Neville stood on the balcony of their bungalow in Assagaon, preparing a drink for his wife. Oddly, she had taken to cashew feni, some new brand called Cazulo. Nice bottle, he had to concede, though the smell still made his stomach turn. Shehnaz swore it was unlike any she had tasted before. It would have to be, as Neville remembered distinctly how much she once detested the spirit, revered as it was in this land. For good measure, he added a dash of bitters, an orange peel and topped it off with ice and soda, hoping that would suppress the pong. For himself, he poured a measure of Hapusa gin, another not-inexpensive local hit which claimed to use Himalayan juniper berries. Every week, a new gin seemed to hit the shelves in Goan supermarkets. RIP Blue Riband, not a day too soon either, thought Neville. They raised their glasses. “To rain.”
It was seven in the evening on a rained-out August day in Goa. The past week had been relentless. They loved it but could imagine the plight of people who had to travel to work every day braving this weather. Everything around them seemed lush and verdant. The trees looked happy to have been born in Goa. The only worry was snakes, which Shehnaz was mortified by. This was the season.
Neville walked into the house and turned the lights on. The sight of the rooms through the glass doors gave Shehnaz’s heart a lift. It had been nearly three months since they had moved in and every day, on their return from walks, they would look at each other and smile, thinking the same thing. They had lucked out.
What added to their relief, in no small measure, was the tumultuous period that preceded their move. Neville and Shehnaz had decided to sell their cottage in Birtola in the lap of a quaint Himalayan village; a place they had intended to grow old in. But it was not to be. There had been a gruesome murder and the circumstances that followed made it difficult for them to stay on. The victim had been their neighbour Clare Watson and the future of the estate where they had their dwelling was shrouded in uncertainty following the outcome of the case. At any rate, a miasma of the events would have lingered over the place, spoiling the perfection of the setting. After packing up from Birtola, they spent some time in Shehnaz’s flat in Colaba, only to realise that they had lost their taste for city life. They now preferred a quieter place with the option of visiting the city occasionally, not the other way around. The balance had shifted. Neville and Shehnaz could never have expected to grow weary of Mumbai, their beloved city where they were both born – Neville in Kalbadevi and Shehnaz in Colaba. For sixty years, Mumbai had been their universe, where Neville rose to acquire a near-celebrity status in his career with the Bombay police while Shehnaz enjoyed a long and successful stint as the editor of the city’s biggest newspaper. In the eyes of the Mumbai chatterati, they were a power couple.
But the years wore Neville down. Finally, it was the grisly murder of a teenage girl at the hands of a feared underworld don that led to his unravelling. He took a long sabbatical from the force before returning for another stint, but things were never quite the same. Till, around his sixtieth birthday, they took the plunge and decided to shift to the mountains of Kumaon. Unfortunately, their idyll was short-lived, forcing them to seek another nest.
Goa had been the obvious choice. Growing up in Bombay, it had always been the go-to place for quick getaways. The state had reasonably good infrastructure and was just a short flight away from Mumbai, where Neville and Shehnaz still held apartments. The climate, barring certain months, was a challenge, but one couldn’t have it all. Besides, which place was blessed with good weather, all year round?
After the Birtola murder, they were both clear that they would rent for a while before deciding to put down roots in any place. This business of buying and selling houses was not one to be indulged in more frequently than was absolutely necessary.
Originally, they aimed to rent one of the charming old Goan bungalows around the villages of Moira or Aldona, away from the din and bustle of touristy North Goa. However, their broker suggested a drive through Assagaon instead.
“For people like you, Assagaon will be better, sir. Aldona may be cheaper, but you won’t be able to step out of your home and stroll across to some posh restaurant there. Or a trendy boutique, for that matter. And those places, they get too quiet after sunset. Here, you have both scenery and action,” had been his exact words.
Shehnaz had been inclined to dismiss this advice, but Neville said a drive-through couldn’t harm them. They had been stunned at the transformation of Assagaon. What used to be a quiet, lush village with gentle hillocks and dense groves, now bristled with cafes, shops, galleries, bars and large incongruous dwellings. The neighbourhood remained leafy but had turned trendy and chic, just as the broker promised. Apparently, it had become the most sought-after place to reside in, with the property prices the broker mentioned making them jump in their seats. Why, it would put some Mumbai localities in the shade.
Before Neville could tell their broker that it was way too expensive, he surprised them by announcing that one could still find some old bungalows on lease. It turned out that many of them had ownership issues. The titles were not owned by any one person and there were usually many claimants, legitimate or not, making it impossible to do a clean sale. The next best option was to rent these houses out to city folk and split the rent between members of the family. The property didn’t change hands yet generated a neat pile of cash each month. Some of the owners had been far-sighted enough to plough back part of the rental proceeds towards interior restoration, to suit the tastes of their demanding lessees. The better the condition, the higher the rent, after all. It was to such a bungalow that Neville and Shehnaz were led, at the end of their Assagaon excursion. The broker had it all mapped out. The moment the car stopped outside the house, Shehnaz let out a shriek of delight.
The broker had smiled smugly, “What did I tell you, madam?”
Excerpted with permission from Scarlet Sands: A Neville Wadia Mystery, Udayan Mukherjee, Picador India.
