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“Go where? And have you seen the vultures waiting outside the gates?” she asked.
“There’s a delivery entrance, and don’t worry. I have a plan,” I said with a grin.
It was crazy. It was desperate. And it was dangerous.
“It might just work,” said Sona. “You know, once you get used to the smell.”
She circled the delivery van slowly.
“You swear you can get the smell out?” she asked sternly.
“You can get it out of your skin with a nice, hot shower. But you might have to burn the clothes,” I confessed.
She made a face.
“Okay, then. Hop in.”
I climbed into the back of the smelly delivery van and crouched between the seats, as Sona did the same on the other side. She pulled the door shut and I clapped the side of the van once. It started slowly. I held my breath as we neared the gate at the delivery entrance, and not just because the air was so redolent of drying fish.
I heard the reporters come running towards the van, but they froze when the driver rolled down his window.
“Gaadi mei kaun hai?” yelled one pap. “Who is in the car?”
“Fish ka delivery tha. Gaadi khaali hai. Lift mangta hai?” asked Bombil, who reeked of the dried fish he’d been named after. He offered the reporters a ride in his empty delivery van, and they backed away hastily when the stink hit them with the force of a gale.
He floored the accelerator and got us the hell out of there. Once we were clear of the commune, we sat up and tried to brush off the smell of dead fish that clung to us.
Sona tried not to gag as she rolled down the window on her side.
“Thank you, Bombil Balchao. You’re my hero,” I said gaily.
My friend flushed brightly and shook his head.
“It’s okay, Didi. You teach my Jenny to speak English properly, and I help you. Deal?” he asked, referring to his six-year-old daughter.
“Deal,” I replied, and we shook hands on it.
“All this is very well, but where are we going?” asked Sona.
She looked worried because we were approaching Panjim by now.
“We’re going to Vishal’s house,” I replied grimly.
“Stop the car,” she yelled, and Bombil swerved wildly before he screeched to a halt.
“What happened?” he asked anxiously.
“Your Didi has gone mad, that’s what happened,” replied Sona, sounding furious.
“I haven’t gone mad! I want to see the room where he died. Maybe we can find something.”
“Something that both Samar’s team and the police missed? Are you out of your fucking mind? That place will be crawling with paps. If you want a media opportunity, all you have to do is walk out of the gates of Paradiso and give yourself up to the reporters. They can rip you apart, and you can have your fifteen minutes of fame,” she said, with disgust.
“For your information, I don’t want fame. I want answers. I want to know what he had in that room, and why he did what he did.”
“He had photographs of you all over the wall and even a t-shirt that he stole from your clothesline. Is that what you want to see? If so, you’re going to be sadly disappointed because all that stuff is in police custody now. As for the shrine, you can find pictures of it on the internet. Because if the police find you in that house, they will arrest the lot of us on abetment charges. As it is, Samar and DV are going to have a hard time convincing them that none of us ever threatened Vishal.”
“Feel free to get off your high horse anytime now, Sona. You’re not the one whose life has been turned upside down by someone you barely knew. And you’re not the one who has to live with the fact that she drove someone to kill themselves,” I hissed.
