The Perfect Life

 

The Perfect Life

 

1.

Standing Long an Oak

 

Benaulim, Goa. May 2023.

 

I sat in the graveyard, merging effortlessly in the background. When you have crossed your seventies, and you have mastered the art of sitting quietly without taking much interest in your surroundings, letting the hours slip away, it is easier to overlook you. In my case, I was worried the occasional visitor to the graveyard might think I was one of the inhabitants, taking a stroll to free their legs, cramped from lying in the grave for too long!

 

I glanced around. The place seemed deserted. So, I stared at the tombstone in front of me. It read, Lily Criado (1990-2012).

 

I began talking aloud to the tombstone, as I often did. I believed it would dispel all suspicions of bystanders. They would at best assume I was talking to a ghost.

 

It was then that something shifted behind me, causing the leaves to rustle. I straightened my stooping back, but did not dare to look behind. I shut my eyes, a strange tingling running down my limbs. Had I been young, I would have been covered in gooseflesh. Senile skin stays bald, and smooth, even when terrified. And then, I heard a familiar voice call out, the one I had waited for over ten years.

 

“Mrs Carvalho!”

 

I hesitated, before turning in her direction. She sauntered towards me, a figure as graceful, if not as lithe, as before.

 

And the memories I had stubbornly packed in the darkest corner of my fuzzy brain tumbled out like dominoes.

 

 

 

2.

A Lily of A Day

 

Benaulim, February 2012.

 

“I am Lily Criado from the Falling Leaf Support Agency for the elderly.”

 

She spoke in a clear voice, reminiscent of the choir girls from my school. I stared at her in trepidation. I was sitting on the low stool in the drawing room, my right leg outstretched, in a plaster cast. And she was the first visitor in the house in over a year.

 

Jaques, my son, was fixing breakfast in the kitchen at the back of the house. Boiled eggs for me, scrambled ones for himself. He stopped humming his tune and peeped out from the door, across the long hall that separated the kitchen from the drawing room. Lily nodded at him. He returned the nod, gesturing her to wait. And after a couple of seconds, in which I presumed he garnished our eggs, he emerged out of the kitchen with breakfast.

 

Lily smiled brightly. I knew the smile. Jaques elicited that reaction from most people- a strapping young fellow with brown eyes, great culinary skill and a dimpled smile that he flashed often.

 

He explained to Lily her duties as my caretaker. Mama had slipped in the bathroom, he said. She pouted in sympathy at the all too familiar scenario- a hefty old woman slipping on the wet floor and breaking her frail bones. I hoped she understood that the primary reason for employing her was to escort me to the washroom. A compelling reason too, that Jaques would allow someone to enter our house.

 

Lily nodded, “Do not worry Mr Carvallo. I will take good care. And I will cook when you are away too, if need be.”

 

I looked up at Jaques in alarm, even as he snapped at her, “You will do no such thing. Only I cook in this house. Mother’s food will always be kept ready.”

 

Lily stared at my son in surprise. She was about to recover when he gave her the smile. A dimpled smile, and brown eyes that refused to blink. And I watched Lily’s smile fade.

 

Jaques slung his knapsack over his shoulder. He skipped in mirth into the courtyard as he slipped into his shoes. He was off to a short hike, all by himself. In his graphic T-shirt and orange shorts, he looked every bit the teenager he was a decade ago. Well, almost. I massaged the back of my scalp, pushing my hair bun to the side. It hurt to touch.

 

Jaques was about to leave when he turned back and looked towards me indulgently. “Bye, Ma,” he said, giving me a peck on my cheek.

 

Lily looked on, an amused smile on her lips.

 

 

3.

We just Beauties See.

 

We had settled into a comfortable routine.  Not the kind that bore the comfort of predictability. But the kind where we balanced our little excursions and rest.

 

Lily would drop in at 9 AM every morning, like a mischievous sunbeam. Jaques would generally leave for work within half an hour, so she would bide her time by getting me tidied up. Lily was always wary around Jaques, preferring to comb my thinning hair till she heard him walk out, clicking the door shut behind him. I never made any attempt to get the two to talk either.

 

Each morning, as Jaques prepared to leave, he would come into my room, and give me a peck on my cheek. And then, he would get into his impeccably polished shoes and drive away. Depending on his mood, he either strode briskly, his face impassive, his eyes looking far away; or he scampered around, not taking two steps in a straight line, his face flashing a boyish charm. Over a couple of months, Lily learnt to avoid rolling her eyes at both these extremes, and at the general eccentricity of my household.

 

 In the first week of her joining, she had thrown open all the windows of our villa, letting the sunlight pour in, making patterns on the carpet. I had not had a view of the stucco mouldings framing those windows for the longest time. She could never understand when I explained we kept our windows shut, in all seasons. Nor did she know why I never asked her to wheel me into our balcoe, the veranda opening onto the mud-caked road in front of our villa. Why would an old lady like me not want to grow plants in pretty ceramic pots to go with the ornamental pillars and staircase of the balcony, she wondered.

 

Jaques, or rather, we, do not encourage visitors, I tried explaining. And why did Jaques not like his neighbours, she wondered aloud. I shrugged.

 

But we found plenty of interesting things to do indoors, to pass the hours. We embroidered together. She took tentative bites of the white cotton cloth with the needle between her long shapely fingers. Her olive skin shone with mischief when I rapped at her knuckles for making a knot too tight. The bullion knots interspersed between dots and dashes and cross stitches, till vines, tulips, hearts and spirals emerged in pretty patterns of royal blue. A tablecloth, a cosy cushion for my sofa, and a throw for the drab second-hand sofa at Lily’s place.

 

Over patient hours of tying knots of thread, we untied knots in our minds. She told me how she had prayed at the St Peter’s church at her orphanage, to land a decent job once she came of age. How she was barely getting by with the salary we gave her, because she used up most of it on her fees for art lessons. When do you attend those classes, dear girl? I would exclaim. She had her ways of doing what she wanted to. Or getting others to do it, for that matter.

 

Like when she took it upon herself to get me to bake again. The aroma of the coconut milk blending with the generous amounts of ghee and nutmeg instantly transported me to another lifetime from two decades ago, when I used to bake the Bebinka every other weekend.

 

Jaques fussed over my getting into the kitchen and warned Lily from ever letting me, or worse, encouraging me, to do it again. Ma has shaky hands, she will spill things and probably hurt herself, he said.

 

Lily was about to argue, but I shook my head, ever so slowly. Ever so imperceptibly. And she let it be.

 

Over time, Lily had learnt to decipher my imperceptible headshakes. But it took her longer to learn to obey them. Once, after I had recovered from my fracture and could walk quite well, she decided I should go to mass on Sunday, I refused her outright. And yet, by the time Jaques was home that night, I was bobbing like a ball of nerves, waiting to broach the topic after dinner. Mother dear, we never do societal niceties, do we? Have you forgotten? Jaques asked me, smiling.

 

The next day, Lily was taken aback when I refused to let her comb my hair. Jaques, who had been in his jovial phase till last night, was brooding. She tried alluding to my messy bun over the next couple of days, but I never felt the need to elaborate.

 

She finally took me by surprise by pulling out my hairband. And there it was, a bald patch covered in bruises, right in the middle of my scalp. I slipped inside the bathroom…I said tentatively. No, someone pulled you by the hair! - She declared. I said nothing. I never did.

 

 I told you I couldn’t go to the church, or anywhere else, didn’t I? - I countered. Lily worked up a fury, but I pleaded with her. To not confront. To not interfere. To give me a haircut, please, I sobbed.

 

We loved reading. Shakespeare and Tolstoy. Wordsworth and Agatha Christie. Verses and mystery. Never before had I seen anyone’s eyes sparkle, as Lily's, when I first showed her into the library in the basement. Pine wooden floors, with racks rising to the high ceiling all along the perimeter of the vast rectangular hall. The rest of the floor space was laid bare.

 

My daughter Margerida, Marge to us, was an enthusiastic ballerina, I recalled. I’d bring her to the library hoping to inculcate a love for books, but much to my exasperation she would put on her ballerina outfit instead. And glide across the perfectly smooth wooden boards, practising hour after hour, while I busied myself with yet another book. I blinked back a tear.

 

Lily opened her mouth to speak- Where is Marge now? I silenced her- She died when she was nine. Drowned in the well behind De Mello’s farm. No one knew how she ended up there. She had only gone to buy candy from the corner store, her older brother, Jaques.

 

We visited the library often, after lunch. Especially on stuffy summer afternoons. And then one day, I said we could not go there. Why, Lily wanted to know. Because Jaques locks it these days, I said. I hoped she would not ask any more questions. She did not. She instead went down to investigate!

 

I had myself never been there when forbidden. What good could it do? Besides, I had my fair share of slips in the bathroom of late. My body ached.

 

And I was worried for my Jaques as well. When a young man flits from one relationship to another, in months, what does a mother do? His mood swings were legendary. One day he would be stirring fiery hot pork Vindaloo in the kitchen, singing ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. There would be calls on his phone, and he would murmur sweet nothings while he cooked. And then for days on end, he’d spend the night in the basement. I had stopped questioning him long back. He made appearances and exits from the house, often late at night. I stayed put in my bed most days, lest my questions warranted another slip in the bathroom. I never dared enter the kitchen, whether he was having a good day or a bad one. No, not when he was at arm’s length distance from a knife.

 

Lily questioned me. Jaques conducts his experiments in the library- must be for one of those, I shrugged. She shook her head- there were three cans of five-litre capacity. No one needed so much fuel for anything benign, she insisted. You, of all people, must know, having majored in chemistry, she said pointedly. I gave her one of those imperceptible nods.

 

On days like those, when the library was off-bounds for us, we sat in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. Lily quite enjoyed putting up cryptic words, challenging me to figure them out. Even at the cost of compromising her score!

 

So I hankered after words like Oxybutazone, while she put down ‘Pumpkin’. Choose words that contain letters that bag higher points, I’d chide her. Where’s the fun in that? She’d counter. The cheeky brat would sometimes ask for leave of absence on the Scrabble board as well!  Absence, Go, Exhibition…she once managed.

 

 I was thrilled! Lily was holding her debut art exhibition in a small-time art gallery in the coming week. She wanted me to join. I faltered. She insisted. I promised her I would if I did not slip in the bathroom. Giggle.

 

She did not smile.

 

 

4.

The Flower of Light

 

It was a Saturday when Lily Criado walked into my home on the 18th of August, 2012. She was puzzled when she did not see me in the drawing room. Jaques was cooking, as usual. She found me in my bedroom, my right arm held akimbo. She could just not stop staring at my black eye. Jaques left as usual.

 

The day passed as pleasurably as it could if I ignored the constant throbbing pain in my armpit. I had presumed Lily would break out into one of her you-have-got-to-stand-up-for-yourself speeches. But she did not. However, I began shivering involuntarily as Jaques returned home in the evening.

 

We were at the coffee table in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. Lily steadied my shaking arm even as she laid down her tiles. She never looked up. Jaques was jubiliant. Ma, I got fresh prawns. Are you too hungry? It would take some time, but the Prawn Ambotik would be worth the wait! I smiled at him, wondering inwardly when it was okay to stop smiling.

 

Lily rose and walked up to the kitchen. I am not thirsty…don’t mind…I was about to say, when I heard them talking. Looks like quite some work, huh? Lily seemed to be asking Jaques. Oh, these little fellows are a delight! Look, you must gently twist the head, it comes off easily. See? He went on, beheading the prawns.

 

I absently ran my fingers through my bob. My scalp hurt. From taking a beating too many. From slipping in the bathroom, of course. I strained to hear… Jaques was still chattering…and you rub them in turmeric and salt and let them heal…from the wounds you gave them, you know…

 

And what about the wounds on your mother, Jaques? Lily’s voice was sharp. I strained my neck to look over the serving window into the kitchen. But then, a shiver ran down my spine, and I ducked, as if dodging a bullet.

 

Jaques was breathing noisily now. He must be scratching his ear, I imagined. He always did that before… Lily! I wanted to call her to me, away from my Jaques at all costs. But no voice came out of my throat. I was as silent as those shelled prawns.

 

Lily would just not stop speaking- The wounds on her arms…fingermarks…from dragging her across the floor. Those frequent falls in the bathroom? Who are you fooling? You are torturing your helpless mother and your temper swings are not an excuse! Do you understand me? Lily’s voice thundered.

 

 I remembered the rainy night from twenty years back when Vincent had thundered at a young Jaques. How careless of you to let your little sister go wandering in the market area. Were you not supposed to keep an eye on her? What if the neighbours had not found her in time? Jaques never uttered a word in defence. Marge was found dead in the well, a week later.

 

The knife! Jaques must have deveined the prawns just now. He must have the knife within striking distance! I clasped my hands in prayer. But Lily emerged out of the kitchen unharmed. I sighed in relief. It was half past eight, barely thirty minutes before she would leave for the night. I shuddered. Oh Lord, please let Jaques be himself! Bless him with wisdom, my poor child!

 

The sweet-sour aroma of the Ambotik curry stirred my trembling nerves. Jaques came out of the kitchen, plates in hand. He was arranging the cutlery, when I rose from the sofa, with difficulty. My lower back was cramping from last night. Hush Ma, we will sit to dine in a few minutes, he said.

 

I look at him puzzled. And he smiled, a second too late, a second too long. I banged the table just to catch Lily’s attention. Run, dear girl, run!

 

Lily’s eyes shot up to meet mine. She continued stringing her tiles on the board. Good girl, what are you waiting for, though it might already be too late! A second later, Jaques was standing next to Lily. We do not entertain interference here, right Mumma? He was staring down at Lily. Lily got up, indignant. And the law does not entertain violence! - She wagged a finger at Jaques.

 

I cupped my mouth with my palms!  No one had ever stood up to Jaques in years! His eyes were pure lava. His mouth curled into a bitter grin. In a swift movement, he lugged at her hair and brought her crashing down the chair! He dragged her across the floor. Let go, you fiend! She kicked her legs furiously.

 

Thud! Crash! She was pulling at whatever her flailing hands could grasp.

 

Across the drawing room. Past the dining. Straight down, across a flight of stairs. Into the basement!

 

Lily’s screeches ceased abruptly. And so did the thrashing behind the shut door. The library was soundproof. Perfect for undisturbed reading. And ballet dancing. And hoarding a human.

 

All I could hear was my thumping heartbeat. The palpitations grew, and my hands began shivering. And the shiver arched down my spine, right till my feet. Till the toe-tips. I fell onto the sofa, convulsing in fear. Not a word escaped my mouth, for I knew it was futile, detrimental even. I kept mum by instinct. The instinct of a small rabbit that has faced a hunter too many.

 

Jaques was with me the next moment, holding out an arm for me. He smiled at me benevolently, leading me to the dining table. To the prawn Ambotik, resting in its luscious gravy. As if nothing had happened a moment ago. As if nothing had happened for all these years. As if this villa with its rugs and quilts and thick curtains and dead family members was the cosiest place on earth. As if my wounds did not hurt. As if there was no one thrashing her limbs on the wooden flooring in the basement at this very moment. As if restraining people with handcuffs was the most natural thing to do.

 

But I let him lead me along to the table. And let him serve me dinner. And I put my spoon to my mouth, the bile from my guts threatening to reflux and land on the very spoon.  But I ate. Sparingly. Silently. And he took a second and a third helping. Scrumptious food.

 

Dum, dum, thud.

 

Was that Lily thrashing about? Or the ghosts she joked about?

 

He spoke of his plans for the next day. He was going trekking. Would be back by evening.

 

 Lub dub. Lub dub. Lubdub. Lubdub.

 

 My palpitations grew louder. Synchronizing with the throbbing in my brain. I told him I was feeling exhausted. Wanted to lie down for a while. He nodded sympathetically. Go, Ma. I’ll clean up. I will also make something for you for lunch tomorrow. I might leave earlier than usual tomorrow morning. I nodded. And did not know when to stop nodding. So I made my way to the bedroom.

 

‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ played at full blast that night. But was that Lily thrashing on the wooden floor?

 

This house, Vincent, with its wooden framework…does not let one take a single step without it sounding like an announcement- I had complained to my husband, as a young bride. The wooden floors and panels and the cornices on the roof were polished once every year. The fresh smell of varnish was almost as welcoming as the fragrance of nutmeg from my Babinka. But that was when I had house help. Dorothy and Kitty and Samuel- always at my beck and call.

 

 I recalled the last time I tried baking a month back, at Lily’s insistence. My tongue instinctively licked my chipped incisor tooth. And the scalded skin on my wrist. From being thrust into the hot oven. Jaques had been furious. The kitchen is my domain, he had yelled that night. Why? I had wanted to scream. Why were there no servants to help me? Why had everyone been discharged from their duties the moment Vincent died?

 

But I did not say anything, of course. Jaques, my son. The only living family I had. My caring son. Who cooked and washed for me. Who spent a greater part of his weekend vacuuming the heavy rugs and carpets that padded almost every inch of flooring in the house.

 

I had never liked the carpets. Too much maintenance, I had declared, once the babies arrived. Jaques and Marge stomped on the wooden floor in glee, and I was grateful. The naked flooring allowed me to follow the kids around the huge house, just by the sound of their footsteps.

 

The carpets lay rolled in the attic.Up till Jaques brought them out. Right after Vincent died of cardiac arrest one rainy night. A man heartbroken on account of his dead daughter. Or perhaps, on account of his living son.

 

Vincent was repelled by the glazed brown eyes of the young boy. He abhorred the sardonic smile that played on our son’s lips.

 

Have we birthed a monster, Betty? He would often ask me, late into the night, as we tossed on the bed. After Marge’s sudden death, neither of us slept soundly. Hush, I’d say. Why would you think that way of our only child? I’d admonish him. Don’t you see? Vincent wore a pained expression. See what? I’d counter. My son was a good man. He had to be. We were good people. We had raised him right. He just had a bad temper, and nothing else. He had a temper, and no remorse- Vincent would say, as he turned his back to me and fell asleep.

 

I held my breath for a moment. What sound was that? Knocking? Banging at the door of the library in the basement? I tried pushing my foot under the thick carpet. Frantically tried looking for a leeway to the wooden floor. My back hurt. Damn these carpets, Jaques! Was I being ungrateful to these padded floors? Had the carpets not absorbed many a blow on my behalf? Had I not blessed them when being dragged across the floor? Lily had hated them. They hide your pretty mosaic flooring, Mrs Carvalho. Besides they make the room smell musty in monsoons- she had twitched her pert nose. Oh, Lily! How was I to help that poor child?

 

Lily, full of kindness. Let me put another pillow under your elbow, Mrs Carvalho. And resourcefulness. I’ve kept an ice pack on your bedside table. In case your bruised arm hurts in the night.

 

And Lily with her questions. Why would you not ask him to shift those shady experiments of his to a room upstairs? Why hijack our library?  What are all those huge black garbage bags for? What kind of experiment generates that kind of waste? Why can’t you sit out on the porch, greeting passersby like a happy old lady? Why do you lie that you slipped in the bathroom? Why are there bruises in the shape of fingers across your wrists, as if someone clasped them tight?

 

I had no answers. Only tremors from time to time. And bruises that refused to fade. Bruises that grew deeper each week. The boy would do good to settle down. But when had he ever spoken about a girl he liked? When had he ever brought a girl home? What was the noise again…Livin’ La Vida Loca.

 

My head throbbed to its beats, as I clutched a photograph to my bosom. My Marge, on her ninth birthday. Lithe, bright and kind. I am so sorry, my girl. Did I not know? Why did I encourage you to accompany your big brother to buy candy that day? Why indeed, when you were unwilling to! Don’t leave your brother alone, like his peers, I’d said. You are his only playmate, I’d pleaded. And my kind girl went with him, waving me goodbye. I clenched my eyes as one more shiver coursed down my spine.

 

How far would you let yourself turn a blind eye? A question both Vincent and Lily had asked me, decades apart.

 

What was that smell? Was something burning?

 

 

 

5.

Fall and Die

 

Fire, fire everywhere. I stared at my house from the muddy lane, where I had not set foot for a long time. The sirens blared. The firemen rushed. The hosepipes were hoisted, and ladders were put up. Sprays of water. And the smell of smoke. And charred carpets. And wood ablaze. And singed carcases.

 

One of the neighbours put a blanket around me, noticing that I was shivering. It did not help. No blanket could beat the chills of fear. Or those of relief.

 

A policeman recorded a brief statement. Yes, my son, Mr Jaques Carvalho was still inside. A day later, he would come to take a detailed statement. He’d mention another burnt carcass in the basement. Ah, yes, that was my help, Miss Lily Criado, I’d confirm. The fire started in the kitchen, yes. And no, I do not know what so much kerosene was doing in the house. It was a huge house. And I, an old woman, recovering from a nasty fall in the bathroom, I said. I had managed to rush out with difficulty, Inspector. Sob.

 

I had none of my belongings and no insurance. But I did have enough inheritance to last me a lifetime. Enough to afford to stay in a plush old age home at Varca, barely a couple miles from Benaulim. And connect with relatives I dared not call when I had my son by my side.

 

 

6.

The Perfect Life

 

Benaulim, Goa. May 2023.

 

“Mrs Carvalho!”

 

I hesitated, before turning in her direction. She sauntered towards me, a figure as graceful, if not as lithe, as before.

 

“You did catch on to the clue perfectly.” Lily’s voice nudged me from my reverie.

 

“No one could beat you to cryptic Scrabble.” I said, “Besides, it was amply obvious.”

 

“I remembered glancing at the Scrabble board as I shuffled to my room that night, even as Jaques helped himself to another helping of the Prawn Ambotik. Your tiles read ‘The Perfect Life.’ How ironic! I had thought.

 

After I saw Jaques drag you away, I lay down in my bed, overcome with fear. When did the fear change to resentment? I did not know. Resentment for a son who was a monster. A manipulative monster. But it was the resentment for myself, for being a lamb, meek and blind to vice for my convenience, that got me to get up again.

 

I stroked my Marge’s portrait and waited for Jaques to finish his dinner. Once he was in the kitchen, wrapping up the leftovers and perhaps savouring the aftertaste of his violent outburst, I tiptoed to the basement.

 

That was no mean feat, a lady as hefty as me tiptoeing when the bruises from a decade of battering made me want to buckle down and howl. The soft carpet helped cushion the sound of my footfall. Do you remember, the staircase to the basement opened in the passage between my bedroom and the dining area, shielded from view from the kitchen?”

 

“Oh, but why must I bore you with trivialities, Lily!” I turned to face her and spoke,

 

“I grabbed a can of kerosene that lay in the basement and hobbled up as fast as I could. Why the kerosene, you had once asked me? Jaques would know best, but I believe it was to set on fire, whatever, or whoever it was that he packed into those large garbage bags. He always took those bags and a can on his camping trips, remember?

 

In any case, I went up. Jaques was still cooking, prepping for the next day, his back to the door, the stereo blaring. I threw the kerosene at him, drenching him to the skin. He screamed aghast as if woken from sleep. Before he could blink, I set him on fire, even as he looked me right in the eye!

 

I did not wait to watch him burn. I dashed back to the basement and opened the latch to the library. For some reason, my son had decided it was unnecessary to lock it. Perhaps he thought his mother was too scared to move an inch in his presence! Perhaps I was, all the time before. But not that day.

 

I walked in, undid your bondage and set you free. You did not utter a word, only pointed to a corner. There lay a girl’s body, her face twisted away from us, her hands and feet tied up. There was a pool of dried blood at the back of her head.

 

But there was no time to think. I rushed back upstairs, while you ran out. The flames were still confined to the kitchen, even as Jaques tried to reach his phone. I doused the carpets in the living room and dining area with the other can of kerosene. In a moment, the flames would leap to the wooden panels. I grabbed Marge’s framed photo and tottered out, as fast as my knees would allow. I could hear Jaques’ screams, no, pitiful howls! But I never looked back.”

 

“I never looked back either,” added Lily, “And there was no family to look back upon.”

 

“But I was there. And I expected you to come back someday. You sure did take your time! I almost thought you would never turn up after all!”

 

“It would not be safe. Besides, that life of mine is over, with the body being found.” Lily replied somberly.

 

“And yet, you surfaced. What is the agenda?” I gave her a wicked smile.

 

“You know me too well, Mrs Carvalho!” There was a mischievous glint in Lily’s eyes as she said, “Haven’t you wondered who the girl in the library was?”

 

“One of the unfortunate girlfriends of my son?” I shocked myself with my candour.

 

“Yes, one of many. A girl called Daisy Mendes, from Cutorim,” Lily nodded, surveying the surroundings. But there were no people around. That graveyard was a dead place.

 

Lily continued, “The family still grieves. They had no idea their daughter was dating Jaques, even though they knew a boyfriend was in the offing. They at least deserve to know the truth. It has taken me a long time to trace them.”

 

I fumbled, “After all these years…and then, how would one explain your absence? Remember, I identified this Daisy’s body you speak of as Lily’s!”

 

She laughed aloud, “Who cares, Mrs Carvalho? I was a Lily of a day.”

 

I smiled at her wordplay. The memories came steadily, like the whiff of the fragrance of jasmine

on the balcony of my quarters back at the old age home.

 

We were sitting in the library one June afternoon. It had been raining since morning, and then, the lights went out. We lit candles, and continued reading. And we began reciting our favourite poems. I quoted Robert Frost, ‘... miles to go before I sleep.’

 

Lily had been smiling all the while, “My poem is perhaps the exact opposite in essence. It is ‘The Perfect Life’ by Ben Johnson,” she had said.

 

Presently, Lily walked to me, laying a hand on my shoulder, “Remember, justice delayed might be justice denied, but courage delayed is still courage. And you have been very brave Mrs Carvalho. I hope you give the testimony.”

 

And with that Lily Criado walked away. Once and forever.

 

I smiled as I read the poem I had got them to inscribe as her epitaph.

 

The Perfect Life

 

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

 Although it fall and die that night,—

 It was the plant and flower of Light.

 In small proportions we just beauties see;

And in short measures life may perfect be.

 

 

 

Glossary:

 

Ghee: Clarified butter 

Bebinka: A layered Goan dessert  

Vindaloo: Spicy Goan curry 

Ambotik: Sour and spicy Portugese-inspired dish from Goa