The Lost Souls Dating Agency (2 page)

A week after not hearing from him, I received a phone call from Uncle Varun's lawyer, Betson Pereira, who told me that my uncle had been missing for ten days. The cleaning lady that came to my uncle's apartment had found it unlocked. Nothing had been stolen, but the police could not locate my uncle anywhere in Dubai.

Before I had the time to digest this information, Mr Pereira said he would ring again in ten days. If my uncle was still missing, there was information he needed to convey to me. Five years ago my uncle had left him with documents, which in the event of his death or disappearance, were to be disclosed to me.

I was stunned.

Why did my uncle think he would die or disappear?

Why hadn't he told me any of this before?

I waited for better news. Any news.

Ten days later, Mr Pereira rang. It was the phone call I was dreading because it confirmed that my uncle had been missing for almost a month. He relayed the contents of the documents that my uncle had left in his possession. They held the title deeds to a warehouse property in Melbourne. The mortgage on the property had been paid in full and it was owned by my uncle outright. Now it was owned by me. He added that there was a letter attached to the deeds. He would post the unopened letter and documents to me, as my uncle had wished.

***

When I received the letter, I did not open it for days. I looked at the documents in disbelief. So many questions were ringing in my head. Why did my uncle own an abandoned warehouse in Melbourne? As far as I knew he had never even set foot in Australia.

Why hadn't he told me about the warehouse when I decided to come here?

When I finally opened the letter, I saw it was a handwritten note scribbled on a small piece of yellowed paper.

Shalini,

One day you will have the need to read this and I am sad that day has come. Don't ever forget who you are. The warehouse is yours. Be careful. Be watchful. This is not goodbye.

Even though you are not my child, I will always love you as one.

Yours,

Uncle V

I read the note and re-read it. Then I sat down and cried.

A few days after receiving the note I showed it to Megan and Neha. All three of us agreed it was strange. Why did my uncle want me to be careful and watchful? It was nothing like a farewell note, whatever that is supposed to look like anyway.

I had recovered from my initial shock and now just felt a dull ache in my heart. Sometimes I convinced myself that my uncle was still in Dubai, just a phone call away. It helped me cope.

I hated moping, so I decided the best thing I could do was to make a plan. Uncle Varun had left me money that the lawyer had not mentioned in our phone conversation. The cheque was attached to the papers sent from Dubai and it totalled about twenty thousand Australian dollars. It was a huge amount of money for a student like me. What to spend it on? Shoes…?

Prudently, I decided to leave the money in the bank and think about what to do with it later.

In this time I had still not visited the warehouse I inherited. It troubled me to know it was there and frankly I wanted nothing to do with it…

A few days later I gave in and went to look at it. Neha came along, mainly because she kept pestering me to take her, but secretly I wanted someone to be there with me on my first visit. When I looked at the address I saw that it was along the Maribyrnong River that ran through the old industrial parts of Kensington, the suburb I lived in.

The walk to it didn't seem long at all and almost in an instant we were standing outside the warehouse I owned. It was decrepit. The door creaked on opening and the smell that burst through made me dry retch. I took only alternate breaths as I advanced indoors.

It had a cracked concrete floor and high open ceilings. I noted a biggish room at the back and a smaller room attached to the front. Someone had long ago converted the warehouse into two rooms. There was a bay window in the larger room, grey and covered in years of congealed grime. Everything looked rather pathetic.

‘So what do you think?' I looked around at Neha. She was staring at the empty shells of the rooms, at the peeling paint, the mildew on the walls and cracks in the floors. She walked gingerly to the larger room at the back and looked around with a frown.

‘This place is a dump,' Neha said honestly. She sniffed the air. ‘And it smells like old socks and boiled eggs.'

I had to agree with her.

I walked around, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the walls. I noticed an old clock on the wall in the larger room. The old owners must have left it behind. It was making a dreadful tick-twang noise, ready to collapse in the awfulness of the room. It wasn't showing the correct time.

We spent nearly an hour pacing and talking in the empty space. In spite of my initial misgivings, I don't know why, but I had started to warm to it. I looked at my friend optimistically. ‘All it needs is a little bit of paint and some furniture. It hasn't been occupied in years. You know what the damp is like this close to the river.' I looked out of the grubby bay window and vaguely saw outlines of the industrial wasteland that lay across the Maribyrnong. It certainly was unimpressive.

Neha gave me a disbelieving look and shook her head. ‘Well, as fun as this has been, I've got to get going.' Her face was scrunched up in a smell induced scowl. ‘I've got assignments to catch up on. Are you coming out later tonight?'

I looked around the room. ‘No, I'm staying in. I need to draw up plans for this place.'

‘What crazy ideas have you got?' Neha asked suspiciously.

‘Crazy? Who me?' I looked at my friend innocently.

Neha rolled her eyes and walked out. ‘This smaller room out here can be where you keep the rat poison,' she called on her way out, and I could almost see the smirk on her face.

After she left I spent a few quiet moments in my warehouse. I made some big decisions in my head. As I locked the door and walked away, I knew I would not sell it.

***

The next morning, I began cleaning the warehouse in earnest. I was on all fours, scrubbing away, when I noticed the ticking from the clock in the back room grow extraordinarily loud and reverberate in my head. I ignored it, but the more I scrubbed the louder the ticks seemed to get. I let it go on for a while.

‘That's it,' I finally said aloud and pointed a dirty rag at the clock, ‘you're coming off that wall and going straight in the bin.' I marched to it and tried to pry it off the wall, but it did not budge. It was attached dead straight against the plaster. I pulled and pried with my fingers, but move, it would not. While I was there, I noticed a carved symbol in the wooden outer-case on its side. It looked like some sort of insignia. I walked to the other side and tried to move it, with no luck.

I let out an angry grunt and decided to come back later with a wrench or hammer. Strangely, the ticks seemed to get softer the closer I was to it. It was nearly lunch time and I needed to head home to change and get to my afternoon classes. I didn't give it much more thought.

I looked around one last time before I left. My morning cleaning had made it marginally better. But what was I going to do with it? And why had Uncle Varun left it to me to decide? I closed the door with these questions orbiting like cartoon birds around my head.

For the next few weeks I had no time to think about the warehouse, completing my second year at uni took all my time. Our handful of aspiring anthropology majors had what seemed like the most assignments to complete. I unwisely let mine pile up, but I knew I worked best under pressure, so I just churned them out. I spent my days in the library with my new study buddy William. He had joined my religion and society class mid-year and we often found ourselves in the same spot in the centrally heated library.

At last, we were done, and I was attending the big end of year get-togethers and looking forward to two months of glorious summer break. During uni breaks I usually worked part time in a music store at Highpoint shopping centre. It was a good way to boost my savings for when I studied.

In all this time I noticed that Neha had become increasingly agitated as the year progressed. She seemed perpetually irritable, but insisted she was okay when we asked. Megan and I knew something was wrong, our bubbly friend was not her usual self. Neha never kept quiet about anything for too long, so we retreated and waited for her to tell us when she was ready.

As predicted, two days later, shopping on Chapel Street before the end of year Christmas buying frenzy, she told us. Her parents had decided to start looking at eligible matches for her. Megan had laughed outright at the idea, but I knew it was more serious than that. I had an inkling about Indian parents and their marriage expectations. Plus it was badly affecting my friend.

Neha said she felt relieved when she finally told us. We wondered why she had kept it secret for so long. Ironically, now that the secret was out Neha would not shut up about it. Almost every conversation I had with her centred on the matchmaking pressures she had to endure.

A few days later, Neha called and I had yet another of those conversations.

‘Tell them you're not ready!' I finally said exasperated.

‘But they don't understand! They live in another world. So bloody Indian!'

‘There's nothing wrong with being Indian!' I exclaimed.

‘You know what I mean, Shalini. They are just so narrow-minded. Anyway what do you know about being Indian? You grew up in Dubai!'

‘And you grew up in Melbourne! That's even further away from India.'

‘Geographical distance has nothing to do with it,' Neha said with a sanctimonious sniff. ‘My parents live in a time capsule, like nothing has changed in their beloved homeland since they left a million years ago.'

‘Well you should tell them you don't want to get married. They'll understand.' That sounded reasonable.

‘They kind of do, but they still insist on making me look at proposals. They say there's no pressure, because I'm still young. But I know better, they want me to marry ASAP and give them a few grandkids. As if I'd want to marry some pimple faced I.T. geek from Bangalore…'

It went on like this for hours, until I made some excuse to go. I wanted to say at least you have parents who worry about you, but that would not be fair. Since Uncle Varun's disappearance, I felt very alone in the world.

In any case, I had enough to think about, mainly, what to do with the warehouse? Maybe I could live in it? I was sitting on an old chair in the backyard of my little rented ground floor apartment. It was basic, but I liked it, especially the sunny kitchen with a door that opened into the miniature back yard with a northerly aspect. The idea of living in a damp warehouse by the river seemed less appealing.

What if I converted it to an office of some sort? Generate some income. But what did I need an office for? I thought about viable businesses. I had zilch experience.

I heard my mobile phone beep twice. There were two messages from Neha. ‘Call me when you get this' and ‘Need to discuss new boy'. I groaned. I wanted to shake her and say, just agree to see someone for the hell of it! But I knew Neha did not want the decision to rest with her parents. Then, quite unexpectedly, I had an idea. What if the decision could be helped by going to a matchmaking agency? I knew about a few marriage agencies that were successful in India. What if I transported that idea? I could set up a matchmaking agency in my warehouse, the first in the western suburbs of Melbourne. I could run it more like a dating service. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. I called Neha excitedly.

‘Hey, Neha, what if I told you there was a matchmaking service you could use in Melbourne?'

‘Do you mean like a website? My parents are all over those anyway. I think they've looked at a zillion user accounts on shaadi.com.'

‘No I mean, like a matchmaking agency you could go to, in Melbourne, with your parents,' I emphasised each word carefully.

‘I dunno. My mum says there aren't too many eligible matches around,' Neha said vaguely. ‘Apparently the Indian community here isn't big enough or something. Hence the need for a tentacle like worldwide search online.'

‘Oh right.' I considered what my friend said.

‘Why are you asking anyway?'

‘I just had an idea.'

‘What about?'

‘It's not important.'

‘Tell me!' Neha sounded excited.

‘Well I thought I could use the warehouse as an office. I thought it might be a good idea to set up a matchmaking or rather dating agency.'

Neha snorted. ‘As awesome as I think you would be at matchmaking, I would not trust an almost nineteen-year-old to make marriage decisions for me, and I can tell you now, neither would any Indian parent!'

I hadn't considered my age as a hindrance, I knew I was mature for my years. ‘I could do it,' I said defensively.

‘No way! You have to be at least fifty years old and annoyingly meddlesome,' Neha sniggered.

‘But this would be a proper business. Not some random auntie recommending someone she saw at a party.' She was starting to annoy me.

‘Well okay. But I still think people would not trust your baby face,' Neha giggled, ‘besides, you're not even married yourself. That's not a very good selling point you know.'

‘Hmm, I didn't think of that.' I knew she was right. Then I had another thought, I was full of good ideas today. ‘What if the matchmaking service was for people that had trouble finding partners, so they had to use an agency to hook them up?'

Neha paused before she said, ‘What, like a missing limb or something?'

‘Not necessarily…' I really hadn't thought this through.

‘Ooh what about weirdos who like to dress up like zombies and hit on each other at the zombie ball?'