An Atlas of Impossible Longing by Anuradha Roy Page A

that witnesses often leave out the most crucial detail. They cannot know what is useful for a police investigation.”
    â€œOf course, of course,” Kamal said, crooking his thumbs through the striped braces of his trousers. “Witnesses have no sense of the value of certain clues.”
    Kananbala tried to slow her thundering heart. After all her isolation, to have to speak before a stranger, and on something so important, something that might save her friend’s life. She would surely get it wrong. Taking a deep breath, she said, “What would an old woman do lying? Yes, I did see something.”
    â€œGo on, Mataji,” the policeman said with a warning look at Amulya.
    â€œThe poor man had just come back. He must have been tired, these British people work so hard. He had been away for several days.”
    â€œHow many?” the policeman asked, and turning to his deputy rapped out, “Noting everything, aren’t you?”
    â€œI think three or four days.”
    â€œCarry on.”
    â€œThere were some tribals waiting at his gate. The guard was not there. It was already quite late, and the road was dark. They surrounded him and they were arguing and fighting. One of them was very tall, with long hair, very dark.”
    â€œDid you hear what they said, Mataji?” the policeman asked. “Did anyone have a knife? Could you see their faces? Would you recognise them?”
    Kananbala seemed to flail under the flurry of questions, making a few incoherent noises in response. Amulya, alarmed, half rose to take her away. The policeman gestured him down and returned to her.
    â€œDid you see any weapon?”
    â€œThe tall man had something at his waist. But I can’t say. It was dark, I could not see so clearly. My eyesight … the doctor has said I need new glasses, but for that my eyes need to be tested and … And they were fighting: something about the mine in the forest, and money. They are poor people after all and they have homes in the forest … ”
    â€œWhat happened then, Mataji?” The policeman tried patiently. Old ladies had to be handled with care.
    â€œThen there was a scuffle, some confusion, what happened inside the crowd I couldn’t see. But the group left quickly, ran away. And the man was on the ground.”
    â€œWhere was Mrs Barnum? The guard says she had gone out and given him the evening off as she always did when her husband was away.” He turned to Amulya and said, “Strange thing to do, isn’t it? You would think she needed the guard with her husband away.”
    â€œOh, she was at home all night after she came back. I saw her coming back. It must have been quite early still – I had not yet had dinner. Then she was upstairs,” Kananbala said, pausing as if trying to remember. “I can see her quite clearly from my bedroom window when her light is on. She often forgets to draw her curtain. She was sitting at her window and yes, of course! For a little while she played her piano. Didn’t you hear it?” Kananbala asked Amulya.
    Amulya looked at her and said, “Piano?” He wanted to tell her not to talk so much. Could it be long before one of her vulgarities slipped out? What if she called the policeman a cuckolded jackass as she had the gardener just before he left?
    â€œWell, she plays something every night and Nirmal told me it’s a piano. What do I know of such things?”
    â€œDid you see Mrs Barnum come down?”
    â€œShe didn’t know he was back, I think. Poor girl! Maybe she never heard the car with her piano playing!” Kananbala said, “To think she stayed up all night in her room not knowing her husband was bleeding to death downstairs. She might have been able to save him. How she must torment herself with the thought.” Kananbala sighed.
    The policeman scribbled in his notebook and then turned to Amulya: “She will have to be a