Dear all,
It is with a heavy heart that I must convey to all of you some deeply disturbing news. Earlier tonight, our beloved Venus Pereira was found dead at her desk in the English Department. It seems she had an acute cardiac arrest, but the police have been summoned, as is due procedure, to rule out any foul play. The management and I are shocked and saddened at this unfortunate turn of events, but the need of the hour for us as educators is to first think about our students. While the police conduct their investigation, we must rally together to decide upon a course of action as to how to convey the news to the parent and student body, so as to ensure that there is minimal scope for speculation and that our students are not overly disturbed.
We’ve announced a holiday for the students tomorrow, i.e. Tuesday, April 4, 2023. Requesting all faculty to come into school tomorrow morning at nine, so that we can discuss the best way forward. The police will also be there during this time and can speak to each of you individually.
The death of Ms Pereira is a terrible loss for our school community, and we stand with each other and with every one of you in this time of grief.
Best regards,
R Fernandes
“Good morning, everyone. And thank you for coming in.” Satish Kamble paused to look around the room at the dozen or so teachers gathered in front of him.
The high school faculty had assembled in the school hall – a wide, high-ceilinged, rectangular room with a row of windows on one side, a grand piano forte on the other, and a stage with heavy, maroon, velvet curtains in the front. Kamble however had chosen not to address them from the stage. He stood instead in front of them in a loose grey kurta, his hands stuck deep inside the pockets of his jeans.
“As you know, Ms Venus passed away yesterday. She was discovered at her desk at around eight pm by Ms Savant who’d come back to school to pick up some assignments. She immediately called Ms Fernandes who, in turn, informed us. We don’t know exactly when she passed and what suddenly brought this on. The police will certainly be able to tell us more once they’ve had a chance to run some tests. But before that they would like to speak to you.”
He paused at the low buzz that had gone through the room at the mention of police, before continuing. “Everyone. Please. This is a difficult circumstance as it is. Idle speculation is only going to make things harder. What the board and I and the school really need from you right now is to cooperate. And to help us contain this in a way that the school and our students come out of it as unscathed as possible. Now, Ms Fernandes would like to address you.”
Fernandes, who was sitting in the first row beside the senior Mr Kamble, got up and walked to the front of the room. And for the first time since Radhi had known her, her shoulders drooped.
“Good morn—” the principal cleared her throat and began again. “Good morning, one and all. The last 12 hours have been exceptionally challenging for me as I suspect for many of you. I’ve not only lost a great teacher but also a very dear friend.” She removed her glasses and wiped them, looking at the front row of teachers sadly. “I don’t know how I’ll fill the large, Venus-shaped hole in my English Department. But for now, I must urge you to stay strong. To put your personal feelings aside and to focus on our students. An email has already gone to the parent body informing them of Ms Venus’s demise on the school premises. Tomorrow morning, Mr Kamble and I will address the students in a special assembly. On your part, please encourage them to come to you with any questions. I would rather that they discuss it with you than with each other.”
A peon entered the room and approached Kamble who had stood up again just as Fernandes had finished speaking.
“The police are waiting for you in the grade six classrooms. Please go when he calls out your names,” Kamble said, nodding towards the peon.
As the teachers began to disperse, Radhi turned her chair to face Mr Bottlewalla and Mr Bakshi who were sitting in the row behind her. “Do you know what exactly happened?” she asked.
Mr Bakshi shook his head, “No more than what Kamble just told us.”
“But how so suddenly? Were there any pre-existing health issues?”
Mr Bakshi glanced at Mr Bottlewalla who shrugged and said, “She was rarely absent or on sick leave. I doubt there was anything serious.”
“At least nothing she saw fit to discuss with us,” Mr Bakshi added.
Radhi scanned the right side of the room where Ms Lily and Ms Savant were sitting with a few other teachers she recognised. “Was she close to anyone?”
“Not them for sure,” Mr Bottlewalla said, following her gaze. “You know, I’m not sure she was really close with anyone at school. She spent most of her spare time reading at her desk or with her students.”
“Yes, her Lit Kids, as she liked to call them,” Mr Bakshi said. “Four or five very enthusiastic kids she mentored after school.”
The peon came to call Mr Bottlewalla, who struggled for a few moments to get out of the narrow, wooden chair, before heaving his considerable girth out of the room.
Radhi’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d overslept and left home without any breakfast that morning. At the back of the hall, she could see that a few tables had been set up with tea, coffee and bottles of water. After checking with Mr Bakshi if he wanted anything, she made her way towards the back, where a group of teachers had already gathered.
“What was she doing here so late, anyway?”
“Working, what else?”
“I suppose when you live alone there’s no incentive to go home.”
“Didn’t she live with her mother?”
“Her mum died last year.”
“Oh … I had no idea. Was there a prayer service?”
“Yes, but she didn’t tell anyone.”
“How do you know?”
“Ms Lily mentioned it. They went to the same church.”
“Aah, okay.”
Snatches of conversation reached Radhi as she poured herself a cup of steaming ginger tea from a large, steel thermos with a black cap. It saddened her to think that the old teacher had been all alone in her final moments. A life spent in the pursuit of beauty and poetry should have had a more fitting, a more graceful end. She stirred in a spoonful of sugar before picking up a few Bourbon biscuits with their trademark chocolate cream filling from a tray covered with a net. As she began to make her way back to Mr Bakshi, she saw the peon approach him and accompany him out of the room. Pausing, she glanced around the room and decided to walk towards Ms Savant who was sitting with Ms Lily and a couple of other teachers.
As she neared them, she saw that Ms Savant looked shaken. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying or hadn’t slept or both, and yet, strangely, she also seemed to be in her element. She sat with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, one hand clutching her head almost theatrically, while the other teachers spoke in whispers around her. Radhi chided herself for her unkind thought. She, who had stumbled upon a murdered woman at a matrimonial bureau just a few months ago, knew, perhaps more than anyone else in the room, how hard it was to unsee a dead body.
Excerpted with permission from The Mumbai School for Murder, Meeti Shroff-Shah, Bloomsbury India.
