I was completely unable to hide my surprise. The (self-ordained) superhero of moments before had been reduced to a star-struck teenager.
And Ravi Tarun was every bit the unruffled matinee idol. There wasn’t the slightest hostility in his voice.
‘It’s really good of you to come. I know Karishma has been harsh with you. You must understand she is devastated.’
No part of this encounter had begun as I’d imagined.
I must have been gaping. The woman who had let me in, whose name I later heard was Jharna, reappeared with a glass on a tray. When I didn’t touch it, she left it on the table. At no point during this initial period have I any memory of employing my power. Tarun, and even the household help, were complete blanks to me.
‘Ms Bhowmick, some water?’
‘But you can’t be … are you … The papers didn’t say anything … Shivani never told me …’
‘You’re right, I’m not, although I would have loved to be, and now I’ll never have that chance. Shivani’s father is no more. He passed away last year, and Karishma and I became close after that.’
Not everyone will have read his books, I know, but I still won’t bother with an introduction. If my story has travelled overseas, look him up: Ravi Tarun, current-affairs pundit, columnist, TV personality, memoirist. I had his last two books on my bedroom shelf, which just between them captured his incredible versatility: a grand survey of present-day India preceded by a deeply affecting portrait of his late wife, who had died four years ago. He had written about living alongside her diagnosed bipolar disorder with compassion, insight and love. I had read it twice and recommended it to several friends.
I drank most of my water, thinking I needed to say something.
‘Uh, does your household help have a daughter?’
‘Yes, she does, as well as an older son. Her name is Trishna, but we call her Pari, as in “fairy”. Did Shivani mention her?’
I nodded, and calmed myself with these words: Remember, you have a superpower.
‘Ms Bhowmick — or may I call you Jaya? — Karishma isn’t here this evening, but would like me to apologise on her behalf for costing you your teaching job. That outcome was not her intention. She never suspected …’
His mobile went. He excused himself and checked his screen. I took the chance to glance at him while he replied. He was (unbelievably) picturing our Prime Minister as he typed! In Tarun’s mind, our (unmistakable) Prime Minister was doing something on his own phone. I could see him on a sofa as well, but in a larger living room, with beautiful lamps and carpets. Could it be that he had messaged Tarun?
He returned to me with a smile. ‘I’m sorry, that one was urgent.’
‘Tell Mrs Jalan not to worry. Her anguish was understandable. There will be other jobs for me. In fact, a couple of people have already been in touch. But what I would like to reassure her of, and you, is that I had no further role beyond what I’ve already said in worsening Shivani’s isolation.’
Tarun saw Shivani as I spoke, lying on her back on the very sofa I was on, doing something on a tablet, cushions piled beneath her head, legs crossed in the air.
‘It was an extremely unfortunate coincidence that she chose me to confide in, someone who had her own secret to hide precisely because of the school I worked at. And in her vulnerable condition, the fact that I wasn’t a man named Chandra really affected her. But I wanted Mrs Jalan to know I don’t do this to prey on children, and in fact, now that I’m free of FMHS, I won’t need such a pretence again.’
Tarun received another text. Again his mind returned to the PM(!), in the same room as before with soothing, deep-golden lighting. I bit down on the urge to ask who was messaging. Instead, I read the text: ‘1 a.m. tonight’, which Tarun okayed.
‘Jaya, excuse me again. The truth is, you’re calling on us on a busy evening. Karishma has gone to be with her mother. She said to me there was something more you wanted to tell us …’
Of course I did. I wanted to remove any last doubt her family may have had that Shivani had experienced something extraordinary, with evidence even more compelling than my own account of being invisibly pushed backwards along Park Street.
Instead, to my astonishment, ‘Were you there when Shivani died?’ was what came out of my mouth.
I knew immediately everything about my question was wrong: its tone of delivery, its awful implications. My throat felt parched, but I had run out of water. I pointed to the glass on the table, but Tarun didn’t notice my gesture.
‘I meant to ask, was anyone home? You, or your wife, or Pari, or the help … Uh, did Shivani have any siblings?’
I was going about this all wrong, simply because I was so thrown by Ravi Tarun’s presence here in lieu of Shivani’s father. Remember I had come in less than ten minutes ago, feeling like ‘a superhero at the peak of her powers’! And it wasn’t as though my gift was failing: I had to pull myself together, hold the right things in focus. I had something to give this family, but perhaps as well much to draw out. I was metres from the room where Shivani made the decision to die. I had the power, which might be gone tomorrow morning! I would never be closer to finding out whatever truths there were to learn. Now was absolutely not the time to lose …
‘What do you know about the price Shivani was asked to pay?’
Bet you thought that question came from me.