S02E04: A Season for Murder

How I became a fan of murder mysteries

Credits: Devayani Khare, Geosophy

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. This month, each of us examined the concept of ‘SEASONS’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

My career with Agatha Christie started with me committing an actual crime.

I was about eleven years old, aimlessly wandering the rooms of a relative’s house. My best guess is that we were there for some sort of family function. The particulars don’t matter to this story.

In the verandah of their house, I discovered that what they were using as a low bench to sit on was, in fact, a cabinet with two shelves full of books. The doors, untouched for some time, groaned as I pulled them open and one partly came off the hinge.

Much to my disappointment, most of the dusty tomes were in Tamizh (which I couldn’t read then and only very slowly and with great effort now). The few English ones seemed to be textbooks of commerce. Then a lemony yellow jacket caught my eye—this one.

HarperCollins, 1996 Source

I sat down and began to read, giddy with excitement as Poirot revealed how Mr.Maltravers had been shot through the head and the secret of the Egyptian curse killing off members of an archaeological expedition and how Mr. Davenheim managed to disappear off the face of the earth. Incredible! Fantastic! Clever!

And then I had to go home. But I wasn’t done reading and I didn’t think my mother would let me ask them to give me the book. In a moment of desperation familiar to readers, I did the only thing I could think of: tuck the book into the belt of my skirt and pull my blouse out so the edges wouldn’t show.

In a few minutes, goodbyes were said and I was in an auto, heading back home. As the adults chatted around me, I remember pressing my palm to my middle, revelling in the secret joy of my secret acquisition. I am ashamed to say that I had only a twinge of guilt, quickly justifying to myself that if they hadn’t opened that cabinet for years, they were unlikely to miss the book.

The precious book was now with someone who really valued it. I suspect my eyes may have gleamed Gollum-like. All I can say in my defense is that I still have that book 25 years later and it’s been read and re-read.

Of course, this wasn’t my first brush with detective fiction. I had steadily read my way through Enid Blyton’s mysteries, giving up the Secret Seven because Peter was too bossy and a little incredulous at the limitless freedom the Famous Five seemed to enjoy. The Five Find-Outers and Dog, I enjoyed a great deal. Fatty was bossy too but got the occasional comeuppance and the strictness of Pip and Bets’ parents was certainly relatable.

I enjoyed mystery and adventure, but at eleven, my mind was yearning without knowing it for something a little more serious. Finding that first Agatha Christie is how, I imagine, a long-dormant seed feels as the first rain of the season tickles its hard coat. It awakes to something wonderful. To the smell of damp earth and burrowing worms. To a world alive with decay and rebirth.

From that spring, I moved to summer—devouring murder mysteries with a passion at every waking moment. Hidden inside my chemistry textbook, fighting back headaches on the jolty bus ride home, under the dimness of the 5W lightbulb long after bedtime.

Winter comes every year, sometimes coinciding (delightfully) with actual winter in Bengaluru when all I want is a comfortable puzzle mystery. Sometimes an old favourite, sometimes a cozy that I end up exasperated with, and sometimes, a find that opens up new rabbit warrens to disappear down.

Autumn came in the past decade, when I began thinking about detective fiction more deeply, paying attention to the characters and their inner worlds, and even more to the lives of the authors. It also saw the birth of this newsletter.

In my very first episode¹, I wrote about the many reasons to read detective fiction. What I didn’t mention was the serendipity of finding the right book in the right season of life. A weed no one meant to sow but which grows wild anyway. And sometimes, that can be the most beautiful of all. 🌺

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Find your next good read here:

• Seasons of Change by Devayani Khare, Geosophy

• Bengaluru Weather: Our Greatest Love Affair by Vikram Chandrashekar, Vikram’s Substack

• The deck of Seasons by Siddarth RG, Siddarth’s Newsletter

• #10 On Seasons By Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana

• Seasons of Change by Aarti Krishnakumar

• Festival Season by Rakhi Kurup , Rakhi’s Substack

• One Long Summer Afternoon by Mihir Chate, Mihir's Substack

• In Glory of Monsoon and Love by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wanderings of a Wanderer

• Over and over by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think

• How to steal a summer by Sailee Rane, Sunny climate stormy climate

• Seasons will come and go by Priyanka Sacheti, A Home for Homeless Thoughts

• A rain song that makes you wonder what season it is by Eshna Benegal, The Deep Cut

• What I Remember by Avinash Shenoy, Off the walls

• Phobjikha by Ayush, Ayush’s Substack

1. I should probably call this an issue but I like the idea of naming my newsletters the way TV shows are named—with series and episode numbers. So, episode it is.