My Aunt's Haunted House

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.

Self-defence

Another headache, another middle-of-the-night awakening. 3:15 AM. Jeevi looked at her clock with a tired feeling. When will she get a sleep without waking up before sunrise, without a headache? This was the second instance of a headache within the last ten days. In no mood to bear the headache any longer, she got off her bed, turned the light bulb on, and gulped down the paracetamol tablet from her side-table. Jeevi managed to get a decent two-hour sleep while listening to the odd melody of the jungle’s night creatures mixed with the light rain.

Jeevi was still tired when she reached the safari office at 5:30 AM. As a jungle safari guide, she had to make sure that her tourists’ papers were in order and the jeep was ready before the tour started half an hour later. The papers told her that today’s visitors were a young couple. That meant that the husband would try to showoff his knowledge about the jungle while the wife would act amazed at every trivial detail. She kept the papers in her backpack and walked towards her assigned jeep – thankfully, her safari was assigned to the newly employed and reticent, Nitesh.

“Nitesh bhai, ready?” she asked with a false cheer in her voice.

“Yes, but they are late,” he pointed at the jeep’s empty back seats. 

Jeevi was about to hurl an expletive when a man and a woman approached the jeep.

“Sorry for the delay,” the woman said. “We were caught in the paperwork.”

They both climbed the jeep and Jeevi couldn’t help but observe that the man was talking to the woman in sign language.

“Yes, I’ll tell them where to take us. Bukhara den first?” the woman asked Jeevi.

Jeevi felt slightly sorry for being judgemental about the man, climbed into the jeep and asked Nitesh to drive.

“Sorry, ma’am, we can’t go to the Bukhara side. It’s still monsoon and that area is forbidden,” Jeevi told the lady.

“Oh, right. The season’s prohibitions just slipped my mind,” the tourist said with a hint of disappointment. “I guess we won’t be seeing any tigers today,” she looked towards her husband who mirrored her sadness.

“There are tigers in other areas too,” Jeevi said. “Besides, the jungle is more than just tigers. There are so many beautiful trees, monkeys, deer…”

The man made a beak-shape with his hand and a chirping gesture. 

"Yes, the birds are wonderful too," said Jeevi.

“Jeevi madam will show you a tiger. She has a great record,” chipped in Nitesh.

Jeevi looked at him in surprise. It was no secret that in just two years of being on the job, she had helped tourists with the most tiger sightings but she hated the rivalry among safari guides.

“Let’s see if you brought some luck along,” said Jeevi.

After three and a half hours of roaming around, the tourists seemed to have found themselves unlucky. With just thirty minutes of the safari time left, they had given up on all hopes.

“Doctor sa’ab, you forgot to pack luck,” the lady teased the man.

A doctor… that got Jeevi thinking. If he could help her with her headaches.

“Nitesh bhai, please follow my directions,” she said.

As the driver slowed down, Jeevi made a twittering sound. The woman and the man looked at each other in surprise.  

“Are you mimicking a nighthawk?” asked the lady.

Jeevi continued making the twittering sound as she guided Nitesh towards a rather secluded part of the jungle.

“It’s a nightjar. I am surprised that you even know about nighthawks,” said Jeevi as she kept looking at the trees.

The lady realized that Jeevi was trying to listen to replies from other birds.

“It’s all thanks to the doctor,” said the lady pointing at the man, “He is a vet and has a special interest in birds. Are you actually talking to the birds?”

Even as Jeevi tried to listen to responses from the jungle and kept directing the jeep, her face bore a shadow of disappointment. So, the man was not really a doctor. “Not talking but, yes, something like that,” she said.

Eventually, they reached a dense area of the forest with a gentle brook running along. Jeevi stood up on her seat and motioned the tourists to do the same. A tigress was drinking water with her three cubs.

“Amazing!” whispered the lady. The man, too, had a look of excitement on his face. After about ten minutes, Jeevi said, “We need to leave. It’s closing hours.” She was contemplating about asking the doctor for help for her headache. But would a vet be of any help?

At the end of the tour, the couple offered to pay Jeevi and Nitesh. While Nitesh shyly accepted the reward, Jeevi said, “Madam, your husband is a doctor, isn’t he? May I ask him for some help?”

“Sure! What you did out there was splendid!” said the lady.

xxxx

During the month that followed, Jeevi acted on the doctor’s advice and noted everything that she did to track what triggered her headaches. She had still had them thrice in that month, the last one on the previous night. She was sitting at the desk in her room – writing her daily journal. She was thinking about the stupidity of the whole idea – wasting a month bearing bad sleep thanks to some silly advice from a vet. A commotion from the adjoining room broke her chain of thought. John, the Park In-charge, was arguing with some people.

“This is unacceptable. You said there would be no lapses,” Jeevi heard him shout.

Though she tried to listen in, she realized that they had lowered their voices. Jeevi had the advantage of the night's approaching darkness. She stepped outside and stooped near the window of John’s room.

“It’s even in the papers now. Count me out if you are going to be so careless. Now please leave,” John said.

What was in the papers? Jeevi rushed to the office canteen. She ordered a cup of tea, took the newspaper from the counter, and began looking for news about the jungle. It didn’t take her long to spot a report about the arrest of poachers carrying tiger skin and bones. She had heard faint murmurs of these incidents but could have never imagined that the problem lay so close. How could John be doing this?

As she was about to leave the canteen in a hurry, she stopped at the sight of the stack of old newspapers near the counter. She knew the exact dates that she was looking for. And once she was done with those three newspapers, she realised – her headaches had coincided with the dates of poaching incidents.

Later that night, Jeevi stepped out of her room.

xxxx

A few days later, she was assigned another safari with Nitesh.

“Jeevi madam! I was looking forward to talking to you. It all happened in the room next to yours. Didn’t you hear anything?” he asked.

“What can I say, Nitesh bhai? Seems like I am a sound sleeper,” Jeevi replied plainly.

“But why would a tiger kill John? And, that too, so brutally? We know they are swift, clean killers. How did he even enter his room?” Nitesh kept on asking the questions that were making the rounds within the jungle staff.

“Next time we meet a tiger, we will ask him, OK? Though, I'd call it self-defence,” Jeevi answered while smiling at the disappearance of her headaches.

A Flicker from the Past

 ‘The sales have been decent so far. If I could figure out how to convince more doctors to suggest my shop to their patients, the loan could be squared off faster. And then, the second store can’t be too far away…’

Like a typical lazy early evening, Sharad’s pharmacy had very few customers at this hour. To an onlooker, the forty-something-year-old owner would appear lost in watching the news on the small television set mounted on a corner shelf. Yet, it was the dream of conquering the bank loan and opening a second store that had kept Sharad’s mind busy.

It had been only twelve days since the opening of his pharmacy. Having slogged in a big city for the past twenty-odd years, he had earned enough to buy the shop next to the one that was once run by his late father. Laden with his father’s inventory and papers, the old store's cleaning seemed to be a never-ending task. Since taking over, Sharad had moved all the old things in the shop’s backroom. Now, the combined area of the two stores easily outdid most small pharmacy shops in Malapur.

In the first few days, Sharad was usually marred by doubts about having returned from the big city. His father’s sudden death – ironically a fatal heart-attack right in the store – was the root of suspicions among relatives and friends about Sharad’s return. (“At least do a pooja at that wretched place,” “Always keep a lit diya in the shop’s East corner,” and so on.) Sharad paid no attention to these mindless suggestions. His only concern was the looming shadow of the loans. However, his meetings with the doctors in the neighbourhood and the subsequent rising sales had replaced these doubts with the musings of opening a second store. And Sharad knew exactly where his second store would be. Wasn’t that the whole point of his return?

The current location was not where Sharad’s father had first started his pharmacy business. Around forty years ago, he had started in a store adjoining the clinic of Dr. Khadse. He had bought the store fair-and-square from the Khadse family with an unwritten agreement about the mutually beneficial arrangement between the doctor and a pharmacist. As Dr. Khadse reaped the benefits of being among the first few doctors in a small town, Sharad’s father’s pharmacy bloomed as well. Yet, the thorns of misfortune were not far for both the families.

Sharad paid no attention to these things from the past (or so he said to others). The number of doctors in Malapur had increased gradually, and along with them, the pharmacies too had witnessed a stiffer competition among themselves. He trusted his selling skills from the big city experience to outdo his peers. Throughout the day, his relatives’ inputs about the shop and his father kept lingering on in his mind.

The Khadses had only one daughter – Vaishali. Unlike her father, she was not cut out for the medical profession. After graduation, she was married off to a businessman in a bigger city. Unfortunately, the marriage fell through and Vaishali returned to Malapur.

To accommodate her better (“It was only to pocket the pharmacy’s profits!”), the Khadses had asked Sharad’s father to vacate his shop. When he refused, Dr. Khadse used his connections with the town’s higher ups, got a notice issued regarding the shop’s illegality, and had it confiscated. A year later, Vaishali was promptly seen running the pharmacy, all the legal hassles now taken care of.

When he returned to Malapur, Sharad knew he had to approach a bank to be able to set the shop up and procure enough stock. But to his surprise, he also had to seek help from a few friends. Though they were kind enough to support him, he knew that it did not take long for a business to dip and people to turn foes. He wondered how his father would have approached the period of uncertainty back then.

After the setback of the first shop’s seizure, Sharad’s father had moved his shop to another locality, where he had breathed his last. Though Sharad did not know all the details, he knew how people said that it was the Khadses who were responsible. (“His life was still in that first store. Once that was taken away, he had no reason...”) Years had passed. Dr. Khadse and his wife were themselves no more. Yet Sharad wanted to buy that particular store. It was just Vaishali living in the Khadse house now and she had even closed that pharmacy shop. Whenever Sharad had cravingly passed through that lane, he noted the dead look that the house bore along with a board arrogantly saying, “Not for sale or rent.” (“Why would she? Her father has earned so much from the clinic and the pharmacy. Your dad’s pharmacy.”)

Just as Sharad continued to stare at the television, he realized that Chatpat was already sitting in the store’s modest visitor bench. A silent kid of 10-12, Chatpat had started coming to the store right from its first day. The kid had refused to answer any of Sharad’s questions but had taken the Chatpat candy Sharad had kept on the counter. Sharad couldn’t help but notice that the child always carried a kite string wrapped around the fingers of his right hand. Amused, Sharad had named the kid after the candy itself.

“It’s quite hot today, isn’t it?” Sharad tried.

Chatpat kept looking at the television.

“Why do you keep that kite string in your hand? Where is the kite?” Sharad tried again, this time with a small chuckle.

Nothing. Sharad realized it was futile to get a word out of the kid. Almost out of habit, he took a candy out from the jar and kept it on the counter.

It was quite usual for kids in the neighbourhood to walk into stores to watch television. Yet, Sharad wondered whom the unfortunate kid belonged to. Though his neat clothes hinted at affluence, the lack of footwear made a contrary suggestion. Just then, Chatpat had decided that he had had enough of the news, picked the candy from the store counter, and walked off.

As more customers buzzed in later in the day, Sharad was lost in the tedium of reading the prescriptions, dispensing the medicines, printing the invoices, and receiving the cash. A glance at the day’s collection at the end of the closing hour suggested that it had been a good day’s work.

Sharad kept the day’s last half hour to take a walk down the memory lane of his father’s papers. Every night, he switched on the backroom’s only lightbulb and went through the now dusty records. He trusted to find some sort of enlightenment hidden in his father’s experiences – a way out from his anxiety. He had no interest in the invoices, purchase orders, and tax receipts and trashed them out daily. But he was thrilled to read the handwritten notes randomly filed here and there. Seemingly keen to keep a thorough record, his father was clearly not an organized man (or was there a method to this madness?) Some notes talked about his musings (“Pharma factory?” “Bigger house?”) while others were wicked confessions (“Talked to Mrs. Gupta today. She liked my shirt,” “Sold expired cough syrups. Good riddance!”)

Sharad stumbled across a file with newspaper clippings. The first few were small articles about the inauguration of his store and testified to how much he loved his business. After a lean period of a few years, the clippings talked about his legal case with the Khadses. After the clipping about his inauguration of the new store, Sharad found a written note, unmistakably in his father’s hand. (“Bribed their housekeeper to keep an iron rod on the terrace next to the electric wires. Sweet revenge!”)

Though Sharad was taken aback by this note, he turned it over to find a folded newspaper clipping. “Sadness loomed large in town’s renowned Khadse family as Jayesh, the 11-year grandson of Dr. Prakash Khadse, passed away in an accident last evening. Jayesh was playing on the terrace of the house and apparently used a metallic rod to get a kite stuck in the high-voltage electric cables…” Sharad unfolded the newspaper clipping. The smiling picture of Chatpat stared back at him.