“No, no, I was just wondering.” Then, lowering her voice again, she said, “well you know, business has hit a slump this year. We need to move the boutique to a better neighbourhood. In the right area, things can really take off. There’s a studio in Gomti Nagar that would be perfect. But the rent is five lakhs per month, and they want fifty lakhs as a deposit. Mummyji found the place actually. It belongs to one of her kitty party friends. I told her, hello, where will we find fifty lakh rupees, Mummyji?”
Arun shook his head, annoyed. “And you landed upon Mummy’s life insurance policy as a possible solution. Of all your half-brained ideas, Nita, this is not even the silliest. I have nothing to say to you. If this is how you think of raising money, God help that so called business of yours.”
“Annu, I have talked to you about a bank loan, but you absolutely refused to be my co-applicant, jaan,” Nita pouted.
Dr Arun got up from the table. He was done with breakfast, and he was done with the conversation. “Yes, well. I know you, and I know your mental capacity. So forgive me if I don’t want to sign any bank guarantees and throw money away. The only reason I said yes to you starting the business in the first place was that Mummy insisted on it. She was feeling bad for you sitting at home doing nothing, and she at least has a solid head on her shoulders. I thought it would be good for you to spend some time with her, learn some sense from her. Honestly, Nita, if it wasn’t for her, Kamath Kollective would not even the the mild success it somehow is.”
She was silent. He continued, “And anyway, when Mummy passes away, you will get a lot of money from the life insurance, but you will also lose the real brains in your business. Don’t forget that. Shall I tell Mummy you’re daydreaming about her death?”
She shrugged. “Mummyji is surprisingly very calm about death, you know. Remember even you were surprised at how quickly she bounced back after Papaji passed away. And then when her sister also went. Any other seventy-year-old would be so afraid of living alone, but Mummyji is something else. Everybody has to die at some point, she says, why make so much fuss.”
“All that is fine. I’m sure her calm acceptance of death doesn’t mean she’s okay with you bumping her off for her life insurance.”
“Funny you should say that,” Nita said, straightening his tie. “She was joking about that too, when she saw me reading a murder mystery the other day. Don’t bump me off, she said. The modus operandi was so easy in that book, you know. This guy murdered his rich uncle by simply putting a plastic bag around his head when he was sleeping. The uncle basically just very calmly went from being asleep to being dead. And he looked so peaceful that it looked like a natural death. Something about carbon dioxide poisoning? Or was it monoxide, I wonder? Do you think that’s possible, Annu? If someone’s heart is weak and you put a plastic bag around their head, they would die in their sleep and it would not look suspicious?”
“Uff Nita, I hate these stupid books you keep reading. Was it an Agatha Christie? Bet it was. Utter trash. And no, that method would not work. First because your victim would wake up while you were doing your thing. There would be signs of struggle.”
Arun was scrolling through his phone, and did not see the thoughtful expression on her face as she asked her next question. “But what if you gave them sleeping pills beforehand? Then they won’t wake up no?”
He continued to respond absently as he planned his day. Why had he accepted so many appointments? He would have to cut his lunch hour short. “Might still wake up, pills aren’t fool-proof. And then the PM would show sleeping pills in the stomach. Also, there would be other changes in the lungs and heart that would show that the death was due to suffocation.”
“Hmm. That’s true. But you yourself keep saying that no one does post-mortems properly here.” She said quietly, and something in her voice made him look at her. She laughed at his scrutiny.
“But you’re right, it’s all pretty far-fetched. These writers just write anything. It wasn’t Agatha Christie, by the way. It was someone else.”
They heard the watchman call, “Driver aa gaya saab!”
Arun picked up his bag and stepped out of the door. Nita waved at him. She was still at the table, licking the butter from her fingers. He waved back, smiled at her, and said, “Nita, I’m sure this is all hypothetical, and you’re too much of a chicken to plan a cold-blooded murder. But listen, if something happens to my mother, I will get a post-mortem done, okay? Chalo, you have a good day.”
Nita shrieked with laughter. “Don’t be silly, Arun. Murdering mummyji indeed! I will die without her. I want her to live forever.”
