Monsoon Memories
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN
United Kingdom
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Renita D’Silva 2013
Renita D’Silva has asserted her right to be identified
as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
ISBN: 978-1-909490-04-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank my publisher, Bookouture, for believing in me enough to agree to publish not only this book but two other books I hadn’t even written at the time I signed my contract. Bookouture have been tireless in their efforts to make Monsoon Memories the best book it could possibly be.
I am extremely grateful to Oliver Rhodes at Bookouture for his patience and advice, for creating such a fabulous cover, for my brilliant website and for guiding me at every step of the exhilarating journey from manuscript to publication of this book.
I am grateful to Lorella Belli of the Lorella Belli Agency for her guidance and for her efforts in making Monsoon Memories reach a wider audience.
A huge thank you to Jenny Hutton, my editor, for all the hard work she put into making every sentence sing at exactly the right note.
I would like to thank Cornerstones for helping me hone the manuscript before I submitted it and Kathy Gale to whom I went for advice after I attended her talk at the Kingston Readers’ Festival.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my friend Louise Swain, who asked me to enrol in a writing course, who egged me on and who read my very first draft, which she says she will sell when I am famous.
This book would not have been possible without the support of my family: my mother who believed in me from the time I penned my first poem as a seven year old; my father for filling our house with books even though we could ill afford them; my children who humoured me every time I was faced with rejection: ‘When your book is published, we will…’ and who proudly told everyone at school that their mother had ‘written so many books’ when my first short story got published; my husband whose quiet and unstinting support I rely on.
And last but not least, I thank you for buying this book and for taking the time to read it.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Ghosts
CHAPTER TWO
The Curious Case of
the Mysterious Girl from
the Photograph
CHAPTER THREE
Sister Maya's Bulbous Nose
CHAPTER FOUR
Super Sleuth Investigates
CHAPTER FIVE
Blue-Green Soda Bottles
CHAPTER SIX
Madhu's favourite
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Cricket Team
CHAPTER EIGHT
Puffed-Up Puris and
Gluey Bhaji
CHAPTER NINE
Cow-Dung Pastes and
Gram-Flour Baths
CHAPTER TEN
Maggi Noodles and Bournvita
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blue-Tinged Shadow
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sunglasses in the Rain
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Untouchable Prince Charming
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Film-Star Aunt
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rickety Old Rickshaw
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chats on the Veranda at Twilight
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Parcels from the Gulf
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hand Stretched to Infinity
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Good Match
CHAPTER TWENTY
Navarathna Super Deluxe
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dog-Eared Diary
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Destined for Greatness
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mrs. Vaz
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Girl in Pigtails
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Daughter's Duty
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dark Silhouettes
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Spilt Coffee
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Grandpa Walter's Favourite Spot
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Swaddled Bundle
CHAPTER THIRTY
Colossians 3:13
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kulfi Ice Cream
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Beginnings
CHAPTER ONE
Ghosts
OCTOBER
Shirin dreamt of home. Of monsoon showers drumming their rat-a-tat beat on the tiled roof. Of sitting on the veranda sipping hot sweet tea and biting into spicy potato bondas freshly cooked by Madhu. Of Madhu herself, in her pink sari with white flowers, washing clothes beside the well and smiling when she saw Shirin, opening her arms wide and welcoming her in, smelling of washing soap and fried onions and whispering in her ear, ‘You came. I knew you would.’
Coconut-tree fronds danced in the wind, displacing drops of rain like the holy water Father Sequeira sprinkled across the pews as he walked down the church aisle on feast days; and the crows that were perched on the branches flew away, black silhouettes against a moody sky.
The tamarind tree in the front courtyard bent like a weary old man from the weight of its ripe knobbly fruit. Her father, Walter, sat under it on the threadbare rattan stool, absently swatting at mosquitoes as he read his Bible, its pages worn from use; the ever-present bottle of water by his side, within easy reach.
Her sister, Anita, squatted on the veranda, recounting earnestly everything that had happened to her that day and Shirin felt guilty, as she only half listened, nodding at appropriate times, her mind wandering.
Deepak slouched with his gang of friends by the church and eyed all the college girls. He laughed, eyes twinkling—momentarily distracted from his perusal of Anjali, his latest crush, by Shirin’s expression when she found the dead lizard he had left as a souvenir in her accountancy textbook.
Her mother, Jacinta, resplendent in her blue-and-gold sari, dressed ready to go to church, entreated, ‘I have to attend this parish council meeting, Shirin. Don’t you be gone when I come back. Please, Shirin, we have so much to talk about.’ Worry lines creased Jacinta’s face and Shirin wondered why her reserved, unflappable mother looked so concerned.
Jacinta left, walking down the hill past the mango trees. Shirin saw her making her way between the fields, the green ears of paddy bending gracefully, eavesdropping on whispered conversations. Jacinta looked back at Shirin one last time, a plea in her eyes.
A baby. Red scrunched-up face. Downy golden skin. Mewling minuscule mouth. Toothless red gums. Chubby arms extended upwards, tiny hands bunched into fists. Reaching out.
Shirin woke with a start, hot
tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached for Vinod but the empty space beside her told her that he had already left for work. She glanced bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. 8:00 a.m. The phone beckoned. She picked it up, dialled Vinod’s number.
‘Hello,’ he said.
In the background, she could hear chatter and the steady chug-a-chug of the train Vinod took to work—normal, working-day sounds.
‘Vinod,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ he prompted. He was taciturn, but never impatient.
‘Vinod, I want to go home.’
* * *
The day was populated with ghosts. Ghosts from a past that Shirin had tried desperately to relegate to a corner of her heart. Ghosts that stubbornly refused to stay quiet or hidden and every so often manifested in memories that washed over her and left her dizzy with yearning.
She was waiting, the engine of her old Honda Civic idling, at a pedestrian crossing on the way to work, wishing away the headache that loomed behind her eyelids, when she felt premonition chill her spine. She looked up and her gaze was held by a pair of eyes—cold, empty and yet somehow accusatory—among the press of people crossing the road. She was aware of a rushing in her ears, of her whole body trembling, of her heart screaming against her chest. She wanted to gun the engine and drive away but she was hemmed in by the people ahead and the cars behind. She wanted to get out of the car and run. But what if the Eyes followed?
The last straggling pedestrian crossed and Shirin raced away, breaking the speed limit, constantly checking all mirrors to make sure she wasn’t pursued. When the crossing was a safe distance behind, she pulled up at a gas station, taking in the other cars, the people visible through the lit windows of the shop. No empty, threatening eyes. She switched off the engine and locked herself in. Then, with shaky fingers reluctant to do her bidding, she pulled out her phone and dialled Vinod’s number for the second time that morning.
‘Yes?’ His voice was clipped.
‘Vinod, I saw...’
‘Shonu. I am at a meeting. Can I call you back?’
Why had she called him? She knew how busy he was, how he hated to be disturbed at work. Everything was off-kilter since the dream this morning. And what she had just seen... A hallucination? Something real? Here? Now?
He misinterpreted her silence. ‘Shonu, I’m sorry.’ She heard voices discussing flowcharts. Male laughter. ‘I’ll call you later. Bye.’ Ringtone loud in her ear. She put the phone back in her bag, unlocked the car and stepped outside on jelly legs. She was a survivor. She wouldn’t let what she’d just seen—thought she’d seen?—defeat her. She smoothed her skirt, flicked a sliver of lint off her shirt. A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door of the shop. The Asian man at the till looked up briefly. Drowsy brown eyes glazed with boredom. Stop this. Stop inspecting the eyes of everyone you see. She treated herself to coffee and a jam doughnut.
At work she was swamped with concerned queries and advice she didn’t want: ‘Shirin, you look peaky.’ ‘What’s the matter—you coming down with something?’ ‘Two ibuprofen and a black coffee, that’s what works for me.’ And exaggerated winks and nudges with allusions to the night before: ‘Enjoyed ourselves a bit too much last night, did we?’ ‘What was the occasion then?’
She went straight to Kate’s office and knocked. ‘Have you had breakfast? I got doughnuts.’
‘Are you all right, babe? You look like something the cat brought in.’
Kate: witty, straight-talking, Irish; her only friend in the UK. Kate was the one who had interviewed her at CST Solutions, looking for a software programmer to join her team. Immediately after the interview, Kate had held out her hand to Shirin: ‘I know I’m breaking all the rules and we’re supposed to get back to you after three days, but what the heck—you’re on. Welcome to CST Solutions, Shirin. Welcome to my team.’ Shirin had stared at Kate’s hand, at her beaming face with its faint dusting of freckles.
‘The person on the CV, that’s not who I am,’ she’d said.
‘It’s not? As long as you do your work well, I don’t care who you are,’ Kate had replied, a bemused smile on her face. Something in Shirin had shifted then; the chill that had taken root since leaving India had thawed slightly and she’d warmed to this woman with her upturned mouth made for laughter.
Kate was the only person besides Vinod who knew the truth about Shirin’s past. She had had to confide in her, when the thing happened with Ian. For Shirin, who had learned the hard way not to trust anyone, trusting Kate with her story was a leap of faith. To her credit, Kate had not been outraged, had not sacked Shirin as she’d half expected her to, had not treated her differently since. And tentatively over the years, Kate had morphed from boss to friend.
Now Shirin asked, ‘Do I look that bad?’
Kate nodded, ‘Like you’re coming down with something. Are you? Do you need the day off?’
‘No. I’ve just had a shock, that’s all. A blast from the past.’ She tried to be blasé, to put on a smile. It didn’t work. Not with Kate.
‘What happened?’
The concern in Kate’s voice brought it all back. Made her knees buckle. She sat. ‘I... I dreamt of home. Woke up aching with longing. I used to have these dreams a lot in the beginning. So vivid. Like I was there. Like that was real and this... this life a dream...’
‘But it wasn’t only that, was it?’
Perceptive Kate. ‘No.’ A deep breath. ‘On the way here, I was at a pedestrian crossing. I saw...’ A pair of eyes. Empty yet menacing. Looking directly at her. ‘The Eyes...’
Kate’s startled gaze held hers. ‘Here? Now?’
‘I... I don’t know.’
‘Was there a face? A person? Anything?’
An intake of breath that came out a sigh. ‘Just the Eyes. Like in the nightmares.’
‘Yesterday. Did something happen? Something that jogged your memory? Caused the dream and this...’
Shirin met Kate’s gaze. ‘Her birthday.’ A whisper.
Kate’s mouth: a perfect maroon-lipsticked O. A couple of years ago, when Kate had had her pregnancy scare with the Boyfriend from Hell, Shirin had told her. The final ugly truth about herself. Her guilty secret. Her biggest regret.
‘Does it happen every year?’
‘Not like this. The dream perhaps... But not...’
‘What you just saw?’
‘Must have been my imagination—don’t you think, Kate?’ It was a plea.
‘I’m sure it was.’ Kate gave Shirin’s arm another squeeze. ‘Shirin, it’s been ten years...’
‘Eleven,’ Shirin whispered.
‘Eleven then. After all you’ve been through, what’s the worst that can happen?’
Shirin closed her eyes, gripped the arms of her chair. She could think of a few things.
‘All right, I’ll shut up now. I’m not helping.’ And then, very gently, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Shirin shook her head, no. Kate nodded once, then stood abruptly, clicking her fingers. ‘Come on, you need a strong black coffee. And work. Nothing like work to get your mind off all this.’
‘Yes,’ said Shirin, shaking her head to clear her mind of visions of cold, empty, accusing eyes. ‘Nothing quite like work.’
CHAPTER TWO
The Curious Case of
the Mysterious Girl from
the Photograph
SEPTEMBER
It was when she was visiting her grandmother on a rain-drenched, gloomy afternoon in September and there was nothing better to do than go over old photographs, musty and yellowed with age, that Reena found it. It was tucked away behind one of the other photos in the album. She would never have discovered it if it hadn’t been for Chinnu the cat, who squeezed in through the bars of the open window, landed on the album and then proceeded to shake vigorously t
o rid herself of the raindrops in her coat. Reena squealed. She had been lying on her stomach, legs bent at the knees, feet swinging merrily in the air, on the cool cement floor. Madhu had warned her repeatedly not to do so. ‘You’re a city girl and not used to these floors. You’ll catch a cold. It will seep straight into your chest from the cement. Then how will you travel back home in the overnight bus, tell me?’ Madhu had yelled just that morning when she found Reena sprawled on the naked floor.
Reena smiled as she remembered asking her dad once, when she was little: ‘Is Madhu your aunt?’ Her dad had picked her up and twirled her around, so her dress bloomed in patterned swirls like a Bharatanatyam dancer’s, and, laughing, had said, ‘No, darling. She’s more like a second mum.’
She had scrunched up her nose, puzzled. ‘Another mum?’ From up in the air, suspended in her dad’s strong arms, his face had looked different, wider somehow.
‘She came to stay when your Mai was about to give birth to me, to help with the housework. She’s never left. She’s part of the family now.’
‘Why don’t I have a second mum?’ Reena had asked and her dad had laughed. She had watched, fascinated, as his face became wider as it got closer, until she was so close she could see the tiny hairs curling just inside his nostrils.
‘Your mum’s a superwoman, that’s why. She says she manages quite well on her own.’ Reena had wrapped her arms around her dad’s neck, had laid her head in that warm safe space just above his left shoulder and breathed in the familiar smell of his sweat.
‘Yes,’ she had said, voice muffled, ‘she does.’
Reena jumped up and pulled the album out from under Chinnu. That was when she saw something peek out from behind the picture she had been looking at.
Wonder what that is, thought Reena excitedly, imagination in overdrive. Perhaps something of great value that someone wanted to conceal… What better hiding place than an old, woodlice-ridden album of photographs!
She had just started reading Nancy Drew and wanted so much to be a sleuth like her. She knew her mother hoped she would be a doctor, and her father wanted nothing more than for his only daughter to follow in his footsteps and become a computer programmer. But ever since Reena had laid her hands on the first Famous Five book at the age of nine, she had wanted to be a detective. Solving mysteries seemed such fun. And there was a dearth of Indian detectives, which was a shame really considering there was so much crime in India, so many unsolved murders.