Truth Lake (14 page)

              There are streets in Delhi where people like Tanya Hàrélal are rarely seen.  Daubaba Lane is one such street.  Its oily stench can be smelt across acres of land, through numerous tiny ill-lit dwellings and onwards to mix with the odours of the Yamuna river. Its reputation travels much further. Thus, when stall-holders on the left side of the street (stolen tyres, lead piping and gas cylinders only) noted Hàrélal's flash motor picking its way through the rubble, they were concerned less about who its occupant might be than about the possibility of finding a buyer for some of their illegal merchandise. They surrounded the car, shouting prices, wares and greetings, as in any normal market; they were used to visits from cut-throat builders, bent car dealers and government officials looking to make a quick buck or to demolish someone's residence on the cheap. Tanya was petrified but her nerve held and she managed to remain seated with the windows of her father's air-conditioned motor rolled safely up. Like any practiced buyer she had with her a bundle of notes and a bodyguard who doubled as her chauffeur. But she had not come to buy. Looking around, she noted the sagging roofs inundated with dirt yet used to spread freshly washed clothing; when she saw a ragged yellow flag flying above one house, the smile on her face transcended her fear and she leapt out of the car.

              Taken aback, the hordes of dealers around her fell silent. They continued to stare as she entered the decrepit building and strode up the stairs, taking with her the bundle of notes. 

Lal Bahuba watched her impassively from his position at the top of the stairs.  He was chewing paan and wearing a crisp blue kurta that contrasted sharply with their squalid surroundings. His muscles were concealed beneath the ironed fabric, but his neck, thick and encircled by a gold chain, gave an impression of strength. He spat a stream of red juice into a corner and wiped his mouth on an ironed cotton handkerchief.  When Tanya Hàrélal reached him he motioned for her to follow him. Tanya did so, almost unable to control her anticipation, lips curving involuntarily into a smile, a slight mark above her upper lip stretching to pale perfection with the muscles in her cheeks.  She looked like a rich girl. A
happy
rich girl.

From outside in the street noise continued to find its way into the building.  Shouting, swearing and haggling, the spume of market life, wove a tapestry with the crying of babies from the other – largely residential – side of the street. The car in which Tanya had arrived could not have, through any conceivable manoeuvre, disguised its presence but the driver leaning against it rolling a cigarette did not appear to be uncomfortable or unduly anxious. He shouted obscenities at a cycle rickshaw that came too close but closed his mouth abruptly when he recognised its well-to-do passenger. 

Inside, Tanya's smile had slipped down to her belly and she could feel the tiny muscles in her pelvis dancing with pleasurable associations. 

Once they entered the high-ceilinged room, that might have been a warehouse for all its sparse furnishings and lack of comfort, Lal Bahuba's visage altered. It took on an expression of intense concentration. He shut the door gently but did not lock it, and led her by the hand to a mattress in the middle of the floor. Taking the bundle of notes from her trembling fingers he placed it delicately on the cool tiles. Then, pulling her down beside him, he began to lick her neck. She closed her eyes and listened to three hearts beating, smelling the scent of betel nut and tobacco on Lal's breath and wondering, irreverently, what Kailash Karmel would have smelt like if he had ever allowed her to kiss him. Which he never had.

Flickering shapes and colours spun across her lids, tempting her with their realism; but she did not open her eyes. She, Tanya Hàrélal, was doing what she wanted to do, what she had dreamed of doing for many years. Her mind spiralled away, dissolved into and out of consciousness, pleasure, memory, anticipation. 

Lal Bahuba was biting her left ear when her father burst in upon them.

Tanya watched as her lover attacked her father and pushed him to the ground. Her pants were off and bundled in a corner like a small, frightened animal; sunlight glanced across her thighs. She felt numb.

Lal Bahuba Saané was trained in unarmed combat. He had won trophies during his junior and senior years in college. Because his father was in the army he'd viewed it as his mission in domestic life to make the boy into a fighter. Lal Bahuba had never disappointed his father. Tanya knew that her own father wouldn't stand a chance up against such a man.

She barely felt herself rise from the mattress but when she regained some awareness, she was screaming and hitting Lal Bahuba on the back with her handbag. He shook her off but desisted from the beating he had been about to administer to Hàrélal, his erstwhile boss. The three of them stood panting and looking at each other; characters in a farce, none of them could move or speak. 

Street sounds drifted like fired onion-smoke through the room. Anger and resentment thickened. Still no one spoke.

Then Deputy Chief Hàrélal turned and shuffled towards the door. 

'Are you coming with me? Are you? Or are you going to remain with this gutter-snipe, this faithless, sister-fucking crook?'

Lal Bahuba snorted but remained in position, his back to the room. Tanya didn't know what to say to her father. She was embarrassed, defiant, tired in the aftermath of arousal and anger and shock.

'Shameless slut!', she heard him mutter, as he descended the stairs, but she wasn't sure if he meant it. The possibility that he might not roused her to action. Stepping into her underwear and then her pants, she ran after her father.

When he reached the street he didn't bother to wipe away the trickle of blood that oozed from the corner of his mouth. Nor did he straighten the lanky bit of hair that had fallen askew across his partially bald skull. He climbed into the motor his daughter had 'borrowed' and ordered his chauffeur to drive him home. 'What about miss Tanya?  What'll she do?' the man enquired but Hàrélal just shook his head and leaned back in the air-conditioned luxury of his soon-to be surrendered vehicle.

              Tanya watched him leave from a window off the stairwell. Emotion made her fingertips ache.

She re-entered the room and stared at Lal Bahuba, the man with whom she had committed so many sins and tasted a recipe for bliss.

He was counting the money she had brought him.
Her heart-rate soared all over again.

There was a cast of ill temper about his mouth that he did not drown or smooth away. She had been intending to stay; to apologise for her father; to ask about Lal's plans for the morrow. But the sight of him greedily flicking though the bundle of notes – her notes, carefully scrounged from mother and aunts over the months – appalled her. Perhaps she was just a selfish little rich girl used to being the centre of attention.  Perhaps she'd never really liked Lal Bahuba or had seen too many movies in which disloyal daughters were punished by gaining worthless husbands. She reached a decision.

Although he would later tell his friends that she had been a faithless bitch, not worth the time he'd spent on her, it was Lal Bahuba's bad luck that he didn't look up in time to interpret the expression in her eyes.

Two nights after the soil collector had asked her about the foreign man, when he had still not returned from whatever journey he undertook, Thahéra waited until her children were asleep and then dived out into the rain.

She had visited his cabin several times only to find that it was silent and unoccupied. She regretted dismissing him so abruptly and took comfort from the fact that he had left his belongings behind instead of packing up and taking flight.

Now as she ran and panted with haste, her heartbeat speeded up and nausea ballooned inside her. Her feet jerked rapidly along, soles absorbing the shock of sharp stones, ankles steadying her when mud slid beneath her toes: she had bothered neither to wear shoes nor to raise her skirt but rushed upwards towards her sister's house. No lights shone inside as she passed it. She changed direction and ascended until she was at the cabin where Karmel had found her daughter seven days before. 

Pausing only to lift her dripping skirt, she sped up the stone staircase and tapped loudly on the door until Gauri opened it, fully clothed but with sleepy eyes. She wheezed faintly as she bade Thahéra enter, and turned almost immediately to her stove, which she began to blow at with brief tortured gasps. 

For a while, neither woman spoke. They could hear the wind rushing rain towards the outer walls. They looked around them at the objects neatly placed on tables, shapely bowls, tree-like sculptures, at all the beautiful, useless wood that no traders from neighbouring villages would buy or sell because it was crafted by a woman who had left her husband. Thahéra's eyes closed.

'Advise me. I'm alone now but
he
's coming back soon. Then what will happen?  I'm scared. I'm so scared.' Thahéra rocked herself wildly and her skirt dripped onto the polished wooden floor. The wood darkened as water sank in. The sculptress stared at her and said in a shrill wheezy voice, 'Finish it.'

'I can't. Would you be able to? Would any woman? It's not possible. Try to understand. I'm moved by forces outside myself. I feel – I really feel. Is it going to happen again? What happened last time . . .. I'm in pain and when I speak to the Gods they say 'listen to your heart' but my heart is silent.' She gave a sob. 'And the children – I must consider them! What will happen to them? How will they feel about me and what will
he
say to them, especially the boys?' Thahéra was weeping openly now, her grey eyes dimmed, their light diluted by the confusion cascading through her. 'Help me. I'm alone. I've been alone for so long. You know what it's like. You're not like my sister – you're so much wiser than she is and you have experience of life down there.
You
always know what to do. I came to you last time . . .'

She moved suddenly and took her friend's hands in hers. They looked at each other for some time and then the sculptress replied, musingly, removing her hands from Thahéra's grasp as if she feared the other woman's response.

'What happened last time had
nothing
to do with me. You didn't take my advice. I warned you –
do not cast your lot with such a man!
But you would not listen. Are you telling me something is different now?'

              Thahéra nodded. 'This has never been my lot before. I swear it. This is a
real
chance. He is different in a way that you could describe better than I. I have no words for him. We have talked so much. We have laughed, Gauri! You won't believe it, he likes my children! And now he is asking questions . . .. What will he do if I answer him? Gauri?
May the Gods protect me!
'

Gauri looked into her fire. She rubbed her tongue over her front teeth, lost in thought. Then she began to move about the room, placing a pan on the fire and throwing in a handful of tea. Straightening chairs, clearing her things away. When the water had boiled she poured it into two mugs and set one before her friend.

'Be calm. I've heard what you say.'

'And?
What shall I do?
' Thahéra's voice was frantic. Gauri struggled to control her own asthmatic gasps. Neither of them heard the catch of the door as it lifted, or noted the brief gust that fanned the smouldering fire.

'I've seen things I didn't need to see. Be certain that others have seen too, Thahéra. You've not been careful. What is it with you? Why can't you just think about your safety? Why have you created this mess?' She clutched her mug as if it would leap from her grasp.

'Like last time…' Thahéra's striking face was wretched. Her eyes were half closed. Her lips came open as if inched apart by bony fingers. Gauri watched her, frowning. She sipped her tea and took a deep breath.

'
Okay!
Give over. Do you think life is easy? You say you want this, you want that, but I've not seen you take the chances on offer. I warned you once that you should leave this place but you were a fool and wouldn't be guided. Neither will you settle for a normal life. I should have told you this before but I thought  . . . that you might stop yourself – or him. I thought that there might be some chance . . . but now I know. It's the only way if you want to get away with it.
You'll have to get rid of him
.'

Until the downpour began, most of Karmel's day had gone according to plan. He had managed to hand his letter directly to the Bhukta postman who shoved it into his satchel and promised to put it on a bus to the plains. He had shaved and bathed in warm water and had eaten a large and enjoyable breakfast with his host's children and grandmother, despite his discomfort when they mentioned that a party of climbers were heading for Malundi. For perhaps an hour in the morning, he had seen the sun.

Now, all the trees resembled each other; mud slipped between them, covering their roots and making the path treacherous. The rain, which had abated for hours during the day, was lashing Karmel from every angle. He pulled his jacket up around his ears and tried to keep his head down but had to raise it occasionally to get his bearings. He felt feverish and morose.

To keep his mind alert he listed his suspects in order of importance.

Adam Croft
and
Sara McMeckan
because, apart from the fact that they had lied about everything from their date of arrival to their chosen route, having seen the body he could not believe that they had not recognised their friend.

Antonio Sinbari
because he had not disclosed vital information about his interest in the locality and his transaction with Cameron Croft.

The sculptress
,
Gauri
, because circumstances suggested that they had been acquainted.

Every villager
in Saahitaal
and
every villager from Malundi up to Bhukta who had had access to the area – which included
Thahéra
. 

And then, there was always the possibility that this man Cameron had come to an unfortunate end by chance or accident, missing his footing and braining himself against a tree or simply falling upon a rock in the river. But if that were the case, who had buried his body the first time and why? Why weren't the villagers talking about it and keen to get rid of his belongings? And, more to the point, who had transported the body all the way up to the hut to place it beside him on the cot? Some detective he was, to sleep through that and be none the wiser! Once more it occurred to him that he was in the wrong profession. Simply because his mind delighted in solving puzzles, figuring out ambiguous language, tracing nuances of character or emotion, did not mean that he was fated to be a policeman, a
law-enforcer
. Perhaps he would be better off in one of those pillared stone halls they called universities. There scholars might argue and jibe at each other for the sake of a theory, and surely there would be no violence, no bloodshed. But then, restless and questing, he was a good detective in many respects and would soon tire of the unreality of such a world. The possibilities of life were too tempting.

Stumbling and exhausted, he was beginning to experience some of the symptoms of altitude sickness by the time he spotted the lights of Saahitaal and gasped his way towards them. He passed the spot where he thought he had buried the plastic covered corpse, which he still could not quite call by name, but did not have the energy to check on it; surely the ground would keep it secret for the few days required before he had solved the whole mystery and was able to leave. If he had known what was brewing in Delhi at that very moment, he may have been less sanguine.

*

Air, thick with the scent of roasting chicken and fragrant rice, was wafted round the room by half a dozen ceiling fans. Glittering platters had been laid out along tables at the side of the magnificent room. The trays of brimming wine glasses were full and bearers stood discreetly dispensing them to guests. At one end of the great chamber, a snowy cloth covered a grand table set out simply with a microphone and a bottle of spring water. There was only one seat at that table.

The press conference had been called for six p.m. but it was nearly eight before Antonio Sinbari and his entourage showed up. Journalists from the major English and Hindi dailies, the weekly Financial Herald and NTN, the National Television Network, were crowded into a brightly lit suite at Randhor-Sinbari's most exclusive Delhi location. They always came – for the free drinks and the food – but this time they had stayed, because of the story that Antonio had promised them. 

Mr Sinbari was going to make a statement, his secretary had told everyone. And when it came, at nine minutes past eight on a rainy August evening, it was not just the usual announcement of another major contract won; nor was it an inauguration of some finished project elsewhere; this was serious: he was leaving India.
Permanently.

Hàrélal's heart-rate soared.

This could not be the case! It was preposterous!

Returning home from his encounter with his daughter's lover, Hàrélal hadn't known what to do. His face was bruised and he felt unhappier in his heart than he could ever remember feeling. He couldn't forget the way in which his daughter had spread herself so shamelessly beneath that dirty man nor could he forgive himself for leaving her there after she had come to his defence. Try as he would, he couldn't hate her: he had attempted to behave as a father in a film would, by punishing her, saving her, or cutting her out of his life, and he had failed on all counts. As he made his way towards the bathroom, his wife, weeping, told him that the Home Minister had called twice, as had the new Chief Superintendent. Both wanted to speak with him immediately: had he watched the news? 

              After drinking two cups of tea, and bathing several times to cleanse the filth of the encounter with Bahuba from his body, he sat down in the empty living room and switched on the television. And there he was – hogging the limelight again – that foul mother-fucking son of a bitch: Antonio Sinbari.

Hàrélal groped for his glasses as his wife brought him his mobile phone. He waved her into a seat and listened transfixed. 

Sinbari was resigning as Director of the Randhor–Sinbari chain in India. He was putting his shares in the hotel chain up for auction. He was leaving the country for good.

Hàrélal struggled to make sense of the words pouring from the normally laconic Sinbari's mouth. 

All these changes in plan were due to what? The disappearance in the Himalayas of one of his
best
architects: the fact that an
incompetent
Deputy Police Chief had been unable to reassure him and other tourists about the safety of the region. The fact that he no longer felt India was a suitable place for his empire, given recent threats by foreign charter groups to stop flying tourists to the north.

The man was blabbering on and on about liability, safety, development, investment. There were figures flashing up on the screen, stock market in chaos, SENSEX in freefall, newsreaders chewing their lips like worried dummies and compeering split-screened shouting matches between the opposition and the government and various corporate fixers generally called civil society. And then his private line rang.

It was a friend of his from the Ministry for Trade and Tourism: where the hell had he been? Was he watching the news? Did he know that his name was being mentioned in connection with one of the biggest capital pull-outs by a
Global Corporation
in recent decades? Did he know that Sinbari had himself dispatched a team to look for this young man in the Himalayas? Had he, Hàrélal, reported the matter to the Minister for Trade and Tourism, or to the Uttarakhand Chief of Police? When Hàrélal didn't answer, his exasperated friend rang off, grumbling about ingratitude.

Hàrélal’s wife brought him a full plate of hot food. No fruit, no soft drinks, but real rice and dal, chapathis and vegetables, spicy and cooked in ghee.

He ate in silence, thinking about all the calls he had to make. If he didn't resign, then he would have to talk his way out of the situation: the only way to do that was either to give them something dirty on Antonio Sinbari or else to convince Sinbari not to leave. Hàrélal knew that the first option was not a real prospect: with Kailash, his only trustworthy witness to the 'young foreigners' episode, still out of contact up in the mountains and Sinbari's people ready to swear to anything he asked, there was only one real chance – go to Sinbari and beg him to change his mind. Of course the man would refuse to see him, or would laugh in his face; if he was intent on leaving then he would leave anyway, wouldn't he? Even if he agreed to stay, made loads of conditions and obtained various pledges, even then, perhaps Hàrélal himself would be compelled to resign: incompetence was a dirty word, worse by far than corruption.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him as he lay back in his chair: what was it exactly that Sinbari had said on the news about 'his architect in the mountains'? Had he said that the man was called
Cameron Croft
? Wasn't that the Scottish tourist who was missing, the one mentioned in that article in the foreign press as
at one time the guest of Mr Antonio Sinbari at his Delhi residence
? His memory at least was still sound.

So this must be 'Cameron', the same friend whom those youngsters had gone in search of;
could they have murdered him at Sinbari’s request
? Could this whole scenario be an elaborate plot to grab land on the cheap? Perhaps, perhaps.

Things that hadn't fit were beginning to click into place – such as the reason for Sinbari's initial reaction to the corpse story and for the stupid tourists fleeing the city – but there were still suspicious gaps which Hàrélal was determined to fill, whether he kept his position or not. Meanwhile, he would content himself with licking his wounds after being castigated by the Minister concerned, and warned that the PM’s office were now watching him. When Mrs Hàrélal entered the room to remove her husband's empty plate she was astonished to see on his face an almost canine grin.

              Much later, relaxing after his highly successful national address, Sinbari ordered the most expensive dish on the menu and the manager grinned at him in appreciation then sped away on oiled heels to consult with the cook. Without Sadrettin by his side to pour his drinks, he was eating alone at a quiet restaurant and thinking about money. His extraordinary bluff today was already beginning to pay off – he had had no less than four phone conversations with high ranking ministers, requesting him to state his terms and stay. Only that fool Hàrélal had not called.

Sinbari knew what he was going to ask for but he didn't know if he would get it: for them, it would be a high price to pay.

After applying to develop a resort on fiercely protected land in the Himalayas, he had failed to strike a deal with the state government; he had bid not once but three times, convinced as he was that the region could be a potential gold-mine for his company, and had been rebuffed each time by ministers who thought his offers too mean, who feared the wrath of local landowners, and the dangerous meddling of environmental groups. Despite the apparent hopelessness of the cause, he had been amassing promise notes and loans for months on the back of the Konali project and now, as he'd pulled out of that without any explanation to the investors, he knew that they'd be desperate for their dough back – unless he could say it was going into something better, something much, much more profitable. And it would be: he felt sure. He couldn't have engineered the whole thing better. 

Terrified that he would pull out
all
his capital, and that this might lead to the flight of other foreign companies, the Central government would be forced to accede to his request that he be assigned a contract for an even larger mountain resort than the one he had envisaged, at a more reasonable price. And what a resort it was going to be, if Croft's early reports were to be trusted: near an ethereal lake, with a splendid landing strip, a model village on the slopes below and much more. Back packers would be safe staying there – if they could afford it! No one would disappear and he'd be a multi-billionaire overnight, much like the PM’s chums. Visions of soaring peaks, golf courses, cable cars and grateful locals interspersed themselves with mouthfuls of his tasty meal.

Wiping his lips, he allowed a moment of contemplation to the young man who had made all this possible. So promising, so full of plans and ideas when he first wrote to Sinbari via the internet explaining his scheme and asking whether Sinbari would consider investing in
his
project
, backing
his scheme
to find and develop a model village to provide employment in a poor but grandly beautiful hill region; quite naïve and now, or so it appeared, quite dead.

*

              All through Saahitaal there were whisperings and hissings and anecdotes.  Everyone had an opinion but nobody felt safe saying it quite out loud. What Chand had reported was not to be taken lightly. A party of city-dwellers with guides and tents and much assorted equipment was a novel event and did not bode well. 

The last time such a thing had occurred, more than a decade ago, the men had come to tell them that they were being asked to pay a special kind of land tax for the number of trees they had destroyed. This had fallen as a blow on many households and had caused animosity against the outside world for years. In the end, although not a single family had paid the tax and trees continued to be felled with ruthless abandon, there was a view formed that strangers in their midst could only signal such another irrational attack.