The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Read online

  It seemed to her like a surreal occurrence... this account of her uncle's secret life. With a son, no less. Her cousin.

  But what if Veronica was a gold-digger?

  But, what gold?

  Or an opportunist making a random phone call, trying her luck.

  Darya did not know.

  She sat, thinking for a long time.

  Of Half-Truths And Deception

  Darya woke up late feeling tired.

  Garbled, noisy dreams. She remembered none of the details now, only she was fighting in a few of them.

  She brushed her teeth, made her coffee and dialled home.

  ‘Pa,’ Darya said as soon as he picked up.

  ‘What happened?’ her father muttered.

  ‘My life's crumbling,’ she said, knowing full well how much her father hated hyperbole, but she was feeling it today. ‘Everything I knew to be true is not so.’

  ‘Well...,’ her father said, putting on a voice of exaggerated indulgence, ‘Did you fight with Spandan or stub a toe?’

  Her parents had met Spandan exactly twice. Both times when they were visiting her in Mumbai, and he had dropped her off at home. They had been more than impressed with his pleasantries and genuflections and Darya had been delighted. Then.

  It wasn't really surprising; everyone who met Spandan and knew him only a little found him charming. He was that way; the veneer blinded the eye.

  She brought her mind back to the present but thought it wise not to respond to her father's comment.

  ‘It's your brother,’ she said.

  Pause.

  ‘What about him?’ her father asked.

  ‘I think you know, Pa,’ Darya said quietly.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Was he a good man, Uncle Paritosh?’ she asked.

  Her father sighed. ‘Come on, Darya. Yes, of course. You knew him. What happened? Why this question now?’

  She glanced at the clock in the courtyard. Eight a.m. She'd been pacing back and forth but it had gotten hotter. She was beginning to sweat.

  Switching on the fan, she sat on the floor. It was going to be a long conversation.

  ‘Pa, you always said he missed Aunt Farideh so much he never lived his life properly.’

  ‘He didn't. You saw him. Look at his house,’ he replied.

  ‘So, he never hooked up with another woman?’ Darya asked.

  ‘Hooked up? What is this hooked up?’ he sputtered in irritation. ‘Who hooks up in our generation? It's only in yours—’

  ‘Pa,’ Darya cut in impatiently. ‘You know what I mean. Was he seeing any other woman after Aunt Farideh died?’

  Her father fell silent as if thinking.

  Darya said, her voice soft with wonder, ‘You knew.’

  ‘She's after his money,’ her father said.

  ‘Who is she?’ Darya prompted.

  It came to her mind then, one of her father's favourite lines. One had to keep up appearances, no matter the cost. How many times had he told her that?

  ‘Whoever you are talking about,’ her father said now.

  Darya knew it was uncomfortable for him to talk about it. In theory, she was very close to her parents, especially her father, but they never got around to discussing anything unpleasant. It was always the good and shiny bits. She told them everything about her life but glossed over the difficult parts. Like the last six months, or even the last year, of which they knew nothing. Even in her darkest day, at the hospital, she had not thought to call them.

  She grimaced as the thought came to her; she was keeping up appearances too.

  ‘So, do you know who she is?’ Darya asked. Then dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘And what money are you talking about? There's no will. There's no money.’

  ‘The house then, the land,’ her father said. ‘Have you found the papers? I'm sure I'd seen something but there was no time to clear up the—’

  ‘Pa,’ Darya said, her voice firm as if talking to an errant child. ‘I told you there's nothing in the house. Do you know who she is? The woman I'm talking about?’

  ‘No,’ her father said shortly, clear in his tone he did not want to discuss it further.

  ‘Pa, this is important,’ Darya said. ‘This woman exists. She claims to be Uncle Pari’s partner. They have a son, and he's—’ she hesitated, only then realizing the significance of the words, ‘he's my cousin, my brother. And your nephew.’

  ‘Darya, don't be mad,’ her father said, his voice sharp. ‘He never married her.’

  ‘So, you do know her.’

  ‘No, I told you,’ her father snapped. ‘I'm guessing.’

  But she wasn't about to give up.

  ‘Her name is Veronica Pereira. She lives in Vatkola. She has a son who she says is challenged. They are very poor and have no money. Your brother left them no money.’ She then recounted to her father the entire conversation, which he heard without interruption.

  After she finished, he asked, ‘Did she ask for money?’

  ‘Yes, but it looks like she needs it. She didn't sound the greedy sort.’

  Her father thought for a moment, then said, ‘I always suspected something was up but didn't know what exactly. I guess I should've expected something like this. One does get lonely.’

  ‘We have to do something about this woman. What should I do?’ Darya asked.

  Her father took a deep breath and said slowly, patiently, ‘Don't encourage her, Darya. The next time she calls, be polite but tell her we want nothing to do with her.’

  ‘She is poor, Pa,’ Darya pleaded. ‘Her son needs care.’

  ‘How do you know she's not a fraud?’ he asked.

  ‘I know,’ Darya said. ‘I can make out.’

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’ her father said, now irritated. ‘Paritosh didn't have any money. Am I supposed to help her with my money? As if we don't have enough problems already.’

  Darya couldn't argue with that. In particular, because he did not know the half of it. And she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  ‘Okay, Pa. I'll keep off her. But I wish you were here to handle this,’ she said.

  ‘All I'm saying is,’ her father said, calm again, probably mellowed by Darya's quick capitulation, ‘do what you've gone there to do and come back. Don't get mixed up in stuff that doesn't concern you.’

  ‘Hmm, okay,’ Darya said quietly. ‘Pa, another thing...’

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  She told him about her visit to Zabel. ‘She's doing much better. Her bruises are healing. But she looks so much older than when I saw her last.’

  ‘It's been a while.’

  ‘Filip Uncle asked you to call him.’

  ‘I will,’ her father replied. Then, after a pause, ‘Darya... Spandan called yesterday.’

  What? How did he get the number? That slimy...

  Her father continued. ‘He didn't say much, only that he couldn't reach you over the phone. Have you two been fighting? Your mother was very worried.’

  ‘I'll call him,’ Darya muttered.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ her father asked.

  She knew her parents had already planned the wedding in their heads; booked the imaginary hall; designed the invitation cards; decided on the wardrobe...

  Dammit. How was she ever going to tell them?

  ‘No, it's all good,’ she said brusquely now.

  They talked about a few more things until her mother came to the phone and asked to talk to her. Darya braced herself for an onslaught of complaints, but her mom said simply, ‘Darya, have you been eating well?’

  Darya's eyes filled with tears. She had been dreading a conversation with her mother, afraid she'd sense something was wrong. Darya couldn't let that happen. Not yet.

  Game face on.

  ‘Hi, Ma, what's up?’ Darya said, forcing cheerfulness in her voice, but careful not to make it sound fake. ‘I shopped for some groceries yesterday. I'm cooking for myself,’ she said.

 
‘Really?’ her mother asked in surprise.

  ‘It's only for a few days,’ Darya said.

  ‘When are you coming back?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Next week mostly,’ Darya replied.

  ‘Is everything else alright?’ she asked. ‘Are the neighbours treating you well?’

  Darya gave her a brief about the past few days, omitting the parts about Francis, the peeping tom and the fact that she'd been eating mostly outside. She started to tell her about Veronica, but her mother had already heard the conversation earlier; her father had put Darya on the speakerphone.

  ‘Do you know her, Ma?’ Darya asked hopefully.

  ‘Don't go back to that, Darya,’ her father scolded, his voice coming from a distance. ‘We cannot do anything about this woman.’

  ‘I want to meet her,’ Darya said stubbornly.

  ‘No, Darya. Stop this nonsense,’ her father said.

  ‘I want to know who Uncle Pari was living with in the last years of his life,’ Darya protested. ‘Aren't you even a little curious?’

  ‘No,’ her father said.

  ‘Did you know her, Ma?’ Darya asked. Her parents were difficult to play off each other. Her mother was gentle and compliant and looked to her father for everything. That's how a good marriage works, she'd told Darya once. Now she heard her parents confer with each other at the other end of the line.

  At long length, her mother replied, ‘No, I knew nothing about it. Your father thought something was amiss because Pari stayed away from home a lot. But I knew nothing. We were hardly in touch in the last few years.’

  ‘Do you think the woman is lying?’ Darya asked.

  She heard her mother speak to her father who replied with a forceful nonsense several times.

  Her mother spoke over the phone, ‘She may be. I don't know.’ Darya heard the calm level-headedness in her voice and realized how much she missed speaking to her.

  Then in a barely audible hush, her mother added, ‘People do get lonely, Darya, even in the most perfect of marriages.’

  ‘Yes,’ Darya said. ‘I get it.’

  She looked at the clock and saw that it was ten already. She had a couple of things planned and had to start soon if she wanted them done.

  ‘I think I'll go now,’ she said. ‘It's getting hot out here and I'm hungry.’

  ‘Listen to me, Darya. Don't call on Veronica,’ her father said, coming to the phone. ‘Cut off any contact. She'll want money and we can't give her any.’

  ‘I'll think about it,’ Darya said and ended the call.

  An hour later she was sitting with Francis at a cosy sheesha bar by the Miramar beach. He'd messaged late last night asking to meet for breakfast. He could go late to the bookstore, he'd said. After seventeen whole minutes, which she counted and hoped indicated not desperate, Darya messaged back. Okay.

  As they entered the restaurant, Darya told him she preferred this one to the last.

  ‘Not pretentious,’ she declared as she sat on the divan.

  ‘One meeting is all it takes to know what a girl likes,’ Francis replied, grinning.

  She liked his open face, his ready grin. It was warm and comforting. But today she was bogged down after the morning conversation with her father.

  ‘You're one with a smooth tongue,’ she remarked.

  ‘What's up?’ he asked as he waved to a waiter. ‘You seem tense.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  ‘I know well enough not to ever take that answer from a woman. That means there is something.’

  ‘You know women well, don't you?’ she said, sarcasm creeping into her voice despite her best efforts.

  Unexpectedly, he reached out and placed his hand on hers. Startled, she looked up.

  ‘What is it?’ he said gently. ‘Tell me.’

  The words tumbled out of her mouth.

  ‘My uncle... well, I knew, I suspected it. The house wasn't being lived in half the time...’ she hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

  ‘A woman called me yesterday. On the landline. Her name is Veronica. Claims to be his girlfriend or partner or whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘Slow down. One second. Who is Veronica again?’ Francis asked.

  ‘My uncle's girlfriend,’ Darya said.

  Francis looked surprised. ‘He had a girlfriend?’

  ‘It appears so,’ Darya said.

  He leaned back and looked at her thoughtfully, fingers raised in a steeple.

  ‘Were they married?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but there's a son,’ Darya replied.

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘That's complicated,’ he murmured.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Darya said.

  ‘So, where does she stay? What does she do?’ he asked.

  ‘She stays in Vatkola,’ Darya said. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  Francis nodded.’ I think so. It's a village two hours from here.’

  ‘Runs a fish shop of some sort,’ Darya said. ‘My uncle ran it for her.’

  ‘And your uncle and she were not married, you said?’ Francis asked.

  ‘That's what she said,’ Darya replied.

  ‘Well, then you have nothing to worry,’ Francis said, smiling. ‘She doesn't have any claims on your uncle's things since they were not legally married.’

  ‘There are hardly any things to be worried about and I don't think she wants to lay any claims either,’ Darya said. ‘She sounded like a good person. Her son is eighteen and is challenged in some way. But they are poor and need money and well... we are related by blood, aren't we?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, he's technically your brother. Your cousin.’

  They were silent for a few minutes.

  ‘What should I do?’ Darya asked.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Francis asked.

  ‘I was thinking of going to meet them for starters.’

  Francis shook his head. Emphatic. ‘No, don't do that. You'll open up a can of worms.’

  ‘I have to do something,’ Darya said.

  ‘Ignore her, ignore them,’ Francis said. ‘Going into it... knowing them better will only complicate your life. Make matters worse.’

  ‘Pa said that too,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Wrap up your work here and leave,’ he said. ‘Your uncle is dead. His stories are over. Don't rake up skeletons in his life now.’

  Darya's heart sank.

  ‘You want me to leave?’ she asked, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  He looked at her surprised. ‘What was that?

  ‘You just said...’

  He blinked at her, trying to think back to what he'd said that had caused her to be upset. Then realizing, raised his hands in a show of mock surrender.

  ‘Oh, that. Sorry,’ he said, smiling. ‘I only meant finish what you're doing and forget the rest.’

  Darya smiled back slowly. ‘Yeah, sorry, I was being dramatic.’

  He held her gaze. ‘I want you to stay as long as you can, Darya. You know that, right?’

  Flustered, Darya nodded and dropped her eyes.

  Leaning back, he crossed his arms and rocked back and forth. ‘But that's not the only thing troubling you, is it?’ he asked.

  Darya sighed. She'd been trying to fathom why this news had made her so upset... no... angry more than upset.

  ‘I think... I don't know... It's just that...’ she tried to catch her thoughts, to arrange them, to make sense out of them.

  ‘You build a picture of someone in your head, and then it turns out that he wasn't what you thought,’ he finished for her.

  ‘Exactly!’ She looked up. ‘I've been trying and trying to understand this. It's like... we've always been led to believe Uncle Paritosh and Aunt Farideh were this ideal, perfect couple. I aspired to have a love like theirs. You know how in Goa we put uncle and aunty after every random elderly person's name? For Paritosh and Farideh we put it before... like they were special. We treated them diffe
rently. And now I know their love wasn't eternal. It wasn't special.’

  ‘So, you prefer that your uncle suffered all his life, rather than find happiness elsewhere?’

  Realizing how naïve that sounded, Darya mumbled, ‘It's not that.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Well, he could have married this woman legitimately.’

  ‘That would've been the honourable thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘What does your father have to say about this?’

  Food had arrived on their table: pork vindaloo, rice, and sol kadhi. Francis had thought it sensible to fill up for lunch at that hour rather than breakfast.

  But now, after a glance at the food, ‘I don't feel hungry,’ Darya said. The queasy feeling in her stomach was back.

  ‘Come on, eat something,’ Francis said. He put a scoop of rice followed by some vindaloo on his plate. ‘Be sossegado, man. You know what that means?’

  Darya said, ‘Yes, laid back. Chilling, the Goan way.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘So, what if your uncle was that way? What's it to you? You finish doing what you've come to do.’

  ‘What about Veronica? And her son?’

  ‘Your uncle is dead,’ Francis said. ‘That story is done.’

  She could see he didn't want to discuss it any further, but Darya couldn't wipe off the sound of the soft, pleading voice she'd heard on the phone.

  What did they look like? What was their story? She had to know. They were her family after all.

  She watched Francis eat and wondered why she didn't feel hungry. Then remembered she'd planned to talk to him about another thing that was on her mind.

  ‘Does Aaron know a lot about poetry?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he does.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have these lines with me... one second.’ She took out her phone and scanned through the images on it. So many photos from her past life... she'd need a good few hours to purge them. Once all this is over, she promised herself. But she couldn't have Francis see them now.

  Holding the phone close to her, she enlarged the photo she wanted to show him. Then pointing, she said, ‘Here, this one. Can you read it?’

  He scrunched up his eyes and made a move to take the phone away from her hand. She held it back.

  ‘You can read it from here,’ she told him.