‘Have a heart, Sebastian,’ Dora cut in before Athreya could answer. She put her arm through Athreya’s, leading him through a wide double-door to their right and into the drawing room, which was dimly lit. ‘Let Mr Athreya grab a drink first. I’ll take him to see Uncle after that,’ she called over her shoulder. Manu busied himself with some letters lying on a table in the hall.
‘Mr Fernandez is in the study, Dora,’ Sebastian called out after her. ‘I’ll tell him that Mr Athreya is here.’
As Dora poured out his preferred drink at the bar counter, Athreya suddenly realized that there was another person in the dimly lit room. A lady of the same willowy and athletic build as Dora and Manu, but a shade heavier and a few years older than Dora, was watching him intently from near the French windows.
Just as Athreya was about to greet her, Dora let out a hiss of frustration.
‘No ice!’ she griped. ‘Half a minute, Mr Athreya, I’ll get some.’ She caught sight of the other lady and waved as she strode to the door. ‘Oh, hi Michelle. I didn’t see you there. Mr Athreya, this is Michelle, my cousin. Just keep chatting with her while I find us some ice.’
As soon as Dora left the room, Michelle strode forward purposefully.
‘Good evening,’ said Athreya pleasantly.
‘Good evening,’ Michelle replied, acknowledging his greeting with only a flicker of a smile. She came up very close and asked in a low voice, ‘Are you a lawyer, Mr Athreya?’
‘Oh, no.’ Athreya shook his head. ‘Not at all.’
‘Are you …’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Not any longer.’
A perplexed frown darkened Michelle’s face. ‘Then why are you here?’ she asked in a whisper.
Before a surprised Athreya could respond, Michelle’s hand flew up to her face in embarrassment, and she flushed red.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It came out all wrong. I am so rude! Please forgive me, Mr Athreya.’
But Athreya was all smiles in return.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Don’t give it another thought. Please!’
In the low light, he studied the overwrought lady’s face, now partly hidden by her hand. Along with the embarrassment was a palpable tension. He was now sure that she had watched his arrival through the French windows. Some unknown anxiety was gnawing at her, and her disquiet seemed to have something to do with his arrival. At an unguarded moment, when Dora’s stepping out had providentially presented her with a brief opportunity to find out who he was, she had unthinkingly blurted out the question foremost in her mind.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Athreya,’ Michelle repeated earnestly. ‘I am not usually like this.’
‘I can well imagine,’ he said softly. ‘No harm done anyway, and I take no offence. But allow me to respond to your question. As you probably know, your uncle invited me here.’
‘You know Uncle Bhaskar, then?’ Her wide brown eyes were searching his.
Athreya shook his head slowly. ‘Never met him in my life. A common friend connected us. I’m looking forward to meeting him today.’
‘Oh!’ Michelle was at a loss for words. Her mouth remained open for a couple of seconds. ‘Then how … why …’ she trailed off, a look of utter confusion clouding her face.
Just then, Dora returned with an ice bucket, and Michelle took the opportunity to beat a retreat.
‘I need to run,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll see you in a little while, Mr Athreya.’
Just as she turned away, she added in an undertone, ‘Thank you.’
4
Athreya ambled over to the bar counter, where Dora was struggling with the lid of the ice bucket. After a brief tussle and a muttered curse, the young lady prevailed and the lid came loose in her left hand. She dropped it and picked up a pair of tongs to add two ice cubes to Athreya’s drink.
‘Some more?’ she asked, glancing at Athreya.
‘No, thanks. Two is fine,’ Athreya replied, watching her wield the tongs expertly with her left hand. ‘Left-handed? I didn’t notice it in the jeep. But then there is little to distinguish a left-hander from a right-hander as far as driving is concerned. You have to operate the controls, whichever side they are.’
‘They say lefties are creative,’ Dora said, mixing herself a mild drink with lots of ice. ‘Do you buy into that?’
‘I’m not sure, but my personal experience–entirely anecdotal, of course–suggests so. The left-handers I’ve known have been more creative on the average than the rest of us. Especially in the arts.’
‘Really? Mr Phillip is right-handed. He is the best artist I’ve ever seen–by a mile!’
‘Mr Phillip?’ The name was new to Athreya.
‘A neighbour. He stays a kilometre or two down the vale. You’ll meet him. Uncle has invited him for the do that starts tomorrow. Do you know many artists–’ She broke off and turned towards the door of the drawing room, through which a whirring sound was now coming. ‘Here we go. Brace yourself!’
Athreya followed her gaze in time to witness a wheelchair barrel into the room at high speed. The pitch of the whirr dropped a notch as the wheelchair slowed down slightly, and veered towards Dora and him. In it was a bearded man with powerful shoulders and a grizzled mane. He wore a bright checked shirt that had alternating squares of red and white. His left hand gripped a joystick, while the right rested lightly on a touchscreen console mounted on to the chair. A red-and-green woollen blanket was draped over his legs. Despite his being seated with his legs covered, the willowy build of the Fernandez clan could not be missed.
Bhaskar Fernandez had entered the drawing room considerably faster than a walking man might have. He had hurtled in at the speed of a sprinting boy.
The wheelchair was still moving swiftly as it approached Athreya. Athreya did what he would have done had overexcited children burst into the room and begun scampering around recklessly with little regard to their
