "What I would like to know if you can think coolly, is, did you hear any sound at all when you passed your daughter's room? Did any light show from under the door? Did you notice anything at all unusual?"
"No. No to all your questions. In fact, there was pin-drop silence. And no light showing from anywhere. Except the lamp my mother had lit, in the living room. In the Pooja alcove." Prakash lay back against the pillows. He seemed exhausted, his brief burst of anger having spent itself.
Irani looked at him consideringly, and decided it was time to leave. He did not want to precipitate a heart attack in Sattar.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sattar. We'll let you know if we need anything further from you."

"Inspector!" The urgent plea in Sattar's voice arrested both the men as they were almost out of the door.

"Inspector," rasped out Sattar. He had half raised himself. "She couldn't possibly have killed Dina, could she?"

Despite his dislike for the man, an unaccustomed feeling of pity assailed Irani. "Don't you anticipate our investigation, Mr. Sattar," he said in a rallying tone, adding in a softer voice, "Don't worry, we'll do our best to solve the case as soon as possible. No sense in imagining things in the meanwhile."

*

The Turning - Chapter Fourteen

2009-02-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At the Shahane residence, the table was being laid for dinner. Everyone except Nivedita was in the dining room. The Khannas condoled with Prakash, looking embarrassed. Kuntabai asked Vinod to go and fetch Nivedita from her room. "And don't you listen to any excuses Beta," called the old lady after him, as he rose to go. "You make sure she comes to the dining table."

To everybody's surprise, Nivedita came without demur. Apart from her red, swollen eyes, she seemed quite normal. She even offered a feeble 'hello' to her father.

Well into his second roti, Arun Khanna judged it seemly to ask Prakash, "Have the police found out anything?"

"Nothing much really, except that she was poisoned," answered Prakash dully, adding that the poison used was an unusual one. "Some form of benzene, or so the doctors believe."

"And how was she given the poison?" persisted Arun, again.

"The Doctors aren't sure about that. "

"Poor lady," said Vinod. "Just after her birthday, too!"

"Yes," sighed Prakash heavily. "And there's another funny thing. The bottle of perfume I gave her as a birthday present seems to be missing from her dressing table."

"What do you mean Papa? 'Missing'?" That was Nivedita, showing curiosity about Dina's murder for the first time.

"Just that, darling," answered her father. "It's not there on her dressing table any more. I can't imagine where it has disappeared. Unless Dina herself broke it, and got the glass cleared up."

"Have you informed the police about it?" asked Vinod casually.

Prakash frowned. "I don't think it concerns them in any way. They have to investigate what they think is a murder, not bother about missing perfume bottles," he said rather disagreeably.

Kuntabai broke into the conversation. "Now that's quite enough talk about deaths and murders," she said decisively, her eyes covertly watching her son's gray, drawn face. They softened. "Beta," she said in a tone she had not used to him for over ten years, "you had better sleep here tonight, instead of staying alone in that place. Better still, stay here for a few days. The change will do you good."

Prakash smiled, his face brightening at her tone. "I don't know about a 'few days' maa," he said, "but I think I will stay over, tonight. I'll ring up Fatima and tell her I'm not coming home."
"That's a good idea," said Vinod. "I think Arun Maama's night clothes should do for you," anticipating an offer to that effect from the rather reluctant Arun.

After dinner, while the family had gathered together in the living room, Nivedita once more pleaded a headache, and went off to her room.

It was not an excuse. She really had a splitting headache, and the dinner seemed to have made it worse. After tossing and turning in agony for some time, she went to her dressing table pulled open the overstuffed drawer, and fumbled for the strip of Crocin she kept there. The strip had no tablets in it. All of them had been squeezed out.

Damn! Then she remembered. Vinod always kept some, in his bathroom cabinet. She padded over to his room. It was empty. And in darkness. He must still be in the living room, she thought.

She went into the bathroom, switched on the lamp there and opened the cabinet. She had to stand slightly on tiptoe to do so. She fumbled for the strip, knocking down a bottle in the process. She righted it automatically, then left the room, clutching the strip of Crocin in her hand.
She passed Vinod and her father, both going into Vinod's room just as she was leaving it. She tried to catch Vinod's eye. He was staring at the strip of Crocin in her hand. She informed him that she had a headache and stalked off to her room.

Prakash hesitated at the door, then told Vinod that he'd be along in a few minutes. He had forgotten to telephone Fatima, and to get some night-clothes from Arun.

Vinod got a bottle of whisky and two glasses. The ice bucket was already placed in his room.

* * * *

Kuntabai's sleep was disturbed, a little past midnight. Her eyelids fluttered. Always a light sleeper, of late she seemed to have become positively insomniac.

She knit her brow in the darkness, puzzled. Was it her imagination, or was she really hearing sounds? Strange sounds. As though someone were enjoying a particularly strenuous coupling!

Rather incongruous in this household, surely! Or was it? she wondered, troubled. There! There was that distinct 'thump', again! Followed by a quickly smothered squeal. A vague uneasiness gripped her. Then she pulled herself together and shrugged herself mentally into a fitful sleep.

Just as Kuntabai had finally fallen asleep, Vinod stirred restlessly. A glance at his bedside clock showed 4 in the morning. He sat up in bed, and stretched his arms overhead. Then he frowned.

The bedroom door was ajar! And the bed next to him empty!
Wondering what had happened to Prakash, he got out of bed and made for the door - only to collide into Prakash, as he entered.

"Did I disturb you? I'm sorry," he said, with a slightly selfconscious laugh. "My bladder's getting weak! And I'm getting old," he mumbled, sitting down heavily on the bed. "Good night," he said to Vinod, who was still standing uncertainly by the door, and lay down, pulling the sheet over him.

*

The Turning - Chapter Thirteen

2009-02-07T21:56:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Khurshed Sooneji looked resigned. He let Rodricks in, raising no objection about the late hour the policeman had chosen to visit him. It was a little past 10 at night. He himself had just returned from the club with. . . Khurshed's voice trailed off. However, it was not with a view to withhold information. It was just that he did not think the Inspector would want to know anything about Porus. The Inspector however, had other ideas.

"If your brother is staying here with you, Mr. Sooneji, I'd like to know a few things from him, also," said Rodricks firmly.

Khurshed went to a closed door and shouted through it. He came back and informed Rodricks that his brother would be out shortly.

"Had you been in touch with Mrs. Sattar after your divorce?" asked Rodricks.

"Not immediately. But after a couple of years, yes, we did come across one another again, sometimes."

"She was a member of the same clubs as you, perhaps?"

"Yes. That is, Sattar was. I mean. . . is. He's a member of quite a few. I hold memberships in about a couple, myself."

"Do you know how relations were, between herself and Mr. Sattar?"

"Good God, Inspector, what do you imagine I am? Some kind of a voyeur?" asked Khurshed, roused to unaccustomed fury.

Rodricks made soothing noises.

Ignoring them, Khurshed went on. "Our conversation, Inspector, was general. I was not in the habit of asking her any questions regarding her. . . second marriage or . . . or Sattar."

"You may not have asked questions, Mr. Sooneji," said Rodricks mildly. "But you knew her for so long. And so well. Perhaps you realized whether she was happy or not, in her new marriage?"
Khurshed's spurt of anger evaporated. "I don't think she was too happy," he answered shortly, adding fairly, "But I'm not sure if Sattar had anything to do with that."

"You think it was something she herself was responsible for?" Rodricks asked, trying to lead up to the delicate subject of her conversion.

"She herself was responsible for everything."

They turned at the sound of this new voice. Porus Sooneji stood leaning against the bedroom door, staring at Rodricks intensely. He was in his pajamas, with a shirt flung over his Sudreh.
He came forward slowly. Khurshed introduced him, once more resigning himself. He made no effort to check his brother's eloquence. After all, what did it matter, now? Nothing mattered, Khurshed told himself wearily. Ever since her murder had been discovered by the Press, Dina's life was being commented upon and judged daily in the newspapers with all the exaggeration journalists felt they could get away with.

Murder did not allow for discretion or decorum.

With an effort, Khurshed tried to concentrate on what Porus was saying.

Porus was well into his stride, now that he had an uncensorious audience. He vomitted out the grievances that had been gnawing at him for years. . . Khurshed wouldn't listen to a word against Dina. Aftab himself had too many grievances to ventilate, to listen patiently to anybody else's. But this Inspector chappie would listen! That's what he had come for, after all. To dig up the dirt about Dina!

"She ruined my brother's life, Inspector! She made a mockery of her own religion! Converted merely so she could marry that bastard. And then, when that went bust, ran crying to my brother again. To get him in her clutches again. A thoroughly selfish woman, Inspector. And a hypocrite of the first order. Always pretending to be holier-than-thou! Trying to make a show of being generous and doing things for the sake of other people, all the while scheming for herself!" Viciously, he went on, "!' d never liked her! Told my brother so. But he was besotted! Never saw her for what she really was!"

Rodricks listened to this illuminating diatribe, deeply interested. He felt he was hearing a side of Dina Sattar which had not so far been revealed by anyone. And his instinct told him that there was more truth in this rather unbalanced fellow's version of the murdered woman's character than he would be given credit for. Dina Sattar selfish and hypocritical. . . yes, she probably was that!

"What made you believe that Dina was trying to get your brother in 'her clutches', as you put it, again?" Rodricks asked Porus.

Porus' reply now was not quite so forthcoming. He said vaguely, "Our sister Meher had warned me over the telephone. So I came down."

"Came down?"

"My brother lives in Hong Kong, Inspector," supplied Khurshed.

"You came down from Hong Kong merely because your sister told you that your brother had been seeing his ex-wife again?" Rodricks asked Porus.

"Of course!" It seemed quite natural to Porus. "I had no other reason to come down at this time!"
"When did you actually come down, Mr. Sooneji?"

"The same day that I went to Dina's place and found Khurshed there. I landed in the morning." He turned round in surprise as Khurshed coughed. A patently artificial cough.

"What day was that, sir?" asked Rodricks casually.

"The day. . . the day. . ." Porus looked uncertainly from Rodricks to Khurshed, and back again. "Damn you," he suddenly burst out angrily. "Are you trying to trap me or something?"

"No, Mr. Sooneji. I am merely eliciting information. What day was that, please?"

It was again Khurshed who answered, his voice sounding tired. "It was the 27th of June, Inspector. The day Dina died."

"Thank you." Rodricks turned to Porus again. "Did you go to your brother's house first, straight from the airport?"

"No," Porus sounded a trifle sulky now. He glanced sideways at Khurshed. "I first went to Meher's place."

"No doubt to hear all about what I had been doing, from her." Khurshed cut in sarcastically.

Porus shrugged, suddenly peevish. "Do you want to ask me anything else, Inspector?" he asked irritably. "I'm feeling rather sleepy."

Rodricks had no further questions to ask of him, and did not detain him. On the contrary, he had been wondering how to get rid of Porus, noW that he had got whatever he wanted from him. He wanted to question Khurshed further. Alone.

After Porus had disappeared, Khurshed asked Rodricks if he'd like some tea or coffee. Rodricks declined.

"Not while you're on duty, I suppose," smiled Khurshed, just a tinge of satire in his voice.

"Mr. Sooneji, I just have a few more questions to ask you. When you met Mrs. Sattar on the day of her death, did you notice anything strange in her behaviour?"

"Strange. . . in what way?"

"Physically. Did she appear to be hung over? Was she feeling dizzy? Was her speech slurred?"
Khurshed frowned. "Frankly, Inspector, I was with her for a very, very short while, before we were interrupted by my brother, as you seem to be aware. And most of the time, I'm afraid I did not pay much attention to Dina. I was rather preoccupied, myself."

"What were you preoccupied about, Mr. Sooneji?"

Khurshed cursed himself. One had to be careful what one said to these blokes. This fellow was damn sharp! He gave Rodricks a frank look. "Can you be discreet, Inspector?"

"We try to be," assured Rodricks.

Khurshed shrugged. "God alone knows, everything's been tomtommed in the papers enough! To answer your question. About my preoccupation. Well, I'd had a call from my cousin, who's a priest, a couple of days before I met Dina . . . last. He was all het up."

"What about?" prompted Rodricks, as Khurshed appeared to be in danger of lapsing into a long silence.

"About the fact that Dina seemed to be visiting the Fire Temple." He looked up. "My cousin is a priest, Inspector. Rabidly orthodox. He did not feel it right that Dina should visit the Fire Temple any longer, after she had converted to Islam. For whatever reason."

"Did you agree with him, Mr. Sooneji?" asked Rodricks curiously.

Khurshed seemed to examine the floor."

"I'm afraid I did, Inspector," he said in a low voice.

So that was that, mused Rodricks. Dina Sattar seemed to have forfeited the good opinion of those who had loved her once. Casually he asked Khurshed, "While you were with Mrs. Sattar at her residence, were you in the drawing room throughout?"

"Of course," replied Khurshed coldly. "where else do you imagine I'd be?"

"It's not for me to imagine things, Mr. Sooneji," Rodricks replied genially. "I'm merely trying to ascertain facts. And your brother?"

"My brother was at Dina's for no more than fifteen minutes, if that long. And he too was in the drawing room, all the while." He gave a bitter smile. "None of us ever entered Dina's bedroom, if that's what you are getting at, Inspector!"

Rodricks noted the irony in Khurshed's tone. He rose. "Now, if you'll just give me the name and address of this cousin of yours, Mr. Sooneji, I'll not trouble you any further."

Khurshed looked up, frowning. "Do you really need to question him? He could have had nothing to do with all this."

"Maybe, maybe not," said Rodricks. "We'll see if we need to question him. But I need the name and address, just in case."

*

The Turning - Chapter Twelve

2009-02-07T21:02:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

While Banoo Maa, Zerxes and Scherezade were dining in Banoo Maa's comfortable kitchen, at the Shahane household, the atmosphere was one of unease, of strain. Nobody had as yet felt like dinner, not even Kuntabai, who normally ate early. The Khannas had postponed their departure to Calcutta on hearing the news of Dina's death from Vinod. Then the 'death' turned out to be murder. . .

Vinod had been visited by the police, who had wanted to know how he had known where Sattar had been staying in Poona. It seems that that stuck-up brother of Dina's had informed the cops that he had been given information about Prakash's hotel in Poona by Vinod.

A pall of disquiet had descended upon the household. Nivedita's behaviour was growing stranger and stranger. Kuntabai could hardly contain her apprehension about her grand-daughter's state. It was she who had asked Arun and Suchitra to stay back for a few days more. They were both so normal and sensible; their presence was somehow reassuring.

Nothing and nobody could calm Nivedita any longer. Not even Vinod. His brand of therapy made her even more unpredictable and demanding. More neurotic than ever. He'd have to do something about her, thought Vinod to himself moodily. The silly bitch had actually started caressing him in public!

Once she had disconcerted everybody at the dining table by suddenly asking Vinod, "It's a good thing she's been killed, don't you think? Don't you? Don't you?"

At around 8.30 pm, Kuntabai took Vinod aside. "Beta, any further news?"

Vinod shook his head. "Nothing, except that it definitely was murder."

Kuntabai thought for a moment. "Call up your father, Vinod. Ask him to come here for dinner. It is time he came back to us." She seemed to take it for granted that he would be at home.

Prakash was at home and agreed to come over with surprising alacrity. He was quite fed up of being at home anyway, with Fatima mooning around, giving him baleful, accusing stares. Sonali was out of bounds now; temporarily at least, or so he had tried to convince himself. He had consciously decided to stay away from her until all this had blown over, and had told her so when he had last met her at her clinic. She had agreed with almost insulting readiness. He had tried to avoid reading the signs of the beginning of the end of yet another relationship.

The call from Vinod was a Godsend. And the summons sent by his mother, a pull back into the security of the womb. At least here was the promise of the beginning of a rapprochement, he told himself hopefully.

It was indeed a homecoming of sorts. Only Nivedita, on hearing of his arrival, chose to go to bed with a headache.

* * * *

After Prakash had left, Fatima had an early dinner and was preparing to go to bed herself, having been told by Prakash not to wait up for him. Just then, the doorbell rang.

She shuffled to the door. One of the two Police Inspectors who had visited earlier stood on the doorstep. It was SI Rodricks. She stood behind the half-opened door, peered suspiciously at him, and mumbled sullenly that Sahib was not at home.

Rodricks managed to slip in through the door and nimbly step inside past her, saying easily, almost conversationally, "I'm glad to know your Sahib isn't in. There are certain things I'd like to know from you. Things I'm sure only you can clarify."

Under Patil's instruction, he had learnt that adroit questioning, rather than force and intimidation, produced better results. Generally people liked to talk, Patil had often told him. And sooner or later they would let slip something, some tiny, vital clue, which would be instrumental in helping to unravel the skein of circumstances leading to the murder, and ultimately to the murderer himself. Or herself. He was quite liberated in his views of the so-called gentler sex even when it came to murder. Especially when it came to murder!

His tactics worked with the dour, dumpy, middle-aged maid. Her stance was less defensive as she stood looking at him, allowing a hint of inquiry to creep into her gaze.

Rodricks returned her gaze with an understanding, almost sympathetic look. "What is your name?" he asked her.

"Fatima."

"Fatima, you have served your mistress faithfully for many years," he remarked half interrogatively, uncannily striking the right chord.

There was naked grief in the round homely face, which crumpled into silent tears. "Oh yes, Sahib. The Bibiji, I be with her, many many years. She was good to me. She taught me to read and write English, a little." She sighed in remembrance. "Then, when her Baba Hanoz died, when she left her Khurshed Sahib, . . ."

"Khurshed Sahib?" cut in Rodricks. "Was he her first husband?"

"Yes," replied the maid, going on with her story. "When she left Khurshed Sahib, she did not take Fatima with her. She was not sure where she would go. I went to live with Banoo Memsahib. Then, when she marry this one, she became Mussalman, then she came and brought me here. I lived with her again. Helped my Bibiji." She was weeping in earnest now, sniffing into the voluminous folds of her black odhni, which she wore draped over her shapeless black kameez and loose salwar.

Rodricks made a few soothing noises. When the sobs subsided, he asked, adopting a casual, almost friendly tone, "Did your Bibiji and Prakash Sahib get along well?" Then, as she looked blank, he asked, "Were there any fights between Bibiji and the Sahib?"

"No, no fights," conceded the maid reluctantly, adding viciously, "But he have another woman, the Sahib. He cheat my Bibiji. My Bibiji was not happy, for many many years." Her resentment of Prakash Sattar was evident.

"How do you know he has another woman?" he asked.

A sly look came into the homely face, and the semi-literate voice took on almost a coy tone. "He talks to her on phone. I sometime pick up other phone, by mistake." She paused, looking at him as though daring him to make any comment and then added, almost conspiratorially, "He talks love-talk to her!"

"D0 you know who this woman is? Has she ever come here?" The maid shook her head at him, as though amazed at his naivete.

"Sahib not mad, to bring other woman here!"

"Did your Bibiji and Sahib go out together much, to parties and things like that?" The woman creased her brow in thought.

"No," she said at last. "But before Bibiji's birthday, they went to her sister's house. Had dinner there. I did not cook, that day."

"I see. And when was Bibiji's birthday?" The tears started afresh. "What to tell you, Sahib," she cried. "The Bibiji, she died one day after her birthday!" The sobs grew louder, and then ceased gradually. The other end of the odhni had fallen away from her shoulder, and she caught at it hurriedly, wrapping it around herself securely.

Rodricks murmured thoughtfully, his sharp memory at work, "And the Sahib had gone out of town just the evening before she died. So he went out of town on the day of your Bibiji's birthday?" he inquired, infusing just the right amount of incredulity in his tone.

"Yes." It was a flat, emphatic, vindictive affirmative. Then she added grudgingly, "But before he went, Bibiji's people came here for lunch. Banoo Mem, Fardun Sahib, Rashna Mem, Sherrie Baby, Zerxes Sahib, Shirin Mem, Jamshed Sahib, Tehmul Sahib," she ticked them off her fingers, adding, "They came after that girl went away." She looked at Rodricks, as though waiting for him to react.

He did not disappoint her. "Girl? What girl? Do you know who she was?"

The sly look was back. "She never been here before, but I think she be the Sahib's daughter."

"By his first wife?"

"Not by my Bibiji," was the scornful answer.

"How do you know it was the Sahib's daughter?"

"She call him 'Papa'."

"Hmmm . . . " Rodricks took a turn around the room. "So Sahib's daughter had come on the day of your Bibiji's birthday, and gone away before her other relatives arrived!"

The odhni-covered head nodded vigorously several times in confirmation.

Rodricks went on. "Think carefully, Fatima. Did the Sahib's daughter give any present to your Bibiji?"

"No, she had nothing in her hand, only her purse. Sahib gave Bibiji present. In the morning. And all others gave. Sherrie Baby, Fardun Sahib, all others."

"Do you know who gave what?"

"The Sahib, he gave scent. In silver paper. I saw new bottle, and silver paper in basket in Bibiji's room. She put on scent when I went to give her her saree after ironing. Then see, Banoo Memsahib gave her locket. She put it herself on Bibiji's neck. Her sister, Shirin Mem gave saree. She said that. Don't know what Fardun Sahib and 5herrie Baby gave."

"So the Sahib gave her scent." Not the least of Rodricks' strengths as an investigator was that he could adopt the idiom of the person he was questioning. Making his victim feel at home with him. He asked casually, "Do you know which scent? Can you show me the bottle?"

"No Sahib," Fatima shook her head, not without a certain satisfaction at the news she was about to impart. "That bottle is now not there!"

"Now not there? Was it broken or something?"

"No, no glass," she said decidedly. "Bottle not broken. Gone!"

"When did you first find out, that the bottle was missing?"

"I saw it was not there today, when I go to clean Bibiji's table."

"And the silver paper? Is it still there, in the basket?"

"Maybe," was the hesitant answer. "I have not cleaned Bibiji's room. Don't feel like it, " she said defiantly.

Rodricks was too canny to point out the contradiction of her earlier statement, that she had 'cleaned' the table. Obviously, curiosity had prevailed over any desire to clean up.

"Shall we go and see if it is there?" he suggested.

She silently led the way to Dina's bedroom. Rodricks followed. He was pretty certain there was no silver wrapping paper in the dust-bin.

He himself had given the room a thorough once-over, when the finger print chaps and the photographers had come over, for the routine sceneof-the-crime investigation. Not that there had been much sense to it! The corpse had gone, and everything nicely tidied up by the time the police really got on to the job, he thought to himself glumly. Very convenient indeed, for someone!

Then he remembered the crumpled saree which had also been taken for testing. It had been sprayed with the poisoned perfume all right! The poor woman had been perfumed to death! And the bottle of 'scent' had been given by the husband.

Well, he knew where that bottle had gone. But how many people had had access to it while Dina was alive? Apart from the husband himself? A whole lot, he thought to himself gloomily. And quite easily, apparently, if that sister of Dina's could have purloined the whole bottle itself, without being detected in the act!

Suddenly, something occurred to Rodricks. Something so obvious, that almost all of them had missed it! But he knew better than Patil the ways of these Parsees. No way would a Parsee dame be wearing a saree at home unless she was expecting guests. And Dina Sattar had died in a choli and petticoat after having discarded the saree sprayed with the poisoned perfume. So Dina Sattar had had a visitor or visitors on the morning of her death! She herself had definitely not gone out. The watchman had sworn to that.

Her husband had been away. All her relatives had visited her just a day earlier. Who had been her visitor? Or visitors? It had to be somebody she was expecting, as she had taken the trouble to dress up. And someone who had been allowed up by the watchman as a matter of course. Without meriting suspicion or inquiry. Somebody obviously well-dressed. Of the same social standing as Dina!

Rodricks put a casual question to the maid. A sly look entered the dull, suspicious eyes. "Maybe better if I do not say," she demurred, almost coyly. "Sahib will not like it, if he comes to know!"

Upon Rodricks sternly repeating the question, iniorming her that it would do her no good to keep things from the Police, she ultimately revealed that Dina's first husband Khurshed Sooneji had come to visit her.

"I see," Rodricks murmured to himself. "So husband No. 1 enters the case now! I wondered if he would!"

Almost immediately, however, he realized that the information was not really of much use. Dina must surely have sprayed on the perfume before Khurshed arrived. Diluted with perfume, nitrobenzene would take at least twenty-four hours to cause death! Or so the Docs said. Still, he would have to check him out. He couldn't take any chances. This poison wasn't'perfectly understood. It could probably cause different reactions in different people, depending on the individual metabolism. The Docs themselves weren't too sure!

"Did anybody else visit her on that day?" He asked the maid, who was now looking uncomfortable.

"One other man came. I have not seen him before. I heard Khurshed Sahib say it was his brother. Porus. Never seen him here before. He was very angry when he came," Fatima volunteered, once again warming to her story.

"Angry about what?" prompted Rodricks.

"That Khurshed Sahib still come to see Bibiji," was the surprisingly prompt reply, before Fatima thought it expedient to add a cautious "I think".

"Then what happened?"

"Then Khurshed Sahib leave very fast. After that man. Bibiji then go to her room and go to sleep."

The maid started sniffling again, adding mournfully, "Then, she die!"

*

The Turning - Chapter Eleven

2009-02-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Prakash glared at Fatima. He was really annoyed. He had just returned from a meeting with Sonali which had left him depressed and suddenly rather lost, and was not in the best of tempers. He had come home hoping for a hot shower followed by a relaxed drink. Instead, to be told that two police officers had ensconced themselves in his drawing room, having refused to leave till he showed up, was really just about the limit!

Prakash strode into the drawing room, glaring at the two officers.

Then stopped short. For it was not Patil and Rodricks, as he had expected. It was Patil, accompanied by no less a personage than a Deputy Commissioner of Police! DCP Sushildutt Tagore.
Prakash had heard a quite a bit about him. And had met him fleetingly at some dinners organized by the Rotarians, or the Indian Merchants' Chamber, or whatever! Tagore was the new Wonder Boy of the elitist echelons of the Bombay Police, slated to become the next Commissioner. He'd probably be the youngest Bombay had ever known.

Prakash advanced farther into the room, trying to compose his disobliging features into the semblance of a smile. His mind was ringing warning bells. Tagore's presence here meant trouble.
Both the officers had risen at Prakash's entrance. "I'm afraid we have some rather disturbing news for you, Mr. Sattar," began Tagore.

"So she was poisoned!" It was a statement.

"We're afraid so!" Again it was the tall, lean, Tagore who spoke, in quiet, cultured tones. For all that he looked like a rather filmi version of a high-ranking policeman, he was an exceptional police officer.

Patil, had welcomed his inclusion in the case. When Irani had informed him bluntly that they had been saddled with a DCP for the better or worse, Patil had responded by saying that he hoped it would be Tagore.

"Well, it is Tagore," Irani had informed him dryly, knowing that his stolid PI cherished a warm admiration for the DCP, so diametrically different from him in every way.

Patil had risen from the ranks by dint of sheer merit and unremitting hard work. Tagore was from a privileged background. A wealthy, cultured Bengali family. He had qualified for the IAS or the IFS, but had chosen the IPS instead. He actually read classics, listened to classical music, and was lionized at parties by society hostesses hungry for the sensation of the moment, thrilled to be able to include an attractive, high-ranking Police Official to add spice to their parties.
Tagore did the social rounds when time permitted, but remained, essentially, a very private man. At forty-four he was as yet unmarried, resisting alike the blandishments of several determined women and the coaxings of his two devoted sisters.

He looked consideringly at Prakash, his face showing nothing but compassion for the bereaved husband. But he knew better. Sushildutt Tagore knew all about the activities of Mr. Prakash Sattar, including his liaison with the sensual Sonali Roy. Who happened to be one of Tagore's own old flames.

"What was the poison? How. . . how was it administered?" asked Prakash, adding shrewdly, "or can't you tel1?"

"It's no secret," said Tagore smoothly. "The poison used was some form of benzene. We are not quite sure yet, as to how it was administered. "

"But surely you've done the PM?"

"Yes, but benzene is a most unusual poison. In fact, I don't think I personally have come across such a case in all my career. Even the Doctors don't seem to understand it perfectly," replied Tagore with a slight shrug.

The doorbell rang and in a moment or two Rodricks entered. Tagore nodded to him and turned back to Prakash. "The actual investigation into your wife's murder will be carried out by Inspector Patil and Sub-Inspector Rodricks, aided by their colleagues and supervised by the Senior Inspector of the Cuffe Parade Police Station, Insp. Sheriyar Irani." He smiled disarmingly. "I will nominally be in overall charge. If, however, you wish to discuss anything with me at any time, please feel free to do so. If something strikes you. . ." He left the sentence hanging. In the Police Force, he was known as the master of half-sentences.

To Prakash's surprise, he then held out his hand. "I'll be off now, and leave these gentlemen to get on with their job. And oh," he added, as though an afterthought, "Please cooperate with us, won't you? We understand this is a difficult time for you, but the case is an unusual one." He smiled his slow smile. "It will take some solving!"

What Tagore didn't specify was, that the case appeared to be clearly an 'inside' job. That the murderer appeared to be either one of the family, or on intimate terms with the deceased. And that Sattar himself would have to face intense questioning. If the poor husband was always the last to know, he was among the first to be suspected! Hence the initial softening up, before he was put through the wringer.

After Tagore had left, Prakash looked inquiringly at the two officers managing, at the same time, to infuse an element of discouragement in his glance. He did not invite them to take a seat, and all three remained standing. The master of the house was the least at ease.

Before Patil or Rodricks could formulate the first question, or make any comment, Prakash stated uncompromisingly, "You may as well know right away that I was not in Bombay when my wife died. I was given the message at Poona, and arrived here the next day. By then, the body had already been sent to the hospital by her brother and aunt and other relatives." He spoke in a formal, stilted tone, without emotion, as though his wife had been the merest acquaintance.

"Could you tell us who found her?"

"Our maid - she was actually my wife's personal maid Fatima."

"We'll have to question her, later on. But tell us, who gave you the message of her death?"

"I didn't know straight away that Dina had died. She told me the message was that she was ill."
"She . . . ?" prompted Patil.

"Yes, the. . . the receptionist at the Hote1. I was out when Dina's brother, apparently, called up. He had left a message at the reception. The receptionist gave it to me when I returned, late at night."

"I see. And knowing that your wife was seriously ill, Mr. Sattar, you did not think it necessary to drive down that night itself?"

"There was nothing in the message to indicate that it was anything very serious," Prakash justified, belligerently.

"Which Hotel were you staying at, sir?" the query came from Rodricks.

After maintaining a moment's silence, Prakash said stiffly, "1 don't see how that is relevant to the case. Dina died at Bombay, not Poona. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from embarking on a fishing expedition and get on with your inquiry as fast as possible. My time is valuable."

"Did your wife leave a Will, Mr. Sattar?" That was Patil again.

"Not to my knowledge," the lie came out automatically, before Prakash could stop himself.

"Who were her lawyers?" persisted Patil. "She must have had some legal advice at some stage in her life."

This was a subtle reference to her divorce. Prakash said reluctantly, "I believe she used to consult one Mr. Gustad Kabraji, of Kabraji, Kabraji and Desai. They have their office somewhere in Fort area, I think."

"So they would know if your wife had left any Will?"

"Possibly," was the noncommittal response.

"Why was the body sent to the hospital? Had your wife indicated any wish to that effect to anyone?" asked Patil, suddenly. changing the course of the questioning.

"She may have indicated so to her aunt and brother. They sent the body to the hospital. As I've already told you, I wasn't here then."

"Quite. Tell us, Mr. Sattar, did your wife have any enemies? Do you know of anybody who would have wished her dead?"

Prakash shrugged almost helplessly, speaking in a natural tone of voice for the first time since entering his house that evening. "No, that's the whole damn thing! I just can't! This whole thing appears to be incredible. I still can't believe it. Dina poisoned!"

"Who all were present here when you came back here from Poona, sir?" asked Rodricks.

Prakash frowned in an effort of concentration. "Her brother, Fredun Vatcha. Then her aunt, who's been more like a mother to her, really. Banoo Kanga. Zerxes Avari. Then Dina's elder sister Shirin's husband, Jamshed Dumasia. But he wasn't here when I arrived. He came in a little later." He looked at both of them in turns. "That's about it! In fact," he added,"the very same persons who were there when you turned up, that day!"

"None of your children had dropped in at al1?" this was Rodricks again, surveying Prakash carefully as he asked the question.

The barriers were up again, instantly. "My children? Certainly not. Why should they be here?"
"Well, they were the deceased's step-children, so to speak," Rodricks explained.

Prakash did not bother to reply to this.

Patil asked suddenly, almost casually, "Were you on good terms with your wife?"

"What exactly are you trying to imply, Inspector?"

"I'm not implying anything, Mr. Sattar," Patil replied smoothly. "I am investigating a murder case." Prakash shrugged indifferently. "We got on together as well as most married couples do, Inspector." He went on, as though impelled to add, "Since you seem to be aware of the circumstances of my marriage to her, you must have deduced that I couldn't have been otherwise than very fond of her."

Even under police questioning, he could not bring himself to use the word 'love' where Dina was concerned. 'Love' had never been a reason, after all!

Patil seemed to accept his answer at face value. His next question was rather puzzling. "Did you and your wife socialize a lot?"

Prakash frowned. "No, not much. I am a busy man, Inspector, and my wife did not always enjoy very good health, of late. Just a few days before she . . . died, we had gone over to her sister's house. It was their Wedding Anniversary - thirtieth, I think. I can't really remember any other 'socializing' we'd done, recently."

To Rodrick's, and perhaps even Prakash's surprise, Patil said, "Well, I don't think we need disturb you any more just at this moment, Mr. Sattar. We'll let you know if anything comes to light, or if we need any further clarifications from you. Now, before we take your leave, if you could just give us the full names and addresses of Mrs. Sattar's brother and sister . . . and even that elderly lady . . . her aunt, we believe. . ."

Rodricks noted down the names and addresses. Once outside, he looked inquiringly at his Superior. "Any reason why you let him off so lightly, Sir?" he asked cautiously.

Patillaughed. "No use badgering him more than we need, at this stage. Not without something concrete. And as you probably noticed, the DCP didn't want to let him on to the fact, as yet, that the bottle of 'Joy' perfume used by his wife was the medium through which the poison had been administered. I wonder if she'd bought it herself, or it had been presented to her! Now, the right person to question at length is the maid."

"The one who found her dead," said Rodricks, nodding. "Yes; and she'd know most of the ins and outs of her mistress's life. Including with old walrus."

Patil cast him an exasperated glance. His subordinate's penchant for bestowing nicknames on witnesses and suspects was the bane of his more serious colleagues and Superiors. But it was undeniable that the names were often uncannily apt. Sattar was a bit like a walrus!

"Yes, but I want to question her when we can get her alone. Right now, if Sattar had insisted on remaining present while we questioned his servant, it might have been a bit awkward to refuse him." said Patil. "Get the Commander to depute a constable to watch Sattar's flat, and let us know the minute he steps out."

'Commander' was the grandiose title given to Head Constables at Police Stations all over Bombay. At the Cuffe Parade Police Station the Commander was a middle-aged, large-framed Sardar, named Dilkhush Singh. He combined native shrewdness with a jolly, hearty manner and had a fund of salty anecdotes and phrases on his ready tongue with which he alternately bullied and cajoled the constables under him.

"Once we get news that Sattar has left the house," Patil went on, "I'd like you to question that maid. Alone, without me."

"Any particular line you'd like me to take?"

"Everything now hinges on the bottle of perfume," said Patil thoughtfully. "Try and discover if Dina Sattar bought it herself, or it was given to her by anyone. Possibly her husband. And when it had been bought. Or given. It's obviously a new bottle.

"Also," continued Patil briskly, "see if you can find out from the maid, who's been in and out of the house for the past few days. And don't let on that we are aware of the bottle's disappearance from Dina Sattar's room. See if she has realized that herself."

"Will do, Inspector," Rodricks answered cheerily, filing away his superior's instructions in his mind.

"I also feel" Patil added, "that it might be worthwhile to check out at which hotel Sattar was staying, in Poona. He said the call was made by the deceased's brother. That must be Fredun Vatcha. Question Vatcha. Find out from him which hotel Sattar had been staying at, the telephone number, and so on. And also how he, Vatcha, got that info! Had the deceased been aware of her husband's whereabouts? Had she told Vatcha? If so, when? If not the deceased, who? Something may turn on that, or it may not."

"I'11 check that out."

"Then get on to our chaps at Poona and ask them to pay a discreet visit to the hotel and find out who took that particular call, at what time, and at what time the message was given to Sattar. Also, whether the receptionist was a female."

"Check," said Rodricks briskly. After a while, he wondered aloud idly, "Wonder why the DCP beat such a hasty retreat?"

The DCP, had they but known it, was at that moment reclining in a comfortable arm-chair, watching his host feed his pet swordfish.

* * * *

Sushildutt Tagore was in the middle of a room almost completely full of gigantic glass tanks, holding, apart from a mind-boggling variety of unusually shaped, variously hued fish, exquisite coral, colourful live polypes and a variety of sea-weeds. The effect was at once splendid and bizarre, like being alongside a miniature coral reef.

Tagore glanced at his host half in exasperation, half in awe. Marine life was the second passion in Sam Avari's life, now that his lovely French wife was dead. His first passion, as also his abiding interest, was the study of crime and the psychology of the criminal. In which he was considered to be an authority. Worldwide.

Because his passion for justice was almost equally strong, he had retired prematurely from a plum position at the Interpol in protest against political interference in a case having ramifications across several nations. His colleagues at the Interpol admired his guts, and kept up contact with him, discreetly availing of his services as a consultant. Unofficially, of course.

They needed him more than he needed them. Financially rather well off, his only son doing extremely well as a criminal lawyer, Sam was able to indulge in his absorbing, expensive hobby. And he swore to his disbelieving friends that his fish helped him gain an insight into human character and behaviour.

He glanced affectionately at the younger man. He knew full well what Sushildutt wanted. To get him involved in the Dina Sattar murder. After all, Zerxes was involved with the murdered woman's niece! Sam sighed. After Michelle's death, he had preferred being a consultant on marine life to the Bombay Natural History Society than being a consultant to either the Interpol or the CID.
From time to time however, his friends in the Force did take advantage over a friendly drink to pick his brains. And, to be honest, he quite enjoyed having a problem laid out before him and advancing a hypothesis. Which turned out to be the correct one, most of the time. As he had once wryly told Zerxes, "Once a cop, always a cop."

He finished feeding his swordfish and turned to Tagore, giving him his full attention. "Wel1?"
This was encouragement enough, coming from Sam. Tagore laid all the facts before him without any preamble. The circumstances of Dina Sattar's death. And the chain of coincidences leading to the discovery of that death being a murder.

Sam frowned. The evidence so far seemed to point to one person. The inevitable, the expected suspect. And Sam was experienced enough to know that in real life, in crime, the expected was often the right answer. Unexpected twists were more the metier of imaginative crime writers, rather than criminals. And yet, once every while, along came a criminal with a mind so beautifully simple, that he made the crime appear damnably devious. And thus confounded the sleuths. Was this going to be such a case? He felt so, in his bones. In which case, it was necessary to have an investigation from a slightly different angle.

From inside!

He heard Tagore out, then walked out of the tank-filled room, leading the way to his library-cum-study. Then he dialled Zerxes' number.

* * * *

Zerxes had dropped off Banoo Maa and Scherezade at Banoo Maa's flat, after they all had left the hospital at around 5.30 in the evening. Shirin had just been discharged from the hospital. They'd kept her there for a day. She seemed fine. It was Banoo Maa who had suddenly looked ill and exhausted, and Scherezade had insisted on going home with her, ignoring the old lady's feeble protests.

The telephone was ringing as Zerxes entered his flat. The answering machine was on. He switched on the ampliphone, to hear his father's voice at the other end. Zerxes lifted the receiver and spoke into it. He heard Sam out in silence, then said, "Sure, let him come over right away. I have no commitments right now. It'll be rather nice, meeting him again. Though the circumstances could have been more propitious!"

He listened for almost half a minute to his father. Then he sighed. "Yes, I know. You're right of course, as usual. Yes, I agree. This will have to be solved. The repercussions on the rest of them will be horrific, otherwise. Especially Scherezade. With her imagination. Yes, tell him I'll cooperate." Then he showered and changed, and sat down to await his visitor.

Sushildutt Tagore, he mused. The cops apparently had the wind up! And his Father felt that Zerxes should cooperate with Tagore in the matter. The old man had a point there. This damn thing had to be cleared up! For Scherezade's sake, if nobody else's. And Zerxes, having a ringside view of the family, could help.

Well, he would. On his own terms, though!

He himself knew Tagore rather well, besides having been acquainted with him as his father's 'chela'. Tagore had graduated in law, which had been one of the subjects opted for by him in his UPSC examination. And he had taught criminal law for a few months at the college where Zerxes had studied, and had actually taught Zerxes. Now it seemed he'd got the old man interested in the case! Well, Zerxes could only thank him for saving himself the trouble. The old man had an uncanny knack for figuring out the culprit.

Tagore greeted him with a "Well, Zerxes, good to see you again", before coming straightaway to, "tell me, what's really your interest in the Dina Sattar case?"

When working on a case, Tagore did not believe in wasting time on preliminaries, unless it was necessary to do so for some reason.

"The lady with apparently the biggest material motive for murder," replied Zerxes, his eyes glinting. Then he added with some deliberation, "the residuary legatee under the Will of the murdered woman - her niece, Scherezade Vatcha."

"Then there is a Will? And you've seen it?"

"Yes, there is a Will. And yes, I have seen it." He added dryly, "Don't waste time trying to get it from her Solicitor. It's in the custody of her aunt, Miss Banoo Kanga. I can give you her address, if you wish."

"Oh, I don't think I will interfere as yet with Irani's handling of the case. Let him go about it as he thinks fit. I'm merely the overseer!"

"Of course, quite the detached onlooker," Zerxes mocked blandly.

"Was the husband aware of the contents of the Will?" asked Tagore abruptly.

"No," replied Zerxes. "He appeared to be totally ignorant of even the existence of a Will. And I believe him. It appears he was one of those curiously superstitious men who have a strong aversion to making Wills. He's not, as yet, made his own."

Tagore then steered the conversation to more general channels. At around 7.30 pm, the telephone bell shrilled. It was Scherezade, to say that Gran (that was what she called Banoo Maa) wanted to talk to Zerxes and could he please come over? They could have dinner with her, after which Gran insisted that Scherezade go back with Zerxes, and that she would rather be by herself. They weren't to worry about her!

Tagore, on learning from Zerxes the purpose of the call, inquired if he could accompany him to Banoo Kanga's residence. "I'd like to meet both these ladies informally, if possible."

Zerxes nodded a quick affirmation, appreciating the message couched in Tagore's request.

* * * *

Banoo Maa's home was unabashedly, unashamedly a Parsee home. A home belonging, like its occupant, to an older, more gracious era. The rooms were of noble proportions, far too big for a spinster lady living alone. Heavy, almost Victorian furniture effectively banished any possible impression of spaciousness, however. Massive, intricately carved cupboards occupied almost a whole wall of the living room, which also doubled as a dining room. The rectangular dining table, with eight good-sized chairs around it was placed just in front of the cupboards lining the wall, giving rise to the suspicion that the cupboards were hardly ever opened. The seating arrangement was at the other end of the room: plush sofas into which one could sink oneself and one's tensions, and a couple of arm-chairs with extendible arms, to stretch one's legs on.

From one of the walls stared stern, mustachioed Parsee gentlemen of a bygone era clad in the traditional duglee and pugree, framed alongside good-looking, haughty-stared ladies wearing gorgeous garas and fine strings of pearls, their heads decorously covered with the saree pallo.
Banoo Maa's dead sister, their parents, grand-parents, uncles and aunts, all immortalized on sepia, set in massive gilt frames. These were leavened by the vibrant colour photographs of the subsequent generations.

There were no photographs of either of Dina's two husbands, nor that of her dead infant son. There were some memories even Banoo Maa could not cope with. Not visually, on her walls, at least.

She looked up now as Scherezade, having answered the doorbell, returned with Zerxes and a tall handsome man in his early forties with a grave, rather melancholy look in his large dark eyes.
Banoo Maa was quite startled when Zerxes introduced him. Policemen, in her opinion, neither looked so civilized nor dressed so well! His trousers were actually knife-creased, she noted almost mechanically.

Murmuring something about seeing to tea, she retreated into her large kitchen and lit the old-fashioned gas stove. She dropped the sprigs of mint in the boiling milk and water, mentally berating Zerxes for bringing that policeman here before she had had a chance to talk to him alone! She stalked back to the living room, the tea tray held aloft like a shield.

No shield was needed. To her astonishment, the policeman conducted a most common-place conversation. As though the fellow had had nothing better to do than to come calling on an elderly lady and pass some time in her company. What was more astonishing, he hardly opened his mouth! When she, Banoo herself, ultimately asked Tagore bluntly, with the dual privilege of both her sex and age, whether he had come to question them about Dina's death, (she as yet couldn't bring herself to call it 'murder'), Tagore smiled his slow, disarming smile and murmured that it was really Senior Inspector Sheriyar Irani who was in charge of the case, assisted by Inspector Patil and SubInspector Rodricks, and who would no doubt question all those concerned, as and when necessary.

"Do you mean to tell us, Mr. Tagore, that you have nothing whatsoever to do with my aunt's case?" asked Scherezade, directing a candid look at the DCP from out of her clear brown eyes.

Even Tagore blinked slightly under that direct, luminous gaze, feeling the roles reversed for the moment. A young lady of some force of character despite her ethereal loveliness, he thought to himself.

"No," he answered deliberately. "I can't honestly say I have nothing whatsoever to do with your aunt's case, Ms. Vatcha. I shall certainly be supervising the investigation. But I will not be actually carrying it out. Or, if at all" he temporized, "only very occasionally."

Scherezade nodded knowingly. "Only when it comes to interrogating a really important suspect," she said, adding cheerfully, "I shall now be terrified if ever you do decide to question me!"

"As to that, I might decide to question the more attractive 'suspects' myself, rather than give any of the other officers that pleasure," said Tagore with a gallantry that charmed Scherezade in spite of herself.

Tagore's purpose had been served. He had wanted to catch both these ladies unawares and see them in a familiar setting. He had seen one of them in her own. He had gauged them sufficiently for the moment. He nodded to Zerxes, bowed to the ladies and took his leave.

After he had left, two wrathful females rounded on Zerxes who looked at them quizzically and turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness. It was wasted.

To the chorus of Scherezade's furious "How could you?" and Banoo Maa's more temperate "You might have at least warned us over the telephone!", he answered, "This was really the best way. He was with me when you phoned, darling. He wanted to come over. He'd have thought we were trying to hide something if I'd protested or even tried to warn you. Nor did I want to phone you from another room. Sushil is too downy a bird to even try such tricks on."

"Sushil?" echoed Scherezade, giving him a speaking look. "And how did he happen to 'be with you'? Was he interrogating you?"

"Hardly," replied Zerxes a little wearily, pulling the resisting girl towards him and lightly kissing her hair. "Sushil has known my father for a long time. Even before he joined the IPS. He had gone over to Papa, to pick his brains in the matter. Papa apparently suggested he'd be better off requesting my help instead." Zerxes looked seriously at both the women in turn. "Let's get one thing clear, darlings. It'll be hell for the family if this case gets into a limbo. And the kind of murder that it is, there's quite a possibility of that happening. I cannot . . . I dare not allow that to happen. This case has got to be solved! And I know full well neither of you, at least, had anything to do with it.

"My father is right. It'll be better if I do take a hand in it. And don't worry about Tagore! He's a clever chap. Discreet as well as civilized. Which is more than I can say of most policemen! Believe me, my love, I was almost as eager for Sushil to see you and Banoo informally, as he was to see the two of you."

He looked from her to the old lady, and back again. "I'm not so much bothered about the others, but I don't want the two of you to be badgered by policemen unnecessarily."

Banoo Maa looked steadily at Zerxes. Some kind of message seemed to pass between them. "Is it likely to cause any trouble?" This was what had been troubling her. What she had wanted to clear with Zerxes.

Zerxes had no difficulty in understanding what she was referring to. "Not really," he replied. "Besides, I am not too sure whether it is at all valid!"

"Would you two mind clarifying just what you are talking about?" Scherezade asked in a dangerous tone. This business was beginning to get on her nerves, and she was just spoiling for a fight.

To Banoo Maa's surprise, Zerxes answered quite readily, "Dina's Will, darling. She has made some minor bequests, apart from which you inherit the whole lot. All her money, jewellery, furniture. Everything."

Scherezade was too astonished to react. Her eyes slowly started filling with tears. Her beloved, unhappy aunt! Leaving everything to her! She didn't want it. She looked at Banoo Maa helplessly.

The old lady patted her shoulder comfortingly. Then she asked Zerxes, "What did you mean when you said you weren't sure it was valid?"

"Well, you might as well know now. I hadn't mentioned this to you earlier, but the bequests to you and Fatima are definitely void," explained Zerxes. "A bequest to a witness to the Will is void. Though the Will itself stands. Also, in Dina's case, as she had converted to Islam, she could not have bequeathed more than one-third of her Estate away from her heirs under the Muslim law. She should have consulted her Solicitors before drawing up a Will. Did she have a lot of money to leave?" he asked abruptly.

"Not much money in her own account. But she had a lot of valuable jewellery." Looking up at Zerxes with something like the old twinkle in her eye, Banoo Maa said comfortably, "Don't worry about me, dear boy. I really don't need Dina's money. Or anyone else's. I'm quite comfortably off. And I'll look after Fatima, should the need ever arise."

"So will I, Gran darling," said Scherezade giving her an impulsive hug. "I too am not bothered about Dina Fui's money or her jewellery or her furniture. But," she asked, turning to Zerxes. "Just out of curiosity. Who will get it?"

"Dina's sole heir as per Muslim law. Her husband. Prakash Sattar."

The Turning - Chapter Ten

2009-02-05T08:45:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER TEN

Zerxes and Fredun drove off together to Zerxes' flat. Zerxes opened the latch with his key and led Fredun, visiting his home for the first time, into the cool, well-designed drawing room.

Fredun was struck by an immediate impression of space and harmony, though the room was not particularly large in size. The colour scheme was at once striking and restful. One wall was pearl gray, with a cubist mural on it in shades of bottle-green, amethyst, salmon and ivory. The two walls flanking it were painted ivory. The fourth space comprised almost totally of a huge bay window, barring a wide ledge at a height of about two feet from the floor, set with Dholpur stone, which served as a window seat. The window overlooked the expanse of the sea which right then was ablaze with the hues of the setting sun. The sliding glass panel was open, the sound of the surf bringing the ocean almost into the flat. Scherezade, who had a passion for the sea, teased Zerxes that she had initially fallen for his flat, before succumbing to his own charms!

The furniture was to the minimum. There were no curios, no photographs, no knick knacks. Just two triangular brackets set in the corners created by the gray and ivory walls, with three glass shelves, each holding one single, exquisite, piece of crystal. Pots of unusual plants and ferns were placed with cunning unconcern all over the room, giving an impression of uncultivated greenery. Fredun recognized his daughter's hand in this.

Fredun waited in the drawing room while Zerxes went to fetch Scherezade. She was in the study-cum-office, glancing idly through a paper Zerxes had been working on for a forthcoming conference. She looked up with a poignant smile as he entered.

The study was all leather and wood. Almost complete wood panelling on the walls, leather upholstery on the chairs and the couch conveniently placed next to the table. Plants had found their way into the study too, but here they submitted to the discipline of the Law.

One of the walls was completely given over to law books and reports, with a vertical, rectangular-shaped window cleft between the shelves, overlooking the sea. The half of one wall contained books on other subjects, including a few novels and books of poetry, with a sheet glass window on the top. A little away from his desk was a small conference area. The wall to the right held a unit containing a Television, a Video player and a Sansui music system, with racks full of cassettes and compact discs. Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen and Jethro Tull rubbed jackets with Mozart, Bach and Debussy.

Scherezade had put on a CD of Chopin which she had found hiding forlornly among other less self-indulgent composers. It was the Preludes. The CD had reached No. 20, which she had designated the 'Funeral March Prelude'.

Zerxes smiled grimly as he entered the study, then his lips relaxed as he bent his head to kiss her.

"Where's your mother?" he asked.

"Oh, she saw that I was perfectly all right, and went back home. She'll have to make an evening snack for her darling son! He should be home any moment now."

Ignoring this reference to her brother, he asked, "And how are you really feeling, my love?"
"Really absolutely fine," she responded with feigned gaiety. Her face changed as she looked up into his. " Darling! What's wrong?" she asked.

"We had a visit from the police at Dina's. They say there's a possibility that she did not die of natural causes," said Zerxes quietly.

Scherezade's eyes widened. "You mean, she committed suicide?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

"The police rather seem to think she was murdered," answered Zerxes a shade dryly, caressing Scherezade's hair off her face.

"Murdered?" she echoed incredulously. "Rubbish," she went on in a brisk ~one, sounding more like her usual self. "Why should anyone want to murder her? Who would want to murder her? There's some mistake. It can't possibly be murder . . . can't." She trailed off rather uncertainly, not quite liking what the look on his face indicated. "Why, she was all alone in the. house! Except for Fatima. And surely Fatima would never. . ."

She searched his eyes for the reassurance he could not give. Then she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. Zerxes pulled her up off the chair, enfolded her in his arms and held her while she ventilated her feelings into his sustaining shoulder. After a while he held her a little away from him, took out his handkerchief and gently wiped her wet cheeks. She smiled tremulously, the tears still spangling her curling lashes.

Zerxes smiled back, a teasing yet reassuring smile. "Crybaby," he mocked softly. "Come - your father will wonder what we're up to."

"Dad?" asked Scherezade amazed. "He's here?"

"I thought it best to bring him down here straight from Dina's. Your Jamshed Uncle took Banoo home. On the way here, I explained to Fredun that you had been here the entire night."

A gleam of mischief stole into her tawny eyes. "You did! And how did he take such a direct approach? Usually Dad deals mainly in euphemisms when it comes to subjects he'd rather avoid. Or realities he'd like to wish away," she added sarcastically.

Frowning admonitorily, he shook her a little and propelled her towards the drawing room, ordering Krishna, who had come out of the kitchen, to get some tea and snacks to the living room.

"Where's your mother?" was the first question her father asked her, adding awkwardly, "and how are you? Are you all right?"

"Mother's gone back home. And I'm fine. Perfectly all right."

Fredun looked from her tight, suddenly closed-in face to Zerxes and back. "I suppose he's told you what happened?" he asked, his tone a shade too casual.

"If you mean about Dina Fui possibly being murdered, yes he has," she replied shortly. "Though I can't imagine who would want to murder her, or why."

"No, it is somewhat inconceivable," agreed her father shortly. He rose from the divan. "Are you coming home with me?"

At that moment Krishna walked in, bearing the tea tray. Fredun reluctantly sat down again. Scherezade poured. Fredun thought to himself, almost resentfully, that she seemed more at home in Zerxes's flat than in her own house.

She had been going around with Zerxes for two years now. Ever since she had met him in Court while doing a bit of free-lance journalism, writing an article on that sensational rape case involving a socialite and the friend of her boyfriend . . .

. . . It had turned out to be a case of parental pressure pushing the girl into complaining about what had really been consensual intercourse. Scherezade had initially been all het up on behalf of the girl, furiously lashing out against the Counsel who appeared in Court for the accused. Until the girl's testimony under cross-examination convinced even the prejudiced Scherezade that the girl had been lying, and that for once the man was the victim.

She had been impressed by the handsome young lawyer's courtcraft and had requested him for an interview. The request for the interview had been declined, but an invitation to dinner had ensued.

Followed by several dinners. Music concerts. Long drives. Out of town trips. Days and nights spent together. Fredun and Rashna, initially protesting, had ultimately been compelled to accept their unconventional relationship by the unacknowledged fear that Sherrie might move in with 'that fellow', if they tried to pressurize her into anything, including marriage . . .

After tea, Fredun didn't bother to repeat his question as to whether Sherrie would be going home with him. He realized that she and Zerxes would have dinner together before he dropped her home, if at all! Reassured that she had recovered from whatever bout of illness that had apparently attacked her, Fredun left.

* * * *

In the meanwhile, Patil and Rodricks had returned to the Cuffe Parade Police Station.
Rodricks had as yet never been able to enter that Station without experiencing the feeling of being caught up in a grotesque fusion of the two utterly discordant realities of that double-faced city. The opulent affluence of the five star hotel and the World Trade Centre on one flank, representative of the world of the super-rich, bristling with unbridled consumerism; and the grim struggling existence of the garbage-strewn shanties on the other, just opposite the entrance of the Station, with halfnaked, rickety children running around, drooling saliva and snot. Their elders eking out a precarious living on the strength of their unreliable wits and by the grace of a grudging God. And the Police Station itself, nestling in the improbable setting of the verdant Colaba Woods which sprawled almost all round, nacreously struggling to smother an unseemly intrusion, but not quite succeeding.

They walked in to find Sheriyar Irani leaning on the jamb of the open door of his cabin, frowning over a document. He looked up as they neared and held it out to Patil. "Read that," he rapped out.

"The Coroner's report?" queried Patil.

"You'll have to get to work, boyos," Irani spoke with some relish, slapping his thigh. It was not often that he got the chance to investigate the murder of the second wife of a rich and influential businessman with high-level political connections.

"Yessir," he cried, once more slapping his stocky right flank resoundingly. "You'll have to get down to some real solid work. Real quick!" He looked at his two subordinates from under his remarkable brows, his small, beady black eyes looking quite fierce. "The boyos up at Sachivalaya won't like this. Won't like this at all!" he prophesied with unholy relish.

He was quite right. In the corridors of power, the wires had already started humming. More than a few brows were creased in worry among the top echelons of the Administration. The Finance Secretary buzzed the Home Secretary who, in turn, was waiting to get the connection to the Law Secretary, who was out of station in some God-forsaken place where there were no STD lines.
The buzzing graduated to the Ministers and ultimately the CM himself who picked up his telephone and asked for Prakash Sattar.

He put down the receiver after a brief, terse conversation, apparently satisfied. He was a little taken aback though, at what Sattar had to tell him. Poor chap, he thought to himself, ringing for a second cup of coffee.

It was a good thing, he told himself, that that fellow Irani was in charge of the Cuffe Parade Police Station. A bit of a rough diamond, but he normally delivered the goods. And was quite a popular figure! Moved in fairly high social circles himself. Rich wife. Lots of chickoo farms at Dahanu and all that! Knew how to handle the better placed witnesses and suspects, as well as the run-of-the-mill criminals. And probably, they'd call the DCP in. Yes, that would be a good idea!

He wrinkled his bulbous nose in an effort of memory. Let's see now, that zone meant Tagore would be the DCP concerned. The stiffrumped stickler that he was, Tagore wouldn't like it if he spoke to him directly. Tagore did not brook political interference in his work. No! Better get on to the Commissioner himself. Get him to ask Tagore to oversee the investigation.

'Oversee the investigation'! That had a nice ring to it! Gulping down his coffee, he lifted his receiver again and asked for the Commissioner of Police. Then he stared at his empty coffee cup broodingly. He didn't like the smell of this business. And Sattar was a close-mouthed bastard. One never could tell with him, he thought, suddenly a bit uneasy. Even the good Lord didn't quite know what a murder investigation might throw up! And the elections so close! He sighed and ordered another cup of coffee.

While the most important man in the State sat thus, drinking coffee and brooding over a malignant Fate, a different kind of unease had gripped Jamshed and Banoo Maa.

Jamshed had persuaded Banoo Maa to have dinner with him and Shirin that night. Tehmul was dining out with an old school friend who had come over from Canada. Even Shirin's notions of propriety had not been offended by her son having a private dinner with an old school friend. That could not be termed 'dining out', she made the nice distinction in her mind.

Banoo Maa's tired mind had rebelled at the thought of having dinner that night of all nights, in Shirin's company. She did not mind Jamshed so much. Then she was guiltily ashamed of such thoughts. Shirin, irritating though she was, meant well. Banoo Maa felt guilty enough to accept the invitation.

Jamshed opened the door with his latch-key, ushered the old lady in, and called out to his wife. There was no response. Thinking she was in the kitchen, Jamshed made his way there, calling out her name again.

To get to the kitchen, he had to cross the passage past their bedroom. They had only one bedroom. Tehmul slept in the living room, converting the sofa there into a bed at night. The bedroom door was open, and through the bead curtain, a legacy from his wife's grandmother to all her grandchildren, he saw Shirin in front of the dressing table.

She seemed to have slumped on the chair, her head resting on the table against the tall mirror. Jamshed hurried in, calling out to Banoo Maa who followed him, alarmed at his tone. Shirin was semi-conscious, rambling incoherently. Banoo Maa caught something about 'a terrible headache'. Something about 'not a nice scent'. Whatever that meant!

Jamshed half carried, half dragged his wife gently onto the bed. He found Banoo Maa staring thoughtfully at the dressing table. His eyes followed her gaze, and frowned at what he saw. He shrugged, exchanged a rueful glance with her and went to the bedside cabinet to get some Eau de Cologne.

"I think I'll see if we can get hold of Dr. Dhondy," he told Banoo Maa, sprinkling the Cologne liberally on Shirin's forehead.

Banoo Maa did not answer. She had come to a quick decision. She rang up Fredun's place and asked to speak to Sherrie. She wanted Zerxes Avari's telephone number.

Rashna, who answered the telephone, informed her that Sherrie was still at Zerxes' and gave her the number. "What's up?" she asked casually.

"Shirin seems to be a bit unwell," replied Banoo.

"Oh! Fredun's not back, yet. Shall I ask him to come over, when he gets back?"

"No, but I'll let you know if it's anything serious. It may be nothing more than just a very severe headache." When she spoke to Zerxes, however, Banoo Maa did not try to hide her apprehension. She requested Zerxes to rush over, if he could. Fredun had just left from Zerxes' to go home.

Zerxes and Scherezade were over at Jamshed's within twenty minutes. Before leaving, he had called for an ambulance with directions to Jamshed's flat, overriding Scherezade's protests that they should at least have a look at Shirin Fui, before rushing the poor thing to a hospital. "She's a bit of a hypochondriac as well," she had ended.

"As well as what?" Zerxes had asked, looking at her narrowly. His 'cross-examining' look, as she called it!

Scherezade had hesitated. "Well, I'm not absolutely certain, but at times both Firdauz and I have felt she's a bit of a kleptomaniac. Nothing very serious, but she does pinch small things which catch her fancy. From people's homes."

"I see," Zerxes had looked thoughtful. "I think darling, let's not take any chances. In any case, at the hospital they'll give her a thorough check up, which can't do her any harm. Especially at her age. I'll see if I can get hold of Subhash again."

Fortunately, he could. Zerxes had requested him to come over to the Parsee General Hospital directly. "Be there at the reception. We may need you to get her admitted."

"I'll speak to the RMO beforehand," Sub hash had promised. "What's the lady's name, again?"

As soon as they reached the Dumasia residence, Zerxes explained what he had arranged. Jamshed was too bemused to protest. Scherezade went into the bedroom and sat next to Banoo Maa, on Shirin's bed. Shirin was beginning to turn blue. She was now glad that Zerxes had overridden her protests and called for the ambulance. Her gaze idly swept the dressing table, and she suddenly stiffened, catching sight of the bottle.

She remembered Dina Fui wearing 'Joy' perfume on her birthday. "A birthday gift from Prakash", Dina had said carelessly.

Noticing the direction of her gaze, Banoo Maa chuckled grimly. "Yes, she could not resist it! What use is perfume to Dina, now? It seems to be a new bottle too! She must have picked it up when she went into her room alone. Poor Shirin!" sighed the old lady. "I've tried so hard to cure her of that habit!"

Zerxes and Jamshed came into the bedroom. Banoo Maa rose, asked Jamshed for a bag, and started packing a few of Shirin's clothes and essentials into it. Jamshed too packed a small bag for himself. He'd be staying at the hospital, at least that first night.

Scherezade told Zerxes, in a whisper, about Shirin having pinched Dina's perfume bottle. The expression in his face gave nothing away, but she did not miss the sudden gleam of interest in his generally hard green eyes. Underneath that casual, almost indifferent exterior, Zerxes was thinking to himself, "Dammitall, there's no way I can stay clear of this, now! I'll have to take a hand in it. Maybe get Dad to give his opinion." His eyes met Scherezade's, looking up into his face, puzzled. He brushed a stray tendril off her forehead. The simple gesture seemed toreassure her. His touch had that effect on her. It was a balm as well as a stimulant.

Zerxes went up to the dressing table, unscrewed the bottle of 'Joy' and took a swift, tentative sniff before screwing on the top again. Watching him, Scherezade's eyes widened in horror. "Zerx . . . you don't think. . . it isn't possible. . .?"

"Hush, foolish child," laying a finger against her lips. "We'll talk about it later."

She caught his hand in both her small ones, giving it a tight squeeze. Her mind went back to Dina's saree. The one she had buried her face in, before she suddenly felt ill. That had reeked of 'Joy' perfume! Her eyes went again to the bottle of 'Joy' on Shirin's cluttered dressing table, among bottles of different brands of face cream and rather grimy looking lipsticks.

The ambulance and Dr. Dhondy arrived together. Peeved at being pre-empted, Dhondy allowed himself to be soothed by Scherezade's charming flattery. Jamshed and Banoo Maa went in the ambulance with Shirin. Jamshed had given the house-keys to Zerxes to lock up. Zerxes called up Fredun. Then, after Dhondy had taken himself off, he telephoned the Cuffe Parade Police Station. As he had expected, Patil and Rodricks were still there.

* * * *

Seated behind his large desk in his spartan office, Patil had read the PM report through and passed it over to Rodricks who glanced through it speedily and looked back at Patil, eyebrows raised, an expression of almost comical dismay on his face.

"Well!" he breathed exaggeratedly. "Talk about a high class, recondite murder! Aniline . . . benzene . . . nitrobenzene . . . what the hell is this stuff?"

A hint of amusement crept into Patil's normally austere eyes. "1 thought you were looking for something unusual, Drew," he remarked, a touch of malice edging his carefully bland tone.

Unlike the phlegmatic Avinash Patil, Andrew Rodricks had had dreams of entangling with desperate terrorists and matching wits with ingenious murderers, when he had stunned his family by joining the Police Force a couple of years ago, after his post-graduation in psychology. He had not really expected to realize his ambition of getting his teeth into a 'real killer of a murder case', as he put it, so early in his career! And he was to be the Investigating Officer!
Aniline. . . benzene. . . nitro-benzene. . . !

"Parsley sage, rosemary and thyme," he hummed inappositely, the half forgotten song of his college days coming back to him rather inappropriately at that moment. Now why the hell should he suddenly think of that?

It was at that moment, that the telephone bell shrilled.

Patil picked up the receiver and spoke into it. A lazy, distinctive voice floated down the wire. "Inspector Patil? So glad to have caught you in, Inspector. Are you in the mood to take a trip?"

* * * *

On the way to Jamshed Dumasia's house in the police jeep, Patil's mind went back to certain paragraphs of the report, now suddenly intelligible in the light of what Avari had briefly told him over the telephone.

"There are traces of aniline in the brain, and in the blood," he had read in the autopsy report. "There has been clear formation of methaemoglobin in the blood, pointing to the possibility of some form of benzene poisoning. Could be benzene, could be nitrobenzene, could be aniline. The poison was not ingested by the deceased. It was absorbed through the skin, and by inhalation of vapour containing the toxic substance. The vapour of all the three substances mentioned earlier is extremely toxic and noxious. Also, it can be absorbed through the skin, causing cyanosis due to the deoxygenation of the haemoglobin in the blood, so that oxygen is no longer transported to the vital organs of the body, resulting in respiratory failure, and ultimately death."

In such a case, normally, the medium through which the poison had been administered would have been almost impossible to trace, mused Patil. This was almost certainly a case of chronic poisoning. Such cases were the nightmare of the investigating agencies: not only the medium, even the time of the actual poisoning was impossible to fix, rendering every alibi suspect! According to the Docs, the time taken by benzene or nitrobenzene, or aniline (which was a product of nitrobenzene, formed by chemical reaction), to cause death differed from person to person, depending upon individual metabolism, the amount imbibed, the level of dilution, etc. . . it could take a few hours, or even a few days!

Patil admitted to Rodricks that they might well have cause to be thankful to Avari! "Normally, he's busy getting in our way, criticizing our procedure and getting the blokes off in Court. This time, it appears at least that he's trying to help us. I wonder why!"

"I wouldn't trust him an inch," muttered Rodricks darkly."Reminds me of a cobra. All coiled, and ready to strike! Green eyed too," he added, with a prejudice strange in one normally so liberalminded.

Zerxes and Scherezade had waited until Patil and Rodricks arrived at the Dumasias' flat and picked up the bottle of 'Joy' perfume for analysis. Then they had raced over to the hospital. Shirin was showing signs of improvement. They'd taken a sample of her blood for chemical and spectroscopic examination, at Dr. Subhash Chitaley's insistence. Which had been prompted by Zerxes.

* * * *

Zerxes' guess was proved to be correct, the next day. Laboratory analysis showed that the poison was in the bottle of 'Joy' perfume. And it was nitrobenzene.

As to the presence of that bottle in Shirin Dumasia's bedroom, well, Avari and Scherezade Vatcha both had given the explanation for that. But they'd have to question Shirin Dumasia herself and also her husband, later on.

But now, for Mr. Prakash Sattar!

*

The Turning - Chapter Nine

2009-01-30T20:53:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER NINE

Prakash gazed numbly at the brother-in-law who had never acknowledged him as such, apparently unable to take in what he had been saying.

"She's dead. Dina's dead!" he repeated in a dazed voice. Then a spark of anger entered his eyes. "And you've sent her body away to some hospital without even consulting me, without even waiting for me to return?" he asked, accusingly.

It was around 5.30 pm, the day after Dina's death . . .

Prakash had received Fredun's message late night the previous day, but, giving in to the demand of a suddenly querulous Sonali, had waited until after a leisurely breakfast the next morning, to start the drive back to Bombay. He had arrived to find his house invaded by his wife's relatives. Banoo Maa, Fredun, and surprisingly Zerxes, but no Scherezade!

Zerxes had left Scherezade asleep, a note for her on the bedside table, and had driven over to Dina's by around 11 in the morning. He was immediately questioned by Rashna, as to how Scherezade was. It transpired that Fredun had phoned his residence, and Firdauz had given him a sketchy report about her bout of ill-health the night before.
Zerxes made the mistake of giving the true report. He was unprepared for Rashna's reaction.

"What? She actually had to be given oxygen?" she asked sharply, glaring accusingly at Zerxes. "Firdauz didn't tell me that!"

Zerxes shrugged. "1 guess he didn't want to alarm you," he suggested.

Rashna ignored him and looked at her husband. 'Tm going. I must go and see Sherrie. Is she still at your place?" This last was flung at Zerxes. Rashna had visited his flat a couple of times, without her husband.

"Yes she is," replied Zerxes coolly. "Please go over," he continued, as Fredun opened his mouth to speak. "Go over and make yourself at home. Why don't you take your car? I'll bring Fredun there later, after Sattar deigns to land up and we all can leave from here."

Banoo Maa had been tom between wanting to rush over to her Scherezade, and to stay and sort out things for her Dina. Perform this last office for her! Zerxes persuaded her to remain.

Shirin had surprisingly elected to stay at home that day instead of accompanying her husband to Dina's. Jamshed had gone out for a while, having turned up quite early in the morning. As the hours passed without any sign of Sattar, those waiting for him started chafing a bit. Zerxes, in particular was getting quite restive, worried as he was about Scherezade. The only thing that kept him from going back to ensure Scherezade was okay was the knowledge that her mother would be with her. Also, Krishna could be relied upon to telephone him and let him know, if something went wrong.

So, it had been Fredun, Banoo Maa and Zerxes, who had formed the reception committee for Prakash when he arrived from Poona . . .

It was Zerxes who picked up the gauntlet flung by Prakash.

"There was no question of consulting you, or anyone else," he said coolly. "Dina's Will made her intent very clear. It had to be honoured, her wishes carried out, without undue delay. As for waiting till . . ." But here he was interrupted.

"A Will?" echoed Prakash incredulously. "Dina died leaving a Will?" "Yes, she had made a Will." It was Banoo Maa, her voice weary. "Dina was well aware of your phobia about making a Will. She told me that nothing would induce you to make one. Maybe that was why she did not tell you," she shrugged indifferently. "But she herself had made a Will all right."

"Who had attested it?" Prakash demanded.

"I was one of the witnesses," said Banoo quietly.

"You and who else?"

"I say, layoff, will you," broke in Fredun angrily. "What the hell do you think you are doing? Cross-examining Banoo Maa?"

Before Prakash could respond to this, Banoo Maa spoke, casting Fredun an affectionate glance, "I can take care of myself, dear boy. Prakash has a right to know. Besides, it's no secret. Or soon anyway, it will no longer be one." She looked at Prakash steadily. "Fatima was the other witness.
And," she went on firmly, forestalling the exclamation that rose to his lips, "If you'd like to discharge her from your service, kindly let me know right now. I'll engage her myself and take her back with me straight away."

Prakash ran a tired hand over his face, looking defeated. He said in a stiff voice, "I did not mean to offend any of you. But I can't just take all this in! It's too much! Too much!" he repeated. Then almost as though he couldn't help himself, he asked, "Is it a secret, or may I know the contents of the Will? Apart from the disposition of her own body?"

Banoo Maa's answer was drowned in the imperative ringing of the doorbell. Fatima came in, looking frightened, followed by two gentlemen. One was in the uniform of a ranking police officer; the other was in plain clothes, but clearly also a member of the Police Force.

"Good morning, Madam, Gentlemen," said the uniformed Officer politely. "I'm Police Inspector Avinash Patil from the Cuffe Parade Police Station, Crime Cell. This is Sub-Inspector Andrew Rodricks, the Investigating Officer."

The shocked silence was broken by Prakash. "Indeed! May I know the reason for your presence here?"

"Certainly," answered Avinash Patil. He was a man of around forty: slightly over medium height, slim built, with a direct gaze from behind metal-framed spectacles, and few airs or graces. His Sub Inspector was of a more cheerful aspect, a slightly tubby man with a just-about-noticeable beer belly, in his mid-thirties.

Patil looked at Prakash. "You are Mr. Prakash Sattar?" he hazarded.

On Prakash confirming that he was, Patil went on, "We are here to inquire into your wife's death, sir. There appears to be some doubt about her having died a natural death."

Prakash, stunned though he was for a moment, made a quick comeback.

"Indeed?" he said, in the time-honoured phrase used to buy time when one wasn't sure just what to say. "Indeed?" he repeated. "So what did she die of, Inspector, if not natural causes?" he blustered.

"We are not sure, as yet," Patil responded in a soft, polite tone.

"The matter has been referred to the Coroner. We are awaiting the autopsy results." Andrew Rodricks glanced rapidly around the room, appreciating with the eye of a connoisseur the expressions ranging on the faces of the relatives of the deceased. On all except that handsome foreign-looking chap with those curious green eyes. His face was an impassive blank.
Cold-blooded looking chap, thought Rodricks to himself.

It was he who spoke, his tone 'just slightly disdainful. "50 what happens now, gentlemen? I take it we too await the results of the autopsy with . . . er . . . bated breath?" Before either of the policemen could answer, Zerxes supplied his own. "Yes, we do that! What I can't understand is," he frowned, furrowing his brow in feigned puzzlement, "the premature presence of you Gentlemen, here. Unless of course," he I went on with a slightly ironical air, "you have come, as a matter of courtesy, to inform us that the Coroner has ordered an autopsy, and that Mrs. Sattar's body is under his jurisdiction?!" His look held both challenge as well as amusement.

"You are related to the deceased?" asked Patil.

"Not quite," was the amused answer.

Fredun felt that it was time someone performed the introductions and did so, referring to Zerxes as his daughter's 'fiance'.

Patil turned back to Zerxes. "To answer your question, Mr. Avari, yes, that was part of our reason for calling on Mr. Sattar. To inform him that Mrs. Sattar's death has been referred to the Coroner. And also to make a few preliminary inquiries, in case the doctor's suspicions prove justified." For once Patil was not quite successful in making the statement sound so casual as he desired.

Prakash Sattar almost rounded on him. "Doctor's suspicions?
Which Doctor's suspicions?" he asked sharply. "I understand her family doctor was perfectly satisfied that my wife died of natural causes. Dammit, he has given a certificate to that effect."

"Well Mr. Sattar, this won't be the first time a Doctor's certificate will be proven wrong! That is, if it is proven wrong, of course!" Patil spoke coolly, almost soothingly.

Really, thought Zerxes to himself, Patil's manner was a bit too polite. A dangerous manner in a policeman! Zerxes was well aware that during his tenure thus far, Patil held the record in the Force for the highest number of confessions elicited by any policeman. And he had the reputation also, of not resorting to third-degree methods. His genius lay in wearing down his suspects with relentless, unflagging questioning. And trapping them in the contradictions of their replies.

Zerxes glanced a little uneasily at Prakash, who was beginning to look choleric. "You haven't answered my question. Who had these socalled suspicions?" Prakash rapped out.

"The Doctor who dissected her body at a demonstration class at JJ Hospital," said Patil, his expression deadpan.

"Remarkably quick work, for a teaching hospital," commented Zerxes before Prakash could get an edge in. "Dissecting a cadaver as soon as it was brought in!"

Patil did not rise to bait. Nor did he think it necessary to explain the one in a thousand coincidence that had occurred in Dina Sattar's case, exposing an almost perfect murder. A murder which would have passed off as a natural death, had it not been for a series of accidents.

First, of course, was Dina's own act in donating her body for anatomical research in her Will. The second, the body being delivered at the hospital just as the lecture-demonstration given by the visiting German forensic expert was in progress, with the Coroner and the Professor of Anatomy at JJ both being present. . . the German deciding to give an unscheduled demonstration on post-mortem procedure, and demanding a cadaver . . . the chaps at JJ wheeling in the fresh cadaver that had providentially just come in . . .

Jovially cutting open Dina Sattar, making the usual macabre jokes, the expert had suddenly halted in his work, twitching his bony nose in a sniff. The smell of benzene was really quite unmistakable - it wafted even to where the Coroner was seated. The lecture-demonstration was aborted abruptly, as the German forensic expert and the Coroner went into a huddled conference, joined in by the Dean of Anatomy.

All three agreed: there seemed to be some form of benzene or aniline present in the body. This would require further testing, and detailed investigation. The possibility that this was not a natural death, that the deceased had been poisoned by some form of benzene or aniline, could not be ruled out. The Coroner authorized chemical and other tests of the viscera. . . the police were informed. . . and that had brought Patil to the doorstep of the deceased. . .

Patil, a fervent believer in the pre-ordination of human destiny, was convinced that the murderer's fate was sealed. After such a chain of coincidences, the murderer had to be caught and apprehended! He glanced around quickly at those present.

Prakash's face reflected a stunned daze. And something else mingled in it . . . a flicker of fear. . . or was it guilt? Fredun looked ill at ease. But that, Patil knew from experience, could mean anything. Or nothing. The old lady, Miss (he believed) Banoo Kanga had closed her eyes, the very lack of expression in her face revealing the depth of her anguish:

Zerxes A vari was impassive. Unperturbed. Patil smiled to himself. He knew something about Mr. La-di-la Avari, as some waggish cop had nicknamed him. He was certainly a little too well dressed for the scruffy Sessions Court he mainly practised in. But there was no denying his already formidable reputation. Even the most case-hardened cops dreaded having to face a cross-examination by Zerxes Avari. He so often succeeded in making them look like fools!

The doorbell rang. A sniffling, swollen eyed, sullen Fatima opened the door. Jamshed walked into the room and stopped short, casting an inquiring look at Fredun.

Fredun met his gaze briefly, giving a slight, warning flicker of the eyelids. "Come in, Jamshed. Prakash is here. And these are two Officers from the Cuffe Parade Police Station, come here with a rather incredible story." Turning to the two Inspectors, he went on, "This, er . . .
Gentlemen, is the ..er. . . Mrs. Sattar's sister's husband, Mr. Jamshed Dumasia."

Turning to Jamshed again, Fredun said, baldly, "The Police seem to think Dina was poisoned."
Jamshed's mouth opened, then closed again. He appeared to visibly collect his thoughts together. "Think?" he echoed, looking at Patil almost accusingly. "You mean you aren't sure? Then why couldn't you have waited till you were sure, instead of trying to create a scandal in our family?"

Patil was tmperturbed by the attack. He rather welcomed it. When persons connected with the case got a little rattled, one came to learn things one never might have, otherwise. How the devil did that Vatcha chap come to the conclusion that the deceased had been poisoned? But then, fair-mindedly he conceded that poison seemed to be the obvious method used in this case, if this was indeed murder!

What interested Patil more was this Dumasia chap's rather curious response to the news. This was not the way a chap would react, on being told that his sister-in-law had apparently been murdered, surely! Moreover, Patil had a shrewd suspicion the supposed poisoning of Dina Sattar was not the 'scandal' this Dumasia chap was referring to! He said mildly, "We thought it best to inform the family of the deceased that the matter was in the Coroner's hands," thinking of the scene at the Police Station when the call had come through from the Coroner's office.

* * * *

The call had been routed through to the Senior PI: the bluff, burly Sheriyar Irani, who had immediately summoned both Patil and Rodricks.

"Better inform the husband straight away," Irani had ordered. "He's a big noise in fairly high circles. Close to the Home Minister, Finance Minister, etcetera. . . etcetera. . . etcetera. . . I believe this was his second wife. One of those convenient converts. A bit of a hush-hush thing! First wife died just recently. Apparently a case of suicide. Wrists slashed. Gamdevi were on that case. PI there seemed satisfied that it was indeed a case of suicide."

He had shot his two subordinates a keen glance from under shaggy, untidy eyebrows. "Better tackle him tactfully. I want top priority given to this case. Less chance of any interference, if we move very quickly. As I've said, the husband's quite a big shot. And from what I've heard of him, a big bastard, as well! See what info you can get about the set up, reactions, etc. But don't get Sattar riled, for the Lord's sake! We haven't anything concrete to go on, as yet, and I don't want the Commissioner on my back. This'll be a bit sticky,"· he had prophesied gloomily.

* * * *

Rodricks, as was his wont, examined Sattar closely without appearing to. A distinguished-looking man, he thought to himself. Tall, slightly stooped, with iron-gray hair, iron gray moustache, and hooded dark eyes under thick dark brows, almost meeting over the bridge of his nose without any break. The effect was marred, however, by a receding, rather weak chin and a full, sensual lower lip supporting a disproportionately thin upper one. Hedonist or ascetic? wondered Rodricks. The mouth was a combination of both.

The hands were those of a voluptuary: the palm well padded; short, thick fingers, the lower phalanges more fleshy than the others. Hairy hands, noted Rodricks, taking in the expensive gold wrist-watch strapped over bunches of curly black hair which did not allow even a millimetre of the skin of the wrist to show.
SI Rodricks' breezy, casual, almost faddish manner, so deplored by his Superiors, was misleading. He was a highly efficient and capable officer, perceptive and astute. The perfect foil to Patil, who was shrewd, painstaking and meticulous. A man who did not miss much, with a quiet, laid-back manner of working.

Patil turned to Prakash again. "Did your wife complain of illhealth or uneasiness at any time during the last few days?"

Prakash took his time before replying. Then he said, slowly, deliberately, "Your queries will have to wait, Inspector, till you have established that there is a need or a basis for an inquiry. Till then, I would be obliged if you would refrain from invading my privacy at this time".

Rodricks seemed about to say something, but Patil quelled him with a slight frown. "As you wish," he replied equably and nodded at Rodricks and both officers tok their leave.

After they had left, Fredun seemed more ill at ease than ever. "I say, was that wise?" he asked Prakash. Prakash gave a short grim laugh that came out rather like a snarl and walked over to the Bar. "Let them establish there was a case of poisoning, before they start digging into our lives," he said curtly. "These policemen are getting too damn officious."

He picked up the decanter of whisky and looked around inquiringly. "Care for a drink, any of you?"

Banoo Maa looked revolted at the suggestion. The men declined politely. Prakash, past caring about the sensitivities of his wife's relatives, poured himself a generous measure.

Fredun broke the awkward silence, saying, "Well, I'd better be leaving," looking inquiringly at Zerxes, upon whom he depended for a lift.

"Yes, let's all push off," said Jamshed. "Prakash has had a long drive, then all this. . . Come with me, Maa, I'll drop you home," he told Banoo Maa.

Whilst passing out of the door, Zerxes, who was the last, said over his shoulder to Prakash, "I suggest we inform each other if there's any further development in the matter."

Prakash stood frowning into his glass, vouchsafing no reply.

After they had all left, Prakash strode over to the telephone and called Vinod. "I want you to come over here. Immediately," he almost barked into the receiver. "Don't ask questions now, just come. And Vinod - don't inform anybody at home that you're coming over here."

Then he called Sonali Roy and made a formal appointment to see her at her clinic at Pedder Road the following day.

*

The Turning - Chapter Eight

2009-01-24T05:15:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The hearse from JJ Hospital rolled up rather promptly, just as Scherezade arrived, clinging tight to Zerxes Avari's arm. She had caught him at his Chambers on his way to Court and had blurted out what had happened. Some instinct made him instruct one of his Juniors to get the case adjourned. He had wanted to be there, at Dina's, with Scherezade . . .

After giving the necessary directions at JJ, Fredun had made the other telephone calls. Calls which could not be put off anY longer. To his wife, at the school where she taught. Asking her to contact the children and ask them too to come over to Dina's. To Jamshed and Shirin. To Vinod Shahane, (whose number he found in the small diary near the telephone, and who was fortunately at home for his lunch). Not so much to inform him, as to find out if he knew where Prakash was staying, at Poona, and to get the telephone number from him, if he had it. Vinod did. His father was staying at the Blue Diamond Hotel, he informed Fredun. He too would be coming over, he said, appearing shocked at the news.

The men from JJ Hospital went about their business with the quiet efficiency of the totally uninvolved. As they were bearing the stretcher out of the doorway, they almost collided with a gustily sobbing Shirin Dumasia, closely followed by an unusually grim-faced Jamshed.

Death served to whet Shirin's predilection for histrionics. "Oh my Sister, my Sister," she cried, flinging herself on the shrouded body.

Her husband caught hold of both her arms and pulled her away unceremoniously. "Come, my dear, control your grief at least till you're inside the house." Over her head his eyes met Fredun's.

"But where are they taking her?" shrieked Shirin. "What will happen to her body? Who will. . ."
"Enough, Shirin," Jamshed's voice suddenly cracked like a whiplash, startling even his wife into silence. Banoo Maa, who liked her the least of the three, put an arm round her shoulders and led her into the drawing room.

"I only wanted to know what they would do to her body," sobbed Shirin quietly now, for Banoo Maa's ears alone.

"Don't you worry about all that, dear," said Banoo consolingly."Everything's been taken care of. Dina took care of that herself," she added, almost to herself.

Banoo herself had no tears left. She pressed Shirin down onto a sofa, sat down herself, closed her eyes, and murmured a silent prayer for Dina's soul. Surely she was entitled in death to that much, at least!

By tacit volition, Fredun, Zerxes and Jamshed had gathered together in one corner of the drawing room. Fredun silently passed the Will to Zerxes. Who read it without comment, before passing it on to Jamshed.

Banoo was sitting with her eyes closed, as immoveable as a bronze Buddha. Shirin had wiped her tears and blown her nose fiercely into a large hanky extracted from her capacious handbag, then wandered into Dina's bedroom. The room where Dina had breathed her last.

She saw Scherezade there, kneeling by the side of the bed, her face buried in the saree Dina had last worn, weeping bitterly. Instinctively realizing that she was being watched, Scherezade jerked her head up. A wave of dizziness swept over her as she did so. Noticing Shirin by the door, she rose to her feet, and walked rather unsteadily out of Dina's bedroom.

Shirin slid into the bedroom. She peered tearfully around: at the mussed-up bed; at the well-stocked bookshelves; at the uncluttered dressing table, containing some cosmetics and some bottles of perfume. It was a bedroom curiously devoid of any personal touch. Except for the bookshelves.

Rashna, Firdauz and Tehmul had not yet arrived. Nor had Vinod Shahane. The three men were still conferring in the corner.

"What do we do about the prayers?" Jamshed voiced the question troubling everyone's mind.

"There's no way we can have Parsee funeral prayers," said Fredun decidedly, as Scherezade walked up to them.

"Oh Dad, don't be so dogmatic," protested Scherezade. "She was born a Parsee, wasn't she?" she asked, tiredly.

"Yes, but she didn't die a Parsee," returned her father implacably.

There seemed to be no answer to this brutal truth. To her own horror, Scherezade found herself breaking down again, and began to sob uncontrollably. Long, gasping sobs. Fredun looked at Zerxes helplessly. Banoo Maa opened her eyes, and hurried up off the sofa she was sitting. Shirin stood hovering near the door to Dina's bedroom, looking around with her bird-like glance. Jamshed tried to pat Scherezade's shoulder, but was frustrated in his efforts by Zerxes.

Putting an arm around her, he half led, half dragged Scherezade to the settee at the far end of the room, almost hidden behind a huge potted fish-tail palm. He then sat down, and made her lie on the settee with her head on his lap, his long sensitive fingers caressing her silken waves.

The doorbell shrilled. Fredun looked up, expecting to see his wife and son.

Vinod Shahane hurried in, brushing brusquely past the swollen eyed Fatima. "I hope I'm not intruding," he began awkwardly, looking around a little helplessly.

Fredun, guessing who he could be, came forward, introduced himself and the others. All except Zerxes and Scherezade, who were still on the settee behind the huge palm, out of their view.

Vinod cast a grateful glance at Fredun, "I thought it appropriate to come over, since you were good enough to telephone and inform me." He paused, clearing his throat, his words sounding stilted even to himself. He was well aware as were all the others, that Fredun had merely phoned Vinod to learn of his father's whereabouts. Nobody had expected Vinod to actually land up there!

"Has. . . has my father been informed?" Vinod inquired, once more glancing at Fredun.

"We tried to get in touch with him at the Blue Diamond Hotel, where you told us he was staying, but he had gone out. I have left a message at the reception, requesting him to return as soon as possible."

"Er. . . the message. . ." ventured Vinod delicately.

"That his wife is seriously ill. I thought that would be less of a shock," said Fredun.

"Thank you. That was thoughtful of you," Vinod said gratefully. "And her body. . . "

"Has been sent to the hospita1."

"Hospital?" echoed Vinod, looking startled.

"Dina had Willed her body to a teaching hospital for medical research," explained Jamshed. "It's been sent to J.J.Hospital"

"I see," murmured Vinod. He shuffled his feet a bit, then mumbled awkwardly, "Well, if there's nothing further I can do here, I'll make a move. I haven't informed my folks yet. Not even my sister. I'd better go and do that. When my father returns, will you please request him to get in touch with me? I'll be at home."

"Certainly," assured Fredun.

Vinod walked away hurriedly, blundering into Dina's bedroom by mistake, before eventually finding his way out.

"Decent of the chap to turn up," said Fredun, looking around at the others a little uncertainly.

Jamshed shrugged. "If you ask me, he merely came out of curiosity," he said uncharitably. "No other reason why he should have come now. It's not as though he was even acquainted with Dina."

* * * *

Vinod broke a couple of traffic lights driving home, his mind racing as furiously. How to tell Nivedita? How should he break the news to her? How would she take it?

Nivedita was pottering about in her terrace garden when he reached the house, at about 5 in the evening. Kuntabai was resting. Suchitra and Arun were in the room allotted to them, probably packing. They were leaving for Calcutta the next day.

Vinod found Nivedita stooping over the rock garden. What had she been up to, now? He went up to her, gently took her by the arm and led her to her room. His medical bag was handy in his own room, next to hers, should the need arise. He made her sit down on the bed, in the crook of his arm. Then he told her.

"So it worked," the words jerked out of Nivedita's lips before she could stop herself. Then she caught her hand to her mouth like a guilty child, looking up at Vinod with frightened eyes.

"Listen to me, Nivedita," said Vinod sternly. "You just forget about everything, keep cool, and don't talk to anybody about this. You understand? Not anybody. I'll take care of things. I'll look after you."

"She's gone. She's really gone?" she asked on a note of inquiry, tilting her head to one side, looking up at Vinod half invitingly, half fearfully.

"She's gone," confirmed Vinod. "Now there's nothing for you to worry about." He then stretched out full length on the bed, pulling her all the way beside him. His hand slid under her loose kurta, found her nubile young breast and fondled it expertly, arousing her nipple to an erection to match his own. Her hands too moved, almost of their own volition, tentative, exploring. There was nothing tentative however, about Vinod's touch. His absent caresses gave way to urgent forays deeper into the recesses of her eager, receptive body, as Nivedita succumbed once more to the sin she would enjoy trying to expiate later.

To the confessional of the figurine.

But for now, it was the time to triumph.

To exult.

And Vinod was marvellous today. Real tigerish! Working her up to a frenzied climax as he played upon her body as expertly as a Menuhin on a Stradivarius . . .

* * * *

At around the same time in Poona, Dr. Sonali Roy returned to their hotel room before Prakash. He would not be back from his conference till quite late. She went to the reception to pick up the key.

And got the message from a carefully blank faced reception clerk who appeared not to notice anything unusual in the existence of two wives of Mr. Prakash Sattar, one apparently seriously ill back home, one hale and hearty, demanding the room key from him.

Sonali was too sophisticated a woman to blush, but she had to admit to herself that that damned hotel clerk had succeeded in making her feel uncomfortable. She would give her ultimatum to Prakash tonight, she promised herself. Careless of appearances as she had been in her youth, as she approached middle age, the inexorable net of convention was closing in upon her and together with it, the craving for respectability.

She would not go about in this clandestine fashion any longer! She wouldn't have done it now, but Prakash had been so desperate! For once, he had even been indifferent to the risk of discovery. Not only had he booked the hotel room in his real name, he had apparently even left word of his whereabouts with people in Bombay! How in heaven's name had Dina's brother known where Prakash was staying, in Poona?

Sonali was aware that they had very little time left. She had often argued with Prakash that it was wrong of him to keep things hidden from his children. Especially Vinod. He should tell Vinod.

Sonali herself had no secrets from her own son, Abhijeet. Who ironically, was a close friend of Vinod Shahane! But that was the one thing Prakash probably wasn't aware of! That their respective sons were known to each other, independently of either of them.

Idly, she wondered how Prakash would react if he knew! Dear, funny Prakash, with his curious ideas of right and wrong. Tailored to suit his own expediency! So typical of most men, she thought, half indulgently, half exasperatedly. Women were more clear in their thinking. And more ruthless in acknowledging what they wanted. And hang the cost!

Sonali showered, got into a comfortable kaftan, and lay down with a book, awaiting Prakash's return. She wondered idly just how seriously ill Dina Sattar was!

* * * *

While Sonali was lying in bed in the hotel room in Poona trying to read, her glance straying to her travelling clock every few minutes, Scherezade was lying on Zerxes' bed in his flat, enduring a severe headache.

After the arrival of Rashna, Firdauz and Tehmul at Dina's, the atmosphere had become even more strained. Unable to face the thought of going to her house with her parents, Scherezade had informed them that she'd return home later, after dinner. Zerxes had brought her over to his flat and taken her straight into the bedroom.

He left her lying on the bed, her forehead bathed in Eau de Cologne, while he went to give instructions to his manservant-cum-cook, Krishna, to prepare a light, easily digestible dinner.
Zerxes went back to the bedroom to find the bed empty. From the half-open bathroom door came the sound of running water, and other unmistakable sounds. He reached the bathroom in a few long strides, to find Scherezade throwing up violently into the black marble basin. After the fit of nausea had passed, he helped her back onto the bed and loosened the collar of her tailored shirt. His gaze was arrested by a very slight bluish tinge at the base of her pale, shell-like right ear.

Suddenly he was seized by an unaccustomed, inexplicable fear. For once without realizing why he was doing something, Zerxes rang up one of his closest friends. A physician. Dr. Subhash Chitaley.

Subhash Chitaley, after he had briefly examined Scherezade, looked at Zerxes with a perplexed frown. "We've got to rush her to a hospital straight away," he decreed. "She needs oxygen urgently."

In the speeding car, Subhash asked his white-faced friend, "What's been happening?"

Zerxes quickly explained the circumstances of Dina's unexpected death and how upset Scherezade was about the whole thing.

Subhash stroked his prematurely graying French beard thoughtfully. "Well, it could be a case of marginal apoplexy caused by convulsive weeping, together with the shock of her aunt's death," he said doubtfully. "But I don't quite see how. . ."

They had reached the hospital by then. It was hardly ten minutes' drive away from Zerxes' flat. Subhash was out almost before the car came to a halt, and had had a stretcher wheeled out, together with an oxygen cylinder, at the entrance itself. He was obviously well-known at that hospital. He had her in the Emergency within a matter of minutes. She seemed to be responding well to the oxygen.

Reassured that she was in safe hands, Zerxes went to the public telephone booth in the lobby and dialled Fredun's number. Firdauz answered the telephone and informed Zerxes that both his parents as well as Banoo Maa were staying over at Dina's, that night. Prakash apparently had not yet returned to Bombay. Banoo Maa had been reluctant to leave Dina's flat till he did. And no way would Fredun leave Banoo Maa there, alone! Also, Firdauz had added distastefully, that that maid of theirs, Fatima, had flatly refused to stay alone in the flat that night.

Zerxes heard him out, then informed him about Scherezade's condition. Firdauz surprised Zerxes by saying he would come over to the hospital immediately, adding, "I think we'd better not say anything to my parents. It would worry them unnecessarily!" Zerxes agreed and awaited his arrival.

"How is she? What's happened?" Firdauz asked anxiously as soon as he reached the hospital and came across Zerxes pacing up and down in the corridor outside the Emergency Room.

"She's better, I believe. The Doctors seem to think she's cried herself into a state of hysteria over Dina's death," Zerxes said slowly. "I'm not sure. . . maybe it's a combination of factors. . ."
He trailed off as Scherezade walked out of the Emergency on her own, if rather wobbly legs, minus the oxygen cylinder. She appeared to have made an almost miraculous recovery.

"It's as I told you," Subhash reassured Zerxes. "It was a mild vasovagal attack, triggered off possibly by sudden, acute, mental distress."

"Vasovagal attack?" queried Firdauz. Zerxes introduced him to Subhash Chitaley.

"That means, temporary suspension of the oxygen supply to the vital organs of the body, especially the brain," explained Subhash. "Luckily, Zerxes called me in time."

Turning to Zerxes, he said, "You can take her home now. She'll be right as rain after a night's rest," smiling encouragingly at his patient.

Zerxes took Subhash aside, asking him in a low voice, "Could there have been the possibility of the suspension of oxygen being. . . not so temporary?"

"Yes," answered Subhash gravely. "In which case, the result could have been. . . well, tragic!"

Zerxes nodded, his face grim. Turning back to Firdauz, he told him abruptly, "I'm taking Scherezade back with me, to my flat for the night, at least," giving him no choice in the matter. Not that Firdauz had any other alternative in mind. Now that Sherrie seemed all right, his natural indolence resurfaced and he was only too relieved to be spared any further hassles. In any case, the whole family knew that Sherrie and that bloke were sleeping together. So let him look after her! It was not that he did not love his sister. It was just that he hated to have his routine disturbed, for anybody!

Firdauz went back as he had come, in his own car. Zerxes drove Scherezade and Subhash to his flat. Subhash parted company from them in the compound where he had parked his car, promising to check up on Scherezade the following day.

Later, snugly tucked up in bed in his almost spartan but beautifully designed bedroom, Zerxes questioned Scherezade closely on exactly what she had done, what she had eaten, what she had drunk, in the past few hours . . .

*

The Turning - Chapter Seven

2009-01-24T04:11:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The day after her birthday, Dina awoke feeling hung over. She had taken rather more than her normal dose of sedatives the night before, after tossing and turning in bed for a couple of hours.

Her birthday luncheon party had depressed her more than cheered her. She had almost been sorry to see Prakash leave for Poona. Almost but not quite. She smiled, remembering.

She was to meet Khurshed today. Distance and the lapse of time had served to diminish his shortcomings in her mind, and enhance his attractions. Expediency had now become Dina's God, at the altar of which was served her memory, as well as her conscience.

She tossed off her bed clothes and got up. And then fell back, feeling slightly dizzy. She rang for Fatima, asked for coffee in bed, and ordered her to get the cordless telephone to her.
She'd call Khurshed over to the house since Prakash was away, instead of going to the Club to meet him. She dialled her ex-husband's number. Then she dragged herself out of bed and had a leisurely shower.

Seated before the mirror in her choli and petticoat, Dina grimaced at her pale face and opened a pot of rouge. She had not really made up her face for a long, long time. She touched up her eyelashes and darkened her lips with lipstick. Deep maroon: her favourite shade. It was ironical, she acknowledged to herself, that she should be making up her face to receive her divorced husband.

She changed into a saree, reached for the bottle of 'Joy' Prakash had presented to her, unscrewed the top and dabbed on the perfume liberally all over. Perfume was one of her great weaknesses. Then she powdered her nose finally and went to the drawing room to await her guest. Her ex-husband.

* * * *

Khurshed sipped the mint tea brought in on a tray by Fatima. One glance at him was sufficient to assure Dina that he was not his usual self. He seemed to have something weighing heavily on his mind.

His birthday greeting to her was almost perfunctory, his replies to her questions hardly less so. He cast several speculative glances at Dina when he thought she wasn't looking at him, averting his eyes quickly, if she was! Ultimately, he appeared to come to some sort of a decision, and met her eyes squarely, his own unusually grave. Almost judgmental.

"Dina, I hate to bring this up, especially when I've come to wish you for your birthday; but tell me, have you been going to the Fire Temple lately?" the words came out in a slight rush. As though he wanted to get something unpleasant off his chest rather quickly.

Dina set down the milk jug heavily on the tea tray. "Who told you?" she asked him sharply, realizing that a denial would be useless. Khurshed knew her too well for her to be able to lie successfully to him.

"Aftab saw you at the Fire Temple at Bandra," he replied quietly.

Dina swallowed her vexation. After all the trouble she had taken, to choose a Fire Temple at Bandra, far from Cuffe Parade! Far away from her relations, all of whom lived South of Worli. To have been seen by Aftab, of all the people!

Aftab Dastoor was Khurshed's nephew, his elder sister Meher's son. A practising priest, he was rabidly orthodox, violently opposed to inter-caste marriages. Well aware of Dina's conversion and her second marriage, he had been livid to see her at the Fire Temple. She had no right to be there. No right at all! He had gone ranting to Khurshed and warned him to warn her. Failing which, he threatened, he, Aftab, would be forced to take matters into his own hands! He had also muttered something about informing Fredun, and warning him to control Dina.

Khurshed had been alarmed enough to now convey a muted version of the warning to Dina. He looked rather pityingly at his ex-wife as he did so. That ruffled Dina's temper even more than Aftab's officiousness. She couldn't bear to see pity in Khurshed's eyes. Not directed towards her! About to say something cutting, she was interrupted by the doorbell ringing imperatively. From the lobby came the sound of an angry male voice. Khurshed held his breath, suddenly arrested by that voice.

After a moment, they heard the front door bang shut, and Fatima entered the drawing room. Looking at Khurshed, she said hesitantly, "A gents to see you, Sahib."

"Let him come in," bade Khurshed before Dina could react. After Fatima had gone away to do his bidding, Khurshed turned to Dina. "From the sound of his voice, appears to be Porus! My younger brother. But he's supposed to be in Hong Kong. What he's doing here, I don't know." He did not quite succeed in keeping the apprehension from his voice.

Khurshed, in fact, was badly shaken. Because of the break-up of their marriage, Porus had developed an unreasoning hatred for Dina, resenting her for what he imagined she had done to his brother. When Porus came to learn from their sister Meher that Khurshed had started seeing Dina again and that her second marriage too was almost on the rocks, he had become violently abusive of Dina over the telephone to Khurshed.

"Hasn't that bitch done you enough harm? You stay away from her, understand? Ask her to leave you alone. If you can't, I will!" Porus had almost shrieked into the receiver, causing Khurshed to shift his own set an inch away from his ear. Khurshed, shaking with rage and suppressed frustration, had coldly asked Porus to mind his own business.

Porus had banged the phone down, at that. Even as a child, he had been prey to ungovernable rages. Which was why Khurshed was extremely uneasy at the thought of Porus landing up so suddenly, not only in Bombay, but here, on Dina's doorstep.

Porus entered in Fatima's wake. His face was set and flushed, the nervous twitch at the side of his mouth working uncontrollably.

He looked at Khurshed and blurted out without preamble, "1 landed at Bombay this morning. I went to your place. And I was told by your servant that you had come here. Here!" His voice suddenly rose to a high, almost feminine pitch as he stood glaring at his brother. "Hasn't she done you enough harm? Don't you know enough to stay away from her?" He suddenly whirled on Dina, speaking now in a soft, almost normal tone, which somehow was the more menacing. "You stay away from my brother. Do you hear? You stay away from him. Otherwise I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you!"
Then he turned and walked out of the house, as suddenly and abruptly as he had appeared, without a backward glance at either of them.

Khurshed sighed wearily and came towards Dina, his hands outstretched. "Looks like this meeting was not such a good idea, after all!" he said ruefully. "I apologize for Porus, my dear. At times he's a little imbalanced, as you know! I . . . I had no idea it was this bad! I'm sorry." He averted his eyes and said awkwardly, "I'd better go after him . . . make sure he's Okay."

"Sure," said Dina mechanically. She was seething underneath. "Make sure he's Okay," she repeated aloud to herself, after he had gone. "Who's to make sure I'm Okay?"

She was beginning to feel tired. Her head began to pound. Almost of their own volition, her feet dragged her to her bedroom. She undraped her saree, dumped it on one side of her large bed - too large for one person - and, feeling too listless and weary to remove her make-up or to change out of her choli and petticoat, lay down in those, pulled the bed sheet up to her chin and tried to sleep.

* * * *

Fatima let her mistress sleep undisturbed until lunch time. Till about 1 O'clock. Then, finding no response to her increasingly loud knocks on her door, she turned the handle and went in.

Dina had not locked the door. She was lying still on the bed. When she went up to her the maid realized, to her horror, that her mistress's eyes were open in a wide, unseeing stare.

"Bibiji, bibiji," a note of terror vibrated in the maid's upraised voice, as she shook Dina violently. There was no response from the flaccid body. Dina's face was white as chalk, her lipsticked lips outlined grotesquely in dark maroon. The lips were parted, the mouth open as though gasping for breath. The hands, suddenly seeming claw-like to the distraught maid, appeared to feebly clutch the bedsheet.

Fatima gave a sob of terror and ran from the room. She rushed to the telephone and with shaking hands dialled the number of Prakash's office. While the bell was ringing, she suddenly remembered that Sahib had gone to Poona. She rang off before anyone could pick up the telephone in Prakash's office, and dialled Banoo Maa's number, which Dina had drilled into her.

"Memsahib, Banoo Memsahib, come soon. Come quickly. The Bibiji, she. . . Allah! I think she be dead!"

* * * *

At the other end of the line, a stunned Banoo Maa pulled herself together sufficiently to order Fatima briskly to remain calm, promising to be there in the next half-hour. Then she called Fredun at his office and relayed to him Fatima's strange call, begging him to come over as quickly as possible, so that they could both go together to Dina's and see what had happened. She felt too shaken to go over alone.

A recent memory stirred in her mind, and she went over to the cupboard where she kept her valuables, opened the locker, took out a document carefully wrapped in cellophane and put it in her handbag.

Then she quickly donned a white saree, before giving way to tears.

Fredun did not keep her waiting long. The drive from his office at Nariman Point to Banoo Maa's roomy old tenanted flat at Marine Drive was accomplished in hardly ten minutes, at that hour. It was about fifteen minutes past one in the afternoon. Banoo Maa had caught him just as he had been on the point of leaving for a luncheon meeting. He had hurriedly instructed his secretary to cancel the meeting. All said and done, thought Fredun to himself, Dina was his sister! What the hell had happened?

Banoo Maa had seen his car turn into the gate from her balcony on the second floor, and had come down by the time Fredun pulled up. She got into the car and he turned and drove back swiftly towards Cuffe Parade.

* * * *

They were admitted by a hysterically weeping Fatima. Fredun rushed into Dina's bedroom. Banoo Maa followed more slowly. He shook his head at her when she reached the door of the bedroom. Dina was dead. No doubt about it.

Banoo Maa sat down by the edge of the bed, steeling herself consciously, drawing upon all her fortitude to see her through this ordeal. Dina's heavily made-up face was horrific in death. . . those staring, mascara'd eyes . . . that open mouth, the maroon lips affording a grotesque contrast to the pallor of death. Banoo Maa raised a hand, hesitated, then chiding herself, resolutely caressed the dead face, closing Dina's glassily staring eyes in the process. This was not Dina . . . her Dina!

Who was this woman? What had she become?

Fredun dragged his eyes from the bottle of sedatives on the bedside table and gave Banoo Maa's shoulder a slight squeeze. "I'd better call some Doctor," he muttered. Like most persons confronted by sudden death, he seemed uncertain what to do. "1 think we'll require a death certificate, won't we?" Then, as Banoo Maa remained silent, he asked, "Do you know whom she used to go to, in the past few years?"

Banoo Maa shook her head, her eyes still on Dina's face. "1 don't think she had any regular family Doctor, ever since. . ." her voice cracked. At last she looked up at Fredun, and clutched his arm. "You'd better call our old Dr. Dhondy, dear. At least he knew her well in her childhood and youth. But Fredun," she got up abruptly, suddenly her old brisk self, reaching out for her handbag lying on the bed. "You'd better have a look at this, first."

"What's this?" he asked, rather gingerly accepting the cellophanewrapped package she held out to him.

"Dina's Will."

"When did she make this?" he asked sharply.

"Just a couple of days ago. She had telephoned me and called me over here."

Fredun read the Will through, a slight frown in his eyes. Then he handed it back to Banoo Maa, his eyes going again to the bottle of sedatives. "Better not say anything about this to old Dhondy. Let's get all this over and done with, as quickly as we can."

* * * *

Dr. Dhondy arrived, round and rubicund, his kindly face looking shocked as he gazed at Dina. His eyes wandered round the bedroom curiously.

"Well, well, well! This is rather sudden, hmmn?" he asked chattily, glancing up at Fredun over the top of his spectacles. His bedside manner was too deeply ingrained to desert him even when confronted with a corpse instead of a patient. "What's happened?" He looked around inquiringly, expecting explanations.

Fredun replied, unable to keep a tinge of unease out of his voice, "We really don't know, Doctor. We'd had lunch with her yesterday. She seemed quite all right then. Today, there was no one in the house except her maid. She. . . this seems to have happened in her sleep! Maybe she had a sudden stroke, or something." He shrugged. "I . . . we've not had much contact with her, these last few years. But 1 believe she's not been keeping too well. And not bothering about her health, either," he added.

Dr. Dhondy looked thoughtful. Then he turned an inquiring look at Banoo Maa, who avoided his glance. Dhondy stroked his straggly toothbrush moustache, shaking his head as he went over to the bed and pulled the bedclothes off Dina's dead body.

Banoo Maa averted an embarrassed gaze from the exposed midriff between the choli and the petticoat. The plunging choli looked almost indecent without the drape of the saree pallo. Had Banoo Maa but known it, death had been particularly remorseless to both of Prakash Shahane Sattar's wives, stripping them of dignity in more ways than the obvious.

Banoo Maa forced herself to speak. To tell the doctor what he wanted to hear. "She has not been keeping too well of late," she said evenly. "She's often complained of pains in the chest, insomnia, breathlessness. She's been living under tremendous strain."

"Quite, quite," murmured the Doctor, wrinkling both nose and moustache. "She seems to have changed a lot from the young woman I knew," he added, looking at Fredun curiously. The fellow appeared to be strangely ill at ease! Then Dhondy's eyes went to the almost empty bottle of sedatives on the bedside table, and back to Fredun's anxious gaze.

"How long has she been like this?" he asked whilst making a quick examination, opening her eyelids and shining his torch into her eyes.

"We're not sure." It was Banoo Maa who replied. "Her maid Fatima called me at around 1 O'clock in the afternoon. Apparently, she had found her. . . like this when she tried to awaken her for lunch. She had retired to her room earlier, at around 11.30."

"What about her ..er husband? Isn't he here?"

"He's at Poona. I've left a message for him," said Fredun quickly. "It'll take him quite some time to get here," he added. Banoo Maa looked up at him sharply, her eyes thoughtful. Fredun had made no telephone calls, except to the Doctor! But she said nothing.

The Doctor finished his examination, straightened, and closed his medical bag with a snap. "It appears to be a case of apoplexy, resulting in death. Maybe if treatment were given to her in time. . . " he left it at that. Then he coughed discreetly and asked, "Won't her husband like her to be seen to by his own Doctor?"

"I don't think that is at all necessary, Doctor," said Fredun quickly. Too quickly. "It'll only prolong things. After all, you've known Dina, treated her in the past."

"But not for many years," demurred Dr. Dhondy.

"Well," muttered Fredun awkwardly, "It's not as though anyone could do anything for her. If you would be so good enough as to certify her death, Doctor. . ."

Dr. Dhondy looked at Banoo Maa and read the entreaty in the faded old eyes. She was one of his oldest patients. And not just a patient! He and his wife had enjoyed many a delicious Dhanshak dinner at her table.

Tut-tutting a bit, Dr. Dhondy wrote out a death certificate, certifying death by natural causes, evidently due to apoplexy. He then took his leave, shaking his head.

As soon as the Doctor had left, Fredun opened the telephone directory, found the number he was looking for and dialled, without consulting Banoo Maa. She seemed to divine whom he was telephoning, and seemed to approve.

"Hello," spoke Fredun into the telephone. "JJ Hospital? . . . . . ."

The Turning - Chapter Six

2009-01-10T21:43:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER SIX

On June 26, her birthday, Dina awoke to the alarum of a deafening clap of thunder, and was astonished to find that it was already past 9.
The monsoon that year was even more erratic than usual. Days of bright sunshine would be followed by a sudden deluge, which would last a day or two.

June 26, 1994 was a wet, gloomy day. All signs of the sun had been successfully obscured by the heavy downpour that roared furiously from a gray sky. Noisy gusts of rain-laden wind blew into Dina's bedroom, causing the lace curtains to writhe in wild frenzy, and made the connecting door between her bedroom and Prakash's rattle.

The persistent knocking ultimately made Dina realize that it was Prakash, and not the wind, rattling the connecting door. Prakash was awaiting her permission to enter.

Pulling the bedclothes more securely around her, she bade him enter.

"Happy Birthday," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, giving her cheek a hurried peck and thrusting a package into her hand at the same time. "I hope you like it. It's. . . er perfume again," he said almost apologetically, thinking of the bottle of 'L' Air Du Temps' his secretary had got last year, when he had asked her to go and get a bottle of perfume for his wife. The light, summery scent was about the most unsuitable for Dina's personality! But there had been no help for it.

This year he had played safe. Asked his peon to go and get a large bottle of 'Joy'. The gift-wrapping had been done by the secretary. For the last couple of years, his imagination had been unable to go beyond a bottle of perfume when it came to choosing gifts for his wife.

Dina's lips curved into the semblance of a smile. She had no illusions about the amount of time and thought expended by Prakash in choosing her birthday present.

"That's all right," she said in reply to his sheepish semi-apology, her eyes on the silver-wrapped package he had pressed into her hand. Looking up at him she said quietly, "It's the thought that counts."

For some reason, that remark annoyed him and added to his sense of guilt where she was concerned. For a brief moment, he fantasized Sonali sitting on the bed where Dina sat: her long hair rippling down her shoulders, her liquid eyes smouldering with a fire Dina had never known. With something of a shock, it suddenly struck him that he and Dina had never been able to sexually climax with each other. Whereas with Sonali . . .

. . . "Prakash, don't," she had giggled, the first time he had undressed her.

Her 'Don't' was an invitation. She never said 'Do!' Her husky voice was an allure in itself. . . unlike Dina's clipped, often sarcastic tones. And as for her body . . . not that Dina was bad, but Sonali was lush . . . voluptuous! And she knew how to drown a man in the honey of her tongue as well as the treacle of her lips . . . she was soft, seemingly subservient; while Dina was almost aggressive, putting him on the defensive where his own sexuality was concerned.

Dina threatened his maleness; Sonali flattered it. He remembered those clandestine hours stolen from his work, at her clinic . . . on her couch. . . on the patient bed. . . ultimately, on the floor, to give full rein to Sonali's expertise. . . she was like a Khajuraho statue come to life, thought the besotted Prakash, after Sonali had initiated him into yet another way of making love . . . he had no idea it could be such fun in the standing position, with his back against the wall, one leg straddling her soft, yielding hips, the other supporting her rounded thigh, her long fingers guiding him expertly, unerringly, while she gyrated rythmically against him, as agile as a belly-dancer . . .

He got off her bed. Dina's bed. "I'll go and shower, then we'll have a quiet breakfast before your family descends upon us." Now he hadn't meant to say that about her family. But it had slipped out. Shrugging with mental resignation at the hopelessness of it all, he went back to his own room.

Dina slowly untied the gold thread, unwrapped the silver wrapping paper and opened the bottle of perfume after he had left. 'Joy'! At least he had chosen the right perfume this time, she mused wryly.

It had gone wrong. It had all gone wrong with Prakash too, almost since the Nikah. They had been lovers before, but then their relationship had had a different flavour altogether! Prakash was one of those men for whom the chase is more thrilling than the conquest. Shortly after marriage had ended the reason for that marriage. And as Dina became more and more aggressive, both in bed and out of it, Prakash, with purely chauvinistic notions about women,

was repulsed by her almost to a stage where he couldn't perform. And he began to blame Dina, hate her, for that. Adding to Dina's bitterness.And exacerbating her feelings of guilt.

The breakfast a deux brought to Prakash's mind hazily, the words of an almost forgotten Neil Diamond song. Something about a man and a woman and no words between them. No conversation. That was the situation between him and Dina, now. No conversation. Just resentful silences on her part, a rising, resolutely curbed frustration on his. Relieved only by the moments snatched with Sonali. And the time spent with.. .

The telephone bell shrilled, breaking into his thoughts. It was for Dina, said Fatima. Dina rose from the breakfast table and passed through the bead-curtained door into the drawing room to take it. She looked slightly flustered when she returned. Prakash looked at her narrowly. He had a shrewd suspicion of who had been on the line. Well, he did not care! Not any longer. He did not have much time left for caring, one way or another. Soon all this would end, he told himself almost thankfully, his mind going back to what the Doctor had told him. Subsequently confirmed by a tearful Sonali.

The doorbell rang. Fatima woodenly announced that a lady called Nivedita Shahane had come to see Dina Memsahib.

Casting a glance at Dina's set face, Prakash told Fatima, "Ask her to wait in the Hall. The Memsahib will be with her shortly." He then steeled himself to meet Dina's eyes.

"You knew she was coming." It was a statement. Dina managed to turn it into an accusation as well.

"She is keen to build bridges now. She thought the best way to start would be to come and wish you on your birthday." His words sounded hollow even to himself. His tone betrayed the struggle to remain casual.

"When did she tell you this?"

"She telephoned me earlier, while you were asleep."

Dina looked at him steadily. "You hadn't gone out of town for work." Again, it was a statement. And the accusation even more evident.

He drained his coffee and rose. "! don't wish to have any arguments with you today. You may think what you choose. But Nivedita's in a slightly sensitive frame of mind right now. At least try and pretend to return her sentiments." There, now that's tom it, he told himself wryly. Might as well have admitted where he'd been, the last couple of days!

He had to pass the Hall, (he had persistently resisted all Dina's efforts to get him to call it 'drawing room'), to get to his room. Both the bedrooms, his and Dina's, opened out into the Hall, apart from being internally connected with each other. On the other side of the flat, the bedrooms opened out onto the balcony which also led directly to the small lobby which was the main entrance, often used by Dina as a get-away, if Prakash was entertaining some of his business cronies in the the Hall. The Hall was designed as a central focus, opening out into two of the four bedrooms, the dining room, and the lobby leading to the entrance.

Nivedita was hovering near the door of Dina's bedroom, rummaging in her handbag for something. At his "Hallo," she started violently and looked up almost guiltily. "The child's nerves are shot to pieces," thought Prakash to himself worriedly. "I wonder if she realizes what she is getting into, wanting to meet Dina in this frame of mind!"

"Do you want me to be here when you meet her?" he asked his daughter gently.

"N..no," she stammered somewhat breathlessly. "I think it's better if I do it on my own."

Prakash went back to his room and started packing. He had to leave for Poona in the evening. Hence the lunch party with her family, instead of the more convenient dinner. As it was a Sunday, that had been possible.

Jamshed had retired a year ago as the Headmaster of a reputed boys' school; his wife had never worked in her life; their son Tehmul worked in a Bank; Fredun worked for a fairly reputed private limited company as the General Manager (Finance); no school for Rashna, who was a teacher in a girls' school. Scherezade was a trainee copywriter in one of the larger, more reputed ad agencies, having joined just about a couple of months ago. Zerxes was a rapidly rising criminal lawyer, acquiring a formidable reputation for cross-examination. Both he and Scherezade often worked on Sundays for a few hours, mostly at Zerxes' home, in his study. But they'd agreed to make an exception on Dina's birthday.

Dina was determined to preserve appearances in front of her family members. They mustn't know that this marriage too had failed. Else she'd never live it down, she thought to herself, blanching at the thought of the malicious "I told you so's" that she was sure would ensue.

By around noon, Dina had still not come out of her room. Prakash knocked on her door. "What time are your people coming?" he shouted through the closed door.

"Around one o'clock," replied Dina, coming out of the bedroom, fully dressed. She led the way to the drawing room.

"Er.. how did the meeting with Nivedita go?" asked Prakash hesitantly.

"It didn't," was the cryptic reply.
"Meaning?" asked Prakash puzzled, a hint of foreboding stealing into him.

"Meaning that she appeared to have changed her mind about wanting to 'build bridges', and had disappeared by the time I left the dining room and went out into the Drawing Room," responded Dina acidly.

"Poor child, her nerve must have failed her at the last moment," murmured Prakash.

"Possibly," answered Dina in a tone indicating clearly that she wished to have no further discussion on the subject.

* * * *

Nivedita had rushed home and wandered out onto her sanctum, the terrace. She glared in vexation at the passion flower. The Krishna Kamal. The Kaurav-Pandav Phool, as the mali had explained to her, insisting that the deep purple outer calyx numbered a hundred petals in all. The Kauravas. Then came the five greenish-white Pandavas, cherishing in their midst the single, graceful green stamen, Draupadi.

Nivedita had ever since been fascinated by that flower. Good, Evil, Beauty. All in one. All fused together to form a complete whole. After all, good without a touch of evil is insipid; evil without any good at all, intolerable; and as for beauty - beauty is its own justification, in a way that poor virtue alone can never be!

As always during the monsoon, the Krishna Kamal creeper bloomed in profusion, throwing out new shoots almost every other day. A lot of them had got entangled with a tall thorny cactus growing wild, close by. Nivedita tried to disentangle the tendrils of the Krishna Kamal from the cactus, getting badly scratched in the process. At last she gave up. Let the creeper remain entangled! The tender, pliant tendrils were clinging too tightly to the thorns of the cactus. Sighing in exasperation, she- turned her attention to the rock garden.

* * * *

While Nivedita had been busy on the terrace, Dina's luncheon guests had arrived almost en masse. Over lunch, Dina assumed a brittle gaiety which her guests pretended to accept at face value. Prakash was clearly ill at ease. It was a strange, strained luncheon party.

"Deadly undercurrents," murmured Zerxes Avari in Scherezade's ear. "One pinprick, and all hell will break loose!"

Banoo Maa's smiles were even gayer and more determined than Dina's. But all the while her heart bled for her.

Fredun gulped down his lunch as one anxious to complete a distasteful job as soon as possible and get it over and done with. Rashna was composed and distant. Firdauz had excused himself. "Some impossible-to-break prior engagement," Rashna had politely explained on his behalf.

The usual birthday greetings were conveyed, presents given, and Fredun wondered how soon he and Rashna could take their leave without seeming rude. Sherrie, he knew, would leave with Zerxes.
Fredun had accepted his daughter's relationship with the brilliant thirty-two-year old lawyer, as he had always accepted anything his daughter had ever done. Without disapproval and without understanding.

Shirin was even more effusive than usual, her sharp acquisitive eyes darting over the curios and the crystal in the fabulously furnished apartment. Prakash had really minted in the last few years! And of course, he had become a bit of a 'big noise' in the city. His name was quite often in the papers. And the tabloids mentioned 'what he read,' 'where he ate,' etc. . . etc. . . etc. . ., thought Shirin, who had her own perception of fame. Her own husband was his usual retiring self, unobtrusively controlling his wife if he thought she went too far. And Tehmul was only interested in his lunch.

Zerxes had been looking rather narrowly at Dina. She had embraced him when he and Scherezade had entered, "now that he was almost one of the family," and Zerxes' fastidious nostrils had wrinkled at the strong aroma of 'Joy' that emanated from her. She appeared to have been drinking rather heavily before they had got there! Her gait was a shade unsteady and her colour a bit too high. Possibly the lashings of perfume were meant to drown the smell of liquor, he thought cynically. He had few illusions about his Scherezade's Dina Fui.
And even fewer about the man she had supposedly married.

He wondered if Prakash Sattar, as he now called himself, realized the legal consequences of his actions. After all, he did have two children of his own, no matter how strained their relations!

"So, how are you two celebrating this evening?" Shirin's slightly shrill voice broke in upon Zerxes' thoughts. She was smiling brightly at Dina and Prakash, oblivious of Dina's frown and Prakash's indifferent shrug. Dina was forced to break the awkward silence, ultimately. They had just about finished lunch, and the dessert, orange souffle, had been served.

"Prakash has to go to Poona for work," she said shortly.

"Oh! But surely he won't be leaving today itself?" gasped Shirin, putting her other foot into her mouth. "Jamshed would never dream of leaving me alone on my birthday, would you, darling?"
"Dina's a more independent woman than you, my dear," was her spouse's diplomatic response, dodging her question and drawing a chuckle from Fredun, who was gulping down his souffle.

"I really have no choice, but to leave this evening," said Prakash irritably. He gave a short laugh. "As Jamshed seems to appreciate, Dina and I don't live in each other's pockets, you know!"
"You really must give me the recipe for this orange souffle, Dina" intervened Banoo Maa serenely, ignoring the earlier exchanges, turning the conversation into safer, more general channels.

Scherezade chipped in with a recipe for a really sinful chocolate souffle.

As even the culinary discussion seemed to be in danger of petering out, Fredun, seeing that everybody had finished dessert, judged it was time to leave, and rose, nodding at his wife. That seemed to be the signal for general dispersal. Dina did not rise to see her guests off. She seemed both tired and off colour.

The morning's downpour had settled into a steady drizzle, as Dina's guests left. Scherezade, getting into the car with Zerxes, had expressed a desire to drive down to Aksha beach. Zerxes had agreed almost absently. He seemed rather preoccupied during most of the long drive, responding to Scherezade in monosyllables.

As they turned off on to the highway, he suddenly asked, "What's bugging your brother Firdauz? Why didn't he turn up?"

"Because he's a pompous ass," Scherezade replied, scorn for her brother vibrating in her normally musical voice. "He's been even more snooty about this conversion business than Dad himself. And God knows, he's been snooty enough!"

"Snooty? In what way?" queried Zerxes, at last succeeding in overtaking a road-hogging, exhaust-emitting truck just ahead of them.

Scherezade answered slowly, choosing her words with care, "Dad adored Dina Fui. Especially when they were small. Even afterwards, when I was a child, I remember she and Khurshed Fua were always in and out of our house. Hanoz came along much later. Dina Fui often dropped in alone without Khurshed Fua. I think at times Mom used to get quite fed up of her." Scherezade wrinkled her brow in the recollection of those far-off memories. "Dad is her younger brother, you know! He actually used to hang on her words -'- her opinions, her advice."

"Both of which no doubt she gave quite freely," cut in Zerxes.

The note of satire in his tone was evident. Scherezade wrinkled her brow again. "Umm . . . come to think of it, perhaps she did!" she admitted reluctantly. "But she always meant it for the best," she added defensively.

"They all do," Zerxes murmured sarcastically. The car bumped over a pothole he couldn't avoid. "But go on . . . you were saying, your father respected his sister's advice. And your mother resented it."

"I did not say that!" flashed Scherezade, turning round in her seat and glaring at him. "Stop twisting my words!"

"Okay, okay," he gave a lazy grin, glancing at her amusedly through green eyes gleaming behind half-closed lids, his left hand flung up from the steering wheel in a gesture half of surrender, half of conciliation. The hand found its way to her delicate nape beneath the swathe of heavy brown hair and caressed it. "Don't take on so, my Baby! You're feeling guilty because you think your loyalties are divided. But you needn't! You can love both, your parents and your aunt, you know," he said softly, adding bracingly, "and you can tolerate both their points of view without yourself accepting either."

"I suppose you're right," Scherezade murmured, sinking her chin into her cupped hands, elbows resting on bunched-up knees. "But tell me," she urged, her voice quickening, her quicksilver mind darting back to something he had said earlier. "Why did you say Dina Fui didn't seem 'quite normal' to you?" .

By now they had reached the turn-off on the highway, leading to INS Hamla. Zerxes negotiated the bend, murmuring as he did so, "Well, she's either been drinking too much, or she's taken a particularly heavy dose of sedatives, or she's on drugs." "You must be joking." Scherezade stiffened.

Zerxes did not comment on that. Which was comment enough, for Scherezade.
Her face suddenly clouded. Hesitantly, almost tentatively, she asked in a small voice, "Do you honestly think she's on drugs?"

"Could be," he answered briefly, casting a shrewd, sideways glance at her exquisite profile, with its chiselled cheekbones, and the lovely, lovely line of the jaw. A study in uncertainty.

"But why? Why is she changed so?" She whispered almost to herself.

"Do you really need me to answer that question?" was the amused query.

"I suppose it's this damned conversion business. But tell me, would it have bothered you, so much?"

"The question really doesn't apply. Either to you or to me. Because we don't give a damn for 'what people say'. But your Dina Fui obviously does! That being the case, taking the refuge of secularity, she changed her religion to give a semblance of respectability to an otherwise invalid marriage."

She knit her brow. "Are you saying that her marriage to Prakash is invalid?"

"Let's say, of doubtful validity," he temporized. "In the opinion of quite a few eminent jurists and legal experts, if the only reason for conversion is to avail of the benefit of a second wife without otherwise believing in and following the tenets of Islam, both the conversion and consequently the second marriage would be invalid. But that's a gray area still. The legal position on this aspect is not quite clear cut. Nor will it be, unless in some such case the first wife initiates bigamy proceedings against the husband and the so-called 'second wife'."
"I'm sure Dina Fui still considers herself very much a Parsee, Zerx." She looked so troubled that Zerxes overlooked the corruption of his name. His left hand left the wheel again and clasped both her small ones, agitatedly worrying each other on her lap.

"Stop thinking about it, darling," he told her gently. "Whatever it is, now Dina has to live with it. She was no child when she took that decision. She knew well it would be irrevocable. I shouldn't worry too much about it." But he himself was worried. Worried about the mental and physical condition of his Scherezade's favourite aunt. And the state of her doomed 'marriage'.

"This is what happens," he thought to himself savagely, "when people rush into things without bothering to examine the possible ramifications, the consequences. On themselves, on their families!"

"You don't think she'll do something drastic, do you?" Scherezade asked suddenly, her implication clear in her tone.

"Now, Sherrie," he mimicked, deliberately malicious. "Have we come on this drive to talk about your wretched aunt and her problems?" By now, the concrete structures on either side of the road had given way to the lush greenery that signalled the proximity of the beach they both loved. Scherezade shook her head, brightening perceptibly at the changed scenery. She shook back her hair and gave him a mischievous, sidelong glance. "1 have better things in mind!" ''I'm relieved to hear that," he returned a trifle dryly, bringing the car to a halt outside the Motel Blue Ballerina and giving her a bruising kiss before getting out of the car, opening her door, and dragging her out with an ungentle hand. Then he slid his arm round her waist and led her out onto the sands and the surf.

* * * *

While Zerxes and Scherezade were strolling on the beach, inter alia, getting thoroughly drenched in the process, Shirin was regaling her spouse with hot bhajiyas, freshly made; hot coffee, freshly ground; and hot gossip, most of it made up.

Jamshed, who hadn't been able to go through the Sunday papers at his leisure that morning, had piled them up on a low cane stool next to his easy chair and was glancing through them one by one, his legs comfortably propped up on the sliding arm of the easy-chair. Six Sunday papers was the one extravagance he indulged in, to the volubly expressed perplexity of his wife. He grunted from time to time when Shirin paused for breath, his eyes on the paper.

Shirin ultimately, inevitably, came round to the subject of her younger sister. "Poor thing's been more sinned against than having sinned, that's what I've always said and that's what I say," she said, nodding defiantly to an imagined audience. The spoon rattled in her cup as she stirred the sugar vigorously.

"Seduced by that man, that's what she was. Pregnant, no doubt," she went on, as is usual with most gossips, hitting the nail on the head without realizing it.

This was too much for her husband to ignore. "My dear," he protested mildly from behind the shield of the paper, "If that were really the case, what's happened to the baby?"

"Dead," pronounced his ever-fertile wife with ghoulish relish. "Must have miscarried it," she added as a clincher.

Jamshed slowly lowered the paper and looked at his wife thoughtfully. The reasoning advanced by her now seemed rather obvious, in the circumstances surrounding his sister-in-law's second marriage. And in his experience, the obvious, the predictable, was often the truth. That was what made his wife such a very dangerous woman!

* * * *

A few kilometres away from the Dumasias' home, Rashna Vatcha entered a pretty old building in the tree-lined Laburnum road and trudged up the two steep stories to her flat, struggling with the heavy bags in both her hands. She stopped outside their flat door, panting for breath, put down one of the bags, and fumbled in her handbag for the latch-key. There was always such a lot of rubbish in her bag! She really must clean it out sometime soon, she told herself yet again. The drizzle had progressed to a steady shower. She was dripping water from her rain-proof skirt and wind-cheater onto the doormat while she hunted for her key.

Opening the door at last and entering the passage that led to the living room, she found her husband dressed and apparently on his way out. Surprised, she asked him if he was going somewhere. He hadn't said a word to her earlier about going out anywhere!

Fredun looked a little uncomfortable. He mumbled indistinctly, "Er . . . yes. Something's come up. Have to go out for a while", edging past her towards the door.

"Something at work?" Rashna asked sceptically.

"No. . . not really," snapped Fredun, irritated by the questions. "One of my friends. He's got a slight problem. Will be back soon, darling." He hurriedly opened the door and stepped out.

* * * *

The shower had progressed into a relentless deluge. Nivedita watched the sheets of rain lashing her pots on the terrace. The roses were flooded. But she no longer cared. No longer cared about mixing sand. About ensuring drainage. But the roses still bloomed. And if their roots had started putrefying, that was not as yet apparent in the plants above the soil.

She took out the handkerchief from her pocket - her handkerchief! Disregarding the pouring rain, she went out to the rock garden, lifted a few rocks, and pulled out the figurine. The new figurine that she had specially got. Today was the day, she told herself with certainty. The time had come! She took the figurine and the handkerchief to her room and locked the door. This was going to be the one secret she would not share even with Vinod!

She got to work.

The time was right.

Dusk had fallen.

* * * *

While Nivedita was thus engrossed, a rather shabby looking man was arguing with the newly appointed watchman on duty in Dina's building, demanding to be allowed to go up to the Sattars' flat. The watchman looked at the stranger dubiously, reluctant to phone Dina on the intercom, knowing that she was alone except for her maid. Sattar sahib had left to go out of town, a short while ago. Ultimately giving in to the man's insistence, he buzzed Dina's flat on the intercom.

"A man here wants to come up to your flat, ma'am. Says you've called him with regard to some problem with the television," said the watchman, his respectful tone barely disguising his disbelief. He listened for a moment and then nodded to the man. "All right," he said brusquely. "Go."

Dina answered the doorbell herself. She had just sent Fatima out on a long errand. Fatima had left by the servants' lift. Now that Sattar Madam had vouched for the chap, the watchman didn't dare to insist that he use the servants' lift.

Dina opened the door and let the man in. Then she closed the door and faced him resolutely.

*

The Turning - Chapter Five

2009-01-10T20:14:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FIVE

Prakash shook out his kurta-pajamas out of the overnighter, trying to reorient himself with his surroundings.

Back in these walls after a gap of ten years! So far, his daughter had hardly spoken to him. His mother who had come down from Baroda had been resting in the room allotted to her. She was as yet unaware of his presence in the house. He wondered how she would greet him now, after all these years. Ten years ago, she had vowed that he was no longer any son of hers.

Dina, of course, would play merry hell if she got to know! But that was a remote possibility he had been impelled to risk. He had had to come here, for Karuna's twelfth day ceremonies. He just had to! He'd stay here overnight, sharing Vinod's room, and leave the next evening.
It was just a matter of a day and a half, really!

Prakash glanced at his watch. Almost 5 in the evening. Arun and 5uchitra had been closeted in their room, after greeting Prakash briefly. But thank God they, at least, did not display any animosity towards him! Arun was a sophisticated, highly educated man. Prakash hardly knew Suchitra, but she seemed sensible enough. He sighed, trying to shrug off past ghosts. Vinod should be in shortly.

Here he was! Prakash smiled slightly at him and went on unpacking his overnighter, while Vinod prowled around, making desultory conversation. Vinod had cleared some space for him on the small bedside table, so Prakash could keep some of his stuff there shaving cream, after-shave cream, cologne, a silver-wrapped package tied with gold thread, tooth brush and paste, razor, bottles and strips of capsules . . .

He laid out a pair of clothes on the back of a chair, unwrapped his bedroom slippers, then took Vinod by the arm, led him to the bed and sat down with him. "Now, Vinod, tell me. . ." began Prakash.

* * * *

While her fatehr and Vinod had been conversing, Nivedita was crying her heart out in her grandmother's lap.

"There there child, don't take on so," crooned Kuntabai, stroking the long black hair spread out on her white saree'd lap.

The sobbing ended in a series of shudders. The stream iof tears dried up a tlast. Nivedita raised a white, red-eyed face, her thick hair billowing out like a storm cloud pregnant with rain, and gazed blindly ahead of her.

Just as Kuntabai was beginning to feel a bit uneasy about that fixed unfocused stare, Nivedita pronounced, "Now I know what I have to do. I shall do it! I have to do it!" in a queer calm tone, as though repeating a lesson learnt by rote. Then she ran out of the room before her startled grandmother could react, and rushed straight like a homing pigeon into her brother's room.

There was nobody there. But even in that empty room, Nivedita could feel her father's presence almost tangibly. . . in the clothes piled up on a chair. . . in the toiletries lying on Vinod's dressing table. . . in the shining silver package, indecently opulent in this house of mourning.

Nivedita crept closer to the package and read the message on the card stuck on to it. She felt an almost physical shock of anger, mingled with pain. "And my mother's ashes not yet immersed," she thought to erself resentfully, turning and walking blindly out of Vinod's room. She blundered into her grandmother who had come into the living room, and rushed past her without a word to the main door, and out of the house.

Kuntabai stared after Nivedita, troubled and bewildered. "Hey Ram," she cried out. "What is happening here?" She wandered round the house, looking for Vinod. It was clear at the child needed help. Medical help. Badly. And soon! Where had that boy disappeared without telling anyone? This day, of all the days?

Vinod, however, when he ultimately returned, laughed at her fearS. "Yes Dadi, it's true that she has a deathwish for this other woman. It is but natural! She was at an extremely vulnerable age when Father left us. But she's been working it out of her system in her own way. At least that's a healthy sign." He shook his head at the sceptical look on her face. "Don't believe? Come, I'll show you something. But," he cautioned, "you must keep it to yourself.".

It was quite dark now. A little past 7.30 pm. Vinod led Kuntabai onto the terrace. Not normally given to imaginative fancies, the old lady could not repress a twinge of apprehension that shuddered through her body as she followed Vinod. He switched on the terrace lights, then went straight to the rock garden, knelt, lifted a few rocks and stood back, his eyes on Kuntabai's horror-stricken face as she beheld what was lying below the rocks: a messy, elongated lump of wax with several pins stuck onto it. The sharpness of the figurine was a little blurred by the passage of time, but the figure was still fairly recognizable as a female one.

"Nivedita's brand of voodoo," quipped Vinod with ill-judged jocularity.

"You call this 'healthy'? Kuntabai glared at him, her face puckered with worry.

Vinod shrugged his shoulders. "This kind of thing is harmless enough," he said casually. "This way, Nivedita can expend some of her frustration and resentment on something tangible, instead of bottling it all up inside her."

"Surely something should be done about her?" said Nivedita's grandmother, her heart troubled.

Vinod laughed mirthlessly. "There's no sense in rocking the boat right now. God alone knows how she may react to the suggestion of therapy. And," he added savagely, "I'm not having any sister of mine locked up!"

"Do you think it might come to that?" she inquired, alarmed. Her flash of temper at his flippancy had been replaced by an urgent sense of concern about Nivedita. "Beta. . . what is your professional opinion? As a Doctor?"

Vinod shrugged pettishly. "I'm a GP as of now, not a specialist, much less a psychiatrist. My professional opinion in Nivedita's case won't be worth a damn!"

Something in his tone made the old lady look up at his face appraisingly. "Problems at the hospital?"

"Just the usual," Vinod muttered irascibly. "Petty jealousies, trying to keep a good man down because they themselves can't rise further." He looked at Kuntabai, noted her slight look of bewilderment at his suddenly vicious tone, and gave a determinedly brave smile. "Don't you worry Dadi, I'll make good someday. See if I don't! I'll get the money somehow and set up a clinic of my own."

The old lady patted his shoulder, looking more troubled than ever.

They went back to the drawing room, and Kuntabai froze.

Standing with his back to them stood Prakash at the bar, pouring himself a measure of whisky. He appeared to have showered and changed. He turned and encountered his mother's condemning look. Without uttering a word, she turned her back on her son and walked out of the room.

Prakash looked at Vinod helplessly. "Looks like everyone is against me. Except you." He took a gulp and said gruffly, "I've not said this to you earlier, Vinod, but I really do appreciate your . . . your feelings for me; the support and affection you've shown me all through this . . . this. . . " He seemed to falter, which was unusual for him, and looked at Vinod with unaccustomed gratitude. "Y ou've been more of a son to me than anybody ever could have been!"

"It's your life, Father. I've always believed that people should be free to do what they want." He smiled at Prakash wryly, adding meaningly, "React as they want, reflect the attitudes they want!"

"Point taken," sighed Prakash, draining his glass. ''I'm going out for a stroll. I think I'll skip having dinner here tonight, under the circumstances. " Vinod nodded. "Take your time."

* * * *

Dina, in the meanwhile, had been glad to be by herself in the house. Karuna's death had brought horne to her the inevitability of her own mortality and transported it from the level of the subconscious to the ultra-conscious. Her approaching birthday merely served to heighten the feeling. Creeping upon her insidiously.

What would happen to her soul after her death was no longer her prime concern. The more'tangible worry was, what in God's name would they do to her body?

"What will happen to you when you die?" an inner voice taunted her. "Karuna at least has had all ceremonies performed for her. The religious rites of her faith. What will happen to you . . . to you . . . when you die?"

Suddenly, Dina knew what she could do. What she had to do. The only thing to be done. And it would be in keeping with her own image of herself. Of altruism. And selflessness.

She picked up the telephone and dialled Banoo Maa. Then she called out to Fatima to make her a cup of tea. Then she got out pen and paper and began to write. . .

* * * *

Prakash returned to his old home and entered the drawing room to find his daughter by herself, sitting curled up on the sofa, rather like a cat. She looked up as he carne in, and to his astonished delight, actually gave him a slight smile! A queer, unfathomable smile. But a smile nonetheless.

He was encouraged to go and sit next to her on the sofa. She leaned her head on his arm and rubbed her cheek against it. The gesture was disturbingly feline. And quite out of character. But then, Prakash hadn't known her for so long, now! He awkwardly patted her hand, lying delicately on his thigh. He was not quite sure what to say. Nivedita solved that problem for him. She startled him by asking how Dina was.

To Prakash, it was a bolt from the blue. His astonishment at her sudden, strange question was obvious enough even to Nivedita, causing her to break into explanations.

"I've been thinking," she said in a rush, "Especially after Mama's death. And I feel I've been wrong to feel this way about her." Nivedita looked up at her father with wide, innocent eyes, saying earnestly, "1' d like to get to know her, Papa; maybe. . . maybe make friends with her.
I'd like to meet her. Really!"

Too dazed and overwhelmed to question her sudden reversal, Prakash squeezed his daughter's arm. "I knew it," he told her. "I was sure that some time, some day, you'd change your attitude towards Dina. See darling, I've got to go for a business trip for a couple of weeks to Poona. We shall all have a small family dinner after I return. You can meet her then. How's that?"

Nivedita frowned and traced a pattern on his sleeve with her finger. "Can't I just myself meet her earlier?" she asked in a small-girl voice. "When are you leaving?"

Prakash thought for a moment and made a quick decision. "Okay, Baby. We'll do this. It's her birthday the day after tomorrow. I'll be leaving from here tomorrow evening after the ceremonies are over, and going back to Cuffe Parade. Why don't you come over, day after tomorrow in the morning, before her family lands up for lunch? Will that be all right?" "Yes," replied Nivedita, sounding pleased. 'I'll come on her Birthday first thing in the morning, and greet her. That will be appropriate. Yes, that will be very appropriate!"

*

The Turning - Chapter Four

2008-12-14T10:27:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER FOUR

"Aren't you ready yet, Prakash?" called Dina from her room, the inevitable irritation creeping into her tone.

"Shortly," was the rather curt reply, as Prakash clipped on his diamond cuff-links and adjusted his tie to his satisfaction.

When it came to visiting Dina's relatives, he tried to delay as much as he could. The irritation in her voice merely served as a fresh spur to his sense of injury. Typical of Dina, he thought to himself resentfully, that she did not have the sensitivity to realize herself that he might not like to attend a party, (even a 'family' party), when not even a week had elapsed since his first wife's death! And he was too defeated by even the thought of further marital discord, to suggest it himself.

Damn! He suddenly remembered: it was Dina's birthday, soon!

Just the next day after Karuna's twelfth day ceremony, in fact. Thank God he had remembered in time! He'd better buy a present before it was too late. Some perfume, maybe. Dina loved perfume. Applied lashings of it, too!

* * * *

The traffic was unusually heavy near the President Hotel that day. As they crawled farther haltingly, Dina looked pointedly at her wristwatch every few moments. But it was she who had caused the final delay, Prakash told himself in self-justification; giving some last-minute instructions to their live-in maid, Fatima.

At last they were at the gates of the Parsee Colony near Grant Road Station where Shirin and Jamshed Dumasia lived with their only son, Tehmul. Tehmul was unmarried. He had not as yet found the right daughter-in-law for his mother. As he drove slowly past the solid old buildings, Prakash could not quite shake off the feeling of being stared at from behind all those curtained windows.

As he pulled up, Dina powdered her nose, adjusting the rear-view mirror, patted her lacquered hair into place and got out, giving her saree a twitch.

The medium sized hall was cluttered with furniture and people.Shirin had brought out every artefact and decorative piece she had hoarded through the years like a magpie, and placed it on display. The effect was a trifle bizarre, reminding Prakash irresistibly of Chor Bazaar.A minuscule bit of genuine Wedgewood cowered apologetically in the shadow of an imposing piece of Benares brass, while younger versions of Shirin and Jamshed beamed determinedly from the inevitable wedding photograph onto a particularly hideous glass sculpture of the fox trying to reach the grapes . . . the sour grapes. And Prince Charles and Lady Diana still smiled cozily together on a ceramic jug, given the pride of place on Shirin's overcrowded sofa-top.

The guests were a shade more prepossessing. Some rather more than the others, thought Prakash, his eyes on Dina's beloved niece, looking exquisite in an Oriya saree of gorgeous weave worn semi Gujarati style, the pallo left loose, held in place by a slim belt of oxidized silver. A silver choker and matching earrings complemented the ensemble, defiantly chosen by Scherezade who knew full well that her Shinn Fui would frown upon anything so un-Parsee-like and would have preferred a nice chiffon or georgette saree instead. Her choice however was applauded by Zerxes, whom Shirin insisted on calling 'Sherrie's steady', deaf to Scherezade's protests to that appalling appellation.

Prakash looked at Zerxes with interest. "Looks like a cold blooded devil," he thought to himself. "Rather attractive in an unusual fashion. Must be the mix of Parsee-French blood!"

Zerxes Avari looked indeed cold-blooded. What was worse, he looked almost indecently at ease in a room full of his girl-friend's relatives, all eyeing him, some covertly, some openly, with varying degrees of interest, disapproval and speculation. But that was before Dina and Prakash entered the room! Not even Zerxes' French mother and his ambiguous relationship with the Beauty of the Family could hold as much as a wick to the most rattled skeleton in the family cupboard.

"Dina, Prakash, how good of you to come!" gushed Shirin, rushing forward to embrace her younger sister and shake hands with Prakash.

She had a mind that thought in exclamation marks. She was a thin, sharp featured lady in her early fifties, wrapped in a nylon printed saree already coming out at the pleats, wisps of hair coming undone from what appeared to be a hurriedly put-up bun. Her restless eyes never dwelt for long on anyone object, and she had hands to match: thin, claw-like, almost in perpetual motion, worrying the cuticles when they had nothing else to flutter over.

After greeting the late-comers effusively, she glanced around, as though to gauge the reactions of her other relatives. Most of those present had been interestedly watching her reception of the sister who was the cause of the juiciest scandal in the family, which had been given a fresh lease of life by the mysterious suicide of Prakash's first wife.

Jamshed Dumasia, a simple man with shrewd eyes, greeted the couple courteously, nothing in his manner hinting at the avidity with which his wife had tried to discuss Karuna's mysterious suicide, while dressing for dinner.

"What will you have, Prakash, Dina?" he inquired."Whisky, rum, gin, wine?"

"Trust you Parsees to keep a bit of every poison," laughed Prakash with rather ill-judged jocularity. His unease with Dina's relatives almost always made him say the wrong thing at the wrong time, surprising gaucherie out of an otherwise assured and highly successful businessman.
A glance at Dina's face was enough to make him realize his tactlessness. Damn it, Dina was almost absurdly sensitive about this conversion business, he thought to himself resentfully. Looking more like a censorious schoolmarm than a wife! Well, she ought to have learned by now that he was no complaisant Bawa husband, he told himself, flicking a slightly contemptuous glance at his host, who generally appeared to be overpowered by his garrulous wife.

In this however, he did less than justice to Jamshed Dumasia, who appeared not to have noticed anything untoward either in Prakash's comment or the sudden rigidity that froze Dina. He mixed them their drinks, talking easily all the while, then drew Prakash away to introduce him to Zerxes, leaving Dina to circulate by herself. Dina, as was usual in such gatherings, first made for the one person from whom she was assured of a genuine, uncritical, welcome.

She went and hugged Scherezade, murmuring that it was good to see her.

"Good to see you too!" her niece responded warmly, drawing her onto a two-seater sofa, a little away from the rest of their relatives. "But are you all right? You don't look too wel1!"

"Oh I'm fine," protested Dina, leaning back. "Just a bit of insomnia sometimes," she admitted lightly, averting her eyes from the candid, searching gaze of her niece's strange, changeable eyes. "Tell me," she cast a significant glance at Zerxes. "Are you. . ."

"Yes, we are. . ." Scherezade cut in as Dina trailed off uncertainly, smiling a shade defiantly at her aunt. "And", she went on, a laughing warning in her voice, "don't ask me when we're going to be married! We haven't bothered to plan anything. We're happy as we are. Most I marriages are sham, anyway. Forster knew what he was talking about."

They do say you hurt the ones you love! Dina winced, as she acknowledged to herself the truth of what her niece had so casually stated, with the arrogant thoughtlessness of youth. Yes, most marriages were sham! Sherrie was right, Forster, one of her favourite novelists, indeed had a point: a marriage was no more a union, than a funeral was death. . . or baptism, birth. . .
Dina looked at her niece searchingly. There was something different about her. She had always considered Scherezade to be sexually attractive, as distinct from being merely beautiful. But now there was something else evident in her face, her bearing: a heightened awareness of her own sexuality. This lean stranger, with his rather forbidding mouth, his pianist's hands, and lithe grace, had awakened her favourite niece to a realization of her own potential as a woman. Sherrie was radiant - and yes, fulfilled! That was the word, thought Dina with a start. Fulfilled. Something that she, Dina, had never been.. .

. . . She thought back on her own fumbling courtship with Khurshed. Those furtive hand-holdings and tentative caresses in the last rows of the darkened movie theatres . . . the wet, inexpert kisses at her doorstep. . . that one-time bold foray inside her loose blouse, when she had slapped his hand away rather sharply . . . hadn't Banoo Maa instilled into her that sex without marriage was a sin? And caressing a breast, in those days, was 'crossing the line'! The taboo extended both above and below the waist - only the face and the midriff were exempt!

Then had come marriage . . . and the license to copulate, along with it.
That first night was a disaster! Loving and sensitive in all other respects, Khurshed's very ineptness rendered him insensitive when it came to love-making. Egged on by his macho male friends to 'make it' on the first night itself, he had forced himself awkwardly into a stiff, dry Dina, without the slightest foreplay, without arousing her at all. Sore and bleeding, Dina had taken to smearing herself with lubricants, steeling herself for the onslaught every other night, till Khurshed's passion had diminished, as did his performance . . . with the birth of Hanoz, both had all but petered away.

Paradoxically, Dina had by then got hooked on to painful sex. As Khurshed's aggression in bed waned, her desire for it increased. Developing a perverse taste for masochism, she visualized self flagellation to arouse herself to an orgasm. One night, she shocked Khurshed by assuming an almost masculine lead in their love-making,urging him to hurt her . . .

Dina winced as she recalled Khurshed recoiling from her in bed . . . then her mouth curved sarcastically . . . his maleness had been offended! Women cringed at being hurt sexually, but they bore it out of love for their men . . . they did not desire to be hurt, surely . . . !
Only one man had understood her unconventional sexual desires, her strange fantasies. . . he who had so callously betrayed her. But what a lover he had been! The more vicious and perverse his love-making, the more pleasure it had given Dina. Having realized the kink in her psychological make-up, he had skilfully used pain, in foreplay, to arouse her. . . after the unimaginative, mechanical Khurshed, sex with him was like playing variations on themes by Chopin . . . or Liszt . . . whereas with Khurshed, it was like practising the same dreary scale in the same unchanging Key in the same even tempo . . .

She felt a light touch on her arm. It was Scherezade, looking at her concernedly. Dina shook back the past and smiled at her niece. So lovely. And so young. So heartbreakingly young! Just over twenty . . .Soon to be twenty-one, Dina realized with a start. She gave an imperceptible sigh. What could one tell the young? How could one warn them? Especially Sherrie, her vibrant, impulsive Sherrie, with such reserves of passion in her . . . such a capacity for love! Whereas this fellow, obviously experienced and worldly, seemed so cold . . . with those uncomfortably penetrating eyes, those finely chiselled grim lips, that sarcastic manner of talking.
She could well understand her niece's attraction for him. He was devastatingly attractive! Dangerously intelligent too, with just the right mix of ruthlessness and tenderness. "Don't hurt her," she implored him silently. "Don't hurt my Sherrie." To Scherezade she said aloud gently, a hint of sadness in her voice, "Don't bother about others, Sherrie, do what you think best. Just one word of advice," she paused hesitantly, her hand on Scherezade's arm. Smiling a little bitterly at the inquiry in those cognac eyes, she went on, "make sure, if you can, that what you are doing is right! That it's what you really want. That you won't regret it after. . . say after ten years."

Scherezade stared at her aunt. This was the first time she had even so much as hinted that she was regretting the step she had taken, ten years ago. Scherezade knew she would not admit that to any other member of their family. Except perhaps Banoo Maa, she thought, her troubled gaze resting affectionately on the vigorous old lady, undefeated by her seventy odd years.

Banoo Maa had been waiting patiently, expectantly. She knew Dina would take her own time in coming to greet her. Nothing could ever completely sever the bond between them, both knew full well; as they also knew and recognized the fact that Dina's action in abandoning her religion for mere expediency, (at least according to Banoo Maa), had strained that bond as nothing else ever could. Had Dina really known what she was doing? Had she realized that there was no return?
"If that man wants to reconvert into a Hindu tomorrow," thought Banoo Maa resentfully, "he can do so! Especially now that his first wife is dead. But my Dina can never become a Parsee again." Once Dina had actually abandoned the Parsee Zoroastrian faith, she would never be accepted back into the fold.

Banoo Maa recalled how she had begged and pleaded with Dina. First to go back to Khurshed. Khurshed Sooneji, Dina's first husband. So much he had loved her. Loved her still! They had been so happy, thought Banoo Maa. Till that awful day. The day that little Hanoz had drowned in the swimming pool of the club. Dina had been beside herself. Blamed Khurshed for everything. To get a child after so many years of marriage, and then to allow him to drown! Khurshed had had neither the strength nor the will to defend himself, then. To explain to her that it was an accident, that it was not his negligence that had caused their child's death. For he had not been able to exonerate himself, either.

Bitter, hurtful things had been hurled by Dina at her shattered husband. After the 'Charam', the four-day ceremonies at the Tower of Silence, Dina had been unable to go home with her husband. She had gone to stay with Banoo Maa, sent her to get her clothes and stuff from an unresisting Khurshed, and had never returned to him since.

Khurshed had agreed to everything she had wanted. Even to the divorce she finally demanded.
And then she had got entangled, first with that no-good. . . (Banoo Maa muttered an unladylike swear word) and then with this fellow . . . Banoo Maa looked at Prakash resentfully. Talking to Zerxes Avari.

Banoo Maa smiled sadly to herself as Dina left Scherezade's side and walked up resolutely to her younger brother. Fredun had not been able to forgive his sister for what he considered to be her 'defection'. Fredun, who had hitherto heroine-worshipped Dina! As she was to discover, no hate is more implacable than one which has its roots in idolatry.

Ten-year old Scherezade, confused and rebellious, had ranged on her aunt's side. Her brother Firdauz, two years older than her, self-contained and phlegmatic, had remained aloof from the whole sorry business.

Banoo Maa sighed, thinking back on the turmoil the whole family had been plunged into. Prior to the marriage, Dina had informed only Banoo Maa, and had sworn her to secrecy. The rest of the family had been informed afterwards, after Dina had converted and got married by a Nikah ceremony. Fredun had not been able to forgive her anything: her conversion, her re-marriage, her secretiveness. He had insisted, in the face of Dina's defiant denials, that Dina's action affected not just her alone, but all of them. The whole family. Nothing would ever be the same again, he had thought irritably. Dina herself would never be the same again, even if she did not realize it.

The moment Dina had converted had been the turning. And not of her life alone.

Clear and unclouded in his vision, Fredun had been astounded that his sister couldn't see that. But she was gifted with a shield that had been denied to him. An impenetrable shell of hypocrisy and selfdeception, which not only justified all her actions in her own mind, but gilded them with motives of the purest altruism. She had tried unavailingly to convince Fredun that she had taken the best possible step for everybody concerned, in the circumstances.

"Everybody?" Fredun had echoed incredulously. "What of that' chap's first wife? And his children by her?" He had flung at his sister challengingly.

"Karuna has made Prakash's life a misery," Dina had answered defensively. "Turned the children against him, too! He'll have nothing more to do with them."

"You have a hope in hell," her brother had returned grimly.

And even then, the whole truth had not been told to everybody. Only Banoo Maa knew that one tragic secret. Which had completely devastated Dina. Because it had all been in vain! She could not now undo anything. She had no one to blame but herself. That was the pill that stuck in her throat, too galling to swallow!

Banoo Maa, seeing all that, had suffered helplessly for Dina. With Dina.

She found her shoulder being shaken gently. It was Fredun, looking down at her, puzzled. "Where have you got lost, Maa? I've called your name twice!" Then she looked up into his eyes and his expression changed. "Come darling," he said gently. "Dinner is served. We have to toast Shirin and Jamshed," and steered her tenderly into the dining room.

Over the three-course dinner, the hostess's capabilities were stretched to the full, trying to glean as much information as she could about their respective lives from Zerxes Avari and Prakash Sattar, both relatively unknown quantities to her. Scherezade, stifling her giggles at Zerxes' urbane sarcasm and Prakash's discouraging monosyllables, covertly studied the aunt she loved best. Dina did not look happy. No,she definitely did not look happy. She did not seem to be quite well, either.

* * * *

Back in their posh flat at Cuffe Parade, Prakash informed Dina that he would be proceeding for a short business trip in a few days. He did not look at her as he told her this. Dina would make out that he was lying, if he did so!

*

The Turning - Chapter Three

2008-12-14T09:46:00.000-08:00

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.

*

The Turning - Chapter Two

2008-09-06T23:41:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER TWO

"What did you expect, that they would have welcomed you with open arms?" Dina Sattar asked her husband sarcastically. "The prodigal father returning after ten years to condole with his children on the death of their mother? His wife?"

Her tone grated harshly on his already defensive ear. Her words sliced through the layers of indifference accumulated over the years, touching a nerve that had not, as yet, been rendered insensate. He winced at the bitter, spitefully enunciated 'wife'.

Prakash knew that that had always been a sore point with Dina.
That he should have remained legally married to his first wife also.
Dina was in the position of 'wife number two', as a malicious acquaintance had commented deliberately in Dina's hearing.

Karuna had flatly refused to give her husband a divorce. Her own bed had been barren for years! She would not let him go, to spill his seed into that hoity-toity Parsee bitch!

Long hours spent with his lawyer friend had convinced Prakash that he himself had no ground for divorce. That any petition filed by him would be thrown out, probably after a long drawn out battle, into which Dina too was bound to be dragged. What better way out, than to embrace a religion that welcomed proselytism and permitted four wives?

He looked rather anxiously at Dina. At the hard, almost bitter lines that marred her once attractive face. The years had worked their stamp on her, though she was still attractive at forty-eight, in a hard, haggard fashion. The thin lips had acquired a bitter, closed-in look, even in repose. The eyes too often held a haunted look. As though she had been trapped into something she now wanted to get out of. At any cost. . . to anybody. . . except herself.

Prakash wondered, as he often had in the past few years, if they had done the right thing ten years ago. With a sudden, unaccustomed perception, he realized why she was so particularly bitter today. Today was their tenth Wedding Anniversary. And he had not even wished her! Ten years of marriage to Dina . . . and his first wife had begun the day by slashing her wrists . . . he had celebrated the tenth Anniversary of his second marriage by attending the funeral of his first wife. It was an irony he did not have the stomach for.

Prakash was tired. He felt trapped in the web of his own making.
The guilt of proselytism gnawed deeper into his flesh with the passing years. A yearning to return to the faith he was bred in struggled for fulfillment with a violence he was compelled to suppress.

And now this! Nivedita's denunciation. The final rejection by his own flesh and blood. Alien! That was what his children had become to him. Alien. He almost hated Dina in that moment. If only. . . he caught himself on the thought, horrified by the depth of his own bitterness, and cast a resentful look at Dina.

She caught the look. And gave a caricature of a smile, as she intuitively divined his thoughts. He wished her dead! He dared not risk the scandal of a divorce, a 'talaq', right now! Dina was well aware that the new Finance Minister had advised Prakash against taking her with him to official functions. His business depended too heavily on the goodwill of politicians, for such advice to be ignored.

That several politicians depended on Prakash's 'goodwill', financially, was a matter they themselves preferred to ignore! And Prakash had made his fortune too quickly, too precariously, to rock the boat. One could never tell, in these unpredictable times, just whose survival would be threatened by a scandal!

Prakash averted his eyes, embarrassed. "I didn't expect to be welcomed with open arms," he blundered into speech. "I thought they would be pleased to see me, after all this time," he faltered, not needing Dina's contemptuous smile to tell him how inane he sounded. This paradox had persisted all through his second marriage. The successful, confident businessman reduced to a defensive, guilt-ridden husband at home.

They completed their meal in silence and almost immediately retired to their bedrooms. The connecting door had not been opened in a long, long time. Resentment can fuel the sexual drive only in the very young.

Dina desultorily flicked a few pages of the novel she was reading before laying it down, ultimately tired of the pretense of reading. Her thoughts strayed to her divorced husband, Khurshed. If he died, would she be tempted to attend his funeral? Would she be allowed to? The thought entered her mind unbidden. Unwelcome.

Suddenly, Dina sat up in bed with something of a shock. This was a thought she had always deliberately blocked out from her mind. Now it impinged itself upon her consciousness inexorably.

"What will happen to you when you die?" The voice inside taunted her.
Feeling claustrophobic, Dina got off the bed and walked up to the open window, taking deep gulps of air.

"Don't do it, Dina . . . . Don't. 'Tis a sin you are committing," her Banoo Maa had pleaded, horrified when she had disclosed to her what she was going to do.

"You're being narrow minded, Maa," she had asserted with the bravado of the insecure. "After all, all religions are the same."

"Then how come you had never thought of changing your religion, till now?" had asked that shrewd lady, then in her sixties. Banoo Kanga, her mother's sister, was the only mother Dina had ever known. As had her sister Shirin and brother Fredun.

"Admit it to yourself, at least, if not to me," the old lady had said, in a last ditch effort to try and get Dina to change her mind. "This sudden urge for conversion is only so you'll be able to 'marry' this man. If you can call it marriage at all!"

"You don't understand, Maa! I have to get married to him!" She had then confided in Banoo Maa her reason, her desperation, her exhilaration.

Dina closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "Banoo Maa, Banoo Maa," she despaired. "Why didn't you stop me? Surely you must have guessed how it would be?"

The first traumatic shock shortly after the marriage. The feeling of being utterly bereft. And then the feeling of being imposed upon. The distrust and the hostility of his children by his first wife. The neveracknowledged, ever-present guilt where Karuna was concerned. Poisoning everything including their sex life. Especially their sex life! The differences and misunderstandings that were stifled and repressed till they ossified into implacable hatred. The corrosion that set in, eating into her every time the name of her Prophet automatically came to her lips. Not being able to go to the Fire temple or the Doongerwadi. After that disastrous incident, when an old friend had asked curiously why she was sitting outside with the non-Parsees instead of inside the bungli, she had stopped going altogether.

Yes, the end had been present in the beginning itself. Banoo Maa had seen that. Wise old Banoo Maa. If only she had!

The poison had been eating into her entire psyche gradually, almost imperceptibly changing her. She had of late seen that reflected in the faces of her relatives. . . her beloved Banoo Maa . . . her brother and his family . . . her cherished niece . . . her elder sister and her husband . . . Thinking of Shirin, she frowned in annoyance. She and Prakash would have to go over to Shirin and Jamshed's, the day after tomorrow. It was their thirtieth Wedding Anniversary. And her family had always been scrupulous in inviting her and Prakash to all their functions! Her pride forced her to attend, pretending a gaiety she did not feel, in the face of those covert, speculative stares, just waiting for her composure and her marriage to crack.

Only her niece had understood. Always. Stood up for her, been her sole outspoken champion. Her darling little Scherezade! Though Dina wasn't comfortable about that fellow Sherrie was involved with.

Dina turned away from the window. As so often in the past, her eyes wandered to the bottle of sleeping tablets lying on her bedside table. And lingered there. And then the spectre raised itself again.

"What will happen to you when you die?"

Trying to shut the thought out of her mind, Dina opened the door leading to the balcony and walked out. The balcony ran the length of the outer side of the flat, overlooking the sea. Casting a swift glance at the door of Prakash's bedroom next to hers, she was relieved to find it shut. His air-conditioner was on. Prakash couldn't sleep without the AC, whereas Dina preferred open windows and fresh air.

She leant her arms on the balcony railing and struggled to relax her tense body, feeling the shroud of the night close in upon her. The moon was a sliver of silvery sickle. Twenty stories below, the inky waters of the Arabian Sea rippled with the compulsion of gravity. Dina gazed fascinated at the neon lights reflected in the sluggishly undulating waters. The fingers of fear crept towards her once more. Relentlessly, with a gravity of their own that she could do nothing to repulse.

Dina shuddered, trying to overcome the feeling of someone having walked over her grave.

What would it be like for her? A hurriedly dug up grave, unsanctified by the prayers of the Faithful? The chanting of the Parsee Priests, she could forget about! She was bitterly aware that none of her relatives would even try to give her a Parsee funeral at the Tower of Silence. Except perhaps her Sherrie. But she would not succeed. She could not succeed! Not in the face of the disapproval of her own parents. Not against the intransigent orthodoxy of the Priests who would not allow it, if they knew of Dina's conversion. And somebody from among her relatives was bound to spill the beans, she thought, grimacing.

Her fingers closed on the cold hard railing of the balcony till the bones of her palms pressed painfully against the unyielding metal. It had started drizzling.
Dina went back into her bedroom, gulped two sleeping tablets and lay down, imploring oblivion to her aid.

*

The Turning - Chapter One

2008-09-03T11:42:00.000-07:00

June 13, 1994

The last of the mourners had left, and brother and sister at last had the house to themselves. Except for their mother's brother and his wife, who had come over from Calcutta and would be staying with them till at least the twelfth day ceremonies were over; and their cousin, their father's eldest brother's son, Sunil.
Arun Khanna poured himself his third cup of coffee in the last about fifteen minutes. He badly wanted a drink, but somehow felt awkward to ask his nephew for one. Vinod seemed even more unnaturally detached than he remembered. As for Nivedita ... he looked at her uneasily. Then his eyes met his wife's and he gave her a slight, reassuring smile. Sunil looked at his watch pointedly a few times, then announced pompously that he'd be taking his leave. He had a busy day ahead of him!
Arun Khanna glanced at him amusedly. "Going to the factory, Sunil?"
Sunil looked up defensively. His small workshop, where he manufactured hair-dye, of all things, was a bit of a joke in the family. Only Vinod took some interest in it from time to time, dropping in at the workshop off and on. It was quite close by, just across the street. And Vinod was quite friendly with Sunil, who minted a lot of money thanks to the universal human desire to combat overt manifestations of the ageing process. He ignored Arun, nodded to Vinod, and made good his escape.
Suchitra Khanna was determinedly trying to engage Nivedita in low-voiced conversation, not seeming to be put off by the monosyllabic responses of her niece. Arun took this opportunity to move closer to his nephew, who was standing by himself, now that Sunil had left.
"She seems all right now," began Arun tentatively, in a low voice.
"But don't you think you should give her something? To calm her
nerves, y’know!”
Vinod looked across at Nivedita. She’ll be Okay,” he said curtly.
“You honestly think so? After that exhibition?” persisted Arun, his voice reflecting a tinge of distaste.
“She’s a bit overwrought at Mama’s suicide. You can’t blame her for going a it berserk when Father turned up at the funeral!”
I can understand her resentment towards your father. After all, your mother was my only sister. But need Nivedita have washed all that family linen at the funeral, in front of everyone? I had no inkling of what was coming, when she saw Prakash, and suddenly let fly!”
“She’s never been able to get over Father deserting Mama, changing his religion to be able to marry that other woman,” said Vinod, his tone expressionless. “When he suddenly turned up at Mama’s funeral, after all these years, she took his presence here at such a time as an insult to Mama’s memory.”
As Arun looked rather doubtful, Vinod went on, “You see, she’s always blamed Dina for everything. For Father leaving Mama, his leaving us, his conversion ... that is something Nivedita has never been able to understand or forgive. His conversion somehow muddled up Nivedita’s own psyche, her own sense of identity. And now, she blames Dina for Mama’s suicide.”
“But surely Karuna’s suicide could have had nothing to do with Prakash leaving her for Dina, years ago?
“You can never tell,” said Vinod, adding thoughtfully, “It was this day, ten years ago,. That Father left us to get married to another woman. Mama had always refused to talk about either Father or Dina. But she has never been the same, since. I don’t think she ever forgave either of them. Nivedita realized that. That’s why over the years she has worked herself up to a morbid hatred for them both. Especially Dina. It’s become a sort of an obsession with her.”

“Haven’t you and Nivedita kept in touch with Prakash after he married again?”
“For both Mama and Nivedita, he was dead.”
“And you?” asked Arun curiously.
Vinod shrugged. “I haven’t really bothered, one way or another. He’s been sending the monthly cheques to me - `guilt money’, Nivedita calls it – as Mama refused to accept anything sent in her name.”
“Is the amount adequate?”
“Quite,” shrugged Vinod. The gesture conveyed the dissatisfaction the word tried to cover. “In these last ten years he has become a very rich man, you know! And quite an important one.” He couldn’t help adding, “Dina’s a lucky woman!”

*

THE TURNING - Prologue

2008-08-28T01:05:00.000-07:00

June 8, 1984.

The incessant rain, which normally aroused pleasurable emotions in her, today was an added source of annoyance for Nivedita.

Like everything else that was happening. Like her brother's casual attitude, his nonchalant shrugging of shoulders wherever she tried to raise that topic with him.

Like her father's sudden intransigence, which would not permit him to even disucss the matter with his hitherto beloved daughter.

Like her mother's air of martyrdom, resigning herself to what she considered was her fate.

Like the pattering of the rain outside on the mosaic-tiled terrace, flooding her precious pots of roses.

Irrelevantly Nivedita acknowledged, in some stratum of her consciousness, that the monsoon that year had caught her napping. That she had not taken the precaution of mixing sand in her rose pots in time.

Drainage, after all, was the important thing where roses were concerned. The excess water could not be allowed to collect, else it would putrefy the roots. Drainage. That was so important! How could she have forgotten?

"Day dreaming again, sis?" Vinod Shahane's voice roused her out of her abstraction.

"Bhaiyya ... do something ... talk to Papa ... don't let him go through with this!" Clutching at his hand and gripping it tight, almost convulsively.

"There's nothing you or I can do," said Vinod shortly, detaching his hand. "It's his life and he should be left free to do what he wants with it."

Resentful of the rejection she thought she sensed, Nivedita rose and started pacing about the room agitatedly, all arms and legs, her awkward adolescent figure almost ungainly in its agitation. Vinod watched her, strangely detached. Curious thing, hysteria ... he thought ... and the attendant compulsions that nourished it, nurtured it. As he watched, she put both her hands on the nape of her slender white neck and pushed up the heavy swathe of black hair in a gesture at once despairing and provocative.

Vinod's eyes narrowed. Probably for the first time, he really noiced her for what she was. An adolescent with a strangely potent sexual promise. Her uncontrolled agitation somehow enhanced the raw sensuality latent within her - the wide curve of the long lip cleaving towards the slash of the high cheekbones; the heavy lids dropping over the elongated slanting eyes veiling depths of passion within; the thin wiry body awakening to its own compulsions. His eyes roved over her young limbs, holding the promise of feline grace beneath their adolescent awkwardness.

Her voice intruded. Resentful. Petulant. "Is he so besotted with her that he can't think what this will do to us? All of us? To mother?" she demanded, the last a trifle belatedly.

"It happends, you know," Vinod ventured, trying to placate.

"What happends?" Nivedita's slanting eyes widened a ther brother's acceptance of the unacceptable. "What happens? This?" Her voice shrilled on the verge of hysteria, her words running into each other. "He must become a Muslim? Just beacuase Mama won't give him a divorce? What'll become of us? What'll we do? Where will we be? ... Hindu children of a Muslim father?!"

Vinod frowned. That aspect of the matter had not struck him. Then he shrugged. Hell, what did it matter? His thirteen-year old sister, a good twelve years younger than him, took things too much to heart.

"This business is going to be the death of her," he thought to himself, with sudden foreboding.

****

June 13, 1984.

At exactly 10.30 am, Prakash Shahane, born and bred a Hindu, married Dina Soneji, born and bred a Parsee, by a Nikah ceremony. After they had both converted into Islam and Prakash had changed his name to `Sattar' in an imagined compromise between the two faiths. That marriage was unusual in more ways than one: it contained within itself, the genesis of murder.

****

Prakash had done what he had to do, undeterred by his wife's sullen silences or his daughter's wan looks. He left early in the morning, before the rest of the family had risen.

Karuna, awakening in a bed bereft of her husband, remained closeted in the room she had shared with him till that tday, shutting the world out. Including her children. Especially her children! They reminded her of him.

Vinod went to the hospital as usual. Nivedita sat on the terrace and worked out in her mind what she wanted to do. What she had to do. Hatred for the unknown Dina had turned into an obsessin. The maid, Shantabai, came looking for her. To get her ready for school. Nivedita surprised her by getting into her uniform docilely and going off.

In the evening, Nivedita deliberately missed her school bus and took the publisc BEST bus home. She got off at the Church on her way back home and bought a wax figurine from the vendors outside.

She had always a fascination for the Church. She would listen avidly to her Catholic friends when they spoke of the mysterious `Box' into which they disappeared, to confess their misdemeanours and be absolved of their sins. Nivedita was seduced by this benign God who apaprently granted absolution for the mere confessing. As yet, she knew nothing of penitence.

Her simplistic perception was fostered by her particular friend, Shirley. Shirley had a deep rooted hatred for the Maths teacher who had once caned Shirley's bottom in front of the whole class as a punishment for cheating from her neighbour. Shirley had told Nivedita that Ms. Savant was soon going to die. Met with hesitant disbelief, Shirley triumphantly produced a smnall wax figurine, stuck with several pins.

"See, this is Ms. Savant. If you keep poking pins into her, she'll die!" she announced gleefully.

"But this is wax! It will melt after some time," objected Nivedita, anxious to find a pin-prick in her friend's plan for Ms. Savant's early demise.

"No, it won't, you dumbo," was the scornful answer. "And even if it does start to melt, I'll get another wax figure to stick pins into. You must keep on at it," she informed Nivedita ghoulishly.

Nivedita was more than receptive. Shirley's words not only took root, they germinated in her disordered mind. Fascinated as she was by the concept of guilt and its expiation, Nivedita was even more fascinated by the possibility of getting rid of the despised Dina by a process so innocuous as sticking pins into a wax figurine. The day her father left to get married to Dina, the idea flowered into a desire for experimentation.

Taht night in the privacy of her room, Nivedita set up the figurine on a crudely built pedestal of black pleistocene, mumbled some prayers and viciously stuck a pin into the figurine. Then she hid the figurine outside on the terrace, under some loose rocks in the rock garden she had so painstakingly made.

She followed this practice faithfully ever since, on the thirteenth of June every year. And the pins multiplied.

****

The year Nivedita turned fifteen, Vinod caught her at it. Foung her hiding the figurine in the rock garden. Outraged, he dragged her from the terrace into his room and locked the door. Then he stripped her of her skirt, pulled her over his knee and began thrashing her backside, causing her enough pain to drag out yelps of protest from time to time.

After a while, however, the pain gave way to a newer sensation in Nivedita, finding is echo in Vinod. The hard slaps of their own volition smoothed into a quite different touch ... and his desire to punish was overwhelmed by a more elemental desire, rising to fulfill the girl's awakening need ... his roving hand aroused her to a pitch beyond herself. Nivedita yielded to him, not fully realizing what she was doing, yet past caring of the consequences. Some of the ache inside her seemed to diminish, overwhelmed by the physical pain that Vinod was causing her ... a welcome pain, blinding her to all else but her initiation at the hands of her brother, her demi-God ... and the blood that spurted from her virgin hymen was symbolic to her disturbed mind ... like that from a sacrificial cockerel, at the altar of a heathen rite ...

This would now become part of her ritual with the figurine. and it would be their secret ... hers and Vinod's ... their very own secret!

Savouring this second delicious secret of her young life, Nivedita was prepared to share the first, with a suddenly approachable elder brother who seemed to accept her compulsive need to find a physical, tangible outlet for her feelings towards Dina.

Her ritual with the figurines continued. Her death-wish gained in strength, crystallizing into a tangible objective.

*

Crime Novel

2008-08-27T23:40:00.000-07:00

Hi!

Some of you may have read my first crime novel, `The Turning' ... but many may have not, sicne distribution, for several reasons, was largely concentrated in Bombay ...

Posting novel shortly, chapter by chapter ...

hope you enjoy ...

BLOOMERANG

2008-08-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

BLOOMERANG

“May you burn in hell,” he’d cursed his daughter’s unknown murderer, gazing agonized into the lovely young face contorted by brutal death.

He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old, when tears of pain and anger and humiliation had been wrung out of him by the vicious beating his father had meted out to him. He was now fifty-two and he couldn’t stop the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stood staring at the corpse of his daughter. His only child.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight he could hardly bear. His nineteen year-old daughter, once so lovely and graceful, now rendered graceless, almost grotesque by the peculiar indignity of a certain kind of death: her face horribly contorted, ugly bruises on her slender neck. As the significance of those bruises sunk in slowly, he raised his hands in a curious gesture suggestive of a helpless amazement at the machinations of fate and gazed at the Inspector, his eyes asking the question his tongue could not utter.

“Yes, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon responded rather awkwardly, answering the unspoken question in the tortured man’s eyes. “It was murder, no doubt. She’s been strangled.” Trying to speak sympathetically, he sounded merely brusque. Hell, there was never an easy way of doing this, Ashir Menon thought to himself. Poor chap. This has really knocked him out.

It had. His daughter meant more to him than anyone in the world, almost including himself. If he overreached himself sometimes in his businesses, it was for her sake. To give her the kind of childhood and adolescence that had been denied to him. To smother her in every luxury she desired. And to buy her love and respect and admiration. She was part of him after all, and hence the sole recipient of his unconditional love.

His creation. Now destroyed.

He would suffer, the man who had done this to her, he promised himself. He would make him suffer agonies beyond Hell. Whoever he was, the man responsible for Dipannita’s death.

“May you die a thousand living deaths,” he enunciated slowly and clearly, to the added unease of the policemen in the morgue. “May you burn in hell and continue to burn for eternity,” he cursed.

*

The news had been brought to him within rather less than a half an hour of reaching his house, straight from the airport after his business trip to the Middle East. He had barely finished his cup of tea when the doorbell rang, ushering the two policemen, bringing with them the news of the death of his daughter. They had not said anything more at the house, in the presence of his wife and mother.

It had not really registered, not for quite some time. His tired eyes had flickered round the room, taking in the figures arrayed like some ghastly tableau in a surrealistic play --- the carefully expressionless face of his wife as she stood rigid and catatonic --- his mother, who let forth an unearthly ululation --- his weeping servants, the Maharaj making a particularly loud racket --- and the two slightly embarrassed cops who had come with the news.

On being asked if he would accompany them to the morgue for the purpose of official identification, he made a futile gesture, and then walked out of the room, out of the house, followed by the policemen. It had not occurred to him to say a word to his wife, to even ask her if she’d like to accompany him.

Of course she wouldn’t! Women were to be spared such horrors. There were some decisions meant for men to take. The premise had served them both well, he was sure, all through the years of their marriage. Why make a departure now, in the midst of such a crisis? His mother was bound to wail, of course. Women of her generation always did, when confronted by death or disaster. As for him . . . as for Bhavik Chaudhary . . . he could not even begin to gauge the depths of his devastation. Dipannita’s death, to him, meant the negation of his own life. Whatever remained now was gall and wormwood.

* * *

It happened as she passed under the jambul tree. Something plonked on her head, even as that ubiquitous chattering song assaulted her ears yet again. She’d find the bird now, she was determined. It was in that tree --- it had to be! She looked up, standing as still as possible under the fruit-laden tree. Plonk! There it fell, again. But this time it just missed her head. It was a jambul. Her eyes followed the trembling branch and she found herself looking into two brown eyes, deep and still as forest pools.

She stared, fascinated, as the squirrel plucked a jambul, held it between its forepaws, and nibbled it as delicately as a Victorian debutante at the Vicarage Tea Party.

Then plonk! The fruit all consumed, the seed dropped nonchalantly. Not on her head this time, though.

So that’s one mystery solved, she mused as she sauntered along almost jauntily, invigorated by the delicious air --- the smell of the rain-watered earth --- the cool nip in the breeze --- and, of course, the birdsong, now a solo aria, then a sharp counterpoint, yet again a soaring, full-throated orchestral symphony. Maheshwar was at its gorgeous best right now, at the tail end of the monsoon. The vegetation was lush, wildflowers there were aplenty, and the Karvi was in full bloom, a portent signifying some momentous happening.

The season had not yet begun, so the hillstation was mercifully as yet free of the hordes that would descend on it in the next two weeks. And he would arrive tomorrow, she told herself, happily. Pity she’d had to fib to her parents --- given them some gup about going with college friends to Patang. She’d given Rashida’s name of course. There was nobody at her place right now, so no one would know.

She was staying at the hotel under an assumed name. Funny how difficult it could be, to think up a name on the spur of the moment. The idea had occurred to her at the last minute, and had seemed a good one. Even more adventurous! For a moment she’d wondered what name to put down. Then her gaze had fallen upon the edit page of The Chronicle, which the clerk slapped down on the reception table when she approached. The famous byline caught her eye. Why not assume that identity? She’d pass off, she was fair enough!

It had gone smoothly enough. The receptionist had looked rather admiring, when she’d given him the name. It gave her a cachet, that name! Of being someone famous! She’d already warned him on telephone He’d be here tomorrow, also staying at the same hotel. That’s why she’d decided on this long walk, today. She enjoyed walking in the forest, but he didn’t.

She was walking along a muddy trail, away from the main road, through a fairly dense wood. She came again to that faint, intriguing trail she had noticed on her way to the market. To the left of the kachha path, a shortcut to the hotel away from the main road, rose a sudden, steep incline. There was this faint trail snaking up the incline, beneath the jambuls and the oaks, leading probably to the top of the hill. It seemed to be an interesting trail, worth following, with a sparkling rill bubbling past. The forest floor was covered with dense undergrowth. She could distinguish the delicate fronds of the maidenhair and the silver fern, and the white and green hoods of the cobra lily punctuating the path like so many magnified commas. The trees were covered with trailing moss and epiphytic ferns, brushing her face and arms with ghostly caresses.

She took a couple of tentative steps up the trail, glancing at her watch. It was still just about 10 in the morning. She negotiated a sudden sharp bend and looked up to see where the trail was leading her. It was then that she noticed the boundary wall just about visible over the tops of the trees where the hill had plateau’d out. Almost like the rampart of some ancient castle or manor house, she told herself, hastening her ascent in excitement.

She came to a green-painted wicket gate standing slightly ajar in half-hearted invitation. Dipannita opened it wider and walked into the compound. Inside was a two-storied structure, of quite charming design. Rather sprawling, covering a considerable area, with detached outhouses. The gardens were nicely laid out, if not imaginatively planned.

The scent of magnolia assailed her sensitive nostrils. A little away from the main building, the boundary wall seemed to give way, curving downwards. She walked towards the curve as though impelled, and found steps leading down into what seemed to be a sunken garden. The scent of the Magnolia grew stronger. Yes, she caught sight of a branch --- two branches actually, one bearing pinkish white flowers, and the other flaunting blooms of gold, both entwined into each other. The shrubs must be planted very close, she thought idly, breathing deep, her eyes closed.

“Looking for someone?”

The brusque voice, sounding almost in her ear, made her jump. Literally. She swung round sharply to face her interrogator, and was annoyed to find herself swaying on her feet. A hand reached out and gripped her soft upper arm.

Her sudden clumsy movement had made her drop her bag. As she tried to retrieve it, the press button that held the flap burst open, scattering some of her belongings on the ground. He immediately bent and picked them up, before she could . . . a compact, her wallet, her room-key which she had retained with her, a lipstick . . .

She shoved the stuff back into her bag, higgledy-piggledy, with a murmur of thanks. She secured her bag and looked up at him. He seemed decent enough, if a bit rough-hewn. Mid-fortyish, stocky, solidly built. Dark glittering eyes under beetling brows, a bushy black beard trying to subdue full, somewhat coarse lips. His voice was at variance with his appearance, thought Dipannita. More educated than he appeared to be.

“Sorry about all this,” she said awkwardly, startled into being on the defensive. “I am . . . I was . . . on my way to my hotel, when I came across this trail and . . . I wondered where it led . . .” she trailed off.

“Where are you staying?” he asked . “Which hotel?”

“Hotel Windcliffe .”

“That’s some distance from here. And quite isolated. Have you lost your way?” he seemed concerned.

“N.n.no …. No, but … am I trespassing?” she asked apologetically, wondering who the hell this chap was. He was definitely not one of the owners of this fairly grand-looking place. Clothes and appearance all wrong, she naively told herself. Even if he sounded educated. Was he the caretaker? He seemed a cut above the usual caretaker-type. Maybe an estate manager or steward or something, she thought doubtfully. She lived in a world where such things were not quite unheard of.

The man did not enlighten her. And something in his demeanour, in his gaze, precluded her from asking him the questions she was dying to. Like what was this place? A private residence? Rather a large, rambling place. It had an Atmosphere. Whom did it belong to? Were the owners around? Could she look around a bit?

“Would you like to look around a bit?”

“Yes, please, if I’m not trespassing?”

“You are not . . . not if I invite you.” Those words should have been accompanied by a smile. But weren’t. It struck her that he had perhaps forgotten how to smile.

“What’s down there?” she asked, pointing to the flight of steps.

“A holy place.” The word sounded strange on his lips.

“A garden?”

“Indeed! Watered by holy water straight from the Gaumukh. Come.”

She followed him, intrigued. Water from ‘Gaumukh’ in the Sahyadris?

The stone staircase was spiral, and the steps slippery with moss and lichen. He let her go first, and came close behind her, his arm once more grasping her bare upper arm. An involuntary thrill coursed through her. She stiffened. The fingers bit more deeply.

She went down gingerly. A light drizzle had started, bringing a slight nip into the atmosphere, redolent with the heady perfume of the magnolia and the jasmine. As they neared the bottom of the steps, the garden slowly came into view. Apart from the magnolia, and the jasmine and the jui, and several ferns and climbers, there were shrubs of night jasmine, which would flower only after sunset. Lilies and crocus sprung up at random in the tall grass.

Dipannita rounded the last bend, descended the last step, and caught sight of it --- the `water from Gaumukh’! And she laughed aloud. It was a spout in the shape of a cow’s head, probably connected to an underground spring, from which issued forth a stream of water. She ventured closer, and found the stream fell into a kind of a well. She leaned to look into the well. And she screamed.

*

At the precise moment that Dipannita caught sight of the boundary wall of her imagined castle in Maheshwar, an elderly man entered the Colaba Police Station, about 200 km. away, in the city of Bombay, to report a murder. A rather unusual murder. That of a beggar who seemed to be sort of stationed a short distance from the Taj Hotel. A mutilated creature. Armless. Right from the shoulder downwards. Both arms, Ramramram! A sorry looking specimen, the elderly gent told the Sr. Police Inspector, one wondered why anybody should bother to kill him, but killed he was, in cold blood, apparently. Stabbed! That too in broad daylight! What was the world coming to, for shame! Of course, these ruddy beggars were a nuisance and a pain, and should be got rid of, but not stabbed to death! What were the police doing nowadays, the elderly man muttered. Time was …

How did he notice? Well, on Tuesdays, he always gave alms to at least one beggar. Eased his conscience, somewhat. They were a nuisance, of course, whining and dirtying the roads and pawing decent people who themselves could barely make both ends meet in these hard days, but well, they too had to live, he supposed, and he wouldn’t miss a couple of rupees each week, would he?

Well, here was this poor chap, his head sagging on his chest. He thought he’d give him some money. It was when he bent to drop some coins into the tin can that hung on his chest, suspended by a tin wire round his neck, that he noticed the red stain. It took him just a moment to realize that the poor devil was dead. Of course, he knew better than to touch him. Blood and all. Of course he knew it’d be a police case! Why, he wouldn’t have touched the chap even if he hadn’t been so damned stinking filthy!

Yes yes, of course he would take the Inspector to the spot. He’d be late for his lunch, and his wife would be waiting for him, but well, duty called, didn’t it? He’d never been one to shirk his duty, No Sir! Hadn’t he come to inform the police? Going out of his way too, when all those younger men, good-for-nothing rascals, most of them, just stood round gawking and making lewd comments, no respect for death, not enough gumption to go to the Police . . .

By this time they had reached the dead body. Even the young rascals had disappeared. There were one or two curious lookers-on, and a young, well-dressed woman who was arguing with her male friend that something should surely be done, while the friend was trying to haul her away, assuring her it was no use getting mixed up in something like that, only a waste of time, and who knew what the cops would do, and who the hell was bothered, it was only some armless beggar anyway, who was probably better off dead. Why, he doubted if the poor devil could have risen up off the pavement without help. He wondered how he had managed to eat and drink and stay alive even that long!

At first sight he appeared to be dozing, his great shaggy head lolling on his chest. SI Pereira squatted by the dead man. Without touching him. He was stabbed all right. Not much external bleeding, just a slight red on the left side of his chest. Almost obscured by the tin can, but not quite. The murderer had known what he was about. The classic stab point was chosen. Probably a thin, very sharp blade.

“Was there any weapon lying around, Mr. Gupta?” Senior Inspector Geoffrey Pereira felt foolish even as he asked the question. He knew, of course, what the answer would be. But the question had to be asked.

No, he had seen no weapon, asserted Gupta. And of course, he had looked around for one, before going off to fetch the police. He had that much common sense, after all! Even if he hadn’t read so many detective novels, he’d have known enough, to look for the murder weapon.

Hiding a grin, Pereira reassured him, telling him he was an excellent witness --- just the kind of informant the Police prayed for. “And I only hope the pompous windbag doesn’t haunt the Station now,” he had muttered savagely to his Sub-Inspector later on.

*

It was the topic of discussion at Rashne’s party. Her article in ‘The Chronicle’.

“Absolutely thrilling, Sharmeen! Where did you get all those gory details?”

“ Too too gruesome, darling! Do such things really happen? I mean --- it’s worse than watching Ramsay brothers or whatever!”

“You mean you actually watch that tripe . . . ?”

“Hey Sharm, you’d better be careful, or you’ll have some of the Beggar Mafia gunning for your lovely neck. Better get some police protection. What say, Rashne? Where’s that cousin of yours?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind police protection myself, if personally provided by Arshan.”

“What am I supposed to provide, and to whom?” The tall, lean man, who’d seemed to Sharmeen to be a bit out of place at the party came up, glass in one hand, and put his free arm round Rashne. So he was Rashne’s famous Police Commissioner cousin! Deputy Commissioner, she corrected herself mentally.

Rashne laughingly introduced them --- “Sharmeen Turel . . . Arshan Chinoy. Sharmeen is a free-lance journalist, Arsh. And her beat is crime … or should I say passion! She refuses to touch Society stuff. She’s after real dangerous stuff, like underworld dons and nasty slumlords, and her latest pet hate, the Beggar Mafia. Did you read her article in yesterday’s Chronicle?”

Deputy Commissioner Chinoy grinned sheepishly. “You know I don’t have time to read the papers, Rash! Nothing except the comics! Anyway, you’re bursting to tell me all about it.”

“Well, it’s pretty interesting, in a way. And I do think someone should investigate further. I mean the Police absolutely must do something about it!” Knowing his cousin of old, Arshan waited patiently . . .

Everybody knew, of course, that there was some kind of racket going on --- there were these Mafiosi, controlling beggars --- it was they who ran the racket, housing the beggars, placing them in strategic spots in the city, rotating them if thought fit, teaching them the tricks of the trade, making a fortune from money given to these wretched dregs of humanity as alms. That’s why quite a few people in Bombay stopped giving money to beggars. God knows who really benefitted!

Sharmeen’s story, however, had a different, quite horrifying angle, Rashne informed her cousin in thrilling tones. Sharmeen said people actually ran this as a sort of business, and `manufactured’ beggars --- by deliberately well, blinding people, or …or mutilating them. Could anybody be so depraved and cruel? Children kidnapped and `made suitable’ for begging! Sharmeen was sure there was some kind of base where these Beggar Mafia operated from. And that there was some head honcho who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. She felt if only the cops took some trouble, they would unearth these chaps and bust the racket. What did Arshan think? After all, he was the Deputy Commissioner, Crime Branch! Couldn’t he do something?

“Perhaps. But I’ll have to interrogate Ms. Turel, first.” The mocking eyes quizzed Sharmeen under raised brows.

“Oh, for God’s sake call her `Sharmeen’” Rashne said irritably.

She didn’t know quite how it came about, but Sharmeen found herself being dropped home by Arshan after the party. He too lived in Bandra, and she hadn’t taken her car. It was a hell of a hassle, getting parking space on Peddar Road in the evening.

After essaying `Commissioner Chinoy’ a couple of times and thinking she sounded silly, she switched to Arshan without his invitation. He was too savvy to let her know just how interested in her he was, in so brief a meeting. Actually, he knew quite a bit about Ms. Sharmeen Turel. He had read her article. Not only this recent one, but also most of the stuff she’d written. Had long admired the way she wrote. And what she wrote.

Her articles, especially her investigative pieces, had caused considerable comment in the top echelons of the Police. And now, in certain quarters, there was fear that she was attracting attention from dangerous quarters. Just recently they’d had a tip-off that some very undesirable types were keeping a close watch on Sharmeen Turel’s movements. Arshan had come to this blessed party only because Rashne had let drop that Sharmeen Turel would be there. He had wanted to meet her informally, socially, if possible.

He’d had no idea what she looked like. She did not permit her photograph to embellish her columns. She’d turned out to be a stunner. Not strictly beautiful, but an amazingly interesting face. He was in danger all right.

They talked mostly about her article. He admitted he had read it. He felt she had a point. But he also felt, quite seriously, that she was indeed courting danger. Especially after she revealed to him how often she had stood about in the streets at night, alone, around some beggar or the other, waiting for him to be approached by what she termed his (or her, of course), `minder’. Then she’d try and follow them if she could without doing it too obviously. He heard her out gravely. Then asked her if her efforts had met with any success.

“Have you really managed to follow these chaps? Discovered anything?” His voice was stern all of a sudden, the face grim, the brow furrowed.

“Silly little idiot,” he thought to himself. “She seems determined to rush in where any sane person would hesitate to tread. Does she not realize what they’d do to her if ever they got an inkling of what she was up to? And writing articles under her own name, on top of that. Damn fool woman,” he raged inwardly, even as he could not help admiring her guts. And her resourcefulness.

For Sharmeen was resourceful, all right. She had come pretty close to her objective. And she was determined, not to give up now. She knew the area where the hideout was, she was sure. A hillstation, not too far from Bombay, But she couldn‘t pinpoint the exact location, the actual spot.

“You’d better tell me what you’ve discovered,” he told her grimly, as she kept silent.

“Want me to do your job for you, Commissioner?” The delicious voice held more than a tinge of mockery.

Notorious for biting sarcasm himself, he was nonetheless in no mood to appreciate hers. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. He’d have shaken her hard had he not been driving, and never mind whether he had any right to do so or not. This girl was a calamity! To herself, above all.

Sharmeen grinned to herself in the darkness. She had some inkling of what her companion was feeling and thinking, and was glad. She knew she’d need police help to really succeed in what she hoped to do. Bust the Beggar Mafia.

She had reached a crucial point in this particular investigation, which was fast becoming an obsession with her. She was leaving for Maheshwar on Monday morning, the day after, (tomorrow, really! It was almost Sunday) to do a bit of a recce there. She had lost that van she’d been following, somewhere in the marketplace of that hill-station, when her own car had struck a puncture. She was pretty certain that that was where the Beggar Mafia had some kind of a hide-out --- somewhere in or around Maheshwar. Or even Patang, which was a sort of a satellite hill-station, famous for its boarding schools. If she did indeed find anything, she’d need back-up, and swift action. Also someone to SOS to, if she ran into any danger. She was bound to, she thought fatalistically. She’d often felt she herself was being followed or observed, even while she herself was doing the following or the observing. This was much too big to handle on her own. She’d need reinforcements. Meeting this chap at this juncture could well be a blessing. Why not exploit it? He was definitely intrigued, if not smitten. She knew the signs.

As he brought the car to a halt outside the building where she lived, she turned to him, placing a seemingly impulsive hand on his arm. “Will you help me, Arshan?” she asked.

“Get out,” was the cold, uncompromising response. “I’m seeing you to your flat,” he added in a tone that brooked no protest, parking the car and getting out himself.

*

In their opulent flat at Napean Sea Road, barely a 15-minute drive from Rashne’s place, the Chaudhary family was at dinner, en famille for once, at around the same time that Sharmeen’s article was being discussed at Rashne’s party. It was indeed a rare occasion when the Head of the family managed to get home in time for Dinner. The bahu, Sudha, had long since given up trying to assemble the family together at meal times. Caught between her mother-in-law’s interfering dominance and her husband’s general indifference to matters domestic, she took the line of least resistance. Even her daughter, thoroughly spoilt by Bhavik, and alternately indulged and bullied by Maaji, was totally out of her control.
So Sudha had taken refuge in God. Her days were filled with prayer and devotion. She visited temples, held Poojas for every conceivable occasion, good or bad, gave alms to priests and the poor, and prostrated herself at the feet of every visiting Guru or Maharaj. For the Maharaj that ruled her own kitchen, however, she reserved a quite different form of devotion.

Even before the rice was brought to the table, the dinner was interrupted by the trilling of Bhavik’s mobile, which lay on the side of his thali. It was his ‘special’ mobile, reserved for very special people and very urgent messages. Which he carried even to the loo. Since he had not made love to his own wife in the last five years, Sudha had no idea if he kept it on in bed, permitting its ubiquitous intrusion even into that most private of intimacies.

Maaji clucked and Dipannita sighed, as Bhavik rose and walked out of the room, the mobile glued to his ear. He was back in a couple of minutes, frowning heavily.

“What’s happened, beta? Any bad news?”

“Just a bit of nuisance,” he answered his mother.

“What nuisance,” she would not be put off so easily.

“One of our trucks, carrying rather valuable cargo, has been overturned on the ghats. They wanted to know what to do.” He looked at his wife. “I’ll have to leave, in an hour or so. See to my packing, will you? Enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days.”

“But Papa, you’re going to the Middle-East, shortly,” protested Dipannita.

“Yes, gudiya, but that’s next week. I’ll be back before then.”

“Well, if you don’t come back by Wednesday, I’ll have left myself.”

“Yes, you’re off with your college friends, aren’t you? To that hill-station?”

“Patang.”

“Oh! Yes of course. You’re going to Patang. Will you be staying there only, or are you moving around?”

“Oh no, we’ll be in Patang only. Rashida’s younger brother is in school there, and they’ll have half-term while we’re there. So we’ll be visiting the school, and maybe taking walks, and generally chilling out.”

“Let’s see, it’s Saturday today. Oh, of course I’ll be back by Wednesday. I’ll make sure I am,” he assured her.

“You’d better be,” she waved her fork at him mock-threateningly. He ruffled her hair caressingly and rose from the table, his mind already on this latest mishap and how to overcome it. It was worrisome. Hmmn … it was definitely worrisome!

Maaji clucked again. Bhavik was really spoiling the child. Had she dared to do that to her father, she’d have had her knuckles well rapped. But Bhavik would not let anyone so much as touch that girl in anger. The only time she, Maaji, had tried to physically chastise Dipannita for her own good, Bhavik, on hearing of it from his daughter, had flown into a rage with his mother, warning her never again to dare raise her hand or take a cane to Dipannita. Sudha herself had never dared, knowing her husband’s almost violently obsessive love for their only child.

Behind her light-hearted badinage, Dipannita’s mind was churning with speculation. Her father ran a recruiting business. Recruiting unskilled labour from UP and Bihar, and other such places and got them jobs in the Middle East.

“That’s the business to be in ---labour! No dearth of raw material for that, in this country. Too much population, mostly ignorant and illiterate, easy to handle and manage,” she’d heard him once expound to a group of friends, who’d come over for drinks and cards.

What did a truck in the ghats have to do with recruiting business? wondered Dipannita. Most of the labourers came by train, from Bihar or UP. She knew, her father did organize transport and stuff for his recruits. Maybe he was getting people from other places, now. She had heard rumours that times were bad, and that Gulf jobs were getting scarcer, the Middle-Eastern governments getting stricter. Maybe even labour was hard to get. Luckily, her father’s agency or whatever seemed to be thriving. There was no shortage of money in the Chaudhary household. She herself had only to express a desire to have it instantly gratified by her adoring Dad. Oh well, maybe he had some other business she knew nothing about, she shrugged. Not that she knew much about his businesses, anyway.

She forgot all about the truck on the ghats, and thought pleasurably about her own projected trip.

* * *

Sharmeen returned to the Hotel Windcliffe late evening, dead tired. It was the same day that Dipannita had discovered `Gaumukh’ in Maheshwar.

Sharmeen had registered as Avan Fraser. Arshan had insisted on that. As he’d insisted on her carrying the mobile he gave her, with a special roaming facility.

“You take this, keep it with you always, and keep it on”, he’d ordered. Noticing the spark of mutiny in her fine dark eyes he’d added grimly, “You either promise you’ll do as you’re told and take proper precautions, or I’ll take you into protective custody. And enjoy doing it,” he assured her. They’d met at her flat again on Sunday, to work out all the details of her trip to Maheshwar.

Sharmeen returned to the hotel to find cops swarming round the place, and the hotel manager in a state of near apoplexy. And, amazingly, astoundingly, to find Arshan Chinoy there. He seemed to be the cause of the manager’s apoplexy!

He noticed her as soon as she walked into the reception area. But he made no move towards her. He was looking grim as hell. She wondered what was up. About to go up to him, she noticed, on the sofa, the body covered in white sheet up to the face. As though impelled, she walked up to it. It was a young face. Once a pretty face. Now grotesque. Seemed to have been strangled.

Despite herself, she swayed. And found her arm caught in a hard grip which was oddly reassuring. It managed to convey strength and anger and reassurance and comfort, all at once. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What’s happened? Who . . . who is she?”

“Sharmeen Turel.” The mockery in his voice was bitter.

Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes as she turned to look up at him, horror mingling with hurt reproach. In that moment he realized how vulnerable she could be. He was ashamed of his bitter tongue. He put his arm around her and hugged her slightly. “That was the name she’s registered under. Lord knows why. Her real name is Dipannita Chaudhary. At least that’s what all credit cards in her wallet indicate!”

She was stunned. “But . . . why did she . . . how . . . I suppose she’d read it in some paper?” He nodded. A killing thought struck her. She clutched the hand resting on her shoulder. “Arshan . . . this means . . .”

“. . . Someone wanted to kill you, but killed her instead, thinking she was you,” he completed for her. “That’s why I came racing down. Made it in three hours, from Bombay. The news received there was that `Sharmeen Turel’ had been found, murdered. By the time I reached here, Inspector Mahadik here had searched her room and discovered her real identity.”

His tone told her what his words did not. Part of his anger had been due to anxiety. But oh God, what a mess. And this girl, this poor, poor girl!

“Come,” said Arshan, clasping her hand. “I’ll take you to your room. Pack up. I’m taking you back to Bombay. We’ve made arrangements for the body to be taken to Bombay. I’ll depute some chaps to go to her folks once we find out where she lives. I’m sure the address given here is bogus, but she seems to be from Bombay, all right."

“If she’s been killed instead of me,” Sharmeen said huskily, looking straight into Arshan’s eyes, “there could only be one reason . . . that I’m right, and that hide-out is somewhere here.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” he said dryly. “Instructions have been given --- for a discreet but thorough search of every likely place in Maheshwar. If need be, even the unlikely ones --- then they’ll move to Patang. I’m taking no chances, now. This gang just has to be busted, and the ringleader caught. We’ll have a detailed talk later, in Bombay.”

She knew what that meant, of course. She was now in greater danger than ever. He’d probably insist on police protection for her. Oh well, she’d think about it later. Right now, she could not rid her mind of the thought that another young girl, a much younger girl, had been killed for her sake --- instead of her! It was bitter gall to swallow, for someone so sensitive as Sharmeen.

* * *

The Constable on duty brought Bhavik a cup of tea. He choked on the very first sip. He tried to compose himself. He could see they were waiting to ask him some questions. He must help them. Help them catch this bastard, who’d done this to his daughter.

He’d been told that she was found, strangled, in the gardens of some hotel in Maheshwar. So she’d lied about going to Patang. Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered. Except to avenge her murder.

“I don’t understand . . . my daughter . . . why should anyone . . . was there any . . . was there . . . ?”

“Yes, Mr. Chaudhary, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon cut in swiftly. Of course, we yet have to do the PM, but preliminary examination by the Medical Officer does show evidence of rape. Probably shortly before she was killed.”

“There’s perhaps one thing you could help us with, sir,” continued the Inspector. “Something that’s been bothering us a great deal.”

Bhavik looked at him in dumb inquiry.

“Did your daughter know a lady called Sharmeen Turel?”

Bhavik’s face had turned even more ashen. “W..why do you ask that, Inspector?” He asked, a tremor in his voice.

“Because for some reason, your daughter had assumed that name, when she registered herself at Hotel Windcliffe, in Maheshwar. She told the hotel clerk her name was Sharmeen Turel. And that was the name she was known by, at that hotel. . . . Mr. Chaudhary? Mr. Chaudhary? Are you all right, Mr. Chaudhary? Get a glass of water, quickly,” the Inspector ordered the Constable on duty, as Chaudhary seemed to visibly shrink, guttural, keening sounds emitting from his lips.

That conversation . . . that fatal telephone conversation, just a day before he was to leave for the Gulf . . . after Dipannita had left . . .

“Bahadur speaking Boss, from Gaumukh. We’ve found out who’s been snitching on us, Boss. It’s that haramkhor Malloo, whose arms we took off last month. Necessary steps will be taken, Boss. We’ll make an example of him.”

“Good,” he’d said. Well, he couldn’t have people snitching, in his business, could he? They’d have to set an example!

“More good news, Boss, we’ve also located that dame . . . that Sharmeen Turel, who’s been troubling us. She’s here right now, at Maheshwar, in Hotel Windcliffe. Go ahead, Boss?”

“Yes, dammit,” he’d snapped into the phone. “Finish her off. Khatam kar dalo, saali ko. But listen, her body must be found. If she disappears, there’ll be a search. We don’t want that. But finish her off as soon as possible.”

“Will do, Boss! She’s some babe, though! You’d have enjoyed her, Boss. Er, mind if . . .”

“Do what you like with her, the bitch,” he’d laughed crudely. “Have your fun, but finish her off. I’m off to Muscat, tomorrow. I want a full report when I return.”

The full report. He’d got it all right.

He stood frozen, gazing blankly at the sympathetic Inspector, as flames flickered all around him, leaping higher and higher, engulfing him till he was burning in Hell.

XXXX____________________XXXX

Ambivalence

2008-08-25T01:14:00.000-07:00

Ambivalence
It’s bittersweet
Beyond the pale
Within yet without
Not quite within, yet
Never without
Belonging without possession
Intimacy without ownership

So much together that
Dare not be
Too much together
So much a part
Despite being apart
In other eyes
In alien views
In external perceptions.
But at the core,
The Knowledge:
Unqualified. Unconditional. Unbidden.
Enhanced, not diminished
By lack of Formal’tie . . .

Conundrum of Communication

2008-08-25T01:12:00.000-07:00

Conundrum of Communication
When it goes deep,It narrows.
Trivia magnifies.
Each word analyzed threadbare;
Each glance perceived
Through a prism;
Each gesture viewed
With varying interpretations;
For the nuance
Which perhaps
Never was . . .

Or then, again, maybe . . .
Perhaps it was!
And hoped for, longed for,
A more direct perception
A more intimate interpretation
A more positive reaction
More overt appreciation . . .

The Conundrum of
C-o-m-m-u-n-i-c-a-t-i-o-n.

Quatrains

2008-08-25T01:04:00.000-07:00

LIFE

From point to point to point and
To the point of No Return;
Not cyclical, not lineal, but
Tangential in its willful whimsicality!
*

TO _____
Don’t blame yourself, please don’t, Oh don’t!
For any feelings you can’t help;
Some attunements are beyond control, beyond
Resistance, beyond maybe even Self . . .
*

THE MOMENT

In the Ultimate Count they perhaps matter not –
The why – the how – the because . . .
Sufficient unto the Day the reckoning thereof;
At each Count, ultimately, what matters is Now!
*

THE CATALYST

It was not he – it was not for him – nor by him –
It was through him, possibly,
That the dam did break, as did composure,
And overwrought emotion flowed . . .
*

Of crimes Crimes CRIMES

2008-08-25T01:02:00.000-07:00

Of crimes and Crimes and CRIMES …These are tough times for a writer of crime fiction --- true-life threateningly impinges on the fictional, and imagination reels under the onslaught of newspaper reports. It would appear we are surrounded by crime --- and crime graded on scales of Czerniesque variations --- crimes of social nuisance and traffic offences to Crimes of kidnap and theft and murder to CRIMES, the organized crimes of terror and mayhem, crimes against the State, crimes planned and directed by the nether-world. The boundaries in between are getting increasingly blurred. There’s an upward mobility from crime to Crime to CRIME! The Police by and large remain the Police --- only sometimes, the Politicians take over. But that’s not upward mobility, that could be an overlap of jurisdiction, leading sometimes to ultimate usurpation. Can we then, any longer, afford the apathy of the uninvolved? Can any of us survive in an Ivory Tower of Olympian uninvolvement, without being ultimately engulfed? Not only do we suffer regular assault on our senses and sensibilities, but we perforce have to walk the tightrope between different kinds of Terrorism unleashed by divergent entities. To counter the terrorism of the underworld, the State unleashes Terrorism of its own, almost welcomed by the average citizen suffering a surfeit of crimes of all descriptions, till one gets caught in the pincer movement. Draconian laws enacted to contain one evil can become instruments of coercion in unscrupulous hands. To the general unease of a populace rendered vulnerable there’s the added danger of unrest deliberately created by the agents provocateur, trained, infiltrated and controlled by that nebulous but pervasive Foreign Hand. This infiltration is perhaps more invasive than we are wont to credit. Identity of skin-colour, physical characteristics, language, culture, food habits, etc., between these hostile agents and the general populace make detection virtually impossible, and the spread of inflammatory propaganda and incendiary action through innocent but gullible tools so much easier! A whisper becomes a rumour resulting in rowdiness culminating in riots.So stretched are the limits of credulity that nothing appears incredulous any more. And therein lies the danger that the Innocent may pay for Crimes or CRIMES they have not committed, that the victims may be portrayed as the perpetrators, the unwary associates as the active accomplices. Courts take too long, cases drag on for years, so whatever is fed to and by a multi-pronged media assumes the veneer of authenticity, even for the discerning viewer. The role of the information-givers gets confused with the role of the investigators. A query becomes a fact, a thought becomes a quote. By the time one’s Innocence is proclaimed, after prolonged proceedings, public imagination is seized with other sensations of that moment; what price, then, the liberty and reputation of the Innocent? Does that really matter, unless it happens to Us? That it can, does not occur to us until it does!Just as the commission of crime tends to have a spiralling effect, so could containment of crime have a diminishing effect. We have today a scenario where nearly every Citizen indulges in some crime or the other --- be it traffic offenses, municipal offenses, social crimes --- and then resorts to corrupting officials to overlook that offense; leading from corruption to Corruption to CORRUPTION! If crime and corruption could be contained by Citizens themselves, there would be that much less burden on our overburdened Police and Courts. Let us not think that if we can `get away’ with it, we should! In the long run, we all suffer the consequences of what some of us may have contributed to.Bombay has always preened itself on being the Melting Pot --- of diverse people, cultures, talents . . . the melting pot has unfortunately become a simmering cauldron, with faggots of fire being continually thrown from all directions. It’s time to bank down those fires before they conflagrate. For this, the People need to pull together as much as the Police and the Politicians and refrain from committing or tolerating crimes, as much as Crimes or CRIMES. Sigh! I know! We’ve all said it, ad infinitum. Now how about really, truly, getting down to it? We all CAN, you know!

Khatling Glacier Trek

2008-08-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

ALMOST UP TO HEAVEN . . .ALONG A GLORIOUS TRAIL. Ice-crusted peaks soaring heavenward, cleaving the azure expanse overhead . . . steep, craggy slopes dense with oak, deodar, birch and pine . . . lush meadows randomly dotted with a myriad species of exquisite streams gushing forth from glaciers, cutting deep gorges through stratified rock and icy moraines along their tempestuous course . . . words can convey just so much, give but the merest inkling of the aloof grandeur, the awesome beauty of that northern stretch of India : the Garhwal Himalayas. It is a region of remote, uncompromising beauty --- and yet accessible to those game enough to take up the challenge. To trek in the Himalayas, you merely need to be stout of heart and will --- not necessarily particularly strong of limb. I’m not ! And yet, with three of my friends, (all of us city slickers), we made it almost up to Heaven, along a gloriously dicey path --- with a few heart-stopping moments but without any mishap --- to Khatling Glacier . . . The name itself sounds somewhat intiimidating : like the rattling of a sabre . . . K H A T L I N G ! A pristine lateral glacier in the midst of dense forests, at a height of around 12,200 feet in the Garhwal Himalayas, slightly West of Gaumukh (considered to be the source of the holy River Ganga). It was rather early in the season when we decided to do the trek (generally not too difficult for regular high altitude trekkers) --- just the beginning of May . We knew we would face heavy snow in the higher reaches, and rains and hail along the way. What we did not know was, that last August there had been some glacier bursts in that region, resulting in heavy floods and major landslides; the path was all but washed away, rendering the mountainside treacherous. Blithely unaware of what was in store for us, we rushed in where Angels may perhaps have feared to tread . . . but we did return, limbs intact ! Khatling Glacier is the source of the Bhilangana River, which empties into the holy Bhagirathi. Bhagirathi confluences with the vivacious Alaknanda at Deoprayag, to form the legendary Ganga. Yes, the Indian Rivers have very definite adjectives applicable to them ! Eternal Eves, they have their consorts, the mountains, well and truly in their coils --- literally and figuratively ! Legend has it the Bhilangana is the transmigrated soul of a heavenly nymph, who tried to seduce the austere Lord Shiva, and failed. Unable to bear the humiliation of being spurned, she transformed herself into the River ! In the Garhwals, every River is a Goddess, and a God sits atop every snow-clad peak. You do not need to suspend disbelief to believe this, if you’re actually there. The very air exudes divine wonderment . . . and gets into the skin of even a cynical agnostic. Legend and myth are woven into the very fibre of Uttarakhand where untamed, untamable Nature holds Man in thrall and rational doubt gives way to fatalistic belief in the incredible, almost as a matter of course. Despite the dangers we faced, this was one trek I would not have liked to have missed. The Himalayas do that to you : hardships get trivialized beneath notice when you experience first-hand the breathtaking grandeur of the snow-dappled mountains, the fragrant aroma of the forests, the invigorating sight of Rhododendrons in full bloom and the soothing caress of wet leaves and trailing moss as you inch your way under the dense canopy of oak and deodar and pine. Somehow, from somewhere, you get the strength. Even if you collapse on reaching civilization ! We met at New Delhi. Rajan, Shishir and Kunal landed up at the New Delhi Railway Station to meet me at the platform. There was no bus to Rishikesh for at least another hour; we decided to take a taxi. From Bombay to Rishikesh is quite a leap --- in space, time, and ambience. The town resounds with spirituality : an agnostic could not escape the vibrations if he tried ! The River Ganga is the mainstay of the residents, and the focal point of attraction for the transient tourists and pilgrims. The Ganga is indeed the life-blood of Rishikesh. It is Rishikesh ! We stayed a day in Rishikesh, mainly to hire tents and equipment from the Garhwal Mangal Vikas Nigam (GMVN). We had hoped to get in a day’s river-rafting, but it was the tail-end of the season and instructors were not available. The GMVN does not permit rafting after May 1st. From Rishikesh, we took a cab to Ghuttu. Ghuttu is the last motor-head, before we start trekking. I fell ill at Rishikesh itself, and was trudging along with fever, a throat worse than sandpaper, and six antibiotics a day. (I normally never touch the stuff!) Not the ideal conditions for a trek, even to heavenly destination. But I still wouldn’t have liked to miss this one. Ghuttu, a delightful town on the banks of the Bhilangana River, was the last halt where we could get anything we needed for the trek ahead : food, medicines, provisions, etc. Normally, of course, everything likely to be needed during a trek is packed from home itself, before you take off. But one tends to forget, or run out of things. As one goes ahead, on the way to Khatling, there is nothing but wilderness . . . and breathtaking scenery. Food enough for the soul, no doubt --- but you do need to stock up food for the body, especially when you’re trekking 20-30 km. in about half a day, at altitudes above 10,000 feet. (In the mountains, it’s by and large advisable to reach your next camping spot by the afternoon). At Ghuttu, Reeh and Gangi, you can stay in the guest-houses run by the GMVN, as we did. The guest house at Ghuttu is well equipped, the canteen is rather good, and the view superb! (Most of the guest-houses of the GMVN are ideally located.) All the guest houses have an impressive number of tube-lights, bulbs, switches, etc. The only problem is the actual electricity, which is as unreliable as the weather in the hills! Most of the time, we had to make do with a hurricane lamp and our torches. Make sure you carry at least two powerful torches per person, and plenty of extra cells. In the Himalayas, the darkness envelopes you like an all-pervading blanket in which torch-beams get reduced to pathetic flickers. At Ghuttu, we hired four porters-cum-guides for the trek. We were carrying, apart from our personal baggage, tents, carry-mats, sleeping bags, a small stove, pressure cooker, a couple of vessels to cook in, food, provisions, medicines, kerosene, the works. And of course, provisions for the porters, including rice, daal, masala, etc. From Ghuttu to Reeh, (around 10-11 km.), the trek is along a fairly easy path, with few ups and downs. This trail too was washed away by the floods last August, but mercifully was rebuilt by the forest department and the villagers. The Reeh-Gangi stretch, also 10 km., is rather steep. Along the trails from Ghuttu to Gangi we met quite a few local inhabitants: rosy-cheeked children came running to us, with a cheerful Namaste, and the inevitable request for `mithai : sweets! The elderly stopped us with demands for medicines --- `goli, as they put it, for fever, headaches, and sore-throats : the usual ailments plaguing the mountain-dwellers. The women (almost all wearing the most elaborate and gorgeous gold nose-rings I had ever seen), eyed me curiously, asking the most personal questions without inhibition --- was I married, why wasn’t my husband with me, how many children did I have ? etc. etc. etc. . . Upto Gangi, there was a definite path, and though the trek was rather steep and tiring in parts, it was not life-threatening. The local inhabitants had terraced considerable chunks of the mountainside for cultivation, and golden patches of wheat swaying in the nascent sunshine were a common sight, before they fell prey to the cutting edge of the scythe. From time to time we would come across mounts of freshly-dug earth --- those turned out to be potato farms. Potato is the one vegetable freely available in those regions, apart from lingdi, which the locals call `99’, because the veggie is shaped like a `9’! The locals busy themselves with cultivation, and grazing herds of goats, sheep, cows and buffaloes on the gentler slopes. During the trekking season, some make money acting as porters and guides. Having shaken off the heat and dust of the plains, we revelled in temperatures ranging from 5 degrees Celsius to 15 degrees. We crossed numerous small streams along the way, some having rickety bridges, some having no bridges, merely stones and boulders over which we hopped across. It rained heavily every afternoon till the night, and at Gangi it actually hailed quite heavily. The evening we reached Gangi, the weather became so bad that we had grave apprehensions, whether or not we’d be able to go ahead. Because beyond Gangi all was wilderness --- we were warned by the porters and guides that they themselves were not too sure of the way. Ours was virtually the first team, that season, to proceed towards Khatling. It was rather early in the year, and the path had all but disappeared. Traversing the mountains had now indeed become a Himalayan task (pun intended)! The horsemen had to abandon their horses and carry all luggage on their backs. From now on, there were no guest-houses, no cultivated patches, no villages, no herds of goats, cows or buffaloes. Just the forested mountains, the river and streams. And us. We reduced our luggage almost by half, leaving behind the rest of the stuff in the guest-house at Gangi. Fortunately, the day we left Gangi was quite sunny and bright. We started off at a brisk pace, determined to brave the way ahead . . . . . . What lay ahead was a squelchy mass of treacherous, pathless mountainside! Large chunks of mountains had been washed away by the landslides and glacier bursts. In parts, entire mountains had been cloven almost into half, completely stripped of all vegetation from the peak to the foot. Huge trees lay uprooted and we had to clamber ahead over the felled trunks of the once majestic oaks and gracious deodars which now lay dying, supporting colonies of mushrooms and a profusion of ferns. The mountainside had become dangerous, in parts almost life-threatening. It became difficult to get any safe foot-hold. The earth was wet and lumpy, causing our feet to slip; there were loose boulders and rocks all round, giving way at the slightest touch, likely to go hurtling down if we stepped on them; we could not hold on to the trees for support as their roots had been weakened by the landslide --- they were likely to come off in our hands, as we teetered at the edge of a praecipice above a 1000-foot fall into the Bhilangana ! At times, we found it easier to sit and slither across, or roll across, almost lying on the ground. The porters were tremendous help on such stretches. One of them had attached himself quite firmly to me and would not let me out of his sight. From time to time he would murmur encouragingly : “Don’t worry Didi, I won’t let you fall. I’ll take you on my shoulders, if need be!” I did not have the heart to tell him I’d be even more terrified of being carried on his shoulder, in those stretches! At that altitude, it is necessary to stay close to the ground, to ensure gravitational balance. However, the guide’s helping hand was tremendously reassuring. But what really saved us was the humble forest bamboo! Bamboo has roots that go deep into the earth and the shoots are extremely flexible, yet strong. (The green ones that is; the dry ones would snap.) Whenever we saw a clump of bamboos, we would sigh with relief, “Jaan bach gayee!” Clinging on to the bamboo for dear life, the porters and the four of us made it across from Gangi to Kharsoli. Nonetheless, the trek was extremely rewarding and the sights, sounds and smells that assaulted our senses will stay encapsulated in our memories for a long time to come. The views were stupendous : looming all around were the snow-clad peaks glittering in the sun; the Khatling itself, a huge expanse of virgin ice, glowing with a cold fire, as alluring as any Lorelei, beckoning us farther; the forest, daily laundered, exuding a heady aroma a perfumer may well covet; the canopy of trees soothing the eye and invigorating the spirit; the frothy Bhilangana bubbling away alongside, feeding numerous small streams and waterfalls which added enchantment to the trek . . . and all along the trail bloomed the spectacularly gorgeous Rhododendron. Blooming on shrubs that grow higher than eye level, the Rhododendron provided for us a phatasmagoria of colours: deep reds, scrumptuous pinks, tender mauves, pristine whites --- heavy, dew-drenched blooms balanced delicately on slender stems swaying gently in the breeze. The oak and birch and deodar hosted huge quantities of moss and epiphytic ferns that tickled our faces as we walked underneath. Occasionally we would come across a patch of the graceful silver birch --- the bhojpatra, whose bark can be peeled into strips, which the Ancients used to write text on, and store grain in. And the birds . . . the birds! Tits, Himalayan wood pigeons, bee-eaters, Himalayan magpies, Himalayan Eagles and numerous other species were seen and heard all along the trail, the birdsong now a glorious symphony, then a muted harmony, yet again a sharp counterpoint. Near Kalyani, on the way to Kharsoli, Rajan’s attention was attracted by a rock which seemed to move ! A strange, brown-coloured rock. Under our astonished gaze, the rock metamorphosed into a huge grizzly bear; it ambled around for a while, then caught hold of a tree trunk in the distance. We waited, breath bated, to see if it would climb the tree, when the porters started a ruckus, and the grizzly fled. We also sighted some foxes, a lone mongoose, and lots of langurs. Fortunately, all from a comfortable distance. Kharsoli, around 16 km. ahead of Gangi, is a good tenting spot to pitch camp. From a distance, the ground seemed level, and running water, the pre-requisite of any camping site, was available close by. Closer inspection, however, revealed that the ground was covered with stinging nettles and was not really that level. But there was no help for it ! We had to pitch tents there. The guys gallantly tried to choose the best site for my two-man tent, where I would stay alone, being the lone lady in the group. Even the `best’ site had a good-ish slope and every night I would find myself and the sleeping bag sliding down, down, down, and almost out of the tent ! The days we spent at Kharsoli and its environs were bliss indeed, despite the hassles . . . rising every morning to a spectacular view of the Khatling: the expanse of ice was at its most pristine white, powdered daily by fresh snow-fall. Glaciers have a crystalline quality that render them dazzling to the eye, especially in the nascent sunshine of early morn. The Khatling seemed a large drop of opal suspended in the distance, refracting the light into a myriad delicate hues. There was no other habitation around, and we were alone among the elements. The stars at night seemed a benediction and the bird-song at dawn, an enchanting call to rise ! From Kharsoli we trekked ahead farther. Crossing a couple of ice-fields, we made it up to Belbhagi, around 14 km. from the Khatling. We could not go beyond Belbhagi, as indeed we had been warned. There was heavy snow ahead, and the weather was worsening. We ultimately broke camp and returned to Ghuttu, perforce in half the time. The day we reached Ghuttu, the heavens opened up in a deluge. We had made it back just in time . . . after reaching almost up to Heaven . . . with a tantalizing bit of the way left for some other time . . . when the Rhododendron would bloom again.! and the Khatling not rattle quite so much.* * * *FACTSHEET The best season for trekking in the Garhwals, generally, is from end-May till end-September. From Ghuttu one can also go up to Panwali Kantha, (instead of to Khatling Glacier), and then onward to Kedarnath; another scenic route is from Reeh to Sahastratal. If one does not wish to walk too much, one can just go up to Gangi --- or can even stay put at Ghuttu, which is a charming Himalayan town, on the banks of the Bhilangana river. This area, unlike the Yatra line, is not crowded at all. The GMVN rest houses are clean, comfortable, have attached bathrooms, and very reasonable rates, from Rs.60/- per day to Rs. 200 per day, double occupancy ! The rest houses provide food. Tents, etc. can be hired from Rishikesh, or even Ghuttu. Guides and porters may be engaged from Ghuttu. The rates of the porters vary from around Rs.150/- to 200/- per day, plus food and tent accommodation. Tent hire-charges are quite reasonable, but you have to put in a refundable deposit of around Rs.2000/- per tent. From Ghuttu to Rishikesh there is a daily bus service, leaving at 7 am. There is a later bus, which terminates at Tehri. It is not easy to get taxis at Ghuttu, unless one is booked in advance, from Rishikesh or Tehri.

Idyll on an Isle - Tasmania

2008-08-25T00:57:00.000-07:00

IDYLL ON AN ISLE …TASMANIAIt caused consternation, my decision to take off alone on a backpacking trip to Tasmania barely five days after I had landed in Melbourne. “But what’s to see in Tasmania?” protested one of my brother’s friends. “Nothing but jungles!”It was indeed the lure of the bush that drew me to the tiny island south of mainland Australia. Tasmania, however, has lots more to offer …Melbourne is the ideal departure point for Tasmania --- you can either fly down to Hobart or Launceston, or take the boat, aptly called `The Spirit of Tasmania’ which takes you to Devonport, across the 240 km. Bass Strait. That’s what I did --- far more romantic, even when you’re travelling alone!The Apple Isle, as it is also called, the only island state of Australia is stated to have been discovered in 1742 by Abel Tasman, the Dutch navigator. Once used as an outpost of an Empire to hold the convicts deported from `genteel’ lands, this tiny island is now one of Australia’s major tourist attractions, the gory history of the convict past being but an added attraction to hold visitors in thrall. I was told one week would be enough to explore the entire island --- I found that even the fortnight I’d scheduled for myself was insufficient. This tiny island offers a fascinating diversity of natural splendour, has several places of historical interest, (including ghostly ruins), charming towns with excellent facilities for tourists, heritage buildings and old-world cottages, warm, friendly people, and to top it all, is cheaper than mainland Australia! Like most cliches, this one is oh-so-true of the island of Tasmania: it has a bit to offer every taste. Whether you are a mountain person or a beach bum, a history and heritage buff, one of the kulture-klatura, or an indefatigable trekker preferring long stretches in the woods, whether you love wild life or have an eye for the birds, whether you have a yen for tribal lore or a passion for flora-fauna, Tasmania offers it all. The Tasman House Backpacker’s Hostel, in Devonport, was the only place where I’d pre-booked, from Bombay. The town of Devonport, cleft by the River Mersey, despite its laid-back ambience, is an important business and retail centre. There are several attractions surrounding Devonport, but I was keen to trek in the Cradle Mountain. David and Mike drove down a motley group of us from the hostel to the Cradle Mountain. This is the starting point of the world-famous `Overland Track’, the dream of most trekkers round the world: an 85 km trek from Cradle Mountain to Lake St. Clair, through rainforests, alpine highlands, ancient pines, and deciduous beech, ablaze with colour during autumn. Cradle Mountain was so named by one Joseph Fossey, in 1827, for reasons which become only too apparent at first sight. The area however boasts several wonders not so readily apparent, and the best way to enjoy this or any other of Tasmania’s National Parks would be to camp inside. Half a day is just not enough, though I was lucky enough to spot a couple of wallabies, one delicately perched on a fallen log, feeding off the leaves, by the side of a crystalline rippling stream cascading into a minor waterfall by the side of the beech-wooded mountainside … “Not enough time to go rambling too much, but we’ll make it round the Dove Lake all right,” David assured me. We did.Strahan, on the West Coast, has been listed as the world’s best `little’ town by the travel editor of the Chicago Tribune. It is also the gateway to the Franklin-Gordon National Park, part of the famed World Heritage site in Tasmania. I’d been devoured by the desire to visit Strahan much before I left Bombay. Strahan is indeed a lovely little town and the Youth Hostel correspondingly so, set in a rather wild garden with a stream boasting a real, live platypus in it! Strahan is the gateway to the Gordon River, which leads up to the Wild Rivers National park --- the Wild rivers being the Franklin and the Gordon, which hurtle down rainforested wilderness to empty into the vast Macquarie Harbour, on which the town of Strahan is situated. These untamed rivers, which flow through lush valleys, spectacular gorges or `narrows’, thundering over rapids, were very nearly tamed in the 1980’s, when a major controversy erupted over a decision to dam the rivers for hydroelectricity. They were saved by a major environmental campaign, which is said to have caused a change of government!As you cruise down the Gordon, as I did, on the Wanderer III, you thank the campaigners, that the Gordon remains untamed, enjoying the reflection of the Huon pines and the celery-top pines in the clear waters, stained the colour of tea, the tannin leached down into the water from the button-grass proliferating along the banks.As the Wanderer III proceeded its majestic course up the river Gordon, we passed several `farms’, breeding fish. (Tasmania, incidentally is a foodies’ paradise, especially if you enjoy sea-food!”)“We are now approaching the Hell’s Gates”, came the sudden announcement, abruptly jolting me out of pleasant thoughts of grilled crayfish washed down by sauvignon blanc.Hell’s Gates is a narrow stretch of water between two huge rocks, beyond which lies Sarah Island, from 1822 to 1833 the site of a brutal penal colony, dreaded by the transported convicts, who termed its approach the Gates to Hell.The name seems strangely incongruous in present times, the two dramatically rising rocks framing an island that seems serenely green in the sun, from afar. However, as you go around the island in the wake of a guide realistically conjuring horrific visions of the convict past, foreboding seeps into the atmosphere rendered sinister by the imagined sound of the whiplash singing through the air to fall on bare flesh, wrenching heartrending cries from the convicts, the ruins of the original buildings a concrete reminder of that dark period of Tasmania’s history. A pleasanter halt was the Heritage Landing, where we rambled through an ancient rainforest, the highlight of the walk being a gigantic 2000 year-old Huon Pine, which, having survived man and nature alike, is now protected in this World heritage Area.Strahan is a delightful to walk around, especially along the Esplanade on the water front … and if you walk long enough, you can make it to the Hogarth Falls. The actual waterfall is situated at the far end of a rainforest full of huge man-ferns, almost my height, (5’7”) and swamp gums towering overhead. From Strahan it was to Hobart, the capital of the State, of which Charles Darwin had opined, way back in 1836: “If I was obliged to emigrate I certainly should prefer this place … “Hobart is indeed one of the world’s loveliest cities, with a historic waterfront, elegant colonial architecture, stylish Georgian sandstone warehouses, (now housing boutiques, cafes, jewellery stores, art galleries!), and several patches of green.It was in Hobart that I had a proper introduction to the unique flora and fauna of Tasmania, at the Botanical Gardens, and at the Bonorong Wildlife park, where I could cuddle a koala, a creature after my heart --- in a day, it sleeps for twenty hours, feeds for three and a half, and moves about for --- at the most --- half an hour! Angry yapping sounds attracted me to the adjoining enclosure, holding the Tasmanian Devils. The Devil, found only in Tasmania, more than lives up to its name. It was feeding time, and the creatures were fighting over a leg of lamb. The Devil is a small creature, black with a whitish patch on the back or the rump, and, to my prejudiced perception, red eyes! Weighing barely 4.5 kg, it has a jaw strength of three tonnes, and is a voracious eater. Known as the vacuum cleaner of the bush, one Tassie Devil can polish off a whole cow in one week, bones and horns and all! It is a marsupial, rearing its young in its pouch; (the mother is known to eat her young); a nocturnal creature with bad eyesight and a keen sense of smell. To top it all, it is basically a coward. The high point of Hobart, literally, is Mt. Wellington, and a drive to the top is de rigueur indeed. The view, however, depends upon the weather. When I went up, it was windy, squally, chilly. And no view!Otherwise, the high point is the Salamanca Market, on Saturdays --- so try to be in Hobart then! In the space of a Saturday afternoon, I picked up a gorgeous hand-knitted blouse, found myself talking to a well-known historian, buying several souvenirs for friends back home, and eating Tayberry Ice-cream; (what’s a tayberry? It’s somewhat like a loganberry, was the helpful answer. what’s a loganberry? ummnn… a sweet and sour berry.) It was yum all right!There were still several places I wanted to visit, and time was running out. I discovered a couple of companies running one-day tours. One of these was aptly named `Bottom Bits’. I took the Bottom Bits tour (4 – 5 persons, in a jeep) to Mt. Field National Park, and to Freycinet, which boasts the spectacular Wine Glass Bay.The main attraction of Mt. Filed are the Russell Falls, water cascading at several levels, more dramatic than any designer set could be! What struck me about the trek from the entrance of the Park to the Falls was that not only was the path well maintained, but it allowed for access to handicapped persons as well! Our tourism departments in India could take several lessons from the Tasmanians.Freycinet is a park of staggering contrasts --- rich forests full of wild flowers including a variety of gorgeous orchids, towering, jagged peaks of bare rock, mainly pink and gray granite, towering straight out of waters of the clearest aquamarine.The Wineglass Bay is listed as one of the ten best beaches in the world by the Travel Magazine, `Outside’. It does live up to its name --- it’s almost a perfect wine glass! But the best vantage point is from the top of Mt. Amos, around 4000 feet of solid, yet slippery rock. I was determined to climb up. “You must be crazy!” protested Rob, the driver/guide/owner of Bottom Bits.I told him not to worry about me. But he wouldn’t let me go alone. Ultimately, Rob, a British girl, Kate, and myself decided to venture up. We made it. And the view from the top was worth each grazed shin.A visit to Tasmania would not have been complete without taking in the Port Arthur Historical Site, on the Tasman Peninsula. On the way to the Site, past what is called the Blow Hole (yes, it is, water blowing though a hole in a huge rock!), is a town called `Doo’. There is an unwritten rule, by and for all who live there, that each cottage must have the word `Doo’ in its name --- you can imagine the names: “She’ll Doo,” “Have-to-doo”, “Just Doo It”, “Love Me Doo”, “Make Doo” … think up some more?Initially colonized as a timber station, Port Arthur almost immediately became the gaol for an Empire. Between 1830 and 1877, about 12,500 transported convicts were imprisoned at Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula, which was considered to be the ideal site for his new gaol by Lt.-governor George Arthur, being almost entirely surrounded by water, the only available escape being the narrow isthmus of Eaglehawk Neck, which was guarded by as many as 18 vicious dogs chained across the neck of the isthmus, double guard of sentries and armed constables. It is perhaps a triumph of the human spirit and ingenuity that despite this formidable guard, three bushrangers managed to escape in the 1840’s.The sandstone prison buildings, as also parts of the Church, are well preserved, and there are night-time lantern-lit guided tours, which tell chilling tales of ghostly apparitions and the clanking of chains in the chill of the night, evoking memories of the bloody punishments meted out to transportees, some barely in their twenties, some for offences no worse than stealing loaves of bread or a bundle of clothes!One of the girls I had met at a youth hostel had raved to me about Bruny Island. Luckily, I found it was possible to do a short trip. A car-cum-passenger ferry from Kettering, on the outskirts of Hobart, took me to Bruny Island. And the manager of the YHA there, Simon, had come to fetch me in his car, right from the doorstep of my hostel in Hobart!Simon was a kindred soul! A nature lover, and a keen conservationist.A narrow isthmus separates north Bruny from south Bruny, and a ride across the isthmus is a treat for the senses: almost like driving through water. With a slight leap of imagination, it was driving through water!Bruny Island had several other delightful surprises in store: it was in Bruny that I saw my first echidna in the wild, spotted the first white wallaby at night; it was in Bruny that I stayed overnight in a caravan for the first time in my life. The YHA, where I stayed the first night, was in an idyllic location, bang on the beach at Adventure Bay. I went for a long walk at night, alone on the beach, in the light of the moon, startled out of my skin to find something cold and wet rubbing against my knee --- it was Billy, the dog from the YHA --- He’d constituted himself my protector, and refused to go back to the hostel till I did!Bruny was a fine way to end the idyll on the Apple Isle, back to the beckoning lights of Melbourne. It was a rare idyll, however, that would very well bear a revisit.****

Nomenclature

2008-08-25T00:56:00.000-07:00

NOMENCLATURE

“Marriage is no more Union
Than is Baptism Birth
Or Funeral Death”
E. M. Forster

White – white – white –
Light – light – light –
Bright – bright – bright –
Rite – rite – rite –

White the Robes
Light around
Bright the Fire
Rites abound.

But marriage rites
Do not ensure
In the marriage bed
Satisfaction Or Fecundity.
Nor, in married life,
Felicity.

And Birth is but
An AccidentOf mating
Passionate or passionless
Regardless.

And Baptism but an option
Attendant upon
The AccidentOf Parentage.

What of Death?
Death the Enigma
Death the Sceptre
Death the Inevitability …

Funeral robes cannot contain
Funeral chants cannot explain
Funeral rites cannot attain
The Finality
Of Death.

Rites linger
And recur
Month after month
Year after year.
A Comma, a Colon, a Dash.

While Death is but the Point.

And Resurrection the Hope
That enables Man survive
The thought of Death.
Death, he cannot survive . . .

Black – black – black –
Bleak – bleak – bleak –
Blank – blank – blank –
Blight – blight – blight –

Till the cycle returns
To
White – white – white . . .
To
The Reality of
Birth - Union – Death;
To
The Illusion of
Baptism – Marriage – Funeral.

Is the Illusion the Lie?
or the Reality?
Or Reality itself an Illusion?

If Truth be told … ….
What Truth?
The bedfellow of Lie?
Or its doppelgaenger?
Its interchangeable shadow?
Or a Parallel that never meets
Even in infinity!?

White – Black – White –
Light – Shadow – Light –
Bright – Dark – Bright –
Right – Rite – Right –
***

ZEN

2008-08-25T00:54:00.000-07:00

Z E N

It’s only a Zen, after all;
It’s not Zen!

A tin body –
- Wheels –
Some lights –
- A horn . . .

Yes, also
Space –
- Movement –
Light –
-Sound . . .

FREEDOM!

Or at least the mobility
That passes for Freedom;
A transient escape
On wheels that moveYet cannot move
Away
From what Moves them . . .

*

Humble Pie

2008-08-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

HUNTINGThe Humble Pie.In the beginning there was nothing.And then there was the Word.And then God said, Let there be Light. And so there was Light.And then came the heat. So human beings, who proliferated on the Earth, could stave off the cold. And fashion implements. And cook. Above all, cook. Boil and roast and bake. One of the easiest dishes humans learnt to bake, since the beginning of Time, was the Pie. A crust, with a filling. And the filling could be so versatile, so divergent! Anything and everything could go into the Pie, to suit any and every taste; the seasoning too could vary, to please the palate. Some of the Pies were baked with the choicest of victuals. Sometimes anything and everything went into the making of the Pie: a hotchpotch of mismatched leftovers. Such Pies did not even last long enough to be savoured and ingested. They crumbled within a short time, and the mess had to be cleared up by other Pie-makers. As Pie-making became more complicated and competitive, Pie-makers congregated into groups to make Pies jointly, so the Pies became bigger, more crusty, more weighty. Each group looked the other askance, warily at first, then with increasing hostility. Of course, there were some Pie makers who could not rest content in their own group. They wanted their fingers in other Pies as well! Sometimes their fingers got bitten off when stuck into other Pies. If fingers were stuck into other very large pies, there was tragedy. Because such fingers got sliced off, not merely bitten. Carving knives are required to carve up large Pies, a bite isn’t nearly enough. But those sticking fingers do not have the sense to realize that!Then some groups came together, and loose confederations of Pie-makers came into being. As confederations grew larger, recipes became more rigid, weights and measures more precise. The individuality of Pie-making was getting lost in the mechanization of the entire process. Some groups baked Pies they themselves could not digest!One disgruntled Pie-maker decided to give up Pie-making for a while and go round the world, tasting different Pies, till he found a taste that was to his taste, which group he could join. The night before he started on his travels round the world, the Archangel came to him in his dream to bless him for his forthcoming sojourn. Before parting, the Archangel whispered in Konphuzaid’s ear, (for that’s the name of our disenchanted friend), “Be sure to try a bite of the Humble Pie. You will know it the minute you taste it.”This was a new one on Konphuzaid. But he was determined to obey the Archangel to the letter, and grab a huge bite of the Humble Pie, and determined to seek it out, wherever it may be lurking in the world. Konphuzaid trudged round the world, throwing himself into an orgy of Pie-eating. He grabbed huge bites of each Pie, in his anxiety not to miss anything, and to eat his fill of each taste. That of course led to the inevitable result. Sometimes he was forced to eat a mishmash of Pies of differing groups in the same day, leading to terrible rumblings in his insides. The fillings don’t agree, he would mutter to himself, they don’t agree at all. To make matters worse, the conglomerates of Pie-makers readjusted from day to day, and the fillings changed accordingly. Konphuzaid was mixed-up in the mind and sore in the stomach. But still he soldiered on. No one knew of the Humble Pie. No one had heard of it. No sudden revelation came to him, as he gulped Pie after Pie after Pie. Ultimately, tired and dispirited, Konphuzaid returned to the point of his beginning and lay down his weary self, praying for another audience with the Archangel. He was determined to get to the bottom of this Humble Pie business.The Archangel reappeared in his dream. Konphuzaid could not forbear a glance of reproach. “I searched high and low for your Humble Pie,” he grumbled. “But could find it no place. You’d better tell me now, before you send me again on a wild Pie chase, where to find this esoteric Pie!”“My dear friend,” smirked the Archangel. “You have taken many bites out of it, without even realizing it was the Humble Pie that you were eating. Each group makes it, each group has to eat it, sometime or another. The secret lies not in the Pie, but in one’s tongue. The wise know well when they are eating the Humble Pie, and hence always bite off only what they can chew, and chew only what they can digest. As for the fools --- they grab huge bites of everything they can lay their hands on, whether they can digest it or not! That’s when the stomach begins to grumble, when there is upheaval in the intestines, and we all know what’s let loose then, don’t we?”****