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  She had to endure many more agonizing minutes of Sister Maya’s lecture. When she thought she could stand the guilt no longer and might as well kill herself before the wrath of God did, Sister Maya was finally done. Shirin was asked to kneel down in front of the statue of Jesus on the cross and pray for forgiveness. She was to stay there, on her knees until her mother arrived to take her home in disgrace.

  Jacinta found her kneeling on the cement floor in Sister Maya’s room of shame, the tears forming two little pools around her knees, her eyes swollen and as red as the welts on her palm. Shirin could not meet her mother’s gaze. As Jacinta scooped Shirin up in her arms, something she hadn’t done since Shirin learned to walk, she did not say a word.

  Her mother carried her through the muddy road behind the school and down the little hill, past the stream and through the thin strip of raised earth just wide enough to accommodate one pair of feet, which separated the verdant fields, just starting to sprout milky paddy.

  Shirin held on to her mother, her arms round her neck, sobs coming out in remembered bursts of agony. Jacinta was pregnant with Anita at the time, but she carried Shirin home without a murmur, her breath escaping in short heavy puffs. The ears of paddy, swaying gently in the breeze, mocked Shirin. ‘Look at you,’ they said, in soft swishes. ‘You are a disgrace to your mother. How could you have let her down so? You are soon to be a big sister. What example are you setting?’

  Shirin buried her face in Jacinta’s warm shoulder, inhaling her mother’s familiar smell of Ponds talcum powder mixed with sweat, and refused to look at the fields. She missed the first glimpse of her house, something she always loved, rising up among the banana, mango and guava trees on the next hill, guarded by a soldierly row of coconut trees, and intercepted by mehendi-yellow marigolds and chilli-powder-red hibiscus flowers which her mother and Madhu had painstakingly planted. Her mother crossed the stream at the base of the hill, walking carefully on the makeshift coconut-tree frond bridge. She carried Shirin past the tamarind tree, nestling halfway up the hill, navigating with an ease bred through years of practice the steep path made from uneven stones and pieces of brick haphazardly put together. As they approached the house, Rex, the stray mongrel Madhu had adopted, who was sprawled on the little veranda outside the bathroom and licking his paws in the sun, came bounding up and started running in circles around Jacinta’s legs, tugging at the ends of her sari.

  ‘Shoo, Rex, Shoo,’ said Jacinta, the first words she had spoken since she came to pick Shirin up at the school.

  Madhu came rushing out of the kitchen, wiping her hands hurriedly on her housecoat, her hair flying in all directions. ‘What happened? Oh, Shirin, baby, look at your knees!’

  Without a word of explanation, Jacinta carried Shirin in through the open front door and lay her down on the floor of the living room.

  Madhu fussed over her. She wiped Shirin’s face with a damp cloth and gently cleaned her knees and her sore palm. She applied Boroline—her panacea for all childhood scrapes and hurts—to Shirin’s knees and led her into the kitchen. When the peon from school had come to fetch Jacinta, Madhu knew something had happened. She had made Shirin’s favourite potato bondas with coriander-and-mint chutney. She sat Shirin down on her lap and fed her. But Shirin, who loved all food, and who had committed this, her first great transgression for love of food, found that she could not eat. But she knew that if she refused to eat, Madhu would worry, so Shirin forced the bondas down through the tears and the fat lump of shame and regret which sat in her throat. Even as an adult, she would never again eat potato bondas without experiencing a slight aftertaste of guilt and shame.

  In the days that followed, Shirin worried that her mother was displeased with her and would never love her again.

  As always, Madhu sensed her anguish. As she oiled Shirin’s long hair with warm coconut oil, Madhu said, ‘She looks upset because she is tired, Shirin, not because of you. This baby she is carrying is giving her a lot of trouble. I bet it’s another boy.’ Shirin could hear the smile in Madhu’s voice when she said ‘boy’, the awe which accompanied the word.

  ‘Madhu,’ she whispered, turning round to face Madhu just as she was starting on the second plait, her eyes wide with worry, ‘Ma’s face, when she carried me, was so... so...’

  ‘Angry?’ Madhu prompted, and then, at Shirin’s nod, cupped her face in her palm. ‘Silly girl, she was angry with Sister Maya.’

  ‘Sister Maya?’ Shirin was shocked, sure that for once Madhu had got it wrong. This was her mother they were talking about. Her mother. Who had taught her that nuns and priests were equivalent to God. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘She told me so.’ Madhu smiled gently, ‘She did not agree with what Sister Maya did but she didn’t say anything to her. She couldn’t. That’s why she was upset.’

  Her ma hadn’t looked upset. She had looked angry.

  ‘She grew up in a convent, see.’ Madhu’s voice was soothing.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your ma, that’s who.’

  ‘Really?’ This was news to Shirin. She thought about this for a minute, wrinkling her nose. How horrible, to grow up with nuns! A turquoise butterfly with yellow suns on its wings hovered close. ‘Did she not have a ma and da then?’

  ‘She did, but they weren’t very nice. So she had to stay with the nuns.’

  Shirin was quiet for a minute, pondering. The butterfly landed on the hibiscus plant nearby and Shirin’s fingers itched to catch it. ‘Will I be sent to live with nuns if I am naughty again?’

  Madhu laughed, the sound reassuring Shirin more than the words that followed. ‘Of course not, you silly girl! Now turn around. I need to finish plaiting your hair else you will be late for school.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school anyway. Everyone is teasing me, and I have to wear long socks to hide the bruises on my knees, and they itch...’ All the agony and worry of the past few days burst out in a torrent of tears.

  Madhu gathered her in her arms. ‘Shh... It’s okay, Shirin. Have your bruises not healed yet? Ayyo, poor you! Why didn’t you tell me? Let me get the Boroline and some bandages. You sit here... Look; Rex has come to console you. Shoo, Rex don’t lick her tears... Does it tickle? Good dog, you’ve made my Shirin giggle...’

  As Madhu tied the strips of cloth she had torn from an old nightie to use as bandages securely around Shirin’s knees, she asked, ‘So who is teasing you then?’

  ‘The boys tease me to make me talk to them. But I don’t want to; I’ll only get in trouble.’ A hiccup. ‘And the girls tease me for gallivanting with the boys...’ Shirin interspersed the new English word she had learnt from Sister Shanthi, with her Konkani.

  ‘What’s gallivanting?’

  ‘I think it means stealing bimblis. Sister Shanthi used it,’ in a whisper.

  ‘Look here, Shirin,’ Madhu put her palm under Shirin’s chin and tilted her face upwards. ‘If your classmates tease you, you ignore them. Why do you go to school? To study, isn’t it? You work hard and get good marks. Then won’t your ma be so pleased with you? She will be beaming when she sees your report card. And everyone will want to be your friend when you come first in the class!’

  Absorbed in Madhu’s fantasy, Shirin nodded, sniffing away the last of her tears.

  ‘Now don’t let your ma find out, but here is a nevri to eat on the way to school. Isn’t that a sunny smile! There’s a good girl. Rex will keep you company till Lenny Bai’s house.’

  * * *

  Shirin sat up in bed and squinted, bleary-eyed, at the clock. 4:00 a.m.

  Beside her Vinod stirred, then blinked awake. ‘Shonu, is it...’

  The spectre of her nightmare slipped under the covers between them like an old intimate.

  ‘No. I’m fine. Just wanted a drink is all. You go back to sleep.’ She smiled down at his tousled head.


  Reassured, he smiled back, closed his eyes and was snoring in two ticks. She envied the ease with which he could delve in and out of slumber. Sighing, she got out of bed, only to trip over Vinod’s book which he always chucked across the room before turning off the light instead of leaving it on the bedside table like any other normal person. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she grumbled.

  From the dregs of her dream, Sister Maya materialized. ‘Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain, child,’ she admonished.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Super Sleuth Investigates

  The first task that Reena Diaz, Super Sleuth, undertook was to make a list of all possible suspects.

  They were, in no particular order,

  1) Deepak

  2) Anita

  3) Jacinta, Grandmother

  4) Madhu

  5) Walter, Grandfather—deceased.

  She pondered this list for a bit, as she imagined Nancy Drew would. In the end she decided that although it made sense to talk to Deepak and Anita first, as they were the ones actually in the photograph, she wouldn’t do so. For one, Anita was not available to talk to at the moment, and Deepak, well, she was worried that he would confiscate the picture and tell her off for poking her nose in matters well left alone. Confiscation of the picture would spell the end of her days as a detective.

  Ever since she had found the picture, questions had been buzzing like a convent of nuns chanting the rosary in her head. There would be quite a simple explanation, Reena reasoned. This girl must be some cousin they had all forgotten about. But why would they forget a relative? Or shove her photo behind some other picture, out of sight? Why were there no other pictures of her? (She had sifted meticulously through all the other albums for the rest of the afternoon, in the hope of finding more pictures of this mystery girl.) And why had that particular picture been creased and worn, as if it had once been treasured? And even if they had forgotten about this mysterious girl—whom they seemed quite comfortable with in the photo—wouldn’t they remember her when Reena grew up to look just like her? Why the conspiracy of silence? Was there a conspiracy, or had they just forgotten to mention her? Had she been so insignificant that she had slipped straight out of their minds?

  Reena hoped to get at least some of the answers from Madhu. Madhu was the one her dad and aunt had turned to when they were in trouble. She was the one who had got them out of scrapes without Jacinta—Mai—knowing.

  Now all that remained was for Reena to corner Madhu when no one else was around...

  Her opportunity came that afternoon. One she couldn’t miss. The incessant rain had eased for once, and her mother, bored of sitting at home or visiting her husband’s friends, managed to coax Deepak to take her shopping in Dommur.

  ‘Would you like to come, Rinu?’ Preeti asked. ‘We’ll go by rickshaw so you won’t get wet or your dress muddied.’

  Though the rain had eased, there were dirty red pools of water everywhere. Preeti knew how Reena hated feeling her wet dress lick her bare legs knowing that mud had spattered all over the back, even when she was wearing the ridiculously expensive ‘special rain shoes which do not splash’ that the salesman had cornered them into buying in that shop in Commercial Street.

  ‘And after we can have masala dosas and gadbad at Aashirwad,’ Preeti continued, looking expectantly at Reena.

  Aashirwad was the restaurant they always ate at in Dommur. Climbing up the winding walkway, breathing in the vanilla scent of ice cream mixed with the sharp, salty aroma of idlis and sambar, marvelling at the impossibly long paper-thin crispy hot dosas and picking at the black mustard seeds in her green coconut chutney, made Reena feel as if in here, time had progressed in snapshots. She could see herself visiting as a toddler, sitting on her father’s knee, fascinated by the shiny stainless-steel tumblers of water and trying to grab at her reflection, even as her father pushed the tumbler aside and her face grew impossibly long and splintered. Then as a little girl in a polka-dot dress and ribbons in her hair, sitting wedged between her mother and father. For some reason, they’d always dressed up to go to Aashirwad. After their meal, her mother bought sambar and rasam powders, malpuris, thila ladus, holiges and raw mango pickle from the shop below to take with them back to Bangalore. Going to Aashirwad was a tradition and she was tempted, but she had more important work to do.

  ‘What do you do here anyway?’ her mother asked curiously, but before Reena could concoct an answer, continued, ‘God, if your dad launches into yet another lecture on the pedigree of the Diaz family, their distinguished roots in Taipur, I’ll kill him... You’re sure you don’t want to come? You might help prevent a murder...’

  ‘Oh go on, Mum, spend his money. That’ll be good revenge.’ And then Reena had her brainwave. ‘Why don’t you ask Mai? It will be good for her. Dad and Mai can reminisce while you shop.’

  Mai needed some persuading. She was getting very frail. Madhu helped her into one of her good saris—‘The Kanjeevaram silk one I wore for your Roce, Deepak,’ Mai said, a far-off light in her eyes as she relived the memory—and off she went, leaning on her son’s arm for the walk up the little path to where the auto-rickshaw was waiting.

  Once she’d waved them off, Reena, complimenting herself on a job well done and armed with her sleuthing handbook which hid the photograph nicely in-between its pages, went in search of Madhu.

  Madhu was washing clothes on the little granite stone by the well, in the shade of the tamarind and banana trees. The heavy thud of clothes hitting stone guided Reena there.

  Deepak had tried countless times to get Madhu to use the new washing machine he had had installed in the bathroom. But Madhu was having none of it: ‘I wash the clothes, rinse them and then scrub them again. Will that square little box do that? I am not using any fancy machines when my hands will do.’ Since then, the washing machine had sat forlorn in the bathroom gathering dust and chicken droppings where the hens perched on it when being chased by Gypsy, the gleaming white exterior fading slowly to dull grey.

  Reena sat on the cement rim surround of the well and watched Madhu. Her sari was tied up, the pallu tucked tightly into her waist. Her worn apron was wet and hair escaped the confines of her bun and collected in greying tendrils around her face. Every once in a while she used her arm to push it away, leaving wet soapy smudges on her face. She had finished scrubbing the clothes and was wringing the water out of them by rolling them into a tight cylinder and then bashing them very hard against the stone. The bar of Rin soap that she had used lay on the stone beside her, bleeding dark blue water onto the streaky granite surface. Gypsy, who followed Madhu wherever she went, lay curled beside her feet. She looked lost to the world, except for the deep growl that escaped her every once in a while and the little twitch her nose gave when a fly landed on it. Do dogs dream? Reena wondered.

  Every so often the spicy, scented breeze stirred the tamarind and banana trees, releasing a little flood of raindrops that had adhered to the leaves. The garden in the front courtyard which Madhu diligently tended was in full bloom, and Reena breathed in the sweet honey aroma of the hibiscus and jasmine flowers mixed in with the earthy smell of rain-washed mud. Bees buzzed, butterflies flitted and a fat frog stirred in the grass next to the well. Reena sighed, for just a moment loath to disrupt the peace and stir up old secrets. The moment didn’t last long, however.

  ‘Madhu,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Madhu jumped, startled. Gypsy barked. ‘Gypsy, shush. Rinu, you gave me a fright. How long have you been sitting there?’

  ‘Not long. I like sitting here, watching you. It’s peaceful.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Madhu rubbed soapy hands down the sides of her apron and extended wet fingers to receive the photograph Reena was holding out to her. Reena watched as she squinted at the picture, as her smile stilled and her face lost colour.

  ‘Where did
you find this?’ Madhu asked.

  ‘Oh, you know...’ said Reena vaguely, deliberately nonchalant, even though her heart was pounding.

  Up until now, though she had wanted to find out more about her lookalike, wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery, a part of her had thought that it was all in her head. The adults would pooh-pooh her wild theories as just that. There would be a perfectly simple and straightforward explanation.

  Although she’d hoped to have stumbled on something, now, as she looked at the myriad emotions flitting across Madhu’s lined face, as her breath came out in long sighs, as the smile fled her face to be replaced by grief, Reena wished she had never found the photograph. She wished it had remained hidden in that old woodlice-ridden album. For the first time, she considered the fact that the girl might be dead. But that didn’t make much sense either. Why hide her photographs? Why forget her? In Reena’s experience, the dead were revered and remembered all the time, even more than the living, she sometimes thought. There was a seven-day mass after the funeral, a thirty-day mass, a yearly mass, framed photographs adorned with garlands taking pride of place next to the altar...

  Again she found herself asking the same questions. Why the secrecy, the conspiracy of silence?

  Madhu used the pallu of her sari to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

  Reena was horrified. She had never seen Madhu cry. She didn’t know what to do. Guilt, sharp and painful bound her to her perch on the rim of the well. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to move to comfort Madhu.

  The frog hopped away in wet sticky plonks, drawing arches in the air. Gypsy stirred and ambled up to Madhu, licking away the salty tears which kept on coming.

  ‘Shoo, Gypsy,’ Madhu murmured, patting the dog’s flank. ‘I saved it in a safe place, but couldn’t remember where I had put it. I looked everywhere, but in the end had to accept it was lost. And now...’

  So the photograph had been Madhu’s.