Death by Misadventure

Death by Misadventure

1

The last thing that I remember – and I do not use this metaphorically – is struggling for breath under a pillow. There was far too much whisky in my system for my resistance to have any effect but alcohol or not, the memory of my struggle is real and not imagined as some of the detective theorists may have thought. Ah, hell, I am jumping the gun. Wait, let me rewind a little to the night of my murder.

Hi, I am Ria Chattopadhyay or Chats as my friends call me. As of right now, I am ephemeral – in a decidedly un-yash-chopra way; I am actually, yes, you got this right, a ghost teetering between the earth below me and the gates to heaven and hell just above me because I have unfinished business; I need to resolve who was the asshole who smothered me that night.

It was a Saturday night, in July; July nights in Mumbai are best spent indoors. So I had invited some of my close people: my brother – Randhir and his wife Sanjana. Sanju was a common family friend and before familiarity could breed the inevitable contempt that follows Sanju like will readings follow funerals; she moved from family friend to family.

As of right now, Randhir and Sanju have an open marriage and they swing it as much as wing it. Randhir is just managing with the allowances from his share of my parents’ inheritance and is resentful that they did not earn enough for the luxurious life he deserved. Sanju tried in the beginning of the marriage to ignite some sort of fervor for estate building in my brother but like a lot of things that she turned to in life she could not finish what she started. Her marriage may just be an exception to this trend, I cruelly thought that night.

Besides, this couple, I had another couple over, two of my best friends married to each other: talk about saving on partying costs. Maureen, Sameer and I were in school and college together. We have done far too many things together, yes, yes, even that. For the longest time Sameer played musical chairs between Maureen and I for his final marriage vows by the time he decided it was going to be good old Chats; I was too fed up and observed that a good friend is better than a husband whose fickle affections could easily add the adjective jealous to any self-respecting woman.

Hence, I am still single whereas Maureen and Sameer are a couple. Unlike my brother who decided to take the cash and the property, I was left with my family’s antique and artifacts business – a business that I turned out to be good at – right from the customer networking and the international procuring. Combining this with the digital success of our ‘Antiqfact’ business, my inheritance has more than quadrupled, something that Randhir lightly teases me about but I am certain that below that surface of teasing, his feelings are anything but light.

You may call me lucky here, wealthy, single, solid friends et al. But hey, I was killed at 42, so you can take that luck you feel for me and shove it where the moon never revolves.

Enough digressions, let’s get back to the Saturday night when I was murdered, did I mention it was July in Mumbai? It was quite cozy to sit with drinks amidst the heavy downpour outside. We were winding down for the night. Our last discussion, appropriately was the best method of offing someone; we were still undecided amongst cutting the jugular vein, an exotic poison and smothering with a pillow when I heard Sanju snoring.

That was signal enough! We decided to call it a night, I tottered into my bedroom, Randhir and Sanju teetered into one of the guest bedrooms, Maureen and Sameer, relatively sober, walked into the study that doubled as a bedroom because of a sturdy sofa-cum-bed, an item that every Mumbai house is incomplete without. Thankfully, I could just totter around my house because of my super-efficient live-in help.

That reminds me there was another person, Komal, she lived with me in her servant’s room and managed my house. Her only child who had been living with us since his infancy was recently put up in a boarding school, on my insistence. I did not want to worry about a nine year old boy calling his friends over for games or other such things in my absence.

Consequently, that night when I went to sleep – after a reasonably long discussion that started from classical detective books and ended with the best way to kill someone with minimum forensic evidence – I was surrounded by people who loved me ostensibly but had an equally strong reason to loathe me, after all the capacity for extreme desire is a pendulum that can be swung from one end to another with a small touch.

Nevertheless, when I did die and was trying to get out of the confines of my climate-controlled apartment, I was firstly surprised that someone had killed me and since all manners of exit for my vaporous self – I had to break the small window near the exhaust fan in the bathroom to escape – were closed; I was doubly surprised that it was someone out of the five other people in the house.

I tried to follow the investigation of my murder which was ruled as ‘Death by Misadventure’ – fancy speak for too much alcohol killed her – but I was certain about the smothering and I shall not live in peace (ok, ok, shoot me for this error, haha!) till I find this double-faced, lying, deceitful mongrel who could only creep on me during the night when my defenses were down.

2

Patiently, I have waited for everyone to die and now that all six of us are dead along with the lead detective, Zahira Kapasi, of my ‘death by misadventure’ investigation; it is time for me to ask questions and find that person; for it is well-known that the dead cannot die and the dead, definitely, cannot lie.

I have manifested a passable round table around which we are sitting, it is typical of my brother to be the most impatient and, lo, snidely he starts, “I didn’t know there was a Miss Marple in you.”

“That may or may not be true”, I respond, “but we need to find out whether there is a Ted Bundy in you.”

“Tch, tch! Always heavy-handed with the melodrama, Chats! Such a peaceful death and you talk about serial killers whose victims died gruesome deaths.”, it is Maureen now who makes her anger felt. No one has liked this wait and I want to tell them that even I have not liked this wait instead I keep this meeting non-empathetic and bristling with anger.

I quickly start with my friends, their treachery will hurt me the most, so I want to remove them from the circle of suspicion as soon as possible. “Maureen and Sameer, did any of you kill me that night? Do tell me how you spent the night and leave out the sex if however unlikely, the sex did take place.

Maureen is the first to respond, “What humbug! We were your guests that night and look at your hospitality, making us wait for so many years when most likely you drank yourself to death that night. Sameer and I were together the whole night, you know I am a light sleeper. I would have known if Sameer would have woken up. Neither I nor Sameer killed you, a regret that I did carry to my grave.”

Sameer agreed quickly, “Why don’t you accept that you ODed on alcohol? If someone may have killed you, it could easily be Randhir, your death did lead to a celebration of excesses for him. Why don’t you confess Randhir so that we can all be on our way?”

Randhir who was yawning extravagantly now rubbed his eyes, “What me! I murdered someone so efficiently that it didn’t even look like murder. Come on Chats, you know me well enough to know that I cannot even plan the boiling of a hard-boiled egg. I mean, I do graciously accept this compliment of the perfect murder, thanks, but no thanks. You know what, let’s ask Sanju; after all, her snoring may just be a farce.”

Now everyone was looking at Sanju; there was this unspoken thought that whoever had led to this hovering between the earthly realm and other realms, for all concerned, shall be suitably pounced upon and Sanju with her voluptuousness seemed the best receptacle for such pouncing.

In the meanwhile, Sanju is pissed and waiting to pounce on her husband Randhir, “What kind of a husband are you? You know, now I am disappointed that I did not smother you and you finally died because your bungee rope snapped.”

Turning to Chats she continued, “Frankly, I was too tired and completely bored with your crime thriller bakwas; I mean, aren’t there other genres? I slept soundly till the alarm of your death was raised and my sound sleep was spoiled. Why don’t you ask Komal? You turned her only child out of the house, I would have easily killed you for that, if it was my 9-year old.”

Komal who was trying to make herself as compact and as non-descript as possible throughout the discussion shivered now that all eyes were upon her.

She faltered into speech, “Mam, you know, how killing even a cockroach or a lizard was difficult for me. How could I have smothered you! Believe me, I did not kill you and would never kill you.”

Now, everyone was looking at me, their stares taunting me with the futility of my endeavor. I whispered, “So, I imagined the smothering? It was only the alcohol. Shit, I am so sorry, everyone.” A better person would have burst into tears at this precise moment and I am grateful that I am not that better person.

Before angry recriminations poured in, Zahira, the lead detective, was kind enough to cough mildly. “I think, you called this round table conference, a little too early. The night you were killed there was one more person in the house, Komal’s son: Abhishek. He was just not happy in his boarding school and this was his third escape. I do not know for certain whether he killed you but consider this.”

And here the silly lady had the temerity to pause and look around; enjoying this dramatic moment at my expense, I could have killed her if she wasn’t already dead.

“Consider what?” I barked.

“Abhishek is right now in Yerwada jail for the murder of at least 16 women, all of them by smothering. As a crime branch inspector, I think he started his smothering career at the tender age of nine by killing the woman who separated him from his mother.”

It was only when Komal started sobbing whole-heartedly that I realized that I had asked her the wrong question.