The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 4

‘Photo albums, legal papers, insurance papers, his will, birth certificates etc. I can't find them anywhere. I looked yesterday. I looked this morning. I looked everywhere.’

  Filip adjusted his glasses and peered down at her. ‘Another thief?’ He flashed her a feeble smile.

  Darya did not respond. She was upset he was treating this so casually.

  Patting her shoulder, Filip said, ‘Lock the doors and windows. Keep the phone near. Call me if you see him again. I'll dial the police for help.’

  ‘We should tell the police anyway.’

  ‘I'll call my friend at the Canacona police station. Boro?’

  Darya nodded but the feeling of uneasiness wouldn't go away.

  Should she make a fuss? She was here only for a short while, and it was possible the guy had lost his way and it wasn't a balaclava she had seen. (No!) Yes. It was possible. He had moved too quickly.

  And she was a brave girl. She wasn't going to run away. She'll be prepared for the man next time. Show him a thing or two. Nobody was going to take her for granted anymore. She'll be ready for him. Use the karate chops she had learnt as a child. Punch him in the face...

  … but he wasn't going to show up.

  It was a one-off.

  She let it go for now.

  A few hours later, she arrived at the main market square of 18 June Road, Panjim.

  Shopkeepers were raising shutters and opening doors. Hawkers unpacked large polythene bags to bring out colourful harem pants, printed kaftans, and straw sun hats. Urchins with cloth bags on their shoulders pleaded with tourists, who appeared not to have slept the night, to buy souvenirs. Square packets of cashews and cans of beer exchanged hands as those leaving town made their final purchases.

  Rickshaws and buses honked on the main street. Bikers and drivers out-maneuvered each other to get a parking spot. School kids giggled as they swung their water bottles and crossed the road.

  A police car patrolled the area. Officers in khaki, their heads outside the window, eyes silently tracking passers-by.

  A few locals had gathered under the cool shade of a banyan tree to catch up on gossip, sipping from steaming cups of tea.

  A street sign announced: Welcome to Panaji, the eye of Paradise.

  Panaji, Darya scoffed, she could never call it that. It was always going to be Panjim for her—what the Portuguese had called it. Panaji, she knew, meant the land that never floods, but what did that mean anyway? The place was a feeling, a chronic emotion, not some geographic coordinate to set foot on and leave behind when done.

  Her father had said once, Goa was chilled chaos—and that's what it was.

  Darya parked the jeep near a liquor store bustling with customers. It was late in the morning, around eleven—she knew not to come to Panjim in the afternoon or too early to avoid facing shuttered doors—but it had already gotten hot and she couldn't wait to get inside a shop with an air conditioner.

  ‘Where can I get a paper folder, Uncle? I'm looking for a stationary shop,’ Darya asked an old man sitting in front of the shop, his feet apart, body forward, an unlit cigarette dangling in his mouth. He muttered, without looking up, ‘End of street.’

  ‘Shop name?’ Darya asked, stretching a hand to shade her eyes from the sun.

  The man squinted at her as if he did not understand the question. Then looking away, muttered, ‘Go man. End of street.’

  So, to the end of the street she went, her converse sneakers slapping the sidewalk, out of place in the land of frayed rubber slippers.

  It wasn't at the end of the street, but at the end of the next that she finally found it. One could scarcely have guessed it was a bookshop much less a stationary store from its frosted glass, English-pub-like exterior. A sign hanging on an iron hook by the door announced: The Drowsy Poet.

  Darya giggled. Then throwing a reproachful glare at the sun, crossed the street.

  And entered the store.

  It took her a moment or two to catch her breath while her mind processed the sight in front of her.

  Her jaw dropped.

  It was unlike any other bookstore she had seen before. It had seemed like a tiny, hole-in-the-wall shop from outside, wedged as it was between a wedding dressmaker and a furniture shop, a punctuation between two flashy establishments replete with neon lights and screaming banners. The Drowsy Poet was a different kind of in-your-face. From the English-pub-style façade to the placement of the books inside set on shelves arranged like a maze, it looked like the manifestation of a crazy brain. The books themselves were segregated unconventionally: Once Upon a Time, Pulp Fiction, Once Banned, Ancient Religion and Other Weird Stuff, Dreams and Nightmares, Let us give you hope. Now and then—interspersed like inappropriate commas—were flexi tube racks containing books in other languages: Spanish, French, Hebrew, Russian, Konkani, and Hindi, among others. The walls around had indigenous graffiti painted on them, and customers had stuck post-it-notes below in a garland-like pattern. Illuminating them were parallel rows of tiny white bulbs. Mushroom-like poufs and antique Parisian-style cabinets were placed at the corners.

  The store's presently unmanned billing counter had an IBM desktop computer on it. A table beside held stacks of neatly arranged books, of all sizes and shapes, with a placard in the middle announcing—Signed first copies. A poster on the wall behind read—My workout is reading in bed till my arm hurts.

  Darya felt an inexplicable quickening of her pulse as she absorbed the tumult of books and graffiti. She was drowning in them. They crashed into her senses from all around.

  Like Alice in Wonderland.

  So absorbed was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when a whisper grazed her ear, soft as silk.

  ‘Can I help you with something?’

  ‘Ah, um...’ she stuttered, turned around and nearly toppled on her feet.

  ‘Sorry, did not mean to alarm you,’ the voice said and moved away a few inches.

  Darya took a step back herself and stared at the man standing in front of her.

  He was probably in his late twenties. Over six feet tall and lanky as a rail, he wore loose beige pants and a black T-shirt over it announcing his love for Goa. His face was dark and angular with a day's worth of growth on his chin. His nose appeared crooked, its bridge leaning slightly to the right. He had floppy brown hair and body movements like that of a symphony conductor: slow, fast, slow... elegant.

  But most fascinating were his eyes... their lids droopy as if he'd just woken up from sleep.

  And when she looked closer, she realized...

  Wow.

  Is that even possible?

  … they were of two different colours. One was most definitely hazel and the other a dark, cloudy blue.

  She looked again to make sure.

  Fuck.

  Bizarre. Mysterious.

  Gorgeous.

  If he noticed her astonishment, he didn't let it show. He had a self-assured air about him that caused Darya to believe there was nothing unplanned about their encounter. He had probably seen her enter and sneaked in behind to startle her.

  ‘I...’ Darya stammered. ‘There was something...’

  He waited.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she blurted out.

  Now it was his turn to be startled. ‘I don't know. Have we met before?’

  Darya shook her head. She had no idea why she'd said that. There was something about him...

  ‘No, I thought... it's just, you surprised me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning. ‘My name is Francis. I help out in the store.’ He offered a long, wide palm to shake hers. It covered hers like a glove, lingering until she pulled away.

  Stop blushing. Collect yourself.

  ‘No, I wasn't looking for you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I was looking for some paper... urn, some paper folders.’ Then felt stupid when Francis smirked.

  ‘Oops, one-upped by a paper folder. Not a very good start to the day.’

  Darya took a deep breath. Steadied herself. She was
acting out of character, losing her self-control over a man she'd just met. Because of those weird eyes, she told herself. It made him more attractive to her than he would've been otherwise. And the fact that he was looking at her in that unwavering, challenging way didn't quite help. She had to admit, even without those eyes, he was quite good-looking, in an unusual, rakish way.

  ‘Do you have paper folders, Francis?’ Darya asked stiffly, trying to quell the tremor in her voice.

  ‘I think so,’ he said, looking around. ‘Wait here a minute. Do you have a colour preference?’

  ‘Why, because I am a girl?’ Darya snapped and regretted it immediately. Her nervousness was making her touchy.

  ‘Not really,’ he muttered, throwing her a wan look. ‘Have to ask.’ Then bending down to grab a handful of plastic files, added, ‘Also because we have a lot of choices.’ He extended them towards her. ‘Which ones do you want?’

  ‘I'll take ten of any,’ she said. ‘It's to organize a dead man's things anyway.’

  Francis stopped, his hand in mid-air.

  ‘Say what?’

  Oh-dear-lord.

  She hastened to explain.

  ‘My uncle... he died. And I thought I should sort his things and put them into folders. He has an awful lot of papers.’

  Francis looked pensive as he handed over the folders. Darya was guilt-ridden.

  There had been no need for her to divulge details of her personal life to a shop attendant even if he looked a bit like a toasted Adrien Brody.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn't have spoken about my dead uncle that way,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘He's dead anyway. He wouldn't hear you.’ He smiled and Darya felt the skin behind her ears grow warm.

  ‘How much for these?’ she asked, but Francis wasn't listening. His eyes were on the door of the bookstore. The welcome bell had rung.

  Darya turned.

  The man who entered was shorter than Francis. Stockier. Noticeable even from a distance was a head full of shocking curly hair, like a twisted black wool rug. He walked towards them at a measured pace, as if marching. When he came closer, Darya saw that he had a serious expression on his face, his eyes severe and narrow, lips grim. Though fairer in complexion than Francis, he was well-tanned, his skin a creamy brown that seemed the result of prolonged lounging in the sun. He wore a half-sleeved white linen shirt tucked into blue jeans. Looked to be in his mid-thirties.

  ‘A crate arrived with the Coelhos,’ he said, addressing Francis. ‘There's another with Fitzgerald and Tart. Unload them and send out the orders today.’ Then turning to her, ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Aaron.’

  ‘He's the boss,’ Francis added, helpfully. ‘Owns the store.’

  Aaron threw a glance at Francis as if to acknowledge this, then back to her. ‘We don't usually have many visitors in the morning,’ he said, speaking in a clipped, formal way, which made Darya want to giggle.

  Stodgy, her father would've said. So English. That would also explain the outside of the bookstore.

  ‘I can see that you don't,’ Darya said. She wondered if they had many visitors at all.

  As if reading her mind, ‘We keep a lot of unusual books, the kinds you won't easily find,’ Aaron said. Then nodding at Francis, ‘Do we have the book she wants?’ Then to her, ‘Or can I be of any help?’

  Oh, as if. She had a feeling he had summed up her potential as soon as he had walked in. And it wasn't good.

  Then as if to confirm this premise, ‘She didn't need a book. Only paper folders,’ Francis pointed to the bright things in Darya's hands.

  ‘I don't read much,’ Darya muttered.

  Aaron gave a slight nod. Did not reply.

  ‘I can come in another day to see what you have...’ Darya started, then stopped midway, wondering mildly why she had felt the need to compensate.

  ‘Yes, you should,’ Aaron said and moved towards the billing counter.

  Darya felt a pang of irritation. If anybody bought anything from The Drowsy Poet it was probably because of Francis, the people pleaser, and not Aaron, who was better suited behind the billing counter or hidden inside the storeroom caressing his beloved books.

  ‘What's your name?’ Francis asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘Do you talk this much with every visitor?’ Darya asked, some of her crossness seeping in. ‘A fat lot of business you must do.’

  He laughed. ‘The boss believes in personalizing the experience, knowing the buyers, talking about books.’

  She tucked the folders under her arm. ‘Do you read a lot, Francis?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to. Picked it up again after I started working here.’

  ‘And have you worked here long?’ She noticed Aaron throwing them curious looks and felt some satisfaction in causing him some delay and hopefully some annoyance as well.

  She did not know what it was; she'd felt an odd sort of chemistry with him if she could call it that. Dislike-curiosity-awe-confusion. She did not know how to put it... what the right word was.

  How could she describe him? An English aristocrat came to Darya's mind. She chuckled in her head. Meaning he was probably intelligent, rational, and honourable but difficult, old-fashioned, and stuffy.

  Not easy.

  Unlike Spandan, popped into her head. At least how he used to be. In the beginning.

  Or Francis, who was now saying, in response to her question, ‘Been here for a couple of months.’

  She trained her eyes on him. He was hardly your everyday bookshop attendant. If she hadn't met Aaron, she would've supposed Francis was the owner of The Drowsy Poet or the owner's son or some such, volunteering his free time.

  ‘Is this what you do?’ she asked, unsure, even as the words came out, what she actually meant to find out.

  But he seemed to get the drift. ‘Taking a break in Goa,’ he replied, smiling, ‘and this pays for my boarding and lodging. I like books and when Aaron asked me, it seemed like a good arrangement.’ He added, ‘I work as a data engineer otherwise.’

  She nodded. Not your typical shop attendant, then.

  ‘Your name?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  She bit back a smile. ‘Darya.’

  ‘Like a river?’ he asked.

  She paused. ‘Yes. Or in some other languages... wealthy.’

  Whoever said your name manifested in your life was clearly wrong.

  ‘Nice,’ he murmured. Then cocking his head towards the door, ‘I saw a jeep on my way here. Johnny Uncle said a girl was driving it. Yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ Darya replied.

  ‘Nice.’

  They were standing awkwardly, in between uneven columns of books stacked on the floor. Darya felt obliged to ask, if only to indicate she was interested too—

  ‘So, what does your name mean?’

  ‘I'm named after quite a famous person actually. The Lord of Goa,’ he said.

  ‘I know him. That famous Christian missionary, right? Whose body is in the Church of Bom Jesus?’

  ‘Yeah, that very one,’ he said.

  ‘So, are you like your namesake?’ Darya asked.

  ‘Everyone wishes I was,’ he replied.

  She took a few steps away. ‘Everyone such as your parents?’

  Grinning, he followed her. ‘They gave up on me a while ago.’

  Aaron was tapping his fingers on the countertop. She placed the stack of folders on it.

  ‘Fifty,’ he said and handed her a receipt.

  She noticed he had a dimple on his right cheek. A fleck of the sun on stone.

  A shuffle of feet behind her. Francis had moved away.

  ‘Aaron, where are you from?’ Darya asked, congratulating herself in her head for making an effort again.

  ‘Shillong,’ he replied and handed over a paper bag with the folders inside. Then, ‘Do you know where it is?’

  Oh, patronizing much? She resolved not to try anymore

  '‘Course I do,’ she replied tightly.

  He s
hrugged. ‘Not everyone does. They think I am from China.’

  Darya said, ‘You're definitely not Goan, anyone can see that. But I wouldn't go as far as China.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He was about to say something more when the welcome bell chimed again. Two shoppers walked in. ‘Some other time,’ he muttered, stepping out to greet them.

  They were foreigners, in their forties, well dressed, and as yet untouched by the sun. They seemed to know Aaron well who, addressing them by their first names, led them inside.

  Darya watched him go, noting that the muscles of his face moved only about half an inch, no matter what he said or who he talked to.

  What a strange man... Perhaps soft under the exoskeleton, but who was going to wait and find out?

  She looked around for Francis but couldn't locate him.

  That one, I'd happily peel the layers off, she thought. A spring came to her steps.

  She'd have to come to The Drowsy Poet again.

  Darya's drive back was quicker. She had now grown familiar with the route, and the roads had emptied of people preparing for their afternoon siesta. Darya herself was eager to get back to the cool villa courtyard and lounge with a glass of mango sherbet.

  Then she remembered that the mango tree in Sea Swept's garden was long gone.

  She turned onto Heliconia Lane and immediately noticed the bright red Skoda Rapid parked in front of Constellation. Slowing down, she watched as a woman got out and turned her head to look back. Their eyes met.

  Vidisha.

  Darya parked the jeep and climbed out.

  Vidisha sprinted forward, her arms wide open to suggest a large hug was coming Darya's way. A leather handbag with a dangling pair of sunglasses flapped on one shoulder. Her hair was cut short, and it fell straight and limp behind her ears, stopping right over her shoulders. She was wearing a lacy white top, loud and clunky jewellery, and a pair of blue palazzos. Bright red lipstick, pink rouge, and dark kajal fought for attention in a face that used to be plain and pasty but now seemed... transformed by a strange kind of radiance.

  A painted cannonball, Darya thought. Then felt ashamed at her unkindness.

  ‘You've changed,’ she managed to squeak over Vidisha's crushing embrace. ‘Why did you cut your hair? And you seemed to have put on weight, but in a nice way.’ Patting her back lightly, she tried to push her away.