It was an ordinary white envelope that arrived with the usual post on the afternoon of Monday, 4 August 1974. It had Mrs. Gayatri Bhardwaj written in plain black letters at the top right corner, under which the word ‘urgent’ was inscribed in large bold letters in red, clearly to generate curiosity, and it proved to be the case, as it caught Gayatri Bhardwaj’s attention at once, when she saw it among the pile of junk letters. Eyeing it suspiciously, she sliced it open. Inside the envelope there was a pink piece of paper, neatly folded.

The note was sloppy with the writing all pouring into the right side of the page. The writing was childish, and the words badly spelled. The sender had written to say that at around six in the evening, Dr. Bhardwaj would meet someone at their villa in New Kanauji to have one of his usual relaxed evenings and, for a change, Mrs. Bhardwaj should surprise him by making an unannounced arrival there. The message was subtle, but in no way inconspicuous. She checked the time on her wristwatch, which was an exquisite affair of twenty-two-carat gold and tiny sparkling diamonds. It was a quarter to three in the afternoon.

She read the note a few times, wondering about the person who had written it. The sloppiness and the uneven childish scrawl seemed to be a conscious attempt to disguise the identity of the sender, but the infantile scribbles were at odds with the wording, which was anything but uneducated. The sender could’ve engineered the contrast on purpose, mused Gayatri, but for what purpose she couldn’t fathom. Using illiterate phrasing would have been a simple way to cover the sender’s tracks, if he or she was an educated, bright person, but the sender hadn’t done that. It could be someone from the hospital, thought Gayatri. She scrutinized the envelope carefully. There was no stamp and no return address written anywhere to suggest the identity of the sender. One thing was for sure, she thought, the envelope had been hand delivered, and the sender knew what time the post was collected from the letter box on the main gate. The way the envelope had Gayatri’s name written on it, instead of the full address, pointed to someone who knew the Bhardwaj household’s usual routine well, and who was sure that the envelope would reach Gayatri’s hands instead of Dr. Bhardwaj’s.

Could the sender have assumed, thought Gayatri, that she had been living entirely in oblivion, unaware of her husband’s philandering? But then she had always kept up the facade of being happily married. They both had kept up their own facades: Dr. Bhardwaj to suit his purposes, and her to get through life and to feel in control. She understood his need for disguise, as she hid behind a disguise too: the disguise of a cool, poised exterior. The woman underneath, she knew, was afraid of losing control. They both had worn their masks for so long that their veiled sides had mingled with the real ones. Did the sender know, and wanted to see their masks coming off, wondered Gayatri?

The note wasn’t the first of its kind. She had received three other letters in the past two months. However, those notes had no such explicit information about Dr. Bhardwaj’s clandestine meetings. This time, perhaps someone was eager to see Dr. Bhardwaj in a tight spot, or else it could be someone who wanted to see her in distress, she concluded. The thought that it could be a well-wisher didn’t cross her mind. She was too cynical to expect kindness for free. For a moment, she felt tempted to check on her husband but then brushed the thought aside. Whoever the sender was, whatever purpose it served them, Gayatri had no intention of gratifying them, and giving them the satisfaction they had anticipated.

She never had any illusions about her husband’s philandering. Having been his wife for over two decades, she knew him inside and out. After spending the first four years of their marriage in happy ignorance and bliss, when the first glow of romance had worn off, Gayatri had understood that the word ‘loyalty’ did not mean unswerving devotion in Dr. Bhardwaj’s opinion. He had an undying aptitude for seducing the prettiest and the most gullible of the young female staff. Despite being a curious woman, she had purposely avoided prying on him. The realization was just a matter of awakening to the truth which the mind already knew. The realization that he had not been entirely faithful to her gradually dawned on her, but she had no intention of agonizing over it. She understood that the unbridled truth could be harsh and painful, and she wasn’t a worshipper of it anyway.

She knew the women he cheated with were a mere relief for his boredom. They were just sexual objects in his eyes, a means to indulge his puffed-up male ego. He was not bothered about their individuality, as they were all the same for him. She knew at the end of the day he had no desire for burning passion. Instead, he needed to come home to that which was familiar and secure.

You can read more about Gayatri in Tied To Decit, the author’s debut novel, coming August 6, 2018.

On a drizzly August morning, the inhabitants of the hill town of Sanover, Himachal Pradesh, wake up to the shocking news of the murder of the exquisite, secretive, malicious, and thoroughly immoral Devika Singh.

As Superintendent of Police Vishwanath Sharma begins to sift through the hidden secrets of Devika Singh’s life, it becomes evident that everyone who knew her seems to have a clear-cut motive for killing her.

Faced with the investigation of a crime that appears to have as many suspects as there are motives, Vishwanath Sharma probes the sinister web spun around a tangle of lies and deception.

“A remarkable whodunit that’s as sharp as it is concise. Brar enhances her taut murder mystery with an engaging setting that effectively incorporates the local culture. The smart, believable denouement will have readers looking forward to Brar’s next endeavor.” -Kirkus Reviews

“A literary mystery saga that includes far more depth and psychological and cultural insights than your typical murder mystery’s scenario.” -D. Donovan, Midwest Book Review

Purchase Link
# # # # # # # # # # #

Meet the author
Neena H. Brar lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, two children, a highly energetic German Shepherd, and a lifetime collection of her favorite books.

A hermit at heart, she’s a permissive mother, a reluctant housekeeper, a superb cook, and a hard-core reader.

All comments are welcomed.