Not On A Hot Tin Roof
The duo followed her. She was aware of the chase. The exercise of recalling where she had seen one of them- the one with the hair coloured as black as coal and beard as white as the rough snow-was again turning out to be a futile one; futile for the seventh consecutive day. For the first three days, she had taken them to be mere passers-by. But for the last four days (including today), she had royally ignored their presence thereby, discarding all the dangerous possibilities as merely the irrational doubts of her mind. Well, ignorance is not always bliss.
Trying to balance herself on the dimly sparkled sands, turning grey and podgy with the waters receding, she now started climbing the stony steps and took the Beach Road. The duo was still following her. With her eyes turning askew, she skedaddled into the first left lane and heaved a great sigh of relief. “Oof! So, here I am. Now, safe and sound……” But her relief was uncannily short lived. A pack of street dogs suddenly huddled from somewhere and barked furiously at the passers-by. It left her petrified. “I’ve never seen them before…” She mumbled. To her shock and surprise, she realised they were onto some other booty.
His first Valentine Day’s gift had been a gambol before Cheryl opened the beautifully decorated cane basket. With a broad smile in each of her saucy eyes, she stood in disbelief as Tahan opened the door for her. Red heart-shaped balloons, pink flowers, scented candles and careening ribbons passed her way as she carefully walked across the corridor, hand in hand with him, taking enough care so as not to tread upon the pageantry. The living room in that old-fashioned house was aglow with the golden light dripping from the luminous chandeliers- the light brighter than the sun outside the window. Placed on the coffee table that stood right in the centre of the room, the frilled basket was beckoning her to disrobe it as quickly as possible.
A short affair followed by a quick, unplanned marriage to Tahan had hardly given them any time to share their secrets, likes or dislikes. The pages on the calendar near the open window had as if refused to turn the flaps. Time had stopped racing with them for more than three months.
While removing the net layered folds one after the other, she felt she heard a sound. She became alert. Carefully she started digging her fingers once again, into the basket only to feel something too spongy. Fluffy? Velvety? The low woofs were now clearly audible. She tapped the rim of the basket and picked up the last pucker. Devastating it was…….it made her jump, scream and leap on to the sofa, and soon she was hurling the fiendish-turned- spiffy basket out of the open window. For how long did her teeth chattered she did not know but Tahan stood there, with his eyes wide open, watching the sudden high tension drama. The following Sunday, Sultan, the guy next door – the owner of the sprawling Daniel’s Cottage - couldn’t help bursting into laughter, when Tahan shared the puppy-fiasco story with his new found friend and neighbour.
The duo seemed to have been left far behind. Heaving a great sigh of relief, Cheryl briskly headed towards the end of the Beach Road. Now she started following the track uphill that shone dimly under the ambers of the yet-not-switched-off streetlights. It was mid July and the Mumbai monsoon had so far not seen one of those worst rainy days of the season. She did not know she would have to experience it soon; just within the next half an hour’s time.
Flanked on both the sides of the road, the avenue still bragged of the rich past, arraying a few old-fashioned, ritzy or new-fangled bungalows amidst the rows of newly erected high rise towers. The towers did not give her a disgusting feeling today. She walked briskly towards the garden where she would take a halt everyday before moving further. Before she could perch herself on the wrought-iron bench near her favourite laburnum tree, her eyes caught the sight of the duo entering the gate of the garden. Agitated and panicked, she felt a shiver passing through her body whereas the fingers on her forehead went numb with the dampness. Immediately she clutched her bag and became more careful than ever. Outside the canopy that covered the wrought-iron bench, a dark, gloomy cloud sent a heavy gush of rains wrapping the garden lawns covered in an ash-grey blanket. She realized she had left the umbrella on the dining table while being too fidgety of wrapping and then, unwrapping the newly purchased possession in her handbag.
..............................................................................................................................................................................
Silas’ Cottage had been an Elysium, the Edenic cul de sac for Cheryl and Tahan. Surrounded by the umbrageous foliage and the pink extravagance of the bougainvilleas, the two square turrets peeped sneakily from the corrugated red clay tiled roofs. For more than a century, the house had stood firm and upright echoing the history of the Almeidas who moved there in 1899 with their six sons and Magdalene, the daughter; all under the age of ten. To this date, it whispers the stories of all the five brothers, one after the other, packing off to the African coasts for better prospects. Joe, the sixth son, the blue-eyed boy of the Almeidas vowed never to leave the parents.
There are other tell tales, too. From the interstices of the arching trees, the red bricks of the Cottage murmur in low, husky tones, the quiet tale of the romance that would flower between Magdalene and Pedro, the soldier who had returned from the War. Scores of those monsoon meetings of the sweethearts that would be caught in the synapses of the dew-dropped romance dripping down the walls, would caress- in the years to come- the sands of the sea shore. Just like any other dark love story, this too met with a tragic end; Silas Almeida killing the penniless Pedro. And Magdalene, the unwedded mother meeting an untimely death while giving birth to a son. Robert, the fatherless boy was left to grow up in an orphanage, located far away from Goa, on the highlands of Ooty.
Tahan was the third-generation-only- descendent in the lineage; the direct descendent of Joe Almeida.
Not that Tahan was too young for being an orphan but the death of the parents under mysterious circumstances at the local graveyard had left him in a stew. Clueless were also the local police, the friendly neighbourhood and the church parishioners. Some said it was Pedro’s ghost, some marked it as that of Magdalene Almeida and some said they had been petrified to death. Sultan’s visits were of course, the moments of great relief for Tahan who had been silently suffering because of the pain and anguish arising out of impuissance.
After a couple of months of Tahan’s return to the blue-lined city, the neighbours had been speculating the date of his departure. But to everyone’s surprise, Tahan’s had different plans. None could ever have expected of him to prefer Mumbai over Copenhagen. Back in Denmark, he had qualified himself as a dairy technologist and the degree easily landed him with a top position in a leading multinational beverage company. After the mysterious deaths of his parents and his return from Denmark to attend the creamation, Tahan was not quite sure of his decision of staying back at Silas’ Cottage. But it seemed, he was now changing his decision.
White! White was what Sultan had always adored! Not only those immaculate white suits, but also the accessories, cars, cigars, and the Bishop’s flowers in the garden. The garden that made failed attempts to peek through the small white iron gates to catch the glimpse of the white waters of the sea. “If only I could hold the white sea shells and look straight into the sea …..” Sultan could virtually hear the musical micro-tones of the Bishop’s plants, jamming with the notes on his violin strains, trying to catch up with the “Ode to Joy” section of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 being played on his music system.
Daniel’s Cottage had undergone a million rupee makeover before Sultan moved into the premises. Of course, it was all over white again, furnished with the splendour of ivory gold draperies and crystal-lamp shades. The landscape surrounding the main house gave the old unkempt garden a trimmed formal look with straight-edged beds of white dahlias, and green lawns trimmed in orderly patterns. With the neighbour’s prior permission, one of the small white gates was allowed to run into the sideways of the Silas’ Cottage. No wonder the two men became good friends in less than a month’s time.
^^^^^
The day was now slowly breaking out with the walking tracks now occupied by quite a few regular joggers and a few visitors here and there. Immediately, she regained her composure and engaged herself in eavesdropping on the schmooze of a young couple- lost in each other’s arms under a bough. The leather bags hanging on their sides were more passionately intertwined than them.
It had been three years now that she had learnt to live without Tahan. Nothing else could have ever shaken her from within but his still body on the floor after she returned from her work that night. No consolations, sympathies or condolences could ease her tribulations thereafter, until one day she resolved with firm courage and determination to find out the cause of the mysterious death at the graveyard- the third in the family. Somewhere the mouths that spread rumours about the ghosts were getting an unacknowledged confirmation from the neighbourhood. An year’s happy married life had not been enough for a young woman of thirty to continue treading the path of life with the memories of the man who had quietly sneaked into her orphaned life . A messiah of love and adorations. Compassion incarnate! Cheryl shuddered for a while at the chain of endless thoughts that kept on spinning out of her wind. A big branch of tree fell on the ground. It shook herself and she settled her eyes on the dubious duo who seemed to be leaving the garden.
^^^^^
After Tahan’s death, the small white gate was hardly unlocked. Left all alone to herself in the sprawling house, Cheryl kept staring for long hours at the provocative sea that fuelled her rage, more than the grief. Had it not been for Mother Maria’s soothing words, Cheryl would never have come out of the misery. It was she who compelled her to start attending the six o’clock morning mass. at St. Joseph’s Church This was followed by an hour’s walk at the D’Monte Park. On her way back home, a rose at Tahan’s grave was the ritual she had never missed in all these three years.
Quite intermittently, Sultan would send her bouquets of flowers but mostly avoided meeting or visiting her. A couple of times, he offered her to pay a huge price for Silas’ Cottage but both the proposals were instantly rejected by her.
There was no will, but of course a way- a legal way - that brought a few close relatives of Tahan together -the ones whom Cheryl had never ever heard of even when Tahan was alive. The stake was big. The claimants many. Five, to be precise, seeking to exercise their rights on the half-a –billion-worth Silas’ Cottage.
Slowly and gradually, she started connecting the sequence of events. Were the deaths pure coincidences or murders? Her frequent visits to the local police stations for inquiring about the investigation details of Tahan’s death were fruitless but she continued doing so, with a faint hope germinating at the start of each new day.
“ Is that Sultan? Are the claimants conspiring against me ? Am I the next on their cards?” She did not know the answer. She did not know whom to trust. She did not know where to go for help. All she could think about was she needed protection, a solid protection.
^^^^^
“ I can’t walk any more. Nor can I sit here. They must have left by now,” she mumbled to herself and started loitering around. She knew what it would be like once she left the garden with the rose in her hand. Both of them would continue staggering further and as soon as they would reach the graveyard gate, one of them, having hustled the other into the graveyard, would continue walking towards the road to the Pali Street. “Let it be. I am no longer afraid of anything, anyone. What more could have been more fearful in my life but Tahan’s death……” She readjusted the straps of her handbag on her left shoulder and started walking towards the gate. She realised the rains had not yet stopped but had slowed down into a drizzle.
^^^^^
For more than a couple of days, she had been planning to visit the Helsey’s Super Market but was too overworked to devote time for the chore. It was long overdue. But there had been a more important task to be finished. Last Sunday, she picked up her car keys and hand bag, and reached the hospital stockroom whose in-charge she was but on second thought, turned around and trudged through the muddy parking lot.
She had only once been to the Pali Gaothan Market before. Walking in the small, squalid street filled with the ankle deep muddy waters flowing down, she tried to locate the shop from where, long back in an emergency, she had bought some medicines. The strong smell of garlic and fish made the early evening more fetid. She pushed her glares over her hair and wrapped the stole around her nose. The women, mostly clad in the faded cotton gowns with their chests covered with crumpled stoles, jostled against the other pedestrians. Cheryl realised they were giving her queer looks. She wadded through the crowd and reached the chemist’s shop. But the shop adjacent to it, was closed. She was perplexed. A man standing in front of the closed shutter looked quizzically at her. He was more perplexed when he learnt that she had been looking out for the Fresh Chick Halal Centre. Having taken the necessary directions from him, she finally reached the spot.
The small shop was heavily crowded. Men, women, eunuchs and roosters- all of them looking pale, as if struck by the horrors of blood, death and purgatory. On the other side of the wooden counter, there were four men, busy cutting large chunks of meat into smaller ones, weighing, packing and shouting numbers in a jargoned language that the men at the bill counter easily registered. A black fat woman who got a push from the back huddled up close to her making her almost fall right on the counter. Cheryl realised her fingers were on a big sharpened knife; without losing a second, she picked it up and slid it in her bag. Her mission was accomplished. When she rose, the man at the counter was politely asking her whether she was alright. She tilted her head slightly and asked for half a kilogram of pork. Having paid the bill, she drove the car back home.
^^^^^
She knew, only one of them, was now following her into the graveyard. As she came closer to Tahan’s grave, she could hear the footsteps behind. “Huh! Damn it. Fear, eh? No more. NEVER, ” she muttered with a slur and looked helplessly in the direction where the undertaker lived in a small, cemented hut. But he was seen nowhere.
Before she could turn around and shove it away, she was thrown aback by the big animal. The Caucasian Ovcharka had tightened its grip around her delicate body and had been fiercely barking. Her heart was sinking and her breath choking. The animal was neither scratching nor hurting her but was just holding her tightly. But she was profusely panting. For a fraction of a jiffy, she found herself to be dying. But a sharp prick from her handbag revived her losing courage. She slipped her hand into the bag and took out the shining knife. Without wasting a moment, she thrust it fiercely into the body of the dog.
Thwack! A fading whimper and it was all over.
The big body of the dog plopped into a pool of blood. The job was done. She could see the Ovcharka taking its last breath.
It had stopped raining but the mugginess in the air spurred in her a strong craving for a cold beverage. Her lips were thirsty and her throat dry. A silver LED sign board flashed across her mind - “OPEN :7.00 AM TO 12.00 AM.” Her Victorinox - Swiss Army was moving fast, veering the quarter -to- seven posture. Less than even three furlongs, the coffee shop was just around the corner nudging the Pali Street.
Having ordered for a large Iced Coffee Mocha, she took the seat near the window at the Café Bianca. Her hand unconsciously touched the sticky smoothness of the knife hidden in her handbag.
Waiting for the coffee, she kept staring numbly outside the French window for quite sometime. As the coffee-shaker lay indiscreetly whirring on the side of the counter, her mind stirred cautiously, sensing something uncanny.
And it turned up.
Across the French window, she saw the man - the one with the hair coloured as black as goal and beard as white as the rough snow- entering the Cafe gate. He was wearing a sinister look on his cockeyed face. A series of reflexes took her over : a quick look at the handbag; the adrenaline dump; and the slipping off her marriage ring. The low clink whisked the myelin as her brain sent her waves in a jiffy of a second. Her lips quivered, “What now? Does he know I ‘ve killed the dog?” And what exactly is he doing here?” She rushed to the washroom and stayed there for more than a quarter of an hour. From the slit of the hinges of the door, she saw him holding a take-away parcel and walking out of the Café.
Half an hour later, she was standing at the billing counter. The transaction-slip holder had still not received more inmates than a couple of them. Her large, petrified eyes fell on the last slip that read an unknown yet, somewhat familiar name -Robert Pedro. A visiting card lay next to the holder. It read :
Robert Pedro -Dog- Trainer.
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