Maria's Room

By Sreekumar Verma

Goa. Beyond the sunny beaches, the music and the feni, lies a hinterland caught between the past and present. Here, soon after Liberation, the beautiful young Maria is swept off her feet by the French artist Marcel-an affair that ends in tragedy. Decades later, it is this dark, rain-lashed Goa that writer Raja Prasad arrives in as he flees from the dreariness of his own life. It is here that he encounters Maria-a name that is whispered into his ear from a past as treacherous as the ghosts he dares to confront; a woman as enigmatic as the land itself. As he settles down to write his second novel, Raja stumbles on to the mystery surrounding Maria's death. And in the process he uncovers secrets of his own... Dramatic and intense, Maria's Room is a tale of love and memory; of the drunken Fritz and the inscrutable Milton, the delectable Lorna and the frail Ruma; of a father's fear and a son's turmoil. It is the story of a man's struggle to make sense of himself and the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351360605

Sreekumar Verma

Shreekumar Varma is a poet, playwright, novelist, journalist and teacher based in Chennai. His novels include Lament of Mohini and Devil's Garden, and he is the author of the plays Platform, Midnight Hotel and the award-winning Dark Lord and Bow of Rama. His poetry has been published in several international anthologies. Maria's Room was longlisted for the inaugural Man Asian Literary Prize.

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Maria’s Room

SHREEKUMAR VARMA

HarperCollins Publishers India

for my beloved Geeta

CONTENTS

Cover Page

Dedication

PART ONE

1. Entry

2. Walk

3. Talk

4. Maria?

5. Yesterday

6. Checkmate

7. Mindgames

PART TWO

8. Red Skirt

9. The Outing

10. Old Love

11. Brief Brush

12. Maria’s Room

PART THREE

13. Hither and Thither

14. The Rain Dance

15. Return to Love

16. Life and Death

17. Good and Evil

18. Green Room Stories

19. All Good Things

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PART ONE

1

ENTRY

Up ahead of us the road overflowed.

It drained its edges into shimmering slabs that had probably been paddy fields until last week. Black branches, leaves and a few anonymous objects crossed the road, migrating hurriedly from one slab to the other.

The driver shook his head dispiritedly. We were still on the outskirts of Margao. ‘Nahin chalega, saab,’ he mumbled, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

He pulled out his cell phone and tried a number, then with a soft curse shook it like a faulty thermometer. He started the Omni and swung it smartly to the right. It was little more than a path that heaved up a wooden bridge where a group of drenched middle-aged men stood with handkerchiefs spread over their heads, smoking through cupped hands. I had assumed it was a detour, but he stopped the car and got out. ‘What’s happening?’ I opened the door to a steady drizzle. He was already on his way up the bridge. As I reached him, he grimaced as if impatient to be elsewhere. ‘See, water, water everywhere!’ Limp, cottony strands of hair ran down his face.

We had a grand view of the road. One of the smoking men made a creaking sound from the corner of his mouth and muttered something in Konkani. His companions clicked their tongues and went back to their cigarettes. Together we looked down at people climbing into a bus.

‘There—your only chance,’ the driver told me, avoiding my eyes. ‘Or a boat!’

The bus, with ‘Gomantak Tours’ scrawled in fat, red letters across its side, revved up and moved forward primly. The water marked a line just below the top of the tyres. ‘Hoyega!’ someone shouted and a few onlookers clapped in relief.

My driver considered me moodily: And here you are!

The fresh air was a great relief after our cooped-up drive. It had taken us more than two-and-a-half hours from Londa station—through the injured roads of Karnataka and into Goa. The Omni’s sliding windows had remained shut and rain-misted so I could just about make out a frosty green landscape. I remembered frothy waterfalls and white little streams that gambolled down the roadside keeping pace with us, seen filtered through the glass or perhaps dredged up from fitful naps. We drove through villages where people crossed the road in slow motion and colourful umbrellas bobbed over thin legs of schoolchildren even at this early hour.

Once, jolted awake by stillness, I shouted out a question to find the driver had stopped—‘for number one, saab’—his little finger raised like a schoolboy’s, and after he was done, he fetched me a glass of tea and rainwater covered by a limp square of paper.

A black Tata Estate drove up and paused like an animal at a waterhole. Its darkened rear windows were rolled up. My driver reacted to this with passion, exclaiming and grinning at me.

‘Uttam-bhai! Ek minat!’ He raced down the bridge and bent over the Estate’s driver, gesturing in my direction.

Soon he was back with me, palm thrust out. ‘Aaja fast, saab—he’s taking you!’ He waved away my hesitation, growling, ‘Don’t worry, saab, Uttam-bhai’s our group—he won’t ask you anything!’ I counted out sixteen hundred rupees. Once he had the money, he grinned and salaamed. ‘No problem. He’s taking you like this.’ He snapped his fingers with gusto, relieved at having offloaded me.

The interior of the Estate was close and musty. Taking my tentative smile in his stride, my new driver dumped the luggage in the hatch and clambered in. He had a bad cold and kept sniffing in rapid rhythm. Shabby grey track pants, a golf cap over his springy hair and a triangular tear along the shoulder of his yellow T-shirt gave him an air of carelessness.

‘Benaulim. Cupo’Sun Resort,’ I told him. As I settled back, I was struck by a sharp edge of perfume. I turned and saw that I wasn’t the only passenger. A man and woman sat far apart in the backseat, so still and shadowy in the dark depths of the car that I hadn’t even noticed them. The woman was sitting behind me. She wore a red kameez, but I couldn’t see her face. The man sat straight and still next to her. Sensing their reticence, I turned away.

The engine purred to life, causing a Vicks inhaler to vibrate and roll around on the dashboard. Though the Estate was bigger and more rugged compared to the Omni, I now felt as breathless as Uttam-bhai. His hands clutched the wheel, the ring on his left hand mounted with a steel eagle’s head. Mine lay fisted on my knees.

Rain drummed on the roof. We began to move sluggishly.

A crow flew into my range of vision and flapped around before descending on the bonnet. It was soaked and ragged, made blacker by rain, its talons scratching the metal as it attempted to find a foothold. I tensed as we reached the middle surrounded by gurgling water. Any moment now we would begin to descend, plumbing the damp depths of Goa. It must have taken us barely ten minutes, but after crossing through, when I unclenched my fists, it seemed like time had stopped for hours. Uttam turned to me and nodded, finally including me in his precious ritual. The crow spread its wings, hopped as if taking a bow, then flew away. I could see the traces of a grin on Uttam’s face.

There was still no movement in the back. The couple’s silence loomed like a spectre, stretching over my shoulder, filling the car.

I had fled home to be alone—the presence of these two was an inauspicious start to my excursion. Though irked by their unexpected company, I was now feeling vaguely disturbed by their continuing stillness. Uttam pumped the brake pedal a few times and sped along narrow roads, missing cyclists and pedestrians by inches. His warning honks sounded nasal and broken as though infected by his cold.

The car swung off the road beneath an arch that broke up into large, unwieldy letters spelling out ‘Lawrence Club’. The winding driveway sloped up to a porch, large boulders dotting the route as though stunned mid-roll. The hotel’s frontage appeared raw and half-plastered, a victim of trendy design or deprivation. Uttam got out but the couple stayed frozen like statues. I turned back, edgy and curious. Uttam leaned against the car and beat a restless tattoo on its roof. He sneezed, making me jump.

The man cleared his throat. Abruptly the woman snapped open the door and got out. The man sat for a moment longer— and I could almost feel his strained breath on me—before he slid across the seat, following her. Uttam heaved a dramatic sigh as he went up to help them with their luggage.

I watched the man pay off the driver. He was tall and fair, with frizzy hair, and couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. With his parrot-green designer T-shirt, jeans and boots, he could well have been on his way to a party, but his face was cold and shuttered. When Uttam waved the notes back at him, he reached into his wallet and paid more without demur. The woman had her back to me, wet brown-streaked hair hanging past her shoulders, her kameez crumpled where she had sat. Even in her sandals she was almost as tall as him. I could see her left hand toying restlessly with her dupatta.

As they climbed the steps a uniformed bellboy rushed down to grab their bags. The woman turned around, looking straight into my eyes. She was dark and faintly pretty. Her gaze held me as if her eyes had sheared through a wall of mist, rendering her face sharp and clear. When I blinked and looked again, she was following the man up to the reception.

I sat in a daze, not knowing when Uttam got back in and we started moving. I saw the steel eagle swoop again and again as he swung the wheel. At one point I snapped, ‘Where are you going?’ He looked at me for a second, then carried on without comment. We went through narrow roads, lush, dripping green everywhere. The car splashed energetically through pools of water and bounced over potholes. The rain had thinned to a drizzle. My eyes fixed themselves on random weather-beaten signs. Pereira’s Bar & Restaurant. Eve’s Guesthouse. Hotel Leela Penta this way. Royal Goan Beach Club that way. Benaulim Bar. We squealed to a stop outside my resort. Its frontage was smaller than that of Lawrence Club, but the Cupo’Sun looked classy. I had stayed here with my father years ago when it had been a small hotel. It was off-season now and I would probably be among a handful of misguided tourists.

‘Thanks.’ I dragged my suitcase out. For a jumpy moment I expected him to demand the fare I had already paid, but Uttam got back in and slammed the door shut. ‘Wait, how far is the beach from here?’

He looked at his watch, frowning. ‘Fifteen minat, aisa kuch,’ he said and started the car. I remembered walking with my father in the sun twice a day, streaming with sweat. But today the sun had disappeared from Goa, leaving her dark and drenched. The security man called out and a bellboy appeared with a trolley and an umbrella.

I followed him into the foyer. The room was dark, intersected by white rectangles of light from the windows. I sensed a sudden shadow moving to my left, but when I looked there was nothing there. The reception desk was set in an alcove carved into the wall like a cave. A man with slicked-back hair waited for me, his mouth twisted into a wolfish grin. He wore a limp patterned tie and his chest was labelled ‘Napoleon Fernandes’. I introduced myself. ‘Mr Raja Prasad! We’ve been waiting for you.’ He leaned over the wooden counter as though sniffing out prey. ‘Welcome to Cupo’Sun. Your father called twice, you know!’ He scanned my face with a dramatic expression of worry. ‘He heard about conditions here. It’s all over the news and all, you know.’ He spoke proprietarily as though he were personally responsible for those broadcasts.

‘If he calls again, please inform him I’ve arrived,’ I said.

Napoleon looked pained: Shouldn’t you at least return his call?

He watched closely as I signed the register, adding my postal and email addresses, the reason for my visit, the fact that I was an Indian national, that it wasn’t my first trip to Goa, that it wasn’t my first time at the Cupo’Sun, that I would check out promptly after a week and I would not damage any property belonging to the resort. As I stood and pondered over the possible reasons for my visit, Napoleon cried out: ‘Actually, you’ve come off-season!’ I looked up from the book with a guilty smile.

He backed away to the other end of the counter as though on a conveyor belt. ‘Worst rain in twelve years! No, no, it’s never been like this. Continuously for three days and all.’ He spoke rapidly as if he had waited long to get it off his chest. ‘Mind-bockling, you know!’

The resort’s fluorescent logo struggled on the wall behind the counter, a large red cup overflowing with a yellow sun. The sun was symbolically on the blink. Napoleon asked in a more relaxed tone, ‘How’s he keeping?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘Dr Prasad, fine gentleman. Comes like clockwork every two years. Metric’lus, you know! How’s the writing getting on? He was talking lots about you last time. Very proud of the son and all, you know!’ He gave me a little wink. I felt like grabbing the key from him and running. He was one of those people who violate you with their earnestness. ‘Have you brought us a copy of the book, signed-wined and all? Actually, we have a small library in the resort, you know.’

‘I think you should turn that thing off,’ I said, changing the subject. Napoleon beamed as if he was glad someone was finally suggesting it, but he didn’t switch off the red cup.

A concrete path snaked out from the reception, disappearing between tall and short pink-and-white buildings. My room was 301, beyond the swimming pool. I walked with the bellboy, taking in landscaped walkways and trimmed greenery, all puffy and wet. The rain had eased, but the breeze kept sweeping up stray fat drops. The resort was deserted, except for a lost-looking girl in a green uniform pushing a loud trolley. The bellboy climbed the steps and opened the door.

It was a suite, sitting-cum-dining-cum-kitchenette opening into a big bedroom. The boy pushed my luggage discreetly behind the couch. Cream and purple were the predominant colours. There was an electric oven, a stunted fridge and a pressure cooker. Shining cutlery wrapped shyly in napkins. A family of ceramic tea sets with flowery purple patterns waiting on a shelf. A sticker above the sink said, ‘Preserve water’. Another on the fridge said, ‘Green is good’, though the colour was nowhere to be seen.

There were purple flowers on the table, so pretty you would swear they weren’t paper. I could watch TV, make phone calls or slouch on the couch. There was a table at which I could sit and write, though probably at the risk of spondylitis. To my surprise even my reflection in the rectangular portrait-like mirror was slowly turning purple.

The bathtub had sad, bruised edges etched with hairline cracks. The bedroom gave off a faint odour of drying wool and rain-soaked paint. On the bed, someone had thoughtfully placed two large pieces of gold-wrapped chocolate.

The bellboy proudly pointed out all these things, switched on the air conditioner and smiled. I tipped him, shut the door behind him and turned to my room, alone again.

The room was dark even with the curtains open.

I woke up with a heavy head, sprawled untidily on the couch, all my joints burning like repeatedly rubbed sores. Purple patterns kept leaping before my eyes. I had slept for hours, missing lunch and tea, surfacing like someone from a coma. I had not eaten since morning, an early breakfast at Londa station. Some construction work had been going on and I had to step over mounds of rubble to share idlis and thick, sweet coffee with the canteen flies. A dog sat on its haunches, recording my moves with interest. The stationmaster and everyone else seemed to know I was bound for Goa.

I had travelled relentlessly, boarding the afternoon Lalbagh Express at Chennai and reaching Bangalore late. There had been just enough time to grab a bite and run across the overbridge followed by a huffing old porter, thumping down to a far-flung platform where the Rani Chennamma waited to take me to Londa. I could not sleep much, plagued by strange dreams and a pair of office colleagues who were viciously tearing apart their boss across the upper berths till 3 a.m.

Seeing me off at Chennai Central my father had said, ‘You shouldn’t run away when there’s a problem.’ He had an inherent ability to trivialize other people’s anxieties. It was a standard line of treatment, his recipe for depression: ‘Take it easy, go write another book.’ That is all it took in his urgent, surging world. If you crashed flying, go fly again. If you died on your feet, try and keep walking.

‘There’s no problem!’ I told him.

‘At least buy a cell phone and talk to me.’

‘You know I don’t use them.’

‘If it’s about the book, there’s no use taking a negative attitude,’ he said. ‘Stay here and fight.’ His permission to finally let me leave the city was reluctant and intermittent—he used every chance he got to remind me that it was better to stay. I was like an arrow he had pulled out from its protective quiver and launched half-heartedly. He knew there was no way he could bring me back, but he would keep dinning his concern into me—the arrow would either fall and break or damage someone.

‘It’s nothing to do with Throttle.’ It was embarrassing standing on the crowded platform, being lectured to like a teenager. ‘I need time and quiet to write my new book.’

Suddenly irritable, he leaned and whispered, ‘You must learn to take a broader view. Right now, you’re stuck in your little fiefdom of delusion. You have to break out!’ My father’s whisper is like a regular person’s exclamation. Several heads turned in confusion.

I took a deep breath and replied, ‘I am.’

‘Not like this! Literature is a never-ending trial. You have to prove yourself again and again. Like we say back home, once you’ve entered the water you might as well finish your bath and come out—’

‘Exactly! That’s why I’m starting the new book—’

‘And the other thing—Raja, how many years will you grieve?’

The Other Thing.

I didn’t reply. I nodded and turned away, pushing past people to enter the compartment. Even if I stopped grieving, they were all looming over me, reminding me. He, his friends, the folks in Kolkata. I would never get away, wherever I chose to go.

Like a madman I groped my way to the bedroom, grabbed the chocolates and tore away their wrappers. They melted in my mouth, both together, too soon.

The rain had resumed, a grey screen writhing against the kitchen window. My father had warned me yesterday: ‘Don’t eat at the restaurant too often, they charge five-star rates. Get provisions instead and cook something light.’ I got a bottle from the fridge, the icy water burning my throat and chest.

Shadows rolled in from the edges of the room. My head settled. The air conditioner throbbed against the faint patter of rain. The room got darker. The faces of the couple in the Estate had risen in my mind as I slept, their low, tense voices grating on my nerves, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I felt intrigued by the distance between them, by the passivity of their intrusion. The dream made it clear that I was the intruder, not they! In my reconstruction, the woman was intensely familiar, attempting to establish contact by staring at me deliberately, almost accusingly. The man was an accidental presence and Uttam-bhai didn’t even exist. I couldn’t remember who was driving the car, it hadn’t seemed important. Had I seen the woman before or was my mind playing tricks again?

I got up and switched on the light. Dinner in the restaurant was between seven and ten. I got out of my clothes and stepped into the bath. Darkness dripped out, swirling noisily through the vent, leaving me behind—a stilted apparition in the misted mirror. I felt drained and full of myself at the same time. By the time I had slipped into a T-shirt and bermudas and got out of the room, I had barely fifteen minutes left. Rain and wind drove against me. Across the slippery tiles surrounding the pool, past the barbecue grill and a gaily striped awning. Hearing the sound of bubbles I stepped back and bent to examine the pool, but its dark surface looked calm.

Yellow fairy lights glowed damply, showing me the way.

The restaurant had one occupant left, an old white man, probably European, nursing his beer. He was seated in a corner full of shadows and his table was messy with the remnants of dinner. As I entered, he straightened his head and stared hard through his spectacles. Disconcerted by the sharp points of his eyes, I walked to a table far away from him.

The steward spotted me from an oval peephole in the kitchen door and emerged with the menu. ‘Hello sir, came today only, isn’t it? Mr Prasad, no?’ He smiled at my surprise, then added to it. ‘How’s your book coming along?’ I made appropriate sounds in the back of my throat. Did these people have a sophisticated information system or was this merely an advantage of low occupancy? His name-tag said ‘K. Nagesh’. ‘Something from the bar?’ he asked.

‘Something soft. I don’t drink.’ He smiled sympathetically and we settled on orange juice. His look of condolence deepened when he learnt I was also vegetarian.

The food tasted good, but lay heavy in my stomach. I heard the European’s deep, rolling voice in response to some question from Nagesh. Their voices echoed in the empty room. The steward tried to interest me in the dessert of the day, but I had had enough.

I played around with the greasy pieces on my plate, thinking up dialogue for my first confrontation. I felt listless— this wasn’t how the beginning should have been. I missed the customary excitement of a burgeoning story, the atomic piecing together of character. My plot seemed flat even after numerous reconstructions. The two main characters, B and M, appeared burdened by all my plans for them. Having set out with the grand idea of returning with a novel, the last thing I wanted was a pretty holiday with nothing to show for it. The fork grew tight in my fingers. I signed the check and got up. As I opened the door, shadows parted and the old white man looked up like a disturbed animal.

The rain had taken a break. I walked past the reception to the gate. There were three or four taxis parked on the far side of the road and a small group of young men were chatting idly, but their voices couldn’t reach me. One of them threw a mock punch at another. Yellow reflections sparkled on the road, swimming like sluggish, wet fireflies. It was a different world out there, bright, animated and hushed. I felt like a prisoner looking beyond his bars. The gateman in his cubbyhole looked impassively at me.

I turned away, feeling stray drops on my arm. As I reached the swimming pool, I sensed a dark shadow shift and rapidly move away. It was a tense, hollow moment, my heart constricting. My mind was playing tricks. My father was probably right to keep me cloistered in his company.

A roll of music floated down. Someone was playing the piano. It was a familiar tune, teasing my brain. At first I thought it was a tape or the radio, but then there was a pause between notes, a realignment followed by a soft cough. I kicked off a slipper and traced a line on the cold, damp floor with my toe, fighting a feeling of being somewhere else. The tune hovered around the pool, reverberating in a vast radius ringed by four buildings and the night.

I was trembling when I reached my room, though not from the cold.

2

WALK

People crowded the pool, splashing, raising fountains of sound. A small boy stood balanced on the edge, shrieking whenever someone walked past. His parents and sister were egging him on to jump. Their glee was edged with the beginning of dread, a wariness of what they might provoke. No one noticed as I passed.

At the reception, which looked bright today with all its windows and the entrance doors thrown open, the old European from last night stood bent over the counter. Napoleon Fernandes was pointing out something on a large, creased map.

‘Going out, Mr Prasad?’ He hadn’t switched on the blinking logo today.

‘Yes, I’ve already wasted a whole day.’ I looked at the large figure hunched at the counter like a doubled-up whale and thought: Good god, I’ve seen him somewhere! Last night his stare had disconcerted me—in the morning light he seemed very familiar.

‘Another call from your father!’ Napoleon said. ‘I couldn’t connect him to your room.’ He spoke resignedly as though he had already given up on me. ‘Will you call him from your cell phone?’ I shook my head and the expression froze on his face.

The European heaved his body up with a heavy sigh. He was red-faced and clean-shaven and wore shell-framed glasses. As he turned to me the feeling of having seen him before evaporated. He was larger than I had thought, tall and barrelshaped, his belly beginning from his chin and ending nowhere. He didn’t look so old now—the shadows in the restaurant had probably roughed up his face last night. This morning he was all pepped up in a floppy white cotton shirt and khaki-coloured bermudas below which his knobbly knees stuck out like couplings on a pipe. Slightly slanted eyes, pasted hair and glassy cheeks—and far removed from the grouchy fellow paying obeisance to his drink.

But those eyes! This time, I stared back.

Napoleon grinned brightly. ‘Going into town, eh? Taking a little wind and all?’ He seemed eager to see me through my paces.

‘Just a small walk to the beach.’

‘It’s not the season, you know, or we could have arranged many things. Music. Dances. Trips. A week of guzzle and bustle!’ To my surprise, he did a mild and angular imitation of a moonwalk. ‘We usually have a special outing for the guests. But this rain!’

The European took off his glasses to see me better. ‘Not so small, it’s a big enough walk.’ His voice boomed in a rich baritone. When he said ‘big’, you could feel the bigness. His skin was boiling red and looked as if it could spread out to accommodate even more of him. He extended a podgy hand. ‘Fritz.’

‘Raja Prasad.’ My hand remained in his grasp till I wriggled it out, pretending to scratch my head.

‘Carry an umbrella, you never know when it will rain,’ he said with just the trace of an accent.

‘I’ll duck into a shop or something,’ I said dismissively.

‘No shops. It’s one long stretch. Only some houses and rice fields—though the rice must be washed away by now. Here, you can take my umbrella.’

Napoleon broke in. ‘Dr Fritz is right. Now it looks like this.’ He sent his hands up, fingers flying in the air, suggesting rainfall. ‘But—you never know!’

‘I’ll buy one on the way.’

‘No, take mine!’ said Dr Fritz. Seeing my hesitation he added,’No problem. You can leave it right here at the reception, yeah?’

I accepted his umbrella and walked out. Two taxi drivers tried to interest me in a sightseeing trip. On both sides of the road lay dregs washed up by the rain. A few hundred yards up the road turned left and it was then a straight walk down to the beach. A provisions store opposite the turning was doing brisk business. People crowded the counter, taking advantage of the lull.

I walked past low walls with blue-black rain-ravaged posters in English and Konkani proclaiming varied fare. One advertised ‘Konkani tiatr’s greatest show’, a grand three-hour presentation of Adeus. Another promised fun as well as poignant drama in an adaptation of The Three-Penny Opera. A third advertisement had a woman with sensuous eyes and low-slung sari calling one and all to the lavni. The fourth poster was prolific, shredded and mysterious, carrying fragments of a chubby, smiling face. If you were interested in jig-sawing