Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged Read online

  BULBUL SHARMA

  MURDER at the HAPPY HOME for the AGED

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MURDER AT THE HAPPY HOME FOR THE AGED

  Bulbul Sharma is the author of five collections of short stories, a novel, three books for children and a work of non-fiction. Her books have been translated into several languages. She lives in New Delhi and Goa.

  To ‘D’

  And to all my friends in Goa,

  with love and a big thank you

  CHAPTER ONE

  THOUGH THE SEA was far away, the breeze tasted salty and warm as it mingled with the scent of jasmine and then floated through the garden. Before it streamed into the house, it briefly touched the body that was hanging limp and broken from the branches of the old mango tree. The breeze did not linger to pick up traces of the nauseating stench of death. The garden stood still and not a single bird called as the breeze circled the house, searching for open windows so that it could flow into every room.

  Maria heard the crows declare dawn and opened her eyes, but quickly shut them again as the warm breeze touched her face gently. It must be 6.00 a.m., she thought, keeping her eyes tightly shut, because the crows always begin to call around that time. But she knew she could sleep for another fifteen minutes—the neighbours’ dogs were not barking to be let out yet. Maria went back to her dream. She and Francis were sailing on a boat on the Mandovi river. Someone was playing a guitar, but she wanted whoever it was to stop because a very strong smell of rotting fish was making her feel dizzy and sick. Francis was looking deep into her eyes and she was certain he was about to propose when the ship toppled over and a deafening clanging began. That must be the milkman. That meant it was 7.30 a.m. now. Had she slept for more than an hour? Maria forced herself to open her eyes.

  The house was quiet as she reluctantly got out of bed and put on her old dressing gown. The print, once a cheerful pattern of bright pink roses, was now faded but the soft old cotton clung to her body like a fond caress. Another long day at the Happy Home for the Aged, thought Maria as she brushed her teeth. Her eyes looked puffy and bleary in the bathroom mirror. She had forgotten to take off her eye make-up last night and now two large raccoon-like eyes glared back at her. ‘I will try that new eye cream,’ she said to her reflection as if to soothe its ruffled feelings, but at the back of her mind she knew she should not have had that third glass of wine.

  All the residents of the Happy Home for the Aged must be at their usual posts, doing exactly what they do every day, and will continue to do till they die, thought Maria viciously, tugging a brush through her unruly hair. Deven would have left long ago for his morning walk on the beach, Yuri must still be asleep, Cyrilo must be digging in the garden, Prema must be bathing and Rosie must be putting on her make-up. Leela must be in the kitchen coaxing the old stove to life. Everything would be chugging along in the same boring way. Maria thought about her dream, desperately trying to bring the silver-tinged images back, but the boat had vanished into the depths of the river, taking Francis with it. The cruel sunlight that was now blinding her eyes had killed her beautiful dream and plunged her into real life.

  * * *

  The breeze made the torn muslin curtains flutter as Rosie moved her wheelchair closer to the window. She held up the mirror close to her face to check if she had any new hairs on her chin. There were none, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she put the old ivory-framed mirror, a gift from her late second husband, back into its velvet-lined box. Then, slowly and meticulously, like a surgeon conducting a tricky operation, she began putting her face on. It was difficult because her hands shook badly now and her eyeliner often got smudged, but she was not going to stop doing her make-up just because she was seventy-nine years old.

  Even though she never left the boundaries of the Happy Home for the Aged, Rosie made up her face every day as if she was going to a party. First a fine layer of foundation, applied carefully with trembling fingertips, then a careful dusting of powder from her old compact, and finally, a black line over her eyelids that often disappeared into the wrinkled folds of her skin.

  After doing her make-up, she put on her large hat and wheeled herself out. The old house had a vast, rambling garden and Maria had kindly paved a path so that her wheelchair could go smoothly from one end of the garden to the other. There was even a ramp for her to go upstairs. Rosie never went out beyond the gates.

  Maria Anne Souza, who looked after them all, was pretty in an untidy, careless way and Rosie hoped she would find a nice man soon—she was already thirty-nine and a half. Maria worked so hard to keep the Tip Top Cafe going and looking after the Happy Home that she had no time for herself. There is time still, thought Rosie as she wheeled her way along the path. After all, I married my second husband when I was sixty-four. Poor fellow died on my seventieth birthday.

  The house was silent, though a few windows and doors creaked sadly as they always had, as if still complaining about some long-forgotten hurt. Cyrilo was already up and doing his push-ups in the veranda. Rosie heard him counting breathlessly. He’s still so handsome, even though he must be well past sixty-five, she mused as she took out a small bottle from her bag and sprayed rose water on her wrists. Cyrilo, always so happy and cheerful, spent all day pottering about in the garden, his strong, muscular arms gleaming in the sunshine as he dug up weeds. He made Rosie’s day pass wonderfully when he worked right under her window. She kept talking to him, and though he could not hear her, he looked up and smiled at her from time to time. It was enough for Rosie. At her age, a small gesture like that was enough to keep her happy all day. When she was younger, men would faint with joy when she threw a careless little smile at them. ‘Time changes everything, and we have to bow our heads to its harsh commands,’ Rosie whispered lines from a half-forgotten poem, picking up the mascara brush with a trembling hand.

  Yuri was still asleep and would not wake till noon. He was an insomniac, and Rosie often heard him prowling about on the terrace, muttering to himself in Russian. Sometimes he got drunk and sang loudly for hours, and stopped only when the neighbourhood dogs began to howl. Yuri, who said he was only sixty-eight, was a painter, though he hardly ever sold any of his brightly coloured, strange paintings of Goan villages.

  He often told Rosie he was in love with her but she didn’t really care for him, though it was fun to flirt sometimes. ‘One must flirt to keep alive,’ Rosie often said to Maria, whom she thought was too boyish and lacking in femininity. Her eye make-up was always smudged with sweat and her dresses were either too long or too tight. Her beautiful thick hair was never brushed properly and instead hung about her face like a wild shrub. Poor Maria was in love with Francis but she would have to polish herself a bit to catch a playboy like him. Rosie had told her many times to wear false eyelashes and flutter them at him, show a bit of cleavage instead of her plump, unwaxed legs, but Maria just laughed her advice away. ‘Where is the time to make myself pretty? I have to rise at dawn, bake for Tip Top, and rush back here to take care of you all.’

  Rosie w
heeled her chair towards the courtyard to look for Leela. An empty teacup was lying on the table. Deven, the youngest resident of the Happy Home for the Aged, had already left for his yoga class on the beach at dawn and would only return late in the afternoon. He spent his mornings at the temple, cleaning the idols of the gods and goddesses and feeding the cows. Then he went to the church in Trionim, the closest village, and helped the priest teach orphaned children. But Rosie found him too cold and unfriendly; even though they had both been at the Happy Home for ten years he hardly ever spoke to anyone except to bark orders, as if he expected everyone to obey him.

  No one knew anything about Deven except that he was sixty-four years old and had lived in Mumbai for many years before coming to the Happy Home. Prema, the bad-tempered old woman who lived in the room next to Rosie, had tried very hard to find out more but Deven had been very rude to her. ‘I will never talk to that fellow ever again,’ Prema had said to Rosie, but she had continued to chat with the scowling, taciturn Deven, who just ignored her. Prema, who claimed to be two years younger than Rosie, was so bitchy and rude to everyone that they secretly felt it served her right. The only information Rosie had, given by Maria, was that Deven had once been a successful accountant in the Indian civil services and often helped her with the accounts at the Tip Top Cafe. She did not tell this to Prema. It was good to keep little secrets to oneself.

  * * *

  The crows flew in a wide arc, and then rose in the sky. They hovered briefly over the tree, uncertain because of the foul, strange smell that was drifting on the wind. They twisted their necks and ruffled their glossy black feathers as they watched the body hanging from the branch, each of them knowing by instinct that the smell was not natural. They flew away to another tree and sat brooding, waiting silently for the sun to rise. The breeze avoided the mango tree. The army of red ants walking down the garden wall in a long line stopped and waited, waving their tiny antennas suspiciously, as if afraid of entering the garden gate. The shadow of death hovered over the old house, tapping at the shuttered windows, whispering to be let in.

  * * *

  The Happy Home for the Aged had been set up by Denzel Souza, Maria’s grandfather, almost sixty years ago as a cosy shelter for his friends. He had inherited a vast cashew plantation from his father and never really had to work for a living. A mild-mannered, timid man, he was quite content to sit in his garden and play cards with his friends. Then life struck him a cruel blow when he lost his wife. He could not believe that the strong, cheerful woman who was constantly by his side, taking care of his every need, had gone. After her death, Denzel sat quietly for days in the garden, not speaking to anyone, as if waiting for his wife to reappear. He said he could hear her voice calling out to him. The people of Trionim thought he was going mad. His friends tried very hard to pull him out of his melancholy. Finally, he began to play cards again.

  A few years passed and tragedy struck again just as Denzel was becoming reconciled to his beloved wife’s death. His son and daughter-in-law were both found dead in the forest, with their five-year-old daughter roaming alone nearby. The old man, once again broken with sorrow, could not cope alone and two of his close friends moved into the huge empty house to take care of him and his granddaughter. They didn’t do much except play cards all day but he was consoled by their company. Soon after, a few more friends of his friends who, for various reasons, found they had nowhere else to go moved in.

  The old man gradually recovered and the large house sheltered them all. There was plenty of money still coming in from the sales of the cashews and coconuts that grew in the plantations surrounding the spacious house. An old couple from the village moved in and took charge of the kitchen. Meals were cooked, clothes were washed and the rooms were cleaned by seemingly invisible hands. Everyone was happy.

  Then, one day, an old woman turned up at the house, claiming to be Denzel’s cousin: ‘Your mother’s youngest sister’s eldest daughter.’ This stern, steely-eyed woman prayed all day and expected him to do the same. Denzel was not sure where she had come from and often tried to ask her exactly how they were related. But as soon as he tried, she shut her eyes and began to click her prayer beads together. Denzel did not have the courage to persist in his questioning in case the wrath of the heavens befell him. Soon, most of his friends left the house. Only two brave souls remained, who were both very deaf and could not hear her reprimands.

  The old man died at the age of 102, lonely and sad, with a glass of feni and three ace cards in his hands. One by one, all the other old residents passed away too, as if Denzel had ordered them to accompany him to the other world so they could continue to amuse and entertain him.

  Maria had been only seventeen years old when her grandfather died. She had promised him she would take care of any old people who wished to come and stay at the Happy Home. She was the one who gave the old house this name, and somehow the house responded and lost its gloomy air.

  Now, two decades later, the house had only five residents, not counting the cheerful, chattering ghosts who kept Maria awake at night. The living ones—Yuri, Deven, Cyrilo, Prema and Rosie—paid Maria a small amount every month for food and laundry. Leela, an orphan whose parents had once lived in the servant quarters of the house, had taken over the cleaning duties. Despite being only fifteen years old she managed the kitchen and the house with very little help from the two servants who sat in the courtyard all day drinking tea and talking about the good old days when the Happy Home was the grandest residence in the Trionim area.

  Maria often said they should do something for Leela, who was very bright and an extremely quick learner. She did not want her to spend her life cleaning and cooking for them. ‘I will train her as a nurse so she can look after me when I am old,’ Rosie often said. At seventy-nine, Rosie did not consider herself old and knew she had quite a few good years left. She also had plenty of money, though she never told anyone at the Happy Home about the treasure under her bed. Rosie had twenty gold coins hidden under sheets and pillowcases in a steel trunk that she kept locked. She wore the key around her neck on a chain along with a tiny golden cross her mother had given her.

  * * *

  Maria searched for her slippers and then, shaking them to check if any spiders had crawled in at night, she put them on. ‘I am so bored with life,’ she said aloud to the damp walls of her room. ‘I wish something would happen to break the monotony of these humid, hot days after the monsoon. I want to run away somewhere cold and lonely. Maybe a mountain village where nobody will bother me.’ She looked out of the window at the hibiscus shrub. There were three new flowers today. The garden had been created a long time ago by her mother, her grandfather had said, and each time a new flower bloomed Maria felt her mother was talking to her.

  She would go to Panjim tomorrow and get some new books for Leela and maybe a new rose plant from the nursery near Porvorim. She needed new napkins for the Tip Top Cafe and some new tablecloths too. Last week’s earnings had been good—all the tourists from Delhi seemed to love her cinnamon cupcakes, mushroom patties and chilli jam.

  It was strange how many people came to Goa during the monsoon now. They seemed to love the rain-drenched roads, muddy puddles and traffic jams caused by caved-in roads. Trionim was not on the tourist map but somehow more and more new people were coming to explore the old village. Maria was happy that the cafe was doing well but she did not want Trionim to become a sea of tourist shops, like Candolim and Calangute.

  ‘Life changes. The sea brings in new sand and changes colour every hour of the day. Be happy about it, Maria,’ her grandfather used to tell her. Maria shrugged her shoulders and forced herself to smile as she went out to greet the day.

  * * *

  Rosie moved into the veranda because the sunlight was getting stronger and she did not want to spoil her fragile ivory skin. Never going outdoors in the sunlight had its advantages and her skin was as unblemished as a young woman’s. She always wore a hat, even indoors, because the rays of th
e sun could creep in anywhere and put a stain on her skin. She put her hands on the handle of the wheelchair and began to move, singing softly to herself.

  Then she heard the scream.

  * * *

  Maria went downstairs to the kitchen to sort out the lunch menu with Leela. Another day of juggling with food. Though all the residents of the Happy Home were quite old, they still had healthy appetites and ate like teenagers released from boarding school. Maria did not mind that but she hated the task of thinking what to make for lunch and dinner every day. Then she had to plan the menu for the Tip Top Cafe too, and go out and shop, but she loved that part and so did Leela. Every second day they would jump on her old scooter, sling jute bags over their shoulders and go down the winding road to the weekly Mapusa market. There, they would haggle, argue, chat and gossip for one hour and come back loaded with fresh vegetables, fish wrapped in soggy paper, freshly ground spices, bread warm from the oven, tiny sweet bananas and fragrant mangoes. If she was feeling rich, Maria would buy a few live crabs and Leela would hold them high above her head like an offering to the gods as they rode back to the house.

  ‘Do you think we can make soup with the leftover chicken? Is there enough?’ Maria asked Leela. The young girl smiled at her and winked. ‘Of course. None of them ate the bigger pieces since they cannot chew well,’ said Leela. ‘I can get some cucumbers from the garden and make a salad for us.’

  ‘That will be fine. We can get some tomatoes and spring onions from the village shop. I won’t go to the market today. Francis said he would drop by and maybe stay for lunch. If he comes you can make a cutlet for him,’ said Maria, her eyes suddenly bright and shining.

  She must run upstairs and change into the new skirt she had bought in Panjim last week. It was a bit tight but if she stood straight and pulled her stomach in, no one would notice. She would not eat lunch today.