Vigil Aunties: Richa S Mukherjee's Latest Thriller Has Mums Taking Down Rogues

Sixteen-year-old Philadelphia aka Philly Waghmare’s carefully curated life revolves around the SAT. The most exciting thing that happens in the crumbling old society she calls home is the weekly meet-up between her mother, Varsha, and her motley group of society aunties. Nothing really changes here—except one day when everything does!

A shocking incident leads Philly to trail Tarun Adhikari, the hotshot father of her best friend, Naina. During this quest, her world turns turtle as she not only discovers that her sweet, sanskari mother is the head of a secret society of women, but that this group might be responsible for the disappearance of a rogue named Ratan Tamancha, whom the police is looking for.

Here's an excerpt from Richa S Mukherjee's Vigil Aunties 

Varsha watched her husband from the dining table as she expertly shaped besan laddoos and stacked them into a pyramid. This was her world, the one she controlled and understood—glistening, generous rivulets of ghee, the dense aroma of roasting flour, the crumbling and pliable khoa that she could mould in her hands, the gentle sizzle of an orange jalebi as it capitulated to the hot oil and created a sweet, invisible spell that she would use to delight people and spread happiness. 

In stark contrast, the man sitting across the table belonged to another world. He was biting into one side of his toast like a beaver. Then he would go on to replicate the same action on the other end. Eating bread with mathematical precision was one of the ways his OCD manifested. Going by the regimentation he ran his life with, one would be forgiven for thinking that he hailed from an army background or had a whole line of ancestors marching to the borders in service of their country. Instead, the Waghmares were a manufacturing godown of chartered accountants. Pramod Waghmare was a fifty-five-year-old of small build, running his quotidian affairs like the controlled and immaculate calculations in his ledgers. Not a button, snot or affair out of place. 

She noticed how he repeatedly tucked his shirt in and out, attempting to prevent it from bunching over his trouser belt. ‘Pagal aadmi,’ she would mutter to herself often. At present, she was trying her level best to get him out of the house. Once Philly and her husband left,  she could truly focus on finishing any pending orders and then get down to important business. 

Her younger self, with better knees and blacker hair, could never have imagined in the wildest of dreams that at fifty-three years of age she would be leading a secretive life in a sleepy old housing society. That a special kind of ‘work’ would assume the thrill, satisfaction and sense of purpose that no other job could measure up to. 

On a sultry, soulless night three years ago, after reading another heart-breaking report about a molested child whose parents were fighting for justice, and remembering her own ordeal in the past, something inside Varsha broke. She watched Philly lazing on the living room couch, shaking the unwelcome, unbidden and terrifying images of her daughter lying somewhere near a dumpster, spent and changed for life. This image refused to leave her.  The last bit of fuel she needed was a weekend marathon of back-to-back Savdhaan India and Crime Patrol episodes. She knew she had to do something. 

One fine day, over a plate of under-seasoned poha, she realized what it was. Just as her  tribe of women, in millions of homes, worked tirelessly, silently and efficiently without ever 

being in the spotlight, so would she. She would track down sex offenders, sexual predators and report them anonymously, much like the alert citizen warriors had done in the episodes she had watched. But she needed help. 

The Balram to her Krishna came in the form of Patience Pereira, her dearest friend in   society who joined her with enthusiasm. Next on board was Shobha Gupta and then Charu  Dayal. Lu Nongem was the last entrant. What Shobha lacked in movement and vigour, she made up for with her wonderful connections with people through her salon that worked as a congregation point. Her clientele would bring her a variety of information ranging from innocuous to top-secret. Charu, a favourite of Patience, almost like an adopted daughter,  used her position at the Corner Café in the market nearby as a perfect vantage point for outdoor surveillance.

Lu, the young, unassuming and very attractive tech wizard from  Meghalaya, who was one of the few tenants in the society, was their last recruitment. She had joined them two years ago. Given that the other members were technologically challenged, Lu was a godsend, helping them research, record surveillance and make reports. 

What bonded this disparate lot was their belief in the cause. After making several blunders,  they had finally settled on a methodology that allowed them to identify and research fresh suspects in the locality, gather evidence and then deliver the information anonymously to the police station nearby. This entire operation was executed under wraps. They knew what was at stake if their identities were revealed and their families found out. 

As soon as Pramod left the building, there was a spring in Varsha’s step. Settling down with a cup of tea, she opened her latest files. She liked to think of herself as the sarpanch of this special unit, a realization that made her work harder and more diligently. As she zeroed in on their latest suspect, she could tell from the look in his eyes that they were dealing with a seasoned criminal. Her immediate neighbour, Renu Shah, walked past just then and greeted her from the open window. Varsha prayed that she wouldn’t stop by for the chat that she always threatened her with. Her prayers were answered. 

Minutes later, when Renu Shah entered her own home, she shook her head sadly and  clucked. Her husband looked up from his paper. ‘What is it, Renu?’ 

‘That poor Varsha Waghmare. I feel bad for her. She must be bored out of her mind,  tottering about at home all day, just making laddoos. I think I should stop by for a cup of  tea.’

Extracted with permission from Richa S Mukherjee's Vigil Aunties; published by Black Ink