Mumbai Story

By Lily Bass

Bu, aged fifteen, wants attention from Vivek, who is the guy she is really stuck on but when she finds a dead boy in his flat, she is treated as a suspect by the Mumbai Police.

Whilst Bu deals with rejection from Vivek, her disabled father must deal with the corrupt mumbai police by paying them off with the little money he has.

As the ghost of the dead boy appears to Bu, she realises that only she can solve the murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Urbantopia Books
• Release date: Jul 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9780957286122

Book preview

1988.

Chapter One

Bu slipped into the gap between the buildings, wide enough for the handlebars of a bicycle or the shoulders of an old woman. She was followed by the noises from Thackerji Street - hawkers of vegetables, plastic tea strainers and maxi kaftans were packing up for the day. Night smells were coming in - heavy Jasmine, burning diesel from Fiats and Ambassadors and frying spices from the two star Tardeo Hotel. Bu past a two foot tall Shiva temple and got to the lift of the Maya Building. She was late, it was closed, eight minutes earlier and she could have had a free ride up. The same stains were on the steps - red spit sprays of betel nut juice and orange crushed cockroaches. Bu reached the fourth floor, it was lively as usual. Even with the front doors locked Bu could hear big TV’s and a non-stop clanking of stainless steel plates and glasses. The door to the Sharma flat, the largest of the three, swung open. Vivek went to the iron gate of the lift and pushed the button, his eyes were wet.

‘Vivek, hi,’ said Bu.

Tall as a Bollywood star he was the only guy in the building who did not smear his head with hair oil. He pushed the lift caller again and pulled on the gate with his fingers trying to steady himself, his nose dripping sweat.

‘It’s shut,’ said Bu.

Vivek rushed past Bu and down the stone steps checking his pockets as he went not looking back at her or at his feet but flying out. Bu carried on slowly until she reached the top, looking over her shoulder several times hoping that he might be just behind her, having changed his mind about not saying hello. She could have gone down and caught Vivek at the entrance as if she was leaving herself but he was running and if she ran too he would know she had been running after him.

Mr Mudhvani, who owned the whole of the fifth floor, only opened his door a few inches.

‘Hello Uncle,’ said Bu who was not related to Mr Mudhvani - she was being polite. His eyes the colour of clarified butter, focused somewhere to her left.

‘I’ve finished Kalpana’s skirt. I had to get the matching blue beads from the wholesale market, otherwise it wouldn’t look so good,’ she knew she was rambling, ‘is Kalpana not at home...er Uncle?’

The door closed, Bu heard Mr Mudhvani, ‘Kalpana, hurry up. Your tailor’s here.’

Kalpana came out into the hallway. Bu had never seen her wear the same T-shirt twice. Her head looked large, not in balance with the rest of her body and her skin like it was cold although Bu had never got the urge to touch it.

‘I don’t know if I like it,’ said Kalpana putting the embroidered silk skirt to her body then high up in the air, then back against her hips.

‘It’s an exact copy,’ Bu took three magazines out from her cloth bag, pages had been red flagged in advance. Bu presented fashion photos in which models were wearing very similar skirts.

‘I’ve given you something extra - double stitching. It’s exactly peacock blue. If you want it shorter I can make it but I think it’s perfect for you,’ said Bu.

‘That model is fairer than me, it looks better on her,’ said Kalpana. It was a momentary slip, normally Kalpana hated to give herself away, ‘come back on Saturday, then I’ll see.’ Kalpana grabbed the skirt and shut the door.

Bu was pleased with herself. Kalpana was a regular customer who loved her designs but hated to pay but this time felt like it was different, this time Bu was sure Kalpana would try the skirt on and fall in love with it, then Bu would ask for forty or even fifty rupees more. She did not need to hurry home now, she could go in the direction of Amul’s ice cream parlour if she wanted to. What was she going to order, the custard apple or saffron pistachio? Rich and creamy because it was made with buffalo milk, but just one scoop, not two or three like the people sitting on motorbikes or the couples in matching jeans, just one.

The Sharma flat was still open and there was no one around. Bu tried to put Vivek out of her mind but he would not go. She tried harder but found herself peeking through the crack between his front door and frame. Bu held onto her bag like it was the shield of a holy book. What excuse could she have? ‘Vivek had told me that when I’m next here I should say hello...’ No stupid, he did not even say hello to you and that was ten minutes ago... She could use her father, ‘he wanted to borrow a...’ a what? Hurry up... Bu was inside. The hall was all white now instead of a dirty grey, the Sharmas had changed the floor - a white marble speckled with black. She removed her champals. The hall merged into the living room, the statue of Venus D’Milo was also new. Bu could see Vivek’s bedroom door, it was shut. She turned a sharp right into the kitchen and away from it, yellow dhal was soaking in a large pressure cooker of water. What a decent home and a decent family. A dried chapatti, torn into baby pieces, was on the outside sill of the window for the next morning’s crows. Bu felt the back of her neck getting warm, ‘Vivek I -’ she went into the living room, no one was there. Bu went to his door followed by a gust of summer air. She remembered the last time she had stood there, her hands shaking, almost a year ago when all she had were three Hibiscus flowers and a monogrammed handkerchief for his birthday present. She strained to listen for movement.

‘Vivek?’ She had something ready if he had come back and gone straight to his room, ‘you left your front door wide open-.’

She leant on the door handle for a bit, this was a chance for her to be alone with him, she pushed herself in. Light from the living room shone ahead, she pulled back. Someone was lying on the bed in a lopsided way, their head off the pillow and one of their legs almost touching the floor, it was not Vivek.

‘Sorry I ...’ said Bu.

The curtains were drawn and the room was heavy, smelling of Indian cigarettes and burning camphor. Bu was about to leave when the figure began to shake gently as if it was lying on a moving train seat but in such a deep sleep that if the train then crashed it would not have noticed. She should have left but looked more closely. The arms and fingers were short and moving, it was a boy, Bu’s heart rose a little.

‘Buju...’ said a tender voice. Bu walked into the centre of the room, ‘I’m sleeping Buju, I’m tired and want to sleep.’ Bu did not recognise the voice and did not have a clear view of the face let alone the lips. ‘I’m so tired, why won’t you all let me sleep?’

‘Oh...okay,’ said Bu still not knowing who was talking. She felt something wispy touch her right forearm and warmth again, this time right behind her. She turned around but saw no one. Bu pulled the door back a little. Putting her hand to her forehead as if that single act would cancel out her visit to Vivek’s bedroom, she felt something oily. She passed the hall mirror on her way out of the flat not intending to look at herself but at the last second, did. A red smear was across half of her face. She looked at her hands, they were red too, a kind of Hibiscus red. Bu was sure she had not touched anything. Back to the gap in Vivek’s room she could see that the boy was in exactly the same position as when she first saw him. She was at the threshold of the flat when Vivek’s wet eyes flashed up in her mind, she went back into his room and switched the light on.

There