Miss Timmins' School for Girls (32 page)

But it was my hips that came in the way. Typical Indian figure, wide pelvic girdle, good for childbearing but terrible for crawling through narrow tunnels. I found myself wedged with my head and shoulders out at one end, and my legs wriggling into the void.

All the panic crouched in my stomach pounced into my throat and I screamed, “Bachao, bachao, bachao. Ayi, bachao, save me mother, save me. I was screaming for my mother in the comfort of the mother tongue. My head scraped the roof, dislodging a family of bats who flew around in circles screeching. I had no hope.

And then I saw a pinwheel of light and heard footsteps echoing their way towards me. There was hope!

It was a man, holding a candle. In shadows, he looked like a gorilla. Large, hunched, shambling. He was smoking. He peered up at me in astonishment.

I explained my predicament as best I could to the unseen hulk between the swirling bats. He stood as if glued to the spot below me for what seemed a lifetime, and then he stubbed his cigarette and said, “Thamba,” wait. He left and returned with a lantern and a metal chair. He stood up on the chair, reached his giant arms out, and pulled with considerable might, grunting. I wriggled and squirmed and then in the end came flying out like a projectile. I fell on top of him, he fell off the chair, and we were flat on the ground, I on top of him. He smelled of sweat and bidi smoke. I was torn and bleeding and barefoot.

It took me a minute to recognize him. It was Kushal Wagle, the scandal-ridden youngest son of Janaki Wagle, the younger brother of Pinkie and Yellow.

We limped into the den and sat on the metal chairs, facing each other. In the days when I was accepted into the bosom of the Wagle family and sat out in the veranda with the inspector, I saw Kushal rarely. He had a room in the front of the house that he used as his fortress, venturing out only to forage for food or make a phone call. He was sulky and never bothered to look at me, or at anyone else. In those days, of course, I did not know of his paternity issues.

Kushal put the lantern on the table in the center of the den and lit a cigarette. He had thick lips and a chubby, pimply face.

My hair was at half-mast; I knew I must look like a witch. I was shaking. I wanted to ask him for a cigarette, but I knew that would be too shocking.

“Hello, how are Pinkie and Yellow?” I said instead, thinking it was best to go to the common ground to create some comfort in this, the most bizarre of meetings.

“You don't know Pinkie and Yellow, do you?” he said very rudely.

“Well, of course I've heard about them so much from your parents,” I said. In the shadowy light, I felt he leered at me.

“Do tell your mother I miss her kokum kadhi,” I added. Wanting to remind him how well I knew his mother.

I spoke in Marathi, as I mostly did with his parents. But he answered back proudly in English.

“Oh, yes, yes, you know my parents,” he said. He took a large swig from an unmarked bottle containing yellow liquid and then sniggered. “All of them.” I realized he had been sitting in the cave alone, drinking country liquor. He was clearly drunk.

In all of the scandal stories swirling around town, they discussed how the inspector felt about rearing the son of his enemy, or how his wife managed to hold her head up in the bazaar. No one had spared a thought for poor Kushal, except to examine the tilt of his head, the shape of his jaw, or the color of his skin, in order to judge who his father was.

The lamp threw an immense, wavering, genie-like shadow on the cave wall.

My throat was parched. “Do you have water?” I asked

He took another swig and passed me the bottle. “Only liquid here tonight,” he said, and now there was no doubt about it, he was leering.

I refused, though I admit I was sorely tempted. Never, my mother had dinned into me from the day I could hear, never let yourself be alone in a room with a man. They cannot always control their natures, she usually added, lowering her voice.

The leering man rested his elbows on his knees, hunching forward towards me. “Very soon, I'll have it all going again. I'll have drinks, and even your charas ganja.” He spoke the words “charas ganja” in a contemptuous manner. “The old hawaldar, he has promised to get me some of it. You tell those pussy friends of yours—ya, tell those friends to come next week. I will supply all their bad habits.” He winked at me.

“Shankar and Son. I should put up a sign outside the cave. That'll show them. That'll show Inspector Wagle. One prick, and he will burst like a balloon.” This was Kushal's rite of passage—choosing his father. He was sitting there alone in the dark, scheming of casting his lot with the lowly servant.

I decided it was time to leave. I was shaken up and barefoot, and it was a long way back. First, a clamber down to the dirt road, and then a long and winding walk to Aeolia. I had been hoping to get Kushal to come with me, and perhaps go to the Nest, which was much closer, and get a police car. Or at least a pair of slippers. But Kushal was drunk and mean. I realized I was better off on my own.

I got up to leave. I smoothed my short hair and straightened my clothes.

“Thank you, Kushal,” I said. “You saved my life. I am eternally indebted to you. I slipped off the edge of the cliff and fell on a ledge. And miraculously, I found the tunnel. I could have been stuck in that wretched hole forever. That would have been a fate worse than death. It was my good fortune that you were here tonight. I am in your debt.”

“Then you should return the favor,” he said thickly, and reached out and caught my arm and jerked me onto his lap before I had a chance to react.

“Come on, don't act so proper. I see you talking loose in the bazaar with those boys. I'm sure you service them.” I felt a large hard lump rise through the bottom of my thin cotton salwar.

He pulled my hair and held my face just below his. I was glad for my short hair; my tail would have been torture. With the other hand, he was groping my meager breasts. “Ha, you think I don't see you? I saw you going up and down at night from my window. I see you all the time. I see you everywhere. You better be nice to me, or I can get you in hot water. Very, very hot water. You better be nice.”

The Sword of Innocence was too tarnished to wield. I would need another weapon.

I relaxed my ramrod-stiff body. I put an arm on his shoulder.

“Fine. Then be a man and do it properly,” I said. “No need to pull and tear. Let me teach you. First, light me a cigarette.”

He looked confused, not sure he could trust me. But he was a boy of sixteen, and his vanity got the better of him.

He took out two cigarettes from the packet near the ashtray. I pulled one from his hand and threw it across the cave. “Only one,” I ordered. “I'll show you how we can smoke together. I'll exhale into your mouth, and then when we kiss the smoke will swirl between our mouths. We keep blowing it back at each other. You'll see how nice that feels.” I grinned at him. I had never done this myself.

He gave a foolish smile and lit my cigarette. He began to breathe hard, his eyes glazed with anticipation. He opened his mouth. His breath was noxious.

I took two deep puffs of the cigarette to steady my nerves, and then I plunged the lighted end onto his tongue, twisting it hard, hoping it would leave a permanent scar. I jumped off his lap and ground my elbow into his still-hard groin, and I ran out of the cave while he was howling in pain.

I scrambled down to the dirt road. I heard him cursing me in Marathi, but thankfully, he did not follow me.

Thirty-one

Merch

A
fter my terrible confrontation with fat Kushal, there was only one place to run to. I knocked against his door, praying, and he opened it and took me into his arms.

Merch had quiet eyes and gentle hands. He did not roll me a joint as would be his custom, but produced a dusty bottle of Black Dog whisky and gave it to me and knocked down a large peg himself, neat. My feet were scratched, my clothes were caked with volcanic dust eons old, and I could not stop my hands from shaking or my teeth from chattering.

I had a long, long bath by myself, and when I came out, he asked, “Another whisky or tea and omelet?”

First whisky, then tea and omelet, I said, and when he came to me with the clinking glass, he took my head and held it against his stomach as he passed my chair. I liked the way he could run his hands through my cropped hair. His hands felt warm and big.

As he bustled around in the kitchen, I lit a cigarette and sipped my drink and decided that I had to trust Merch with my story.

Merch is easily the best listener I know. I started with my night on table-land and the descent of Nelson, and went on to the attempted rape. I told him that I had lied.

I do not think he said a word during the whole confession. If he did, I do not recall. I studied his face for signs of shock or dismay, but I instead I saw a gleam of light. “I'm glad you finally decided to trust me,” he said, finally, after I had grown silent.

He had known all along. And he did not love me any less.

“Those days everything was so intense, and then, standing in front of Woggle, I thought it would kill my parents. I felt that Pin was right beside me, she was telling me to deny even being there on table-land. I felt so confident, somehow. I felt I could dig around and find out what happened that night, you know, talk to everyone in school, uncover all those old secrets, and get more than those sakaram detectives ever would. In
Macbeth
, Banquo says, ‘
I must become a borrower of the night, for a dark hour
.' I kept justifying it to myself later, saying I was merely borrowing that dark hour, and I would return it later.”

It sounded lame, even to me. “But at least there is one bright spot,” I said. “At least I solved one mystery. It's Kushal watching me in Aeolia at night.” I scraped up the last of the omelet grease from the frying pan with a piece of pau bread.

“You stay here with me, until all this passes,” he said. I was hurt, but tried not to be, because he did not say, “You stay here with me forever.”

“But it's causing such a scandal,” I said. “Why don't you stay with me there, in Aeolia?”

“And why will that be less scandalous?”

“Well it's far away. We can be more furtive. This place is in the middle of everything. Even the girls were sniggering about it.”

He was silent for a minute. “What would you rather do?” he asked.

“I am not safe here. I think I should leave Panchgani. The inspector told me I would be needed for questioning. I am to inform him if I need to leave Panchgani.” I said it not because I wanted to go. I knew I could not leave now. I had swallowed Panchgani and could not leave until I digested it. Or maybe it was the other way around. Panchgani had swallowed me, and I could not leave until it was finished with me.

I said it, waiting for him to say, “Don't go, I'll miss you.” But he said nothing.

I felt resentment against Merch creep upon me again. His holding back. Why can't he say he will marry me? Then we would live here without the swirling rumors, and he would keep me safe.

But the image crumpled before it was fully formed. I could not imagine the two of us bustling around with children and shining brass pots.

“Why not tell him about Kushal?” he asked. I shook my head then.

But later that night I awoke in a cold sweat. I sat up in bed knowing that I was not safe in Panchgani unless I told the inspector that I was in danger from his son, who was not really his son. And I would never be safe within myself until I confessed to what I really saw on table-land on the night of Pin's death.

Merch opened his eyes. He took my hand and kissed it and held it against his chest, playing with my fingers.

“I don't know if I should be saying this,” he said in a hoarse just-awoken voice, “but I love you.”

“You should say it if it's true,” I said. He felt so safe and clean and good I could not believe it was still the night of the leering caveman.

He stroked my hand as one might a puppy. “But you, you are a restless one.”

“And you are not? I think we would be good together. We would be, Merch.”

“Let's take it as it comes.” He pulled me down and kept my head in the hollow of his shoulder.

I rolled over to the other side of the bed.

“I am not one for commitment,” he said, knowing he had hurt me. “But you know I am yours.”

As long as it's fiction, I thought.

The next morning, I asked Merch to come with me to Inspector Wagle for moral support. But just as we were about to enter the chowki I changed my mind. I decided I was better off going in alone.

“I need to change my statement,” I told the inspector. He looked at me uncomprehending at first. My voice was shaking. “I need to change my statement about my activities on the night of the murder.”

He looked very tired. There were large dark pouches under his eyes. “Now what is it, Charu?” he asked.

I confessed. “I did go up to table-land that night for the same reasons as I earlier stated. Moira Prince had come to my room and told me she was thinking of jumping off the cliff. She did not tell me about the letter and the fateful message it contained. I thought I calmed her down. But later that night I awoke with a start from a bad dream and felt that she might still have gone up.

“But when I went up to table-land, I did see something. I saw Moira Prince standing against the needle. Before I could go up to her, I saw Miss Shirley Nelson approach her. Miss Nelson patted her on the back. Moira Prince did not turn. Miss Nelson left and walked down from table-land. I turned and walked back soon after her.”

I became bold and strong as soon as I began the first line. It was the most liberating moment of my life.

“She was alive when you left?” he asked. “Did you talk to her?”

“No, I did not go up to her.”

Mr. Woggle was eyeing me with displeasure and disbelief.
You mean you went all the way up to table-land in the middle of a monsoon night because you were worried about her, and then you turned and left without talking to her? And how did you suppose she would not jump after you left, since, by your own admission, you were concerned about her safety?
I think this is what he must have been itching to ask—I would have been, if I were him—but I was so clear and confident that he decided to say nothing.

“You will be testifying under oath in court soon,” he said. “Nelson is accused of the murder, so you cannot be accused at the same time. But you will be cross-examined by big-city lawyers. Do not take this lightly. You young people do not understand what you meddle and say.”

“I did not kill her. If I had, why would I come forward at this stage? To be put under suspicion? I am doing it because I cannot leave Nelson falsely accused.”

“It is not as simple as that,” said the inspector. “Why did you lie in the first statement?” I noticed he avoided saying my name.

“My mother was in critical condition,” I said. “I thought the shock of it would kill her.”

“If, as you say, you did not even go up to her, what is the shock?” We were both silent for a moment. A young Brahmin girl from Indore, or even from Panchangi, for that matter, does not reveal her sex life to an inspector. I could not say I went up to table-land to find Prince due to a lover's quarrel. Decorum must be maintained at all costs, even though we were talking of murder.

“And your mother, she is better now?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “she is still in a coma.”

“Nelson will be tried in court, and if she is found not guilty due to your testimony, it may be your turn next. Have you talked to your family about this?” he asked.

“Yes, I have,” I lied, but it was a white lie, with no guilt attached. I had still to figure out how I would tell Ayi and Baba, and what it might do to them in their fragile state.

“Now, you are telling me that the principal didn't kill her and you did not kill her.” He looked defeated, I thought, more than anything else. “Who killed her, then?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“Well, you can tell that to the court. For now we will record your new statement and pass it on to the relevant authorities.” He was silent for a while, seemed to have trouble breathing. Our beer and peanut evenings seemed from another life. “You could face charges for perjury. Or for obstructing justice, if the matter gets really out of hand.”

So that was done. Without further ado, I launched into the second subject.

I have a complaint, I said, against Kushal Wagle.

The inspector stiffened and looked at me with distaste. Distaste for me or Kushal or perhaps for us both.

“You are trying to tell me that he assaulted you in Devil's Kitchen at 8 p.m. last night?” he said when my story was complete.

“Yes.”

The inspector looked me up and down. I could not blame him, exactly. I had already lied to him before.

“And what do you want me to do about it?” he finally asked.

“I want to register an official complaint,” I said. “He should be locked up. He is a danger and a threat.”

Even to my own ears, I was beginning to sound hysterical and high-pitched. The inspector must think I am mad. Cracking under duress. He might think I was one of those strange repressed women—often thin and ugly like me—who began by getting tremors and temple trances, and progressed to making up stories with connotations of lewd attacks. He might even think I made up the entire table-land episode.

Inspector Wagle frowned, folds of plump flesh puckering. He called in his hawaldar. The hawaldar stood at attention beside the desk. You could hear the inspector's mind working.

Finally, he said, “Tell Manu to take the car and fetch Kushal here. Not the jeep, the closed car, the Ambassador.”

We waited in silence. The inspector pretending to be reading some official reports, I staring at the wall.

Kushal shambled into the office. He gave me a defiant smile.

“So what happened last night?” the inspector asked him in Marathi, his voice curt, his lip curled in disgust.

“Didn't she tell you?” he answered, insisting again on English. “I saved her life. I don't know what she was doing down there, but I saved her life. Heard her scream and pulled her out of the hole above the cave. Maybe she is here to give me my reward.”

“But you tried to—tried to threaten me,” I almost screamed in anger and frustration.

“Did you or did you not lay a hand on her?” asked the inspector. He stood up, came around his desk, and even though he was at least two inches shorter than the boy, the inspector raised his hand and gave him a hard slap on his cheek. Kushal cowered, and in that moment I saw the helpless eyes of a lost, abused child.

The inspector turned to me. “I cannot control this boy anymore. Go ahead, register your complaint.”

“No,” I said, feeling sorry for him. “I do not want to record a statement. But I want some kind of assurance that he will not harass me in the future. I think he follows me and spies on me.”

“We will see to it,” said the Woggle.

“What does that mean?” I asked the inspector.

“Curfew,” said the inspector without looking at Kushal. “If he cannot be trusted, then he will be locked into his room at night. I cannot have a member of my own family causing disturbances in town.”

“Well, then, I guess I will be safe,” I said, and turned to leave.

Kushal showed no gratitude for my soft heart. “Ha!” he said. “She knows I can get her sent to jail. Instead of punishing me, ask her. Ask her what she does at night when she goes up to table-land with all those boys.”

Then he turned, pointed to me, and said, “She's a whore.” He used the Marathi word, which sounded even worse. “She's a randi and a murderer.”

“Shut up, you bloody idiot!” shouted the inspector. “You dumb son of a bitch, you know-nothing. Why did I keep you and your slut of a mother in my home? Taking advantage of my good nature. And now this. Take him out of my sight.” He directed his order to the hovering hawaldar.

I remembered the night of my first dinner with the Woggles, when I had returned to find Janaki wailing. So this must be a regular fixture of family night at the Woggles. The Woggle's torture chamber. Slow drip.

But Kushal stood his ground. “I saw her,” he said, pointing his fat index finger at me. “That night from my room. I saw her running down. And it was after the scream.”

“What is this babble?” asked the inspector with a snort.

“That night, I heard shouting and screaming, ‘Help, help, help!' It was a terrible scream, and I heard it. It was at least ten minutes after that that I saw Charu running down.”

“And all this time you said nothing? Don't tamper in this matter.” The inspector went to Kushal, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him up. He raised his hand again, but the hawaldar discreetly separated them.

“You can hit me. Coward. Hit me,” said Kushal. “But I will record this statement. If you don't take it, I will go down to Satara Court.”

“He's lying,” I shouted. “There was no scream.”

The inspector turned to me. “And how would you know that?”

“If Kushal heard the scream, and I was on or near table-land, I would have heard it. And for that matter, no one else did. Not the girls, the boys, or even Shankar. He was in the cave; he would have heard the scream. He would have said so in his defense when he was arrested.”