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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
SECRETSSeasoned detective Harith Athreya is back, this time to investigate suspicious incidences on a riverside dig in the heart of remote Bundelkhand.SUPERSTITIONIn this place, rich in myth and history, the legend goes that anyone who sets foot on nearby island Naaz Tapu would be cursed forever.SLAUGHTERWhen an archaeologist defies local folklore, the fallout is swift and deadly. Is the death a result of the ancient curse, or is it a more down-to-earth case of murder? Athreya needs to unravel the truth from legend before the curse strikes again...
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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‘Armchair travellers and fans of traditional mysteries should take note’
Publishers Weekly
‘The second novel in the Harith Athreya series firmly establishes RV Raman as… an impressive force in the world of whodunnits… Readers who crave the fair play puzzling of a traditional mystery mixed with some armchair travel will be richly rewarded’
CrimeReads
‘Raman evokes an atmosphere of gothic dread for the reader and takes us into Agatha Christie territory set in modern-day India’
OPEN Magazine
PRAISE FOR
A WILL TO KILL
‘A slice of sheer pleasure… blends the feel of classic crime with the modern world, while presenting a proper thorny puzzle’
Observer
‘Like stepping back into the Golden Age of the classic mystery’
Rhys Bowen, author of The Tuscan Child
‘A delightful modern take on a traditional country house mystery’
Sunday Times Crime Club
‘I love RV Raman’s Harith Athreya with his cool, curious resourcefulness. A Will to Kill is a good traditional mystery with twists and turns’
Ovidia Yu, author of The Mimosa Tree Mystery
‘Athreya is a fine detective with a curious mind’
New York Times
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CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
With two security guards, a police doctor, Veni Athreya and other minor characters and dogs
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1
The inflatable rubber raft careened down the River Betwa as dusk approached, carrying its five occupants inexorably towards the rocks and the forbidding white water beyond. The two boatmen at the rear deftly steered it towards the gap in the rocks as the two men sitting in front of them held their oars clear of the cold water. The fifth occupant, a bright-eyed girl of sixteen, sat at the prow, mesmerized by the approaching drop in the river. All five pairs of eyes were riveted to the abrupt descent and the roiling waters beyond.
‘Hang on!’ Athreya called as his right hand let go of the oar and clenched the taut nylon rope under his legs.
To Harith Athreya’s left sat his friend and host, Sharad Sikka, a native of Bundelkhand, who Athreya was visiting again after many years. The girl now crouching at the front and tightly gripping ropes with both hands was Moupriya, Sharad’s daughter. The boatmen at the back watched the swirling waters ahead warily, as if expecting them to throw up a nasty surprise at any moment.
Presently, the raft tilted forward alarmingly as its prow plunged over the drop and buried itself—and Moupriya—momentarily into the churning eddies of the Betwa. The girl’s squeal of excitement turned into a gasp and ended in a splutter as a mass of frigid water drenched her from head to toe. It would leave at least six inches of standing water.
‘Hold tight, Mou!’ her father called. He had reached forward in anticipation and was clutching the collar of her windbreaker.
The craft bounced and spun dizzyingly as the rest of it followed the prow over the drop and hit the frothy water. 12
‘Row!’ called one of the boatmen over the din of the cascading torrent, and four oars plunged into the white water as the raft sought to fight its way out of the eddies.
Ahead lay a sharp bend in the river where it also narrowed considerably. The quickening current surged and leapt over rocks, forcing the men to give their undivided attention to steering. The two boatmen’s primary task was to keep the vessel from crashing on to rocks, seen or unseen. This turbulent stretch was—depending on one’s perspective—the most thrilling or the most dangerous part of their rafting adventure.
After an interminable length of time, they emerged into calmer waters beyond the bend. Athreya rested his oar and took a well-deserved breather, letting his tired arms hang limply at his sides. The other three men did likewise, allowing the raft to drift down the river.
Athreya ran his long fingers through his uncommonly fine hair that was revealing its first specks of grey. Except for the silvery tuft in the front, the rest of his head was largely black. His beard too was mostly black, except at the chin where a small patch of silver matched his head. Sitting there with his hair and beard dripping water, he looked like a bearded collie that had just had a bath.
After staring at little other than the raging waters, and watching out for submerged rocks, Athreya now lifted his gaze to take in the new vista that greeted him.
The river was broader now. The forest on the riverbank to his right was dense, green and silent. Not a sign of civilization marred the stretch of undisturbed nature. The left riverbank, however, was not as thick or verdant as the opposite bank. An occasional man-made structure peeped through the relatively sparse foliage.
Ahead, the river widened more and split into three arms, creating two small islands as its outermost arms veered away 13from each other. The middle arm cut a narrow, rock-strewn channel for the water between the two. The boatmen quietly steered the raft towards the left arm that was visibly wider. Not only that, but they were ensuring that it drifted as close to the left bank—and as far away from the islands—as possible.
That was when Athreya noticed that a sudden quietness had fallen over them and their surroundings. Only the whispers of the river around him intruded. The woods on both banks were silent. Even more so were the two islands looming ahead. There was a curious stillness about them that caught his attention, stirring his not inconsiderable imagination. There was something about them that didn’t feel quite natural.
Several long moments passed in silence as they drifted closer. Dusk was beginning to fall. The index finger of Athreya’s right hand, which seemed to have a mind of its own, traced unseen designs and words on his knee. This was a reflexive action whenever his mind was churning.
Athreya caught himself staring at the larger island. There was something subliminal about it that was casting a spell over him.
Suddenly self-conscious, he broke out of the trance and looked around the raft. Moupriya was staring unblinkingly at the nearer island as her fingers crept into the waterproof plastic pouch under her windbreaker and she pulled out her mobile phone. Sharad seemed ill at ease as his eyes darted from the island to his daughter. The two boatmen had done something peculiar—they had swivelled to their left and now sat facing the left riverbank. Their backs were turned towards the centre of the river.
Perched awkwardly, both of them were staring upriver, the direction from which they’d come. While Athreya couldn’t see their faces, their rigid postures made it apparent that they were 14tense. It was as if they were averting their gaze from the islands. Were they afraid to look at them?
Athreya turned his attention back to the nearing larger one, wondering what it was about it that had stirred his imagination. His index finger resumed tracing words on his knee.
Its foliage—dark green with patches of brown and black—seemed thicker than the forest on the far riverbank. Thick tree trunks stood on the very edge, reminding him simultaneously of the Amazonian rainforest and the Sundarbans mangroves. The slanting evening sun rays seemed incapable of penetrating or brightening the island, even as they dispelled the darkness in the woods on the banks.
As Athreya continued staring, oblivious to whatever else their raft passed on the riverbanks as it drifted downstream, he thought he saw a flicker of white deep in the trees. It was a fleeting impression that lasted less than an instant. Something had momentarily caught the beams of the setting sun. But it had vanished almost as soon as it had appeared. Some more long seconds passed. Just as he began doubting what he had seen, it appeared again: a hazy, translucent patch of whiteness in the gloom that seemed to move among the trees.
At that instant, he heard the sound of a photo being taken. Moupriya, who also had been staring at the island, had clicked her mobile’s camera. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence.
‘Mou!’ he heard Sharad hiss. ‘Don’t!’
Simultaneously, the raft rocked as the boatmen suddenly changed their position. Athreya turned. They were no longer staring up the river. Instead, they were gaping at Moupriya with horrified expressions on their faces.
Ignoring her father, Moupriya raised her mobile phone again, pointing its camera at the island. 15
‘Madam!’ one of the boatmen called, startling Athreya. The shout was laced with indignation as well as fear. ‘Madam, no photo!’
Such was the urgency and intensity of the cry that Moupriya, who was about to click another picture, paused in the act and looked back in surprise over her shoulder.
‘No photos, madam,’ the boatman repeated fiercely in his limited English. ‘Bad luck! Bad luck!’
‘Moupriya!’ Sharad snapped, saying his daughter’s full name in exasperation. ‘I told you not to.’
‘But, Pa—’ the girl protested, only to be cut off.
‘No!’ Sharad barked. ‘Put your phone away.’
Athreya saw Moupriya’s ears redden. Just when he thought that the spirited girl was going to push back, she gave in. She lowered her arm, slid her mobile phone back into the waterproof pouch and zipped it up. Sighs of relief sounded from behind Athreya.
Surprised at the tension and the unexpected display of emotion over a simple photo, Athreya turned towards Sharad to ask the obvious question: why shouldn’t Moupriya take pictures? But the words remained unsaid on his lips when he saw that Sharad, normally a stoic man, was agitated. His face conveyed a mixture of embarrassment and ire.
Nonplussed, Athreya turned to look at the two boatmen behind him. They had returned to their earlier position and were sitting stiffly with their backs to the islands and their gazes directed up the river. Athreya now had no doubt that they were avoiding looking—even by chance—at the larger one.
‘Sorry, Athreya,’ Sharad said suddenly, interrupting Athreya’s thoughts and glancing sheepishly at him. ‘The place is a bit of a bogey for locals. There are some superstitions about it that I’ll tell you later.’ 16
‘Does it have a name?’ Athreya asked. ‘This island?’
‘Yes, it’s called… Naaz Tapu.’
Hardly had Sharad spoken the name than one of the boatmen protested.
‘Sharad Sahib,’ he uttered plaintively. ‘Naam mat lijiye.’ Don’t say the name!
Silence fell, and Athreya turned his attention to Naaz Tapu. They were passing it now. It was no more than a hundred and fifty yards away. The boatmen were still perched rigidly and their eyes were fixed on the left riverbank. Their lips were moving soundlessly as if uttering a silent prayer, while their knuckles shone white from clutching the oars as if they were weapons. Moupriya, her young face flushed in excitement, was staring wide-eyed at the island. Whatever the local tales and superstitions about Naaz Tapu, the girl clearly did not subscribe to them. Sharad was throwing quick glances at the island, but his eyes never rested on it for more than a couple of seconds. He, too, was on edge.
An hour later, now back in dry clothes, the three were in Sharad’s car en route back to Jhansi. They had come ashore about a kilometre downstream from Naaz Tapu, where Sharad’s car and a small truck were waiting for them. The boatmen had loaded the raft into the rear of the truck and departed. Meanwhile, they had changed into dry clothes in a conveniently located shack and warmed themselves with cups of masala chai before starting their journey back to Jhansi. Every stitch they had worn on the boat, including their shoes, had been drenched, and all of it was now lying as a bundle in the boot.
Athreya had known Sharad for a couple of decades and had worked with him on a few cases. He knew him to be stoic and unperturbable, the kind of person who took things in his stride. 17Athreya couldn’t remember seeing him as rattled as this. He decided to probe gently.
‘Why did the boatmen react so violently to Mou taking a picture?’ Athreya asked. ‘It’s just open wilderness there, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Sharad replied, ‘but the locals have their own reasons for fearing the island.’
‘Fearing it?’ Athreya repeated in surprise. ‘What’s there about an island to fear it?’
‘Well… old beliefs. They believe that there is something on it that is best left alone.’
‘What kind of something? A creature?’
‘Something resides there,’ Sharad said cautiously, pointing furtively with his eyes to the back of the driver’s head. Apparently, Sharad didn’t want to speak openly about Naaz Tapu in the driver’s presence. ‘Something that is… let’s say… insalubrious.’
Athreya guessed that Sharad had deliberately chosen a word the driver wouldn’t understand. He continued in the same vein.
‘This insalubrious thing that resides there… what form is it? A carnivore? A predator?’
‘It’s not an animal, Athreya. Something more esoteric… some kind of a presence.’
Sharad made a half-hearted gesture to quieten Athreya, making sure that the driver couldn’t see it. But Athreya went on softly, knowing that the driver didn’t understand English beyond some very simple words.
‘An apparition then?’ he asked. ‘A local spirit or a phantom?’
‘Apparently.’ Sharad nodded reluctantly.
‘I noticed that you, too, were averting your gaze,’ Athreya teased his friend. ‘Not as much as the boatmen were, but you were not comfortable either.’
‘I grew up here, Athreya,’ Sharad explained sheepishly. ‘As a boy, I heard the stories. When you are young and impressionable, 18such things embed themselves deeply in the mind. What you saw was the instinctive reaction of someone who grew up with these superstitions. My rational part, of course, doesn’t believe in it.’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ Athreya concurred. ‘I saw that you didn’t prevent Mou from staring.’
‘But he stopped me from photographing it!’ Moupriya interposed petulantly from the front seat. ‘Papa says he doesn’t believe those stories. Yet, he stopped me.’
‘I had to, Mou,’ Sharad responded. ‘Otherwise, the boatmen would go bonkers. You know that. They had told me beforehand that we shouldn’t photograph the island. If we disregard their request—especially this one—they won’t rent their rafts to us in the future.’
‘I take it that there is a story behind this superstition?’ Athreya asked. ‘There usually is a juicy tale behind local beliefs.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Moupriya trilled. ‘It goes like this—’
‘Not now, Mou!’ Sharad growled. ‘Not here.’
‘OK, Papa,’ Moupriya tittered gaily, ignoring her father’s censure and getting back at him through Athreya. ‘I’ll tell you later, Uncle. Just remind me.’
‘Tell me, Sharad,’ Athreya asked, turning to his friend, ‘is this only about tales and superstitions? Or is there anything more concrete that has stoked people’s fear?’
‘I believe there has been a history of incidents over the past hundred years or more,’ Sharad said, throwing another quick glance at the driver. He seemed to have resigned himself to telling the story in the man’s presence. However, he stuck to speaking in English. ‘They say that men who went to the island didn’t return. Some were found dead. Some went mad. Stuff like that spooks people.’
‘Over a hundred years or more?’ Athreya asked. ‘Isn’t that more in the nature of a legend or a myth? Is it believable?’ 19
‘Depends on the person who hears it, I suppose,’ Sharad answered doubtfully. ‘Someone like you, who has dealt with crime and death for many years, won’t be easily convinced. But few people are like you, my friend. Most people like to believe in myths and legends. Especially folks with little education. They are suckers for the supernatural.’
‘I guess you’re right. There isn’t a place in India that has long history behind it and doesn’t have a ghost story to tell. It’s par for the course. We are an old land with a rich supply of myths.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re not sure, Sharad?’ Athreya gazed quizzically at his friend who seemed hesitant. ‘Is there something else? Something more recent?’
Although he asked the question casually, Athreya had a pressing reason for it. He had come to Bundelkhand on an inquiry, and was wondering if the myth of Naaz Tapu had any bearing on the subject of his investigation.
‘Well…’ Sharad paused for a long moment, and then continued reluctantly. ‘There was an occurrence two years ago. A young man went there as a part of a wager. He went in the dead of the night. The next morning, he was found dead.’
‘Dead? Where?’
‘There is a place that has a rock ledge and a stretch of sand. That’s the best spot to alight from a boat if you want to visit the island. He was found a few feet from the water. His head had been broken, and there were claw marks on him.’
‘Claw marks?’
‘So they say.’
‘How did they locate him? Did someone go searching for him?’
Sharad shook his head. ‘There was no need. The body was visible from the riverbank.’ 20
‘I see.’
Athreya broke off as the driver braked hard to avoid hitting an autorickshaw that had suddenly come on to the road from a lane. The driver lowered his window and gave the other an earful, much to Moupriya’s amusement.
‘And,’ Sharad went on as the car picked up speed after avoiding an accident, ‘there was another event more recently—a few months ago, if I am not mistaken. A middle-aged man who was sane and sensible by all accounts, went there in broad daylight. He was a father of two and a responsible husband.’
‘What happened to him?’ Athreya asked, searching his friend’s face.
‘He didn’t return. He hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Didn’t anyone go looking for him?’
‘They did. But they wouldn’t go very deep into the woods. They found nothing.’
‘Is it certain that the man actually went to the island?’
Sharad nodded.
‘People saw him—he went by a small raft during daytime. Men saw him tie it to a tree at the same spot I mentioned earlier—the one with a rock shelf and a sand beach. The raft remained where he had tied it. But there was no sign of him.’
‘Why would a sensible father of two go to the island to begin with?’
‘He was taking soil samples as a part of a local geological survey. I’m told he was a down-to-earth man who didn’t subscribe to the local myths.’
‘Hmm,’ Athreya said, frowning. ‘But why don’t they want anyone photographing it?’
‘They don’t want to do anything that could disturb the presence. That’s why they don’t go to the island either. They are afraid that they may provoke it by merely going there.’ 21
‘And what would it do, if it were provoked?’
‘So far, it has stayed on the island. The locals believe that it doesn’t like crossing the water. Provoking it, they fear, may make it cross the water and come ashore. That’s not a possibility they want to deal with. There is no telling what the malevolent thing might do once it finds itself amongst living men.’
Silence fell over the car as the three of them contemplated what had just been discussed. Tales that were decades old—let alone a century old—were most likely fabrications. But something more recent, especially only a few months old, had to be taken seriously. Athreya had to find out more—it might just have a bearing on his inquiry.
Abruptly, a thought flashed across his mind as he recalled what he thought he had seen just before Moupriya had clicked her camera.
‘Mou,’ he asked, ‘did you see something white among the trees of the island?’
‘You saw it too?’ The girl’s voice rose in excitement as she spun around in the front passenger seat. Her eyes were alight with exhilaration and her youthful face flushed. ‘That’s what I was trying to get a photo of! It was a fleeting glimpse of white. It looked like a bride’s wedding dress, didn’t it?’
‘A dress?’ Athreya asked doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. I thought I saw a hazy white patch among the trees—twice. I was not sure the first time. But it lasted a fraction of a second longer the second time. What does your photograph show? You managed to get one, right?’
‘Nothing!’ Moupriya pouted. ‘Just the island and the river. See?’ She showed Athreya the photograph on her phone’s screen. ‘But I think it was the lady in a white dress!’ she insisted. ‘Others have seen her too.’ 22
‘Now, now, Mou,’ Sharad cautioned. ‘Don’t get carried away with all those stories the girls at school used to concoct. A lone bride in the middle of a jungle? Indeed!’ He snorted.
‘Papa!’ the girl disputed vigorously. ‘I saw what I saw!’
‘OK, Mou. OK. Let’s talk about something else, shall we?’
Moupriya, who was still facing the rear seat, spun back in a huff to face forward.
‘There is no denying it,’ she declared. ‘Naaz Tapu is haunted.’
‘Priya Madam!’ the driver gasped, and repeated what the boatman had earlier said, ‘Woh naam mat lijiye!’
‘Kyon nahin?’ Athreya asked the driver at once. Why not?
‘It’s a bad place, sir,’ the driver replied in Hindi. ‘An evil place.’
‘Why?’ Athreya persisted, as his instinct told him that there could be something important here. The driver had fortuitously entered the conversation, providing Athreya with an opportunity to explore the legend further.
‘Because bad things happen there. Men who go there don’t return alive.’
‘Are you referring to the young man who went there two years ago and was found dead?’
‘Him too. But I was thinking of a more recent incident. The one that happened a few months ago.’
‘The man who went there during daytime and didn’t return?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s the incident I was thinking about.’
‘How do you know the story is true?’ Athreya challenged. ‘People can just invent stories. It may just be a rumour.’
‘No, sir.’ The driver shook his head sadly. ‘This story is true. Ranvir didn’t return from the island.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because,’ the driver said, ‘Ranvir was my neighbour. His wife still prays every day for his return.’
2
A couple of hours later, Athreya and Sharad were at a popular restaurant in Jhansi’s Sadar Bazar to sample the kebabs for which it was famous. But their presence there was not entirely innocent. All he had asked his friend was whether he could stage a chance meeting with some of the archaeologists who were working at a nearby excavation. Sharad, who had great faith in Athreya, hadn’t pressed him for reasons but had suggested this restaurant. It was the archaeologists’ regular weekend haunt, he had said, and they were very likely to turn up there on a Saturday evening for dinner.
There was a deeper reason too, which Athreya had not confided to Sharad yet. He had, however, explained that he had been commissioned by the organization that funded the excavation to make inquiries into suspected financial misappropriation.
‘Something funny seems to be going on there,’ the managing trustee of the organization had told Athreya a few days ago. ‘I’m not sure what, but the little I’ve heard is unsettling.’
After the trustee had shared the sparse details of the ‘funny business’ as he had called it, Athreya had agreed to go to Bundelkhand and stay with his friend in Jhansi. He had wanted to first meet the archaeologists socially before the trustee told them the true purpose behind Athreya’s visit.
Athreya and Sharad had just settled down at their table when a clean-shaven, erudite-looking man in his mid-fifties walked in. Catching his eye, Sharad raised an arm and waved. The newcomer’s pleasant face creased into a happy smile, and he strode towards them. 24
‘Your usual jaunt, Sabir?’ Sharad asked, shaking the newcomer warmly by the hand.
‘Hi, Sharad,’ the man replied in a pleasant, cultured voice that underscored his erudition. ‘Yes, the usual break. All well?’
‘All well. All well.’ Sharad waved him to the vacant chair beside himself. ‘Come join us.’
The man flashed Athreya a quick, questioning glance, and when Athreya nodded and smiled back, the newcomer took the seat.
‘Meet my friend, Harith Athreya,’ Sharad introduced the two men. ‘Athreya, this is Dr Sabir Baig.’
Once they had shaken hands, Sharad continued, ‘Dr Baig is one of the foremost archaeologists in India. He is a veritable authority on the history of south and east India, and the entire east coast in between.’
‘Please don’t believe him, Mr Athreya,’ Sabir cut in. ‘Sharad overstates—as usual.’
‘Do I?’ Sharad countered. ‘You have written, what… nine books?’
Sabir shrugged, his pleasant smile still in evidence on his open face.
‘Some of them are reference books and the others textbooks,’ Sharad continued, addressing Athreya. ‘He represents India in international conferences. He has appeared in several TV documentaries on the BBC and the History Channel. And he is one of the very few Indian archaeologists who has worked on the Indus Valley civilization in Pakistan.’
‘Really?’ Athreya asked. ‘That’s very impressive. That makes you an authority, Dr Baig, at least in my book.’
‘Thank you,’ Sabir replied, letting out a chuckle. ‘Thirty years is a long time, Mr Athreya. One has no option but to do mountains of work in three decades—not only because of the length 25of time, but also due to the lack of archaeologists in India. One ends up becoming a so-called authority by just staying in the field and doing what comes one’s way. And as far as Pakistan is concerned, I owe that opportunity as much to my religion as to anything else.’
‘Even so,’ Athreya countered, watching Sabir downplay his achievements. ‘It is impressive. But I am intrigued, Dr Baig. You say there aren’t enough archaeologists in India?’
‘Unfortunately not. It’s not a career of choice for the overwhelming majority of our students. A tiny number do take up archaeology out of passion, but many who end up here do so because they found nothing else. When your last resort becomes your profession, it’s not likely that you have the aptitude or the interest to pursue it seriously. As a result, those who come here by choice tend to do much better than the others.’
‘Why isn’t it a career of choice? Because it’s not well-paying? Or because there aren’t enough job opportunities?’
‘Both. Most end up as lecturers or join a government agency like the Archaeological Survey of India. Some others join museums or restoration projects. There are very few private sector opportunities in this field. You know what government pay scales are like—you can barely make two ends meet.’
Athreya watched silently as the urbane archaeologist spoke about his profession with fervour. His questions seemed to have stirred something in him.
‘And unlike other government sectors, we have no leverage either. People who work in public transport, electricity or water supply, law enforcement, or even waste collection can twist the government’s arm by striking. Who would care if archaeologists went on strike? Nobody would be inconvenienced. They wouldn’t even notice. We have no leverage, whatsoever. We archaeologists must find our reward in our work.’ 26
‘Indeed,’ Athreya agreed. ‘I’m ashamed to say that I never paused to think about this. Archaeology is as much a science as any other. It deserves better. What drives you, Dr Baig? Personally, I mean. What has sustained your interest for thirty years?’
‘Archaeology is about solving mysteries, Mr Athreya,’ Sabir replied, warming up with passion. ‘Mysteries of the past; mysteries that are sometimes thousands of years old. You have very little to go by—bits of pottery, rusted iron, tarnished bronze, fragments of stone sculptures and the like. In some sites you have old bones too. You have to juxtapose these artefacts with history, literature, poetry and unconfirmed tales and rumours. Only then can you make some sense of it. Yes, there is some good technology too—carbon dating, magnetometry, sophisticated scanners, etcetera. But piecing it all together is still a human’s job.’
‘You would need to use both logic and imagination, I guess.’
‘Exactly!’ Sabir’s face glowed with unexpected pleasure. ‘It’s a thrill that is not unlike reading a detective novel.’
‘I can relate to that,’ Athreya enthused. He was beginning to like Sabir. ‘You don’t know which piece fits where in the puzzle, and you don’t even know if a piece is important or not. I assume ninety per cent of all you do is slogging and grunt work? Just like police or detective work.’
‘Absolutely right! As a result, it requires a lot of resources.’
‘And that is where the JBF comes in,’ Sharad interrupted. ‘The John Bates Foundation has been a godsend for Sabir. It’s a not-for-profit foundation set up by the American billionaire, John Bates. The JBF supports several scientific areas including archaeological expeditions.’
‘A recent development, I take it?’ Athreya asked.
‘In India, yes,’ Sabir nodded. ‘Through his foundation, Mr Bates set up the Sarah Bates Archaeological Institute—the 27SBAI—in memory of his late daughter. Sarah Bates is said to have been passionate about archaeology, and she was an Indophile to boot. She had spent three years here before dying in a car crash back in the US. She was just twenty-nine. A month after her death, Mr Bates set up the SBAI. It’s a not-for-profit organization that promotes archaeology in India with very generous funding. I work for them. It’s such a pleasure to be able to afford the tools and technology we require, Mr Athreya.’
Athreya had already learned this from the SBAI’s managing trustee, but he heard Sabir out.
‘How far is your expedition from Jhansi?’ he asked.
‘Not far from where we went today, Athreya,’ Sharad answered. ‘It’s right on the riverbank. Sabir is the deputy director of the dig.’
He paused as a shapely young woman with glossy black hair and a purposeful stride entered the restaurant and stood looking around as if searching for someone. She was busty, broad-framed and about 5’ 7” with an intelligent face and quick eyes. The clothes she wore, though by no means expensive, were carefully chosen and elegantly worn.
Sabir raised his arm and waved to her. Her wide lips curved into a spontaneous smile as she acknowledged his wave. She made her way to their table, her gaze taking in Sharad and Athreya. Her sharp eyes studied Athreya for a moment—long enough to make a quick assessment, but not so long as to appear impolite.
‘Adhira Khatri,’ Sabir introduced her as she slid into the chair beside Athreya. ‘She is the one who holds the purse strings—our finance person. She is also the person who ensures that everything runs smoothly both at the dig and the base.’
‘That’s Dr Baig for you,’ Adhira chuckled. ‘Always courteous and chivalrous, even if it means exaggerating. I am just the 28accountant and the admin person rolled into one—the only person in the team who is not an archaeologist or a technician. And I’m almost always at the base as I seldom have work at the dig.’
‘The dig and the base,’ Athreya echoed. ‘Sounds like fun. I assume the base is where you stay?’
‘That’s right,’ Adhira nodded. ‘We also have our office, labs and stores there. It’s a renovated hotel with the pretentious name of Asghar Mahal.’
‘Asghar Mahal?’ Athreya mused. ‘Sounds like a heritage building.’
‘Heritage, my foot!’ Adhira snorted. ‘It was built no more than twenty years ago, though it looks a hundred years old. A failed resort to which our project gave a second life because of its proximity to the dig.’
‘Sounds like an interesting place,’ Athreya remarked.
‘Come over sometime,’ Adhira suggested immediately. ‘Are you interested in archaeology?’
‘I think so. But honestly, I wouldn’t really know until I spent some time at a dig. Haven’t had the opportunity so far. From what Dr Baig says—that archaeology is about solving mysteries—I find my interest kindled.’
‘Like cracking mysteries, huh?’ Adhira grinned amicably. ‘Me, give me certainty any day. But please do come over. I’d love to have some company other than archaeologists. Does tomorrow work for you?’
