After she left I spent a few quiet moments in my warehouse. I made some big decisions in my head. As I locked the door and walked away, I knew I would not sell it.
***
The next morning, I began cleaning the warehouse in earnest. I was on all fours, scrubbing away, when I noticed the ticking from the clock in the back room grow extraordinarily loud and reverberate in my head. I ignored it, but the more I scrubbed the louder the ticks seemed to get. I let it go on for a while.
‘That’s it,’ I finally said aloud and pointed a dirty rag at the clock, ‘you’re coming off that wall and going straight in the bin.’ I marched to it and tried to pry it off the wall, but it did not budge. It was attached dead straight against the plaster. I pulled and pried with my fingers, but move, it would not. While I was there, I noticed a carved symbol in the wooden outer-case on its side. It looked like some sort of insignia. I walked to the other side and tried to move it, with no luck.
I let out an angry grunt and decided to come back later with a wrench or hammer. Strangely, the ticks seemed to get softer the closer I was to it. It was nearly lunch time and I needed to head home to change and get to my afternoon classes. I didn’t give it much more thought.
I looked around one last time before I left. My morning cleaning had made it marginally better. But what was I going to do with it? And why had Uncle Varun left it to me to decide? I closed the door with these questions orbiting like cartoon birds around my head.
Chapter 3
For the next few weeks I had no time to think about the warehouse, completing my second year at uni took all my time. Our handful of aspiring anthropology majors had what seemed like the most assignments to complete. I unwisely let mine pile up, but I knew I worked best under pressure, so I just churned them out. I spent my days in the library with my new study buddy William. He had joined my religion and society class mid-year and we often found ourselves in the same spot in the centrally heated library.
At last, we were done, and I was attending the big end of year get-togethers and looking forward to two months of glorious summer break. During uni breaks I usually worked part time in a music store at Highpoint shopping centre. It was a good way to boost my savings for when I studied.
In all this time I noticed that Neha had become increasingly agitated as the year progressed. She seemed perpetually irritable, but insisted she was okay when we asked. Megan and I knew something was wrong, our bubbly friend was not her usual self. Neha never kept quiet about anything for too long, so we retreated and waited for her to tell us when she was ready.
As predicted, two days later, shopping on Chapel Street before the end of year Christmas buying frenzy, she told us. Her parents had decided to start looking at eligible matches for her. Megan had laughed outright at the idea, but I knew it was more serious than that. I had an inkling about Indian parents and their marriage expectations. Plus it was badly affecting my friend.
Neha said she felt relieved when she finally told us. We wondered why she had kept it secret for so long. Ironically, now that the secret was out Neha would not shut up about it. Almost every conversation I had with her centred on the matchmaking pressures she had to endure.
A few days later, Neha called and I had yet another of those conversations.
‘Tell them you’re not ready!’ I finally said exasperated.
‘But they don’t understand! They live in another world. So bloody Indian!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being Indian!’ I exclaimed.
‘You know what I mean, Shalini. They are just so narrow-minded. Anyway what do you know about being Indian? You grew up in Dubai!’
‘And you grew up in Melbourne! That’s even further away from India.’
‘Geographical distance has nothing to do with it,’ Neha said with a sanctimonious sniff. ‘My parents live in a time capsule, like nothing has changed in their beloved homeland since they left a million years ago.’
‘Well you should tell them you don’t want to get married. They’ll understand.’ That sounded reasonable.
‘They kind of do, but they still insist on making me look at proposals. They say there’s no pressure, because I’m still young. But I know better, they want me to marry ASAP and give them a few grandkids. As if I’d want to marry some pimple faced I.T. geek from Bangalore…’
It went on like this for hours, until I made some excuse to go. I wanted to say at least you have parents who worry about you, but that would not be fair. Since Uncle Varun’s disappearance, I felt very alone in the world.
In any case, I had enough to think about, mainly, what to do with the warehouse? Maybe I could live in it? I was sitting on an old chair in the backyard of my little rented ground floor apartment. It was basic, but I liked it, especially the sunny kitchen with a door that opened into the miniature back yard with a northerly aspect. The idea of living in a damp warehouse by the river seemed less appealing.
What if I converted it to an office of some sort? Generate some income. But what did I need an office for? I thought about viable businesses. I had zilch experience.
I heard my mobile phone beep twice. There were two messages from Neha. ‘Call me when you get this’ and ‘Need to discuss new boy’. I groaned. I wanted to shake her and say, just agree to see someone for the hell of it! But I knew Neha did not want the decision to rest with her parents. Then, quite unexpectedly, I had an idea. What if the decision could be helped by going to a matchmaking agency? I knew about a few marriage agencies that were successful in India. What if I transported that idea? I could set up a matchmaking agency in my warehouse, the first in the western suburbs of Melbourne. I could run it more like a dating service. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. I called Neha excitedly.
‘Hey, Neha, what if I told you there was a matchmaking service you could use in Melbourne?’
‘Do you mean like a website? My parents are all over those anyway. I think they’ve looked at a zillion user accounts on shaadi.com.’
‘No I mean, like a matchmaking agency you could go to, in Melbourne, with your parents,’ I emphasised each word carefully.
‘I dunno. My mum says there aren’t too many eligible matches around,’ Neha said vaguely. ‘Apparently the Indian community here isn’t big enough or something. Hence the need for a tentacle like worldwide search online.’
‘Oh right.’ I considered what my friend said.
‘Why are you asking anyway?’
‘I just had an idea.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Tell me!’ Neha sounded excited.
‘Well I thought I could use the warehouse as an office. I thought it might be a good idea to set up a matchmaking or rather dating agency.’
Neha snorted. ‘As awesome as I think you would be at matchmaking, I would not trust an almost nineteen-year-old to make marriage decisions for me, and I can tell you now, neither would any Indian parent!’
I hadn’t considered my age as a hindrance, I knew I was mature for my years. ‘I could do it,’ I said defensively.
‘No way! You have to be at least fifty years old and annoyingly meddlesome,’ Neha sniggered.
‘But this would be a proper business. Not some random auntie recommending someone she saw at a party.’ She was starting to annoy me.
‘Well okay. But I still think people would not trust your baby face,’ Neha giggled, ‘besides, you’re not even married yourself. That’s not a very good selling point you know.’
‘Hmm, I didn’t think of that.’ I knew she was right. Then I had another thought, I was full of good ideas today. ‘What if the matchmaking service was for people that had trouble finding partners, so they had to use an agency to hook them up?’
Neha paused before she said, ‘What, like a missing limb or something?’
‘Not necessarily…’ I really hadn’t thought this through.
‘Ooh what about weirdos who like to dress up like zombies and hi
t on each other at the zombie ball?’
‘That would be a no.’ I instantly regretted discussing this with Neha.
‘Well I think that is a brilliant idea. You should start a zombie lover’s matchmaking agency.’ She chuckled down the phone. ‘You could include all sorts of unmentionable characters — why stop at zombies?’
‘Why indeed,’ I said grumpily. I wanted to end this conversation, or at least move on to something else. ‘Anyway enough about my crazy ideas, tell me what the latest is?’
An hour later with my head full of Neha man troubles and general gossip, I decided to do some baking which for me, was as close to therapy as I could stand. I had insane ideas for my warehouse running through my head…
So, like any non-insane person, I decided to avoid thinking about them for the rest of the day. Instead, I baked one of the most delicious pineapple upside-down cakes I have ever tasted.
Chapter 4
For the next two weeks, in between work shifts, I furnished my neglected warehouse with cheap second-hand furniture. I gave the walls two coats of Arctic White paint. The office started to slowly appear out of the old damp rooms.
One Saturday, I realised I left my laptop charger at the warehouse and went in to retrieve it. It was on this day that I saw the first newspaper, folded neatly on the oak desk I had placed in the bigger room. It stood out conspicuously in the sparse interiors. I picked it up curiously and read its name, ‘The Mythical Weekly’.
I skimmed through the headlines on the front page and didn’t recognise any of the people, places or events it referred to. I wondered how it got into my office. I looked around the room for any signs of disturbance. The bay window was intact and still as grimy as I had left it. There was no other way of getting into the warehouse, except through the front door, which had a lock that was untouched when I opened it earlier.
I read through the newspaper more thoroughly. It seemed to have no geographical focus though it didn’t seem like an Australian newspaper. The articles read oddly, about political deals being done in places I had never heard of, about an exclusive feeding zone treaty that had been signed between Albion and Confederatio Helvetica. There was also news about something called the Gorkhali men having a conference to decide on their future survival.
It made little sense. I stuffed it into my bag and took it home with me. I was disturbed by its sudden appearance in my office and wanted to get out of the building. Reading it in the afternoon sun, in my backyard with a cup of tea, made it seem less alarming. It was not a very big paper with only thirteen pages. There was an editorial section, and letters to the editor referring to previous news stories. It must be a serial publication. There were advertisements, one of which, for super heavy duty hair removal cream for “the creature within” disturbingly caught my eye. I read over the paper a few times. The more I read it, the more it seemed to be a newspaper for non-human readers. Its name should have given that away to me immediately.
I didn’t understand how this was possible. I thought someone was playing a very elaborate hoax on me. But who would do that and more importantly, why?
I came up with no answers.
On Monday morning I decided to go to the one place I could think of that might. I walked straight to Flemington council library and made a beeline for their mythology section. I carried the strange newspaper in my large canvas handbag. I spent a few hours poring over books about mythological creatures and the worlds they inhabited. I repeated this again on Tuesday. I came across a few terms that were in the newspaper. I highlighted them and made notes. Apparently Albion was the old name for England, and the Gorkhali men were yetis, or abominable snowmen, as if!
I was sitting on my usual table at the library on Wednesday afternoon, when a loud thud made me jump. I turned around and saw a book lying on the floor behind me. I picked it up and extended it back to the lady who had dropped it. She gave me a surprised look.
‘You dropped your book,’ I said. She took it from me silently.
I went back to my notes.
‘What are you reading?’ the lady asked, sitting down on the vacant chair beside me. She had a plump, friendly face and frizzy grey hair that radiated from her head in waves. She had a name badge which read “Roxanne”. She must be one of the librarians. I sheepishly explained my reading interests. Roxanne smiled and launched into a whole list of books I should read. She turned out to be extremely helpful and non-judgemental about my curiosity of the supernatural world.
‘Oh all the kids are into it these days,’ she said smiling.
‘Into medieval mythology?’ I was unconvinced.
‘Well, not so much the origins of the myths, but into the existence of supernatural beings. You know books about vamps and weres and other supernaturals are very popular.’
I nodded as I realised she was telling me what I already knew. After all, my own interest in supernaturals had begun this way.
‘Yes, I’ve always thought there is something in that. What’s the old saying? Out of the mouth of babes…I think there might be an ounce of wisdom and truth in this interest.’
Roxanne gave me hope. Maybe I wasn’t going crazy, and the newspaper sitting in my canvas handbag was not an indication of my escalating insanity.
I spent the day searching for the myths of wolf-men. I also searched for the origins of fairy myths and the one I found most terrifying — the vampire myths. The fact that every culture and country in the world had stories about these creatures only reinforced an idea that was slowly forming in my head. How could humans across the world, for many centuries, have similar experiences to record with these so-called fictional beings? I started to convince myself that perhaps they were not so fictional after all. It was a conclusion that seemed palatable to me. But would it be to anyone else?
I spoke to Roxanne about it at the end of the week.
‘Roxanne, do you think vampires and werewolves are real?’
‘Well, it’s hard to say. You know some people would argue about the use of the word real. What is reality anyway?’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.
I ignored her philosophical question. Instead I asked, ‘So, say hypothetically, I wanted to meet one, what do you think I should do?’ I waited with baited breath for what she would say next. I was anxious even though I sensed she was sympathetic to my wild ideas.
‘Shalini, you’re an intelligent girl, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’
That was not the response I was expecting. But then, I hardly knew what to expect.
The only thing I did know for certain was that the key to unlocking this puzzle was the newspaper that had mysteriously appeared in my warehouse.
Chapter 5
That evening, I went to the warehouse and looked around the large room, satisfied it was empty, except for the furniture and the annoying clock which refused to budge from the wall. I left it exactly like that. I felt a twinge of excitement in the pit of my stomach when I locked the door to leave.
The next morning, my hands shook as I let myself in. I rushed into the back room. And there it was, another newspaper, waiting for me in the same spot the previous newspaper had been. I began to read through it. It was in the same style it had been last week, only with different news items, editorials, breaking news about unruly Yakshas who had travelled across the border and were causing trouble in the forests of a place called Ayutthaya. There were more advertisements sprinkled throughout the paper. It was hard to believe anyone would carry out a second elaborate hoax.
I spent the rest of the day looking over the newspaper. I took extra interest in the advertisements. My fledgling plan hinged on those little printed grids of marketing material.
I picked up my mobile phone and dialled. I called Megan first, and asked her to call Neha. They agreed to meet me.
***
I was somewhat nervous when my friends arrived the next day. They peered suspiciously around the warehouse office. Neha sniffed the air and declared that at least it smelled better t
han the last time she had been there. I made them sit on the sofa I had placed in the large room and passed them each a copy of The Mythical Weekly. I let them silently flip through the papers for a while. Neha was the first to speak.
‘Are you starting a comic newspaper business?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t publish these newspapers. They just appeared in this room.’
‘What do you mean appeared?’ Megan asked sharply.
‘Well one day I walked into the room, locks untouched, no window broken or sign of forced entry, and found it sitting there on the sofa. Then this Saturday, another one appeared.’
‘Should we call the police?’ Neha said anxiously.
‘No, I don’t want to call the police.’ I decided to plunge into the deep end. ‘I want to tell you about an idea I’ve been working on.’ I hesitated and my friends looked at each other.
‘Right.’ I collected myself. ‘It started when Neha told me about her matchmaking troubles.’ I saw Neha bristle. ‘I thought to myself, why not start a matchmaking agency like they have in India…?’
Neha interrupted and looked at me pointedly as she said, ‘And I said it’s not a very good idea for obvious reasons.’
Megan looked silently at the two of us.
‘Yes, I know, but then these newspapers started to appear in the office and it was just,’ I paused to search for the right word, ‘just like someone was sending me a sign.’
‘A sign about what?’ Megan asked abruptly.
I spoke slowly and hesitantly. ‘A sign that maybe I should look into the possibility of starting a matchmaking agency for the supernatural world.’
There, I had said it.
My friends both listened in stunned silence.
Finally Neha spoke. ‘Is this because I had mentioned zombie lovers when you told me about your matchmaking agency plan? You know I was kidding right?’
The Lost Souls Dating Agency Page 2