Swear You Won't Tell? Read online

  Vedashree

  Khambete-Sharma

  To Arjun and Irawati,

  without whom this book and this life

  would’ve been infinitely less interesting.

  Oranges and lemons sold for a penny

  All the schoolgirls are so many

  The grass is green and the rose is red

  Remember me when I am dead.

  – English nursery rhyme

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The corridor outside the morgue smelled of phenyl. A sharp acrid smell that left even those who had never smelled it before, feeling distinctly uncomfortable without quite knowing why.

  The body in the corridor smelled of Mahim Creek in all its fetid glory. Someone had thrown a dirty cloth over it, but a quick look beneath revealed that the corpse wasn’t very old. Early thirties, if you were the type to play guessing games with dead bodies. So, not old, but in another sense, yes, definitely old. The sea and its children had had some time to do their work on it. So much so that you could barely make out whether a man or a woman lay beneath the sodden scraps of yellow jersey and blue denim. But pull them apart slightly and you could tell the saltwater-bleached corpse was female.

  The harsh fluorescent light fell on a bloated hand protruding from under the cloth that mercifully covered the rest of the body. Rigor mortis had set in and the fingers were stiff. The fingernails still showed traces of pink nail polish. A fly had settled on the index finger, drawn by the smell of decay. Ward boys and nurses passed by, muttering to themselves. That was understandable.

  The corpse reeked. It was gruesome. It was unbearable.

  It was perfect.

  One

  The conference room ceiling had thirteen little cracks in the plaster. Fifteen, if you counted the squiggly ones next to the fan. There was also something greenish up there that could be moss or just the remnants of the infamous Pesto Pasta Incident. After ten minutes of staring at it, Avantika Pandit turned her gaze back to her colleague.

  ‘Um-hmm,’ she said.

  It was the prelude to the weekly editorial meeting, that little time before Nathan Alvares, the editor, walked in, and for reasons beyond her understanding, this was when people felt compelled to share bits of their personal lives with each other. The person currently engaging in this exercise was Shibani Rao, The Mumbai Daily’s Arts and Culture correspondent.

  A petite bundle of tiny clothes and industrial quantities of mascara, she was a ticker tape of random information about herself that she assumed people would find fascinating. Quite mistakenly so, in this case. So far, Avantika had pointedly yawned, stretched, stared at the ceiling, the floor and her watch; had basically hinted in every polite way possible that she couldn’t be less interested in Shibani’s monologue about the ‘mad crazy place I went to on Friday night’. She should’ve known better. Shibani in weekend discussion mode wouldn’t take a hint even if it masqueraded as an all-expenses paid trip to Tahiti, or wherever all the cool kids were going this year.

  Avantika wished Uday would hurry up. Uday Desai was one of the few people at The Mumbai Daily that she got along with. Come to think of it, he was one of the few people she’d got along with in journalism school too. Now, he was equal parts friend, confidante and drinking buddy and it was he who had told her of the job opening here. She was beginning to suspect that it was his idea of a really elaborate prank. True, she needed the job after Belle magazine had shut down. But, she thought wryly, she should’ve known how amazing it would all turn out, especially since Nathan had made her feel ever so welcome.

  ‘Look,’ he’d said in his bored monotone, ‘I need a reporter and your CV is the only one without a typo. So yes, you’re hired. But this isn’t some fancy-schmancy magazine. I don’t need any airy-fairy types here.’

  Luckily for Avantika, neither of those words applied to her. So she’d joined the following Monday and had quickly discovered that as far as job profiles went, the only difference between writing for Belle and writing for this newspaper was how glossy, or not, her words looked in print. Now, wondering if Shibani would shut up if she shoved a handy cement mixer into her mouth, she looked at the clock on the conference room wall. It was ten past eleven. Not only was Nathan late, an event by itself, but so was Uday. At which point she saw him strolling into the room.

  Uday never walked. He sauntered. He looked like a fresh-faced twenty-year old and took life at an easy pace; uncommon traits in a reporter, especially one on the wrong side of thirty. But behind the baby face and lazy gait was a mind so sharp you could probably dice tomatoes with it. Today, he had a kid with him. A teenager, by the look of it. Fresh out of college, if at all. The skinny joggers, the Captain America t-shirt were all promising signs, although the look of near-terminal enthusiasm was unexpected. Avantika straightened up and smiled in anticipation.

  Uday eased into the chair on her left and Avantika took the opportunity to turn away from Shibani, who was now babbling about some organic yoga cafe she’d been to, where they probably served spiritual enlightenment in jam jars.

  ‘New trainee,’ he said, indicating the boy.

  ‘Hi, I’m Wayne,’ the boy said holding out his hand.

  ‘Avantika,’ she replied, shaking his hand. ‘There’s a mirror in the men’s room.’

  Uday rolled his eyes and patted the bewildered Wayne on his back.

  ‘V-A-I-N,’ he said, ‘Wordplay.’ Turning to Avantika he said, ‘Really?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘So Wayne,’ she said. ‘You want to be a reporter?’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I’m passionate about the truth. I think people deserve to hear it.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What truth do you mean?’ she repeated. ‘The earth is round, EDM is just noise, crying babies on airplanes are the most effective ad for contraception—what truth?’

  Wayne looked abashed for a moment.

  ‘Um … the truth. You know, in general.’

  She stared at him, then looked at Uday, who looked away. At first she thought it was because he was trying not to laugh, but as she followed his gaze she realized Nathan had walked into the room.

  Avantika often thought the editor of The Mumbai Daily looked more like someone’s nondescript uncle than the editor of a popular newspaper. Thin, balding and middle-aged, he’d be in a room whole minutes before you realized he was there, and his facial expressions often had nothing to do with his actual mood. Now, blank-faced as ever, he slipped into the chair at the head of the table and started the meeting.

  ‘Reuters says there was another blast in Gaza,’ one of the features editors at the table announced.

  ‘Near the Pyramids?’ gasped a shocked voice.

  In the stunned silence, everybody turned to look at the culprit. It turned out to be Wayne, who promptly went pink in the ears.

  ‘That’s Giza,’ said Avantika, ‘in Egypt. Whole different continent, genius.’

  Uday kicked her under the table. She ignored him.

 
‘Give him a break,’ Nathan drawled. ‘He’s new.’

  ‘To what? Geography?’ she laughed.

  This time Uday’s kick was harder. It didn’t hit her hard, but what did was the fact that nobody else had even cracked a smile. She looked around quizzically. Everyone was studiously avoiding her gaze, as though she was standing outside a railway station handing out pamphlets offering a break into Bollywood, no previous experience required, just call this number and ask for Munna. Nathan, on the other hand, looked her right in the eyes. And smiled.

  ‘Uday can do Gaza,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You, Avantika, can cover this.’ He passed a sheet of paper to her and without a second look her way, continued the meeting.

  Avantika skimmed it: it was an invitation to a press conference for some designer. It was exactly the kind of thing she used to cover at Belle. Exactly the kind of thing she had hoped to avoid, as Nathan well knew. She opened her mouth to say something when Uday’s elbow nudged her gently. He passed her a scrap of notepaper. It had one word in his neat, cursive hand: Nephew.

  Avantika closed her eyes and swore. Way to go, Pandit. With a sigh, she began reading the details of the invitation and stopped dead at a name in the first paragraph.

  Aisha Juneja.

  Damn it. Please let there be more than one of those. She did a furtive search on her phone for ‘Aisha Juneja designer’. The images it threw up were of the same person and also, because this was the internet, of random women in various states of undress. She ignored those and focused on the one that looked familiar. She wore her hair short these days. But the mocking grey eyes, the imperious mouth and the bored expression were exactly as Avantika remembered. She sighed. She would have to get out of this event somehow. Perhaps, she could fall ill on the day. Or butter up Uday into covering it for her, or even Shibani. But no, Nathan would find out and she was still on probation. Stop it, she told herself, it’s not an exam. Just talk to Nathan and sort it out. What’s the worst he can do? One, bite my head off in public, two, fire me, three, bite my head off in public and then fire me.

  Nevertheless, after the meeting, she followed Nathan into his office. He was sitting on his roomy swivel chair, reading the Reuters report. The wall behind him was full of large framed black-and-white photographs, some from the stories he’d broken over time, others taken years ago, at Press Club functions. In some of the photographs, you could see a younger Nathan, a man with an intact hairline and a mouth that could still turn up at the corners without a trace of sarcasm.

  She knocked on the door. He looked up.

  ‘What do you want?’ Before she could answer, he continued. ‘Let me guess, you want me to send someone else for that press conference.’

  ‘Yes, because—’

  ‘… you’re too good for it.’

  ‘Ye- no. Actually—’

  ‘You’re a smartass, Pandit. This is a newspaper, not a comedy club. You’re doing this thing. End of story. Now, out.’

  ‘Nathan, give me anything else. Please! Anything! I don’t want to go there! Seriously, anything else!’

  Nathan leaned back in his chair and peered at her over the rim of his big, black square-framed glasses. ‘Stop being so dramatic. I’m not sending you to review Housefull 6.’

  ‘It’s … that designer and I … we were … at school together.’

  ‘Schoolmates, huh?’

  Avantika grimaced.

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  Nathan nodded sympathetically. Then he grinned and said, ‘Too bad.’

  Avantika frowned at him and stomped out of the cabin. She was just out of the door, when she heard him say, ‘Oh, and take Wayne along. He’s never been to a press conference before.’

  Uday was reading up on the specifics of the Gaza incident, when he heard the chair behind him creak. There was a loud sigh. He ignored it. Another sigh, then some muttering. Uday turned around.

  ‘He said no.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yes! The bastard!’ Avantika fumed, ‘I offered to cover anything else in exchange, but the man just refused!’

  Uday waited. He could sense it coming.

  ‘I told him why as well, it’s not like I’m being snooty, there’s a genuine reason I don’t want to go there!’

  Any minute now.

  ‘And to top it all, he wants me to take Wayne “What Is An Atlas” Trainee with me! Do I look like a babysitter? Do I?’

  Wait for it, wait for it.

  ‘So listen … do you think you could um—’

  And there it was.

  ‘No, Avanti, I don’t think I could um.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I was going to say!’

  He gave her a bored grin.

  ‘Could I cover it instead? Could I talk to him? Could I tell him you got run over by a taxi? Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.’

  Avantika was torn. She had already finished wheedling once since morning. Twice would be far too much to inflict on her own ego. But she really, really didn’t want to see Aisha Juneja in the flesh again. Just the idea of it made her skin feel all hot and itchy like that summer when she had broken out into a rash and had to practically bathe with Caladryl every day.

  She gave it one last shot.

  ‘Uday,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember I got my wisdom tooth removed last month?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember how they had to stitch my cheek to my jaw?’

  ‘I still don’t believe that happened.’

  ‘You remember how the wound got infected and they had to drill around and do it all over again?’

  He squirmed in revulsion. ‘You just like bringing this shit up, no?’

  ‘This press conference is going to be more painful than that.’

  He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Avanti, you’re a grown-ass woman. Stop being so scared of a damned meet-and-greet.’

  Avantika drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I’m not scared of it. I just don’t want to do it. It’s like reading Paulo Coelho. Or making a jodi.com profile.’

  ‘Aha, and how’s that going?’

  Avantika waved her hands vaguely. Rishi had been two years ago. Now, she was a thirty-two-year-old single woman, a creature considered dangerous and possibly defective by Indian social norms. You couldn’t let unmarried women run amok, in case that kind of thing caught on.

  Elderly aunties with nothing better to do had started hounding her mother about matrimonial procrastination, till the poor woman had buckled and made a profile on an arranged marriage website1. Just because one boy turned out to be … unsuitable … it didn’t mean there weren’t other fish in the sea, her mother had reasoned. Avantika had gently asked her to back off as the whole experience had put her off marine life for a while.

  These days, her father made a habit of logging on to the profile when she was around and sighing pointedly at all the eligible bachelors out there just going to waste.

  Now she tried her luck one last time.

  ‘Are you going to help me or not?’

  But Uday was already getting up, glaring at his phone.

  ‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Got to write the Gaza story. Also, I’d rather eat a dictionary than cover a fashion event. You’re on your own,’ and because he knew she hated it, he added, ‘Babe.’

  Avantika watched him leave. According to her watch, it was already 2 p.m. If she left now, she could make it to the Taj ballroom in time for the press conference. Maybe she could slip in unnoticed. And it’s not like she had to meet Aisha in person or anything. She’d be in and out like a shot. It would be painful, but quick. Like an express bikini wax.

  Oddly enough, her stomach rumbled at this point. She hoped they’d serve some decent food at the place. It was the Taj, after all. Cheering up a bit at the prospect of five-star snacks, she grabbed her helmet and her black leather satchel. She was about to head to the door, when she heard someone yell her name.

&n
bsp; ‘Avantika ma’am! Ma’am!’ Wayne was running to her, his backpack flying behind him.

  Damn. She’d almost forgotten about him.

  ‘Just Avantika,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘So what happens in a press conference?’ Wayne asked.

  They were waiting at the Marine Lines traffic signal on Avantika’s scooter. A red Honda Activa that behaved itself on most days and made it unnecessary to offer her firstborn child to taxi drivers in exchange for a ride to work every morning. Now, sitting astride it in the rider’s seat, with Wayne perched precariously behind her, she stared at the sea through the visor of the helmet. The sun, was being its usual democratic self, shining with equal indifference on the backs of luxury sedans and taxis, on the hair of couples necking on the Marine Drive promenade, and on the tin cups held out by the urchins pestering them for coins. A balmy breeze from the Arabian Sea blew her hair against her face, a brief respite from the sweat trickling down her neck.

  It was a hot afternoon and the helmet2 made it worse. But that was Mumbai for you. You wouldn’t get anything done if you sat around complaining about the heat. Plus, she was trying to be patient, she really was, but this idiot child was getting on her nerves.

  Was I this daft when I started out, she wondered. Did my seniors want to whack me on the head too? She swallowed the impulse to wreak violence on a minor, turned her head towards him a bit and answered his question.

  ‘People speak, we ask questions if we want to, daydream if we don’t, they give us press releases and freebies, sometimes food, then we go back to office and write fifty words about it. A hundred, if there’s a celebrity.’

  It wasn’t, strictly speaking, the perfect description, but what did he know? He thought Gaza was filled with pyramids.

  ‘Sorry if I, you know, pissed you off or something.’

  Avantika rolled her eyes. She must’ve sounded harsher than she felt.

  ‘No, it’s not you, I’m just … it’s not you, okay?’ she said, mentally adding, ‘Even though it’s your fault I have to go for this thing’.