The problem
with having a head full of ideas is that it takes time to find a true diamond–
the one idea that fits the bill of the world, the winner in the haystack, the
eye of the bull, as they say. While I was struggling to find such an idea in
the stack in my head, it was becoming tough to meet the comforts that suited my
taste. There was a struggle to consume coffee when needed and it was a pinch to
buy movie tickets at will.
Aunt
Vyjanti, my guardian and a mini-bank of sorts, figured out my woes. One lazy
Sunday, as I was lost in a movie magazine, learning about the wonderful lives
of those glitzy superstars, she simply snatched the publication out of my hand.
“What good
is this going to do?” she asked with an irritation that was so unsuited to a
rich woman with a loaded portfolio. “You can never be like these actors unless
you put some effort into being something.”
“I am
something, Aunt Vyjanti. A strategist, if you have heard of those people. Just
got to put the wheels into motion and one of these days, I’m going to strike
gold,” I said as I rose off the couch and began walking towards the kitchen. A
tired brain needs more fuel on Sundays, I feel.
“Stop right
there. No more of this strategy and wheels that refuse to move. You are to pack
your bags and go to Sapnapur,” she said with a needless weight of drama, what
with one hand outstretched and all.
“And what
am I to do in Sapnapur?” I asked as I opened the jar of cookies on the dining
table and took a bite. They’ve began adding too much salt in these, I realised.
“I have a
flat there. And it needs a caretaker. You can try to be useful there,” she said
while giving me a note. I saw that it was an address of one Hilly Heights
Apartments.
“Then you
must hire a caretaker. I have a degree in business, not in housekeeping,” I
tried to return the piece of paper.
“Consider
it a business of housekeeping then. Pack your bags. I will pay an amount
sufficient to manage the house every month starting today,” she began walking
off.
“On top of
my monthly allowance, you mean?” These things better be in writing but I
trusted Aunt Vyjanti.
“For now,
your monthly allowance includes the house. I will decide later whether you get
an additional sum or not. Do not disappoint me this time,” she walked off to
her room without caring to listen what a massive pinch this arrangement
was.
To float in
this world’s woes, one must grab on to any supporting straw. So, I pocketed the
flat’s address, packed my bags, and began towards Sapnapur. Of course, Aunt
Vyjanti wouldn’t need that film magazine and jar of cookies so off they went
into my hand bag.
I had been
to Sapnapur a few times as a kid. It was a sleepy little town with farms in the
vicinity. Over the years, people had sold their land to house office spaces for
the IT crowd. That meant upcoming malls and multiplexes. The Sapnapur flat
suited Aunt Vyjanti just fine. It was, what they call, a two-storeyed duplex
occupying the top floors of the thirteen-floored Hilly Heights Apartments. But
like everything Aunt Vyjanti’s persona, it was in shambles - dusty floors, worn
out carpet, and suffocating. So, I clicked a few pictures and sent them to Jaya
- “Too much damage. Needs urgent attention. Send immediate help.” Jaya was Aunt
Vyjanti’s assistant and my vending machine that rarely worked. Aunt Vyjanti was
too unbothered to carry her own phone and so Jaya was my go-to when it came to
distant talks. She immediately saw the message and after some time replied with
a thumbs-down emoji. Communication from Jaya was either the ka-ching sound of
money hitting my bank account (e.g. “Need bail money for friend and self.
Arrested for a street brawl.”) or a thumbs-down (e.g. this case). Once, I had
tried to bribe Jaya with a percentage of my earnings but she had sent a string
of angry face emojis. Like boss like assistant. So, Aunt Vyjanti’s advance was
to cover cleaning up this mess. Not a great start.
I talked to
the neighbours, gathered some workers, and made the place habitable. And then…
well, then I had no clue what to do. Two weeks of relaxation zoomed by. My top
floor machinery was well-greased and running. Hadn’t Aunt Vyjanti called this a
business? And so, I decided to make it one.
I
absolutely hated clickety-clacketing my laptop but that was what the hour
needed. A man needs his movies and coffees, doesn’t he? Researching upon how to
run the business of online house renting, I learned that spaces like these
might attract bigger coins if they’re designed for leisure. That meant picking
a theme and offering a certain experience.
Hilly
Heights was around forty years old. Though it was in a decent neighbourhood,
the area wasn’t in the prime of the city. The front street was poorly lit and
the apartment itself was hardly occupied. Dogs barking aimlessly at night gave
the setting a final touch of sadness. And so, I decided upon the theme of a
haunted house. More rap-tapping on the laptop and I knew what the house needed
– a few old dolls stuffed in one room, a hidden switch that triggered the sound
of a baby crying, creaking doors, I got it all in. I gathered a few members of
the staff who readily agreed to stay in the house and give the guests some
hibbies here and a few jibbies there. Nothing too scary – one religious dude in
the living room summoning the devil, a tarot card reader lady in the dining
room foreboding someone’s ghastly death, and a few more unsettling settlers.
Once listed
on the internet, “My Aunt’s Haunted House” (ha!) found guests crawling in for
the thrills. Acting as the manager, I got them to sign a document that got rid
of my obligations – you never know how a person would act in a scary setting.
After a few days, my bank account began to look livelier, coffee began to flow
freely, and movies were not a thing of the past. The stocks of the venture were
skyrocketing.
One
evening, my phone chimed with Jaya’s five-word horror text, “She’s reaching
tonight at 8,” stared back at me. A string of question marks popped up in my
head but there was no point in countering the inevitable. All I could do before
Aunt Vyjanti’s arrival was to get rid of the board on the door. And then, the
wheels in my head turned. Unlike those guests, Aunt Vyjanti was not going to be
aware about the hauntedness of this house. That ought to take care of her.
I left a
“Terrible tummy ache. Off to sleep early. House helpers to assist,” note stuck
on the door for Aunt Vyjanti. The house staff began catering to her right from
the moment she stepped in. Even from my room, I imagined how she would have
reacted to the entire show. She would have let out a little scream when a man
with a melting face (mask!) picked her bag. When he offered her our welcome
drink of “Fresh blood from a sacrificed wolf,” (cranberry juice!) she would
have struggled her urge to throw up. The shock of receiving blood (beetroot
juice!) from the tap would have made her shudder. The red light in her room
highlighting the big cobweb with a bat hanging next to it would have made it
difficult for her to sleep. So she would decide to leave right away.
As I kept
thinking about the sequence unfolding, the front door thud shut. So, she had
fled! And with much merriment and excessive excitement, I rushed out of my
room. The welcome drink glass lay spilled on the carpet with the cobweb looking
sad and diminished next to it. And there stood Aunt Vyjanti.
“Get rid of
these toys and idiots at once!” she yelled.
I looked
questioningly at the tarot card reader lady standing next to Aunt Vyjanti. “She
slapped the melting face guy and threw him out,” she said in an apologetic
tone. That explained the sound of the door shutting.
The house felt truly haunted now – occupied by the ghosts of my dead coffee desires and movie trips.
