The ancient house

The sweeping edifice stood there, proud and erect and undaunted by time. Though covered in mosses and hanging loops, the ceiling-height doors adorned in intricate floral patterns and bay windows guarded by curved window grills epitomized aristocracy. Maybe years ago, the elites had dined there in merry times. Mr. Gupta had always loved this long forgotten relic and basked in pleasure whenever he beheld it, sipping his morning teas. At dawn, when the rays of the sun kisses the beautifully lined and dotted surface; it glows red with love. The first morning Mr. Gupta had witnessed this sumptuous glow he thought that he would go blind in its glory. On several occasions, he had taken a detour by the paddy field with a flashlight and an iron rod for companions to quench his curiosity of this mysterious relic. Who could blame him? Everyone in his vicinity was curious of this rare work of art but preferred to believe the rumors and gossips to certitude. His curiosity of what lay inside, why it was abandoned and why no one not even the government had claimed it for decades heightened as the years went by. The door huge, heavy and curved out of large rocks had made him feel like a Marquette on his numerous impetuous tours. Of course he could not push them open, though no lock known to the modern clans were ever found. He assumed that no one had succeeded to enter its chambers else who would desert such a magnificent architectonic heritage? The only discovery he ever made on his tours was an inscription on the rounded bolt written 1780 followed by unknown inscriptions weathered with age.

Maybe the lady and the lord of the adorned palace had a princess whose beauty was sung by poets. Maybe men from east to the far west had heard this song of the belle of a distant land and wished for her in their dreams and heart. Maybe a man as strong as the storm had fought a valiant fight against all other man and took her away to a faraway land. Maybe she could never again set her foot in the adorned palace; the lady and the lord gripped with grief had bolted the doors and hanged themselves to death. Perhaps the place still belonged to a descendant of the princess and the man of that far away land.

Or perhaps on a faithful night, the burglars had raided the adorned palace with shovels and knives and muskets of the crew. Maybe the men and soldiers had a tight fight and fought with all their might but lost in the melee. Perhaps the women had scurried and gathered and wept over their dead husbands, brothers and fathers and bolted the doorway and entered the pyre. And the thieves gained neither a dime nor lass.

**

I walked long and far, only to pause near a lake or a patch of green overgrowth. The stars twinkled above my head and the sun shone through the day. I saw a lady in a pink gown tip-toeing in her car, the door held wide for her to pass. I saw a boy scratching his head, his tired brown eyes looking hither and yon and cheering that his apples were the best in the land. I saw a toddler sobbing for a teddy, her mother looking stressed scrabbling through her bag. I saw many things but I could not recall when last I saw a face that was my own and was engulfed in a loving embrace. I looked far and wide and then I tripped my face down; the concrete road hit my face. The bottles in my bag rattled beside me. I settled by the road; my slippers were torn. Men, women and children alike gave me repugnant look and kept a wide berth as they went on about their business. I packed away my withered slippers and moved on my journey, a never ending tour. I walked on far and wide my feet torn and covered in dirt, a lone bench by a stream caught my eye and I sat on it to rest and sleep. I dreamed of a humble abode engulfed by green and leafy food. I woke and wished for once my dream to be true. I walked again with bleeding toes and wobbly knees. I walked for hours and crossed miles but was then stunned with what I saw. There stood my humble abode covered in green leafy trees, fruits hanging hither and tither. The gates creaked and squeaked with unuse and a vine had grown on the right. Slowly I approached my red quarters and turned the bolt from 1780. The door jammed with rust and dirt remained resolutely shut. I lay there on the silky floor of the veranda. Oh! It was so much better than the road and the bench.

**

My nanna chased me to and fro; bowl in hand that had veggie soup. ‘Nanna I hate veggies and soups’ I protested and climbed on the wooden cardboard. ‘Come down darling’ she said ‘you will grow fast and strong if you finish your veggie soup.’ I moved my head left and right like a mad elephant in fright and stomped my feet on the wooden board ‘ I am already strong’ I said. ‘Come down darling, finish your soup or your mommy shall make you eat with force’ ‘No, no’ I said ‘I am strong and I will run away like a cheetah.’ Nanna’s cheeks lined with age suddenly locked with serious rage and her stance became rigid, she said ‘I will call the spook that lives in that broken home’. My eyes moistened and I climbed down the cardboard and plead to Nanna not to call the spook. My Nanna agreed and made me drink spoonfuls of soup that tasted like muck. I made a face and asked my Nanna ‘How do you know a ghost resides in the broken house Nanna? My Nanna told me it is a long forgotten tale of a girl and her maid.

Long, long ago in the 1780s the girl and her maid dwelled in that house and shared their tales of sorrow and love. Two good friends but one maid one landlady, one toiled and the other explored places and men of different cultures and different tastes. One had silk gowns and glass slippers while the other had only two tattered wrappers. A demon was born in the maid’s heart; we call this demon 'the demon of jealousy'. Days and years went by, the girl had met many fancy friends and traveled some distant lands. The maid only ever cleaned the nooks and corners of the house and cooked meals to serve. The demon told to the maid’ it’s your house, you own it as you love and cherish this place and clean it good.’ The demon had grown in years and now overpowered the maid. So, one dark starry night the maid took a knife from the kitchen shelf and plunged it in the girl’s gut. The girl shocked and grieved by her death at her beloved’s hand, never left the place. She lives there, a ghost of the broken home and carries children who climbs on boards and fails to finish their soups.