Uma woke up sweating. She hadn’t slept well at all.
She lay there watching the dawn sunbeams flow along the ceiling rafters. She was reminded of the small trail of blood on the verandah floor. Her stomach churned. Her mind rebelled at the thought of another day, but she tossed the bedsheet aside resolutely.
Two days and I’m still moping around! I have to get a handle on myself ! We will have tea, and it will be on the verandah!
Yesterday, the day after the beheading, she hadn’t stayed too long on the verandah. Jayan had tried to coax her to stay, but her normally practical self had gone into hibernation.
“It’s just been a day since the…the Vasantha incident. Why are we even trying to do this?” she had asked. She’d been frustrated by her husband’s ability to move on from the horror of the past day. But his simple answer had devastated her. “You’re a policeman’s wife now, Uma. I want you to be the strong woman I know you are.”
Uma had bristled at his blasé suggestion, but decided to bite her tongue and give it a shot anyway. Easier said than done. She’d jumped every time someone walked by the gates, and they had gone in and eventually sat brooding quietly in their corners of the living room. Today, she would be ready…
The two of them were outside again. One of the constables, Kothandan, had taken to standing guard over her. A hulking monolith of a man, his tough exterior barely hid a childish reverence for his boss and Uma. Akka, he called her – elder sister. His delighted smile when she said good morning had surprised her earlier on, but now she was used to him. She was happy to see him when she caught him at the edge of her vision. She would own her role. She would distract herself and push down the horror.
As Kanchana set out the early-morning tea, Uma noticed the sari she was wearing. Unlike her usual traditional handwoven cotton saris, she wore a flowy nylon flowered affair. Brightly coloured, garish even, but more expensive than handloom cotton.
“Nice sari, Kanchu. A present from your dear husband?” she asked.
Kanchana flushed and said, “No, no. This cheap thing, Amma? I just picked it up at the bazaar.”
Uma’s eyes narrowed, and she reached out and felt the cloth. The maid quickly turned and rushed off in a flurry. Uma sat back, unsure of what she felt at that moment.
“That’s odd,” she said to Jayan.
“Nothing odd, Uma. She got a deal at the market. That’s it. Don’t search for mysteries, since mysteries are happy to come find us anyway,” Jayan said, trying to mollify her.
Uma bristled. She was finding Jayan’s efforts to soothe her quite dismissive. “There’s no mystery in chopped, gruesome heads handed over by a killer. An expensive sari in the latest design on a cook’s salary – that is a mystery.” She huffed, then realised what had happened. So, I can talk about chopped heads now without sweating? Interesting. I guess I am becoming a policeman’s wife…
Jayan wisely let it go and lifted his newspaper up like a shield. There he goes again, with the white flag of newsprint.
Uma gazed out over the hazy morning light sparkling in the trees, listening to the birds waking up. The whistling and cawing would soon give way to car horns and motorcycle whines. After a while, she called to have the cups cleared away.
This time, she gently touched the hem of Kanchana’s sari. Feeling its gauzy material, she said, “Come on, Kanchana. Where did you buy this?”
“Oh, Ma. It was a gift from a nice man in town. He liked my husband’s cooking in the town guest house where he cooks on weekends, and paid for his meals with this.”
Uma raised her eyebrows. Kanchana was the saving grace for the couple, as far as Uma was concerned. While the cook had made delicious, if bland, food for the first month of her stay, lately the cooking had deteriorated. The watery sambar and rock-hard idli had convinced Uma that she would have to learn to cook herself and send the ragged fellow away. She had been holding the silky material of the sari, which she let go. She looked up into Kanchana’s eyes and saw the dusky girl blush.
“A gift, huh? Then why all the blushing? Good lord, girl. Are you sure you two are only feeding the man?” She said this flippantly, but the maid’s eyes widened. The increasing confusion and fluster it caused in Kanchana was painful to see. What on earth is going on in this backwater? Sweet innocents getting slaughtered on the altar of family jealousies, expensive saris handed out for something that made this poor woman blush?
“Truly, Amma. This is nothing to the salesman. He has so many books and tools and machines for the house that look just like the ones in Nadodi Mannan.”
“Ah, if the great MGR can use them, so should we! Don’t be fooled by the movies, Kanchana. These movies come from Madras, Bombay, and America to tell us that housekeeping is exciting with all these gadgets. A swish of their hands, and here’s the toast. Ponaiyan, you, and I know it’s not that easy.”
Uma looked over at Jayan. “I have to admit,” she said, “I do like imagining a house festooned with lovely gadgets. When I was a teenager, my brothers had to chase out one of these wandering peddlers. The lout had made eyes at me, but almost more egregiously, the kettle he sold us short-circuited the whole village’s power supply. I’m still not sure what made my brothers angrier.” Jayan smiled, the newspaper inching down a little.
Excerpted with permission from The Jasmine Murders: An Uma-Jayan Mystery, Roopa Unnikrishnan, Aleph Book Company.
