Awkward Questions

Desai's hand remained on Sarla's arm. Neither of us spoke.

After a moment, Desai sat back, "When did the promotion happen? When he moved to the production floor?"

"Not long after I got sick." Sarla wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "April, I think? I'm not remembering exactly."

Desai glanced at me, then back to Sarla. "Did your husband ever mention anyone else from work getting sick? Any other employees with similar symptoms?"

"He never mentioned it." Sarla frowned. "You think it was something from the factory?"

"We're looking at all possibilities right now," Desai said. "Did he work with any particular chemicals? Any exposures you might know about?"

"They had him overseeing quality control. Inspections, safety checks, managing the line workers. I really don't know more than that." Sarla shifted her weight, grimacing. "I'm sorry, I still get tired easily."

"We understand," I said. "Just a few more questions. When your husband was hospitalized, who were his doctors?"

Sarla's hands shook slightly as she accessed something in her peripheral vision. "They gave me all the medical files. I don't understand most of it." She gestured, casting the documents into the air between us. Glowing forms materialized on Malhotra General letterhead, neurology department admission records, test results, treatment notes. Desai and I each took a copy.

I scrolled through them with my hand, the documents flickering as my connection wavered. Then I saw a name I recognized, a consultation form signed by the mesh disorder specialist, Dr. Priya Iyer.

"Dr. Iyer," I read aloud. "She did an assessment?"

"Yes." Sarla nodded. "She said it was mesh compatibility something. She told us he was responding well, that he just needed rest."

"When was this?" Desai asked.

I checked the date. "Six days before he died."

Sarla's voice went flat. "One week later he collapsed with seizures. They couldn't stop them. He died that night."

I wrote carefully in my notebook: Dr. Iyer - victim #7 AND #2. Mesh compatibility testing.

Desai took her own notes in her peripheral vision, but I caught her glance at my notebook.

The mesh cut out abruptly, the documents I'd been perusing no longer there.

Sarla's grief-stricken face came into focus. I looked at her forehead, but the light wasn't right. I couldn't tell.

I dropped my pencil.

"Sorry," I said, bending down to retrieve it from beside the coffee table. The angle put Sarla's face in profile, light from the overhead lamp catching her forehead.

There. That unmistakable glint, right where a bindi would sit.

I grabbed the pencil, straightened slowly, trying to keep my face neutral. Sarla continued talking, something about the funeral arrangements, but I barely heard her. My heartbeat was suddenly too loud.

The connection returned with an uncomfortable jolt, and the mark vanished.

But I'd seen it. The same shimmer I'd seen on the body at the hospital, on Desai.

"Mrs. Tamhane," I interrupted. "When was the last time you received tilak? At a temple blessing?"

Desai turned to look at me, brow furrowed.

Sarla blinked, confused by the non-sequitur. "Tilak? Two weeks ago. Why?"

"Where?" I kept my voice casual, like it was a routine question. "Which temple?"

"The Bal Devi shrine in the hospital courtyard." Bal Devi. That must be the name of that child-goddess I had seen around Malhotra General. "I was going every day while Milind was sick. Praying for him." Her voice broke. "For all the good it did."

I wrote this down, Bal Devi shrine. Hospital courtyard.

Desai gave me an appraising look, then turned back to Sarla. "Mrs. Tamhane, did your husband have any colleagues at the factory we could speak to? Anyone he was close with?"

"His supervisor, maybe? Mr. Chaudhary. But I never met him." She grimaced. "I'm sorry, I'm not knowing much about his work life. He was keeping it separate."

Desai asked a few more questions about the factory, trying different angles, but Sarla had little to offer. Exhaustion was setting in. Her words came slower, her grip on the chair arms tighter.

After ten more minutes, Desai stopped recording. "Thank you, Mrs. Tamhane. You've been very helpful. If we have any other questions, can we call you?"

"Of course." Sarla reached for her cane, started to push herself up.

"Please, don't get up," I said. "We can see ourselves out."

At the door, Sarla called after us. "Inspectors? Will you find out what happened to him?"

Desai turned back. "We'll do our best, Ma'am."