Banquet on the Dead by Sharath Komarraju Page B

‘ I , sir, will find that out. I promise you.’
    And Nagarajan thought he saw a flash of fear in Swami’s eyes at that moment.

9

    W HEN THEY CAME OUT of the guest room and were about to make their way to the staircase by the front door, Nagarajan felt Hamid Pasha’s grip on his elbow. ‘Come, miyan!’ he commanded, and pulled him close to the edge of the wall, as though wishing for them to slink in its shadow. Hamid Pasha’s tread was soft and nimble, despite the limp in his left leg. Once a thief, always a thief, Nagarajan thought dourly, trying to keep his own movements equally stealthy.
    Hamid Pasha pushed open the first door to the right, peered in, shook his head and moved on. ‘Men’s clothes,’ he whispered over his shoulder. ‘Probably Swami saab’s room. Come!’ He tiptoed to the next room and weighed his palm against the door. As it opened he looked around him. Right opposite, on the other side of the dining table, was the kitchen. Sounds of utensils being washed and water being boiled came from within. ‘This must be it, hain?’ He escorted Nagarajan first into the room and followed close behind. ‘Now look, miyan,’ he said in a sharp whisper.
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Ah, I do not know! For anything!’
    That was how these people worked, thought Nagarajan, without any order or method. There was no process, no planning; they just go with the flow and do the first thing that come to their minds. Muttering under his breath, he looked around the dimly lit room. The frosted windowpane cast only just enough light for them to be able to make out shapes of things in the room. Nagarajan saw a single bed resting against the wall, and towards the foot of the bed there was a three-door wooden wardrobe built into the wall. He opened each door in turn and peeped inside.
    ‘Just clothes,’ he whispered, and just as he did so he wondered why they were being so secretive about looking around the old woman’s room. Surely they only had to ask Swami saab and he would arrange for them to feel free to look through it thoroughly?
    ‘Look under them—under the newspapers.’ Nagarajan heard Hamid Pasha open the door to the inner room, and soon enough a prickly, unknown odour tickled his nostrils. ‘Hai Allah,’ he heard the old man exclaim. ‘This room is brighter than the bedroom. And smell that, miyan. It is not an easy thing to get used to, I think, hain?’
    Nagarajan lifted the saris and groped the newspapers underneath. He touched only the smooth surface of the polished wood. ‘There is nothing here.’ When he turned around, his nostrils itched. ‘Close the door, Hamid bhai. The room needs to be treated.’
    Hamid Pasha closed the door and made his way to the head of the bed. With deft, sure hands, he fingered the pillow and checked under the bedcovers. He pointed Nagarajan to the other wardrobe. ‘Check in that. Check!’
    Nagarajan followed his cue and opened the door to the wardrobe. In front of the clothes there were three small plastic jars. ‘There is something here. They look like medicines.’
    ‘Pocket them.’
    After Nagarajan had done so and turned around, he saw that Hamid Pasha was holding in front of him, up to the window, a pair of glasses. Two big, rounded squares and two wobbly arms made up the frame. Even from seven feet away Nagarajan could see that the glass was thick, and two semicircles were visible at the bottom of each lens. Hamid Pasha, one eye closed, was moving each lens up and down, then sideways.
    ‘She was quite near-sighted, the lady,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if—’
    ‘What are you doing here?’ The sharp voice of a lady came from the now open door, and even without turning around Nagarajan could guess it belonged to Karuna Mayi.
    Hamid Pasha directed a grimace at the woman, as though irritated at being interrupted in conversation, but he broke into a smile almost immediately. He turned around and spread his hands. ‘We were just having a look around, memsaab. I