Dear Readers, in line with Throwback Thursday enjoy a looong flashback scene from My Last Love Story
Sleep was a chameleon tonight. Sly and still, it kept changing
color and time to hide from me. I counted sheep until my mind began to drift
toward warmer shores, black-sand beaches, and home.
My fifteenth birthday had dawned hot and oppressive over
Surat, and it had remained so until its phantasmagorical end.
Summers were murder in Gujarat—arid, dusty, and energy-draining.
But I hadn’t complained about the weather that year. That last of May’s days, my
first birthday without my parents, I’d had many other concerns besides harping
over a bit of sweat and grime.
Like the home I hadn’t allowed myself to like.
We’d lived in a four-bedroom flat on the tenth floor of a high-rise
complex erected along the Tapi River. In addition to being the diamond and
textile capital of the world, Surat had just been declared the cleanest and fastest-growing
metropolis in India. As a testament to my father’s success, my family had, only
recently, moved into the new cosmopolitan digs from a demographically Parsi
neighborhood across town. We’d just begun the process of getting to know our
neighbors when tragedy had struck.
With my parents gone, and both my brothers still earning
their college degrees and living away from home—Surin had boarded with our
father’s brother in Mumbai and Sarvar had lived in a boy’s hostel in Ahmedabad—my
maternal aunt and uncle had imposed themselves in our home. My brothers were
deemed too young and foolish to shoulder the responsibility of raising a young
girl, so Uncle Farooq and Auntie Jai had thought it best to supervise my
guardianship.
But that was only a pretense, we’d eventually realize. The
real reason for the sudden familial love was my father’s business, which Uncle
Farooq wanted to usurp.
Barely twenty-two, naturally, Surin was confused. He didn’t
know whether to finish his studies or take over the business. He wasn’t ready
to be the head of the family. Relatives from all over the world advised him in
various capacities, but finally, any decision that impacted the three of us was
on him. For six months, he’d tried to make sense of our father’s affairs, and
from what I overheard him tell Sarvar late one night on the weekend before my
birthday, he was afraid the business was crumbling about his ears. The factory
workers, suppliers, and clients who’d had implicit faith in my father’s
business acumen had none in a mere boy’s, and orders had begun to drop like
overripe fruit from trees. He’d decided not to go back to college by then.
Surin was overwhelmed by his responsibilities. Sarvar was
worried about our future. So, I worried, too.
I didn’t like my uncle and aunt. I’d never liked them, but I
didn’t tell my brothers that. I had no wish to add to their burdens. My mother
had never spoken against her older sister, but I knew they hadn’t gotten along either.
I didn’t like how Uncle Farooq spoke to Surin, as if he were an idiot. I didn’t
like how nosy my aunt was about my parents’ life insurance policies and our material
holdings.
If Surin didn’t ask them to leave soon, I planned to run
away. Where? How? When? The logistics didn’t matter. I felt trapped in my aunt’s
presence. I wanted things to go back to how they’d been. I missed my mother terribly.
I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday that year. Friends from
my old neighborhood offered to treat me to lunch, but I refused.
“I am in mourning,” I told them.
The truth was, it pained me to see them. They reminded me of
my old life, of my parents and happy days, and I couldn’t bear it.
My brothers overruled my wish not to celebrate. They even
brought home a birthday cake, as if we were a normal family. We went out for
dinner, and I got money as presents, no other gifts. No one knew what to buy
for me. It was always my mother who’d bought the gifts in our family even if
the name tag on the gifts stated otherwise.
That night, Smriti invited me to a beach party. Smriti was a
neighbor, and as she was my age, I’d interacted with her off and on since our
arrival in the building complex. Before I could think of an excuse, Sarvar urged
me to go and have fun. Surin frowned, clearly unsure of whether to allow poor
hysterical me out of his sight since I’d spent the day locked in my room, weeping.
But much to my disgust, he, too, nodded and smiled in encouragement. It was the
one and only time I wished my aunt would butt in and barricade me in my room.
But, nope, she didn’t.
Unbeknownst to me, Surin had already asked my aunt and uncle
to leave our home. Within a month, they’d be gone for good.
I squeezed into the backseat prison of a silver-colored
Maruti, jammed from door to door with five other girls.
“Whose party?” I belatedly asked.
“Nirvaan from C building,” replied Smriti, the designated
driver.
Smriti and I resided in Ram Bhuvan B, and besides her and a
few of her friends, I knew no one.
“He moved to California two years ago and comes down every summer
to meet his grandparents. He throws the best parties. They’re wild and…” Smriti
paused to grin at me through the rearview mirror. “There will be lots and lots of
booze. Imported.”
All the girls in the car giggled at the revelation, except
me.
“I know what you’re thinking. Gujarat is a dry state, so no
boozing. But who follows rules these days, na?”
Smriti said when I remained silent and slightly horrified by her disclosure.
“Even government officials don’t follow rules,” added a
pigtailed girl, riding shotgun, in a patronizing tone.
“And Nirvaan has connections. I mean, his father has
connections and a green card, so he’s allowed,” Smriti said smugly.
Connections or not, dry state or not, fifteen-year-olds
should not be boozing.
What if we got arrested? Would the American boy’s father
bail us out? I wondered if Smriti had thought this through.
Too late, it occurred to me, if she was my age, she wasn’t
old enough to drive.
Crap.
What was I doing here? Why had Sarvar pushed me out the
door? Couldn’t he stand my company for even one evening?
I wasn’t an adventuress soul. I was wary, a homebody. That
wasn’t to say I was timid or obedient. I wasn’t.
But my bratty nature had been blown to bits, along with my sense
of security, the night the police had called and informed us about the
accident. A drunk driver had rammed his truck into my parents’ car, killing
them on the spot. The accident had happened on the highway near Udvada as my parents
drove back from a visit to the Fire Temple that housed the world’s oldest Atash
Behram, the sacred fire Zoroastrians paid homage to. The irony of my parents coming
to mortal harm while on a holy pilgrimage wasn’t lost on me. I’d lost my faith
in Ahura Mazda that night.
So, that was how I knew if we got into trouble, neither God
nor a green-card holder would come to our aid.
I stayed quiet on the drive while the other girls laughed
and yakked around me. When we hurtled down the highway past Dumas Road, I was
startled out of my silence.
“Arre! Kya jai che,
Smriti? Where are you going? You missed the turn for Dumas Beach.”
“We’re going to Dandi,” said Riddhi, the girl squashed against
me. “Dumas is overcrowded, yaar. No
privacy at all. Dandi is our go-to place for these types of parties.”
What in Khodai’s name did she mean by, these types of parties?
It struck me that I was way out of my comfort zone here, and
for the rest of the hour-long drive to Dandi, I alternated between cursing my
luck and crossing my fingers. I also begged my parents to watch over me as my
brothers clearly were doing an awful job of it.
The car bumped along Dandi road until the concrete disintegrated
into sand. We drove past a massive black granite plaque jutting out of the
ground with Dandi March and a long
commemoration carved on its face. This was where on April 6, 1930, Mahatma
Gandhi had led thousands of protesters—including my freedom-fighting
grandfather, Rustum Batliwala—in a Salt Satyagraha in defiance of the British
Raj and their overbearing tax laws on Indians. It was a historical landmark,
but contrary to its fame, it was not very touristy.
Smriti parked the Maruti next to a jumble of cars. Remixed
pop pumped out of a massive music system from the roof of a van. Bunches of
girls and boys flooded around an enormous beach bonfire. Half of the girls from
my group had already disappeared into the throng.
I became Smriti’s shadow. I went where she went, drank what
she drank, and danced when she danced. I talked little and tittered a lot. When
you knew no one, it was easy to lose your inhibitions. I didn’t have to make an
impression or accept pitiful condolences from strangers. I didn’t have to
listen to geriatric aunts compare my looks to my mother’s or my nose to my
grandfather’s, the same one who’d fought for India’s freedom. I was no one
here, no one important. I could forget my burdens for tonight, forget that I
was orphaned.
I finally got why Sarvar had pushed me out the door—not that
I forgave him for it, but I understood. There was life beyond death, and it was
all around me. I tried to have fun. I tried very hard.
“That’s him!” yelled Smriti, waving her arm in a sort of
dance move.
“Who?” I shouted back, squinting in the direction of her
wave. “Nirvaan?”
“Yeah. He’s so chikna,
na?” She laughed and shimmied to the
beats of a pop song.
“I see several chikna-looking
boys there.”
There were many, many cuties to wade through. Most of the
guys were shirtless. Most of us girls were in cutoffs and thin T-shirts or tank
tops. It was nasty hot, even with the tepid sea breeze. The bonfire aggravated
the heat, but it was necessary for light and ambience.
My mother had loved dining by candlelight. “Firelight is a
boon to women,” she’d told me once. “It erases age and enhances our natural beauty.”
She was right. We glowed golden brown.
Black sand sparkled beneath naked feet, mirroring the night
sky. Dozens of ice crates poked through the sand like half-buried treasure
chests, openly displaying their glittering booty of imported beer, sodas, and
water bottles. The beer, naturally, depleted faster than the rest of the
drinks. I’d consumed three cans so far. As most of us were quite buzzed by then,
and sweaty and stinky to boot, it was no surprise when some partygoers began to
cool off in the water. It was stupid and dangerous to swim in the sea in the
middle of the night. But at fifteen, stupid meant cool, and dangerous was even
cooler.
Dandi Beach, like many along Gujarat’s coastline, was
endangered land. Due to overdevelopment and deforestation, the unstable coast had
succumbed to the Arabian Sea.But I
ignored everything my father had cautioned against. I dived into the water, breaking
free of all restraint. I didn’t panic when I lost sight of Smriti in the floating
crowd. I was a worry-free bird tonight. I didn’t care if Surin found out I’d
been boozing. I didn’t care that my father would have disapproved of my
midnight swim. He wasn’t there to lambast me, was he? No, he was dead. And
Surin…
Surin…with his stupid threats of locking me in my bedroom,
of washing his hands of me and leaving me to rot with Auntie Jai. I wished
Surin were dead instead of my parents.
My gut heaved like the buoyant waves, making me vomit and
cry. I clawed my way to the shore, and after grabbing another beer, I started
running down the beach.
Why did you die,
Mumsy? How could you die and leave me so alone?
I wanted to curl up in a dark hole and sob my heart out. I ran
farther and farther away from the party. Had I been thinking straight, had I
not been upset, I would never have set off alone. I ran past cars, kids, desert-like
vegetation, and the hemline of dilapidated shacks, abandoned and eerie little
huts, along the sand. The villagers had been forced to move inland to safer
ground. The government had started projects to save the beaches, but it was a
long-haul process, and most of the villages had become ghost towns. I knew all
this because Daddy had been passionate about saving the environment.
Daddy…oh my Daddy…
The beach came to an abrupt end on a jut of rocks rising out
of the sand. I had found my black hole to sink into.
I began to climb. Please,
no snakes, no crabs. I could abide anything but snakes and crabs. I stepped
on something squishy—yuckity yuck—and
then something poked my sole, and I nearly lost my balance. I was barefoot, my slippers
languished in Smriti’s car. I’d thought it sensible to remove them there. I’d
stopped feeling sensible the minute I stepped onto the beach.
Tossing away the beer can, I clambered up the rocks on hands
and feet. A great sense of accomplishment swept over me when I reached the top.
It wasn’t high, just a few feet above sea level, but I felt like I’d climbed a
mountain.
I breathed in deep and let it out. I flung my arms out, staring
at the limitless horizon. Without the music blaring, I heard the waves whoosh
and slap against the rocks. Without the bonfire, the full moon dribbled silver
light onto the world.
My name meant silvery light in Persian. I was born on a full-moon
night, and so my parents had named me Simeen.
My parents…
I dropped my arms as guilt stabbed at my chest. No! Khodai, please, I don’t want to feel anything
anymore. If only I’d gone with my parents instead of arguing.
“I have plans for the
weekend that don’t involve driving from temple to temple with a couple of old
killjoys. I want to hang at the mall with my friends, okay? Why are you forcing
me to go and not Surin or Sarvar? I’m almost fifteen. I can stay home alone. I
hardly need you to babysit me.”
My last words to my parents had been antagonistic, churlish.
If only I’d gone with them…
If only I hadn’t been
so selfish…
If only…
I remembered thinking that. I vividly remembered the feeling
of sinking breath by breath into the quicksand of despair that night on Dandi
Beach. I remembered screaming into the dark, raging at my parents, calling for
them, begging them to come back.
Just come back,
please. I need you. I lied. I need you, Daddy, Mumsy.
I screamed and cried and sobbed. I pleaded with Ahura Mazda
to take me, too, to stop punishing me. I wished the sea would swallow me. I
should’ve died with my parents. If I was dead, I’d stop feeling, stop grieving.
I didn’t remember leaning over the edge, but I must have because, if only for a
second, I was staring at a pile of shiny black rocks before I was yanked back
hard.
Someone shouted, but I didn’t know who or why or what. A
pair of arms locked tight around me. A hand pressed my face into a wet, warm chest.
He’d smelled of the sea and tasted of it, the night Zayaan had
saved me. He let me go, only to push me into Nirvaan’s arms. Hopping from boulder
to boulder, Zayaan had disappeared behind a large outcropping, only to reappear
within seconds in swimming shorts.
With gentle but firm words, they’d calmed me. They sat me
down on the sand and made me drink overly sweet Frooti from a Coke bottle. They
petted me like I was a newborn kitten. And I, desperate to confess my sins, had
spilled my guts.
Only after they’d handed me over to Smriti and I was on my
way home with the taste of cake in my mouth, did I wonder how they had known it
was my birthday or why I’d sipped Frooti from a Coke bottle. Only then did I
recall what my peripheral vision had first registered but hysteria had censored.
Zayaan had been naked, totally completely naagu, when he saved me. And there had
been a girl half hidden between the jut of rocks where he’d come from—a
partially naagu horrified-looking
girl.
For someone who normally wrote straight up romances,
trying my hand at a romantic thriller was to put it mildly, challenging. I got
off to a flying start, albeit a murderous, bloody one. Aria and Karan, my
protagonists, met under less than pleasant circumstances and sparks flew, along
with quite a bit of blood and gore. And then we settled into our story, the
three of us….them with the crime and romance to wade through, me with the
writing of it.
For someone who has led a very sedate, straight and narrow
life, trying to plot an intricate and tricky fraud leading to multiple murder
story was...words fail me…and when words fail an author, it’s kind of a
problem. Just a teensy one. Teensy-weensy, pain in the you-know-what one.
So I got Aria and Karan to cool their heels a bit while I
spent time racking my brains, chewing other people’s brains and generally
trying to figure out how a criminal brain would work. Life went on in both the
fictional and real world until we stumbled, charged and sometimes desperately
ran towards our finale. Days away from typing The End, I realized my villain
was, well for want of a better word, stupid. So back to the drawing board I
went, Karan and Aria’s eyes boring accusing holes into my back, they’d been
interrupted mid steamy scene by my epiphany and were not amused.
This time, my re-worked, spruced up villain came back to
do a much more credible job of being a murderous sleaze and we picked up where
we left off – mid-steam – and ran with it towards the climax, pun intended.
All jokes aside, while being one of the more challenging
things I’ve attempted, this book has also been a lot of fun to write. Stepping
out of my comfortable box and trying my hand at something new has taught me a
lot. Key learnings being:
- Research is key to everything you do.
- Speaking to people in the relevant field
will net you a goldmine of information that all the surfing on the internet
can’t.
- Your villain needs to be smart or the
protagonists aren’t going to have any fun outwitting him.
- I’m really not cut out for a life of
crime. I am in one word – a stupid criminal….ahh well, three words! J
About Shilpa Suraj:
Shilpa was a year and a half when she was first introduced to the world of books. Her mother would park her with a picture book on the floor of the kitchen while she finished her cooking for the day. While it’s no longer the kitchen floor, you can still find her tucked away in a cosy nook somewhere with her nose buried in a book. While books in all genres interest her, it was romance that captured her heart. While racing through every romantic fiction book she could beg, borrow or buy, her overactive imagination started to work overtime and weave its own stories. Years in the corporate world followed by a stint of entrepreneurship crystallised her belief that all she really wanted to do was give life to the stories bubbling inside of her. She briefly managed to tear herself away from the world of fiction to find her own personal happily ever after and now spends her time happily focusing on the two loves of her life – family and writing romances.
It's my BIRTHDAY! And a New Year and thus my mind shifts to things that need to be done, should be done and would be nice if were done.
To be done:
Have 2 novels to finish this year. TMCRA which is about 1/3 of it's way through the birthing canal. And Book 2 in the Age of Kali series, which is only a thought and a rough outline yet.
Should be done:
I have a women's fiction novel coming out in May, and I need to get cracking on cover, blurb, advance reviews, editing, promo, motion sickness...um maybe not that. It's not as if writing and then producing a book for reader posterity is anything like screeching up and down a roller coaster. Or is it?
Would be nice if done:
Start Book 3 of Age of Kali series. Take a screenwriting course. Take a drama class/ archery lesson/ sailing lesson. Spend 2 months alone in Scotland and write.
Those are my goals/plans/ hopes for 2016. What are some of yours, Dear Reader?
This second book in the series takes the reader further into the life of Alicia Trent and her friends. Magic, forgery, betrayal, and fabulous jewels surround Alicia as she struggles to find the reason for her friend's death.
We were nearly halfway up the stairs when I heard Lawrence groan. I turned to see what had happened. He was deathly white, and while I watched, he sank down on the closest step. He was sweating heavily and clutching his stomach. He didn't seem coherent enough to answer any questions, so I ducked into my room and called for an ambulance. They only took about ten minutes to arrive, but it was horrible to wait. Lawrence was obviously in great pain, but couldn't tell me what was wrong.
The ride to the hospital took an eternity. They wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance, and I was so afraid of what would happen before he arrived. I was shaking and behind the wheel of a car was the last place I should have been, but as the ambulance tore through the streets with the siren blaring, I was right behind them.
I ran from the parking lot into the emergency room just in time to see them take Lawrence through a set of swinging doors where I couldn't follow. I slumped into a chair, and for the next two hours I sat in a waiting room with dull green walls and hard metal chairs. I never moved while I waited. My mind was busy begging Lawrence to hold on.
Since I was the only one waiting, when I saw an exhausted-looking man dressed in scrubs walk into the room, I took a deep breath and hurried to his side.
He said, “Are you the relative who brought Lawrence Hall in tonight?”
Afraid they wouldn't tell me anything if I confessed to not being a relative, I just nodded.
“Mr. Hall is a very sick man. He's been poisoned, and we think he must have eaten poisonous mushrooms. Our tests indicate they were probably green-spored lepiota.”
At this point I wanted to scream at him to just tell me his condition. He could explain the details after I knew how Lawrence was.
However, he wasn't finished explaining. “This particular mushroom doesn't normally cause death, but among its other symptoms it can dangerously lower blood pressure. Mr. Hall must be on some type of medication that has the same effect, or at least exacerbated the effect of the mushroom, because we nearly lost him. It's a good thing you got him here when you did. We have him stabilized now, and he should make a full recovery.”
I barely heard anything the man said except the last statement. Lawrence was going to be all right! My knees weakened with relief and I sank into the nearest chair.
He continued, “He's awake, and we need to monitor him closely for a while. We want to keep him tonight and tomorrow for observation, but he can probably go home after that. If you want to see him, you can visit for a short time, but first, can you tell me what type of medication he's taking? He was still pretty confused when I talked to him and wasn't able to tell me.”
“I don't know the exact medication. Lawrence is bi-polar, so it has to be something for that. I'll see if I can find out the name for you.”
I got the room number and was practically running in my need to see for myself that he was alive and recovering. I burst into the room, nearly knocking over a nurse on her way out. She cautioned me the patient needed rest and, with a frown in my direction, left the room. I pulled a chair up next to the bed and took Lawrence's hand. “You look so much better already. You have some color back.”
He said, “You look terrible. You can relax. I'm going to be fine. I was a little worried in the beginning because the confusion felt the way some of my episodes used to begin. The confusion is gone now, and I really am fine. It's left me very tired, but they don't want me to sleep yet. Tell me exactly what happened. I'm sure the gory details will help keep me awake. The last thing I remember is starting up the stairs, and then brief moments in the ambulance.”
I wanted to answer in the same matter-of-fact way he'd asked the question. I tried, but before I could begin, tears were running down my face and I couldn't find my voice. I didn't sob or howl. Strangely, I didn't make any noise at all. I just stared at Lawrence, horrified because he might have died trying to help me. All the while the silent tears kept coming.
He said, “Ali, we can't have this. I've seen you go through some horrible times, but I've never seen you cry. There's no need for you to be so upset. I promise you I will be out of here tomorrow, and all will be well. Even the doctor says so.”
I gulped a few times trying to find my voice. It didn't sound good, but I managed to say, “I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. When you get out of here, you're going right back to Scottsdale! I should never have involved you in any of this.”
“Whoa there, girl! In the first place, I'm a grown man and you can't involve me in anything I don't choose to be involved in. In the second place, you and your crazy mixed-up life are the main thing keeping me from getting old and bored. Bad things happen sometimes, but none of this is your fault. Now dry those tears and tell me how I got here.”
I hiccuped a few times but got myself under control. “Okay, I'm not trying to take the blame for what happened, but I was so scared. It seems you were poisoned. I wasn't in much shape to listen to the doctor, but it was some kind of mushroom. There were mushrooms in the food we ate at supper, but we both ate those. Someone targeted you specifically. At the moment, I have no idea why they did it, but I don't think whoever did this was trying to kill you. The doctor said the symptoms were severe but not normally fatal. The problem seemed to be a reaction between the poison and your medication. Whoever did this couldn't have known that you take anything, or at least not that your medicine would react with the mushrooms. The doctor asked me to find out the name of your prescription.”
“I vaguely remember him asking me, but I was pretty confused then and couldn't remember. It's Geodon. They tried dozens before, but nothing worked until this came along. I'm one of the lucky ones, because it not only keeps the problem in check, but I don't suffer from any severe side effects. This reaction with poison mushrooms is something I certainly never expected. I should have told you ages ago in case of a relapse or some bizarre circumstances like these.”
“I'll let the doctor know the name of the medicine. I don't know if your medication lowers your blood pressure, but it dropped dangerously low. That's what had the doctors worried.”
“I don't know either, but the doctors will figure it out. I understand I have to be in here until tomorrow evening, even though I tried to talk them into letting me go sooner. You need to promise me you won't do anything the least bit dangerous until I get back. One day isn't going to make any difference. Whoever did this may have planned it to separate us for some reason. So promise me you'll be careful and not spend time alone.”
The frowning nurse came back and warned me I needed to leave. Visiting hours were over and the patient needed rest.
I said, “Don't worry about me. I promise I will take every precaution until you're out of here. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon and will drive you to the house when they release you. Just get well!”
Outside the room, Detective Wilton was waiting for me.
About the Author:
From living off the grid in the Arizona desert, Eileen has moved to the woods of upstate New York. She has authored a standalone adventure novel called Desert Shadow. She is also the author of Alicia Trent Series. The Black Cane : Dowager Diaries Book 1 is her latest release.
