NOBODY LIGHTS A CANDLE
Anjali Deshpande
9
They were about to leave when a white car entered the gate. They stopped in the verandah and looked at the servant who was escorting them out of the small sitting room who told them that she was the bahuji who had got her son from school. A young boy got off the back seat of the car and without picking up his school bag ran towards the side of the house. Probably there was another entry door there. The servant rushed to the car and picked up the school bag and whispered something to the bahuji. The woman nodded her head and walked towards them holding a small black clutch.
She is not beautiful, that was Adhir’s first thought. He always wondered why rich people married black or dark women. Perhaps because they come from rich families. She was dark and quite tall and wore not a white but a nearly white sari. Cotton. With a thin golden zari border. Who knows the husband went out hunting colourful butterflies because he was tired of this black and white film at home, Adhirath thought. On her right wrist she had a watch on a leather strap with a white face and on her left wrist was a strap of some white metal. The half moon ends of the metal strap were stapled together with some white stones. If they were diamonds they had not been cut like them, they looked like glass, like the industrial diamonds in Kundan work that look like glass beads. Nothing glittered in her, not even her eyes.
Taking measured steps Saroj entered the small sitting room and placed her black purse on the tall carved stool of the room and pointing to the chairs in front sat herself down on a stuffed chair.
“Ask,” she said looking at them with calm eyes.
Having asked her name and relationship with the family Nitesh asked her about the farmhouse.
A shadow passed over her eyes.
“Has been a year since I went there,” she said in a measured tone.
“Earlier you used to go?” asked Adhir.
“A lot. Now there is a lot of work related to my son’s school. He too is unwell,” she said using the pronoun to indicate her husband in the traditional way. “Last year he got high blood sugar. Haven’t gone to the farm.”
On the day of Holi, she told them, she was at home. Can’t leave everything to servants. Nearly fifty guests. The sisters in law had not come, they had parties in their own homes. The son’s friends celebrated Holi separately, in the basement, the elders did not even know that such a party was on. The husband too was home the whole day. The driver arrived around noon. He had been called especially so that if any guest intoxicated guest wanted to leave he should be around to take them home. But he had to ferry only one guest. The mamaji from Hauz Khas. Her mamiya sasur, her husband’s uncle on his mother’s side. He had had too much bhang. Left late in the afternoon. Around five thirty or six. “I had had a bed prepared for him so that he could sleep here. He could have gone the next day. But ‘he’, she again used the pronoun to mean her husband, “began to insist. Sometimes he really becomes very stubborn. He said what are we paying double rate to the driver for? To cool his heels here?”
Nitesh jotted down the number of Huaz Khas wale mamaji.
Where was her husband that day?
“Here. Drank a lot. Must have been throwing up. Twice he rushed upstairs to the bathroom. Alcohol does not suit people with high blood sugar. Anyways, after helping mamaji to the car he shut himself in the room and slept so soundly did not open the door for me, I kept knocking. I went to bed in the son’s room, like this, in a sari. My gowns were all in the cupboard in the bedroom.”
Nitesh glanced at Adhir who leaned towards her and asked “what time did your husband get up in the morning?”
“Eight, at eight. When I came back after dropping my son to school the door to our room was still closed. Papaji went and knocked on it, then he opened it.”
For a while silence reigned in the room.
“Where is your husand now? In the factory?” asked Adhir.
“The factory shut down a year ago,” said Saroj rising from her chair, “Ask him on the phone.” She gave them the husband’s number.
Nitesh looked at Adhir, shall we finish with him too, his glance asked. He had stuffed himself with so many goodies all he wanted to do was take a nap. He leant against the jeep, the maruti gypsy, and called Udairaj on his mobile phone. He was in the club.
“Have to talk to you,” said Nitesh. The answer he got swept away his yawn. “Now,” he said sternly. “Come to the police station.” He added in a sterner voice. “We don”t have so much time.” He said having heard a little more of the man’s replies. And then repeated the address of the club before switching off the phone.
“What was he saying?” asked Adhir.
“He was saying go catch the murderer, why are you bothering decent people. When I have the time I will come and make my statement. Just look at his guts. That is why I said come to the police thana right away. Then he lost some of his arrogance. Let us go and see what kind of club he is in, the bastard.”
It was small, the club. A few chairs were scattered on the lawn and some people were chatting away. The doorman saluted them but looked a bit perplexed and hesitated to let them enter. A man sat behind a small table inside the door and stood up the moment he saw them.
“Whom do you want to meet?” he asked. Had Nitesh not been in uniform it would have been difficult to gain entry thought Adhir.
“That Udairaj,” said Nitesh.
“Your name?” asked the man pulling his register towards him.
“Police,” said Nitesh shaking his head vigorously snorting at the man. “Where is Udairaj?” He was venting the anger at Udairaj on this minion.
The man immediately folded his hands and apologized. “Just doing my job Sir, and gestured at the corridor leading to some inner rooms. Then he got out from behind the table and said, “Come, this way sir,” and led them to an inner room. Walking them up to a table he said to a lone man sitting at it that his guests had arrived. Whether it was because the man had nearly prostrated himself or the sight of the obviously expensive furniture, the shadows thrown by the tasteful lampshades and the tinkling chandelier inside the room, Nitesh cooled down. The display of wealth works like a fire fighter indeed.
“Yes, yes, put it down to me in the bill,” Udairaj said to the man waving at the chairs across the table in a gesture asking them to sit down. “They charge you for the entry of the guests and this man is truly fussy about it. Welcome, Inspector sahib, what will you have to drink? Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He had a red coloured drink in a square shaped glass before him that was half empty.
email: anjalides@gmail.com
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