There was a sudden hush at the word suicide. Then the buzz of voices broke out all at once. With parties for and against the deceased person. ‘She was such a wonderful person, I wonder what happened to tip her over the edge?’ said Mili, sighing deeply.
‘We never know what goes on in someone’s head,’ said the corpulent one at the far end, who was concentrating fiercely on hacking a stubborn piece of animal protein into bits.
‘She was a nasty, mean thing, good riddance,’ piped up another pinched-looking person, who was called Jolly by the rest of the clan, nomenclature that was most ironic given that her face was anything but.
‘Don’t speak ill of the dead, Jolly,’ a voice of caution piped in, casually parting the crowd of voices, clearing its own path with its sweetness. The owner of the voice was delicate and soft-faced, and sat as though a shield protected her from the rambunctiousness of the others. Another more aggressive voice took up cudgels for the dear departed, and this degenerated into another loud argument and we were but seconds away from the bread knives being put to efficient use as maiming devices when they announced that the buffet was now open.
The herd stampeded to the chafing dishes, snorting, and for some time the only sound at the table was that of cutlery clinking contentedly against the plates. Five refills of my plate later, for which I had cleverly positioned myself at the end of the banquette, I sighed and laid the fork and knife down. Thee discussion regarding the deceased was picked up once again and I listened in, my ears aflap.
‘I heard she lost a lot of money betting on the IPL?’ speculated another, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of a vicarious spin at the 20-over series betting tables. ‘No, no,’ interjected Jahnavi, who had just polished off a mound of ice-cream and cake that had almost hidden her face from view across the table. ‘She was in depression. Post-partum.’
‘But her baby was born ten years ago,’ piped in a surprised voice from indeterminate source.
‘Arey, my post-partum lasted till both the kids entered college,’ stated another slightly senior personage, with both overflowing personality and cleavage, firmly, in a tone that brooked no debate.
Mili decided that she must add her two bits to the entire thing. ‘Perhaps there is something we don’t know. There was no suicide note found, right?’
‘But since when has that stopped us from knowing everything,’ Jahnavi answered to a burst of approving laughter. The topic veered to another hot suicide, that of a television actress who had put rope and ceiling fan to use. All that iced tea I had ingested in the run-up to lunch was pressing excitably on my pea-sized bladder and I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room.
As I sat on the pot and puffed at a sly smoke (what? A girl needed some nicotine in her system to stay alert and to kill the appetite), I pondered about the nowhere this investigation was leading to and figured an alternative track needed to be taken and taken immediately. Just then, the click-clacking of heels signalled the arrival of feet into the adjoining powder room. I rose to exeunt right, in case the smoke was reported to the authorities.
‘You better stop discussing Jaya,’ hissed a familiar voice, ‘or I’ll tell everyone it was you who forced her to kill herself.’ I held my breath and sat as still as I could manage, trying to figure out who the two women were. The voices were muted, almost as if they were speaking from behind a wall. I then realized that the voices were not coming from within the ladies’ cloakroom but from outside and through the exhaust vent, which was located conveniently near the parking lot. I wondered whether, by the expedient method of removing my heels and clambering onto the pot, I might just be able to see who the two voices belonged to.
‘Stop behaving like a bereaved widow,’ said the other voice, now hissing too.
‘You have no proof except your suspicions and your nitpicking. She was just as good a friend to me as she was to you and you need to stop this obsessive imagining about what drove her to suicide, okay, okay? It is not healthy …’
I began removing my stilettos as stealthily as I could and clambered precariously on top of the commode, peering through the slats of the exhaust fan vent. I could see nothing except cars parked in the regimented lines of the parking lot that stretched out for yards and yards of what seemed to be unpopulated-by-humans territory, except for the occasional driver sleeping deep in the arms of air-conditioned Lethe. Perhaps if I stood on my toes and angled my neck a bit … the voices were beginning to fade, they were walking away, I needed to do something quickly and so I did: I lost my balance and crashed down in the most horrendous way that led to shrieks from the adjoining cubicle and the cleaner rushing in and banging on my locked door.
‘I’m okay, am okay,’ I yelled back, picking myself and my dignity up, and slipping feet back into my shoes, opening the door, while checking if all my limbs were still in working condition. Thankfully they were, and I opened the door to the curious gathering of assorted faces that had accumulated outside.
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