by Anubha Mehta
When she stopped to take her next mouthful, I blurted my main question directly to her: “So, Mom, who lives in the west wing?” She stopped chewing and slowly swallowed the oversized piece of chicken on her fork. With my eyes, I followed the lump of food moving down her gullet. She placed her fork on her plate and shot a look at her husband. I knew that I was on to something. I continued, “Today I was thinking of advising Ram on what to plant for next spring, but then I saw that the west side also needed some gardening. So, I thought of walking down the path to explore the other side. I saw a black key labelled the ‘west wing’ hanging in the pantry. Maybe tomorrow—”
I was cut short again. Except this time her voice was pitched with anxiety. “Maya, let me tell you this once: no one from our side ventures to the west wing. I forbid it.” Then she softened and lowered her voice. “It is uninhabited and crumbling; it is not safe. The key in the pantry does not work. Now that Veer is out of town, we don’t want you in any trouble, do we?”
I nodded to her, but I was not listening. I had all the information I needed. My plans were already made.
9. SHEILA
I HAD TO GET AWAY FROM Maya-Beti and her questioning. I was walking too fast and out of breath. It was too much for me to answer.
Why was Maya-Beti asking so many questions? Had she guessed something? I couldn’t answer her questions. The look that I saw in Maya-Beti’s eyes was not just curiosity, it was determination. Determination to find out more. This is what I had feared since she arrived. Ahhh ... pressing my palms on my knees helps this grinding pain....
Many years ago, I saw and felt similar emotions within her in the same house.
I knew that Maya-Beti was a different person, different than her. But there were many ways in which Maya-Beti was like her. They same look, the same free spirit, and the same sense of abandon, and misfortune. And yet, there were many more ways in which Maya-Beti was not like her at all. Unlike her, Maya-Beti likes our Master Veer, her joyful spirit and laughter lingers in the air long after she has left the room.
For her, a silent grudge always followed everywhere. This became her misfortune and destroyed this family. I had seen her pain, her quiet tears, and her helplessness. I knew how she had suffered.
Suddenly, my throat went dry. That old itch in my gullet was back. Even honey and basil would not cure this.
It felt like her long fingers were winding around my throat. I knew she was angry with me for not telling her secret. She wanted me to tell everyone what had happened to her and I had failed her. It was a burden that I had been carrying for a long time. Yes, I had to get rid of this burden before I died. I would have to tell someone, anyone.
Where was my rosary? I had hidden it in the little tin box in the last drawer of the hutch.
The clock struck eight in the foyer. Nothing more could be done tonight. I pulled my aching body to a standing position by holding on to the ledge near the stove. The crispness of cold water from a stainless steel glass cut the itch in my throat and pumped life back into me.
My mind was clear. I knew what I had to do. I had to wait for this dark night to pass and then in the morning I would go straight to Maya-Beti ’s room and stop her from entering the west wing. For that, if I had to, I would reveal the dark family secret that I was carrying. And if she still wanted to go, then I wouldn’t let her go alone. For god only knew what lay in waiting in the west wing.
Yes, yes … this was exactly what I had to do.
10. MAYA
THE CRESCENT MOON still peeked from under dark clouds, but I knew it was time to go as the first crack of crimson had already summoned the breaking of dawn. I slipped into an old pair of jeans and faded runners, and grabbed a torch for my back pocket. Thankfully, the nauseating giddiness had not returned. The house was quiet as always. From the garden window, through the mist, I saw the outline of a crouched figure walking toward our bedroom. Or was that just my imagination? I knew that soon Sheila would be back to check on me. I had a nagging suspicion that she had already guessed my plan. But I would not allow anyone to spoil what I was setting out to do. Not even Sheila. So, instead, I snuck out of the dressing room back door. It opened into the cobbled alley near the servant quarters. I followed it to the lawn, climbed over the balcony, and finally reached the pantry. The rusty black iron key that I needed was hanging mutely among the other loud kitchen cabinet keys. I swiftly removed it from the hook, inhaled deeply, and stepped out on to the dark path to explore the forbidden west wing of Veer’s mansion.
The path was winding and slippery, choked with thick green moss. A burst of intoxicating fragrances enveloped me. Wild rose bushes crept over obstinate branches of mulberry and mandarin trees, and towering eucalyptus lined up like soldiers guarding the boundary wall. There was a maze of dense flowering creepers growing in untamed patterns and trees that I didn’t recognize. The loose red gravel under my feet was noisy, announcing my arrival with every step. I stopped periodically to see if someone was following me. But there was only the sound of a murmuring breeze singing a duet with the rhythm of my feet.
The borders of my path widened into an oval driveway identical to ours in the east wing except that it was covered with dark roots. Two red-stone lion statues guarded a flight of silent, chipped stone stairs at their base. The perfect and daunting symmetry of the guarding lions was strangely balanced by red boulders at the front entrance.
I started my climb to the towering wrought iron door. The wind behind my back swished past my ears, hauling me up.
Come!
Was someone there? I turned again to check. No, I was alone.
The heavy iron key fit perfectly into the dark rusted bolt, but it did not open the door. I hesitated.
I could choose to turn back to the protection of the east wing, to the safety of a confined life, or I could choose to open the door, risk everything that I had taken for granted, and uncover something that had been sealed for a reason, and which perhaps had the power to change my life forever.
What a foolish dramatic thought! How ridiculous of me. Of course, I had to move on. I was a prisoner of my own curiosity no matter what the stakes.
I pushed against the door hard with my shoulder, and it finally creaked open to an opaque darkness. The smell of pungent mildew was overwhelming. I immediately switched on my torch and started walking on a carpet of thick untouched dust stretching beyond the reach of the torch beams.
Suddenly I no longer felt buoyant. An odd and eerie sense enveloped me with the feeling of being a trespasser, of disturbing the peace. This house belonged to another era, and it had been sealed with the aura and emotions of the people who had lived in the house at that time. And from what I could sense, these were not happy sentiments.
The echo of a breeze followed me in and whistled down the corridor into the darkness. My mind no longer buzzed with questions. I felt like an empty vessel waiting to receive whatever came out of the darkness toward me.
Guided only by the beam of my torch, I slowly inched down the corridor. I opened and entered a door on the left. It was a small room mostly occupied by a one-armed reclining divan and a square ottoman at its base. How puzzling. What could possibly have been the purpose of such a room? And then I remembered from a school history lesson. This was a fainting room! I had read about these. It was a Victorian tradition and an acquired custom by a few Indian élite. I imagined ladies stopping to quieten their nerves, fuss, gossip, freshen up, and loosen their corsets or petticoats.
A little ahead, the corridor opened up into a large golden hall. Through the carpet of dust, I could see old parquet floors. The walls were carved with antique French boiseries, and mantles decorated with oxidized sconces that were mounted over glittering stucco archways. The morning rays streaming through the high windows were igniting the carved gilded panels. A very large crystal chandelier hung from its cathedral ceiling as a crowned centrepiece. I looked up and felt like
I had reached heaven. The towering roof was painted in palettes of luminous pale blues, apple greens, aureolin yellows, oranges and pinks, depicting intricate, ornamental patterns, saints with halos, and angels with magnificent wings.
I stood spell-bound in the splendour of this room, and of the entire era. Where had I seen such splendour before? I closed my eyes to think. I suddenly knew. In a picture book about Marie Antoinette, in a ballroom at Versailles. The echo of Mozart’s string quartet in D Major ribboned through a multitude of dancing gowns that swirled under sparkling lights. My stomach rumbled with the roasted aromas from the grill where dinner was being prepared. I was one with this room and all that it held.
The earlier feeling of gloom had subsided. I was now being pulled by sheer wonder. Wading through the dark with a wobbly torch, I reached an ornate cast-iron staircase with a dusty brass railing in the middle of a rotunda. I couldn’t see the ceiling.
My unsatisfied heart did not listen to my head, as always. I had to see more. Dark dust from the cold brass handrail settled on my palm as I clutched it tightly and started climbing the stairs. The interconnected motifs of a faded Persian hall rug were still partially visible as I arrived on the top floor landing.
Where was I? Who had lived here? Who were these people?
I inhaled and then exhaled several times. Deep breaths calmed my heartbeat. I moved on.
The first door creaked open to reveal a replica of the library of our east wing. It had a carved mahogany desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves lined with leather-bound manuscripts, all catalogued to perfection. An empty jewelled ivory photo frame on the desk stared at me. If only it could talk, I would have coaxed it to tell me the story of its missing photograph. A musty aroma hung in mid-air but the padding of the upholstered armchairs was still cushiony. Wait! I heard something. A movement. Was somebody there? Was that an imprint on the cushioned armchair opposite me? A pile of dusty books were scattered in front of a blackened stone fireplace. My hand shook as I picked up the one on the top. I blew off grey dust from its cover, and the title surprised me. A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway, the very first edition! I lay it down quickly in fear of alarming the owners of this place. I was sure that someone was watching me, whether in person or in spirit. And then my eyes fell on the second book in the pile. Young India, by Lala Lajpat Rai. With wobbly fingers, I opened the book and read: …If the English rule in India meant the canonization of bureaucracy, if it meant perpetual domination and perpetual tutelage, and increasing deadweight on the soul of India, it would be a curse to civilization and a blot on humanity.... I scrambled though the rest of the pile and noticed that all the books were published before 1945. I imagined people sitting in front of the fire, with their neatly manicured fingers clutching gin and tonic glasses as firmly as their loyalty to their issues and debates. I had just walked through a time machine into a forgotten world, a world that had seen the struggles and turmoil of the great Indian Freedom Movement and the partition of India and Pakistan. The room may have harboured secrets of business meetings, espionage, and war, and other secrets that were waiting to be told through every object that was looking down on me.
I dragged myself out of there and moved on. The dark corridor led to another room, a room like no other. A room of windows! The roof and the walls were made out of glass, open to the sky above and overlooking into the garden below.
So this is what a trapped bird in a cage felt like from the inside.
Something caught my eye. It was an odd shape and covered with a clump of faded fabric. I pulled at the cloth and dry, itchy dust jetted into my nostrils.
I sneezed several times. Between my sneezes, my head turned to see a most unexpected treasure lying in the corner. It was a long-necked tanpura and a large harmonium. Oh my God! These were two magical instruments of the classical Indian music world. Instinctively, my pointer touched the string of the tanpura and I was transported back to my school days when I played something similar, the Sitar. Suddenly I felt connected with the spirit of this room. The edgy sharpness of the tanpura’s chords were padded with the sticky grime of decades, but the acoustics of its celestial echo overpowered any gloom that lingered in the air.
So someone in Veer’s family was a musician, but who?
Still thirsty for answers, I tore away from the room and went back into the dark corridor. My torch started flickering. Maybe it was time to turn back. But something was pulling me ahead. I had the feeling that I was on the brink of a revelation. Something was waiting for me. Between the flickers, I suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the corridor had narrowed, caving into me. I hit my torch with my palm to steady its beam. And then I could see that there was a wall in front of me. The corridor had ended. A dead end? No, that could not be. My feet kept pulling me ahead in the darkness. I had almost reached the end…. But, it wasn’t the end, it was a corner. I turned sideways and faced a pair of tall, prohibiting double doors.
Without a second thought, I tugged at the doors and walked in.
A room of mirrors!
This was a house of surprises. My head spun and the dizziness that I had successfully evaded until that moment started creeping back.
There were mirrored closets that lined the walls of the room.
A cold draught that had been following me from the corridor entered the room and I felt the temperature drop. I shivered. My flickering torch fell from my hand and died. I fumbled for a light switch on the wall, but in vain. The darkness was complete. I was trapped tightly inside it.
I talked to my curiosity. What was this room for?
It had to be a dressing room for the mysterious absentee mistress of the mansion. And then, as if to answer my question, I saw something flash in the darkness Were my eyes playing tricks on me? I was certain I had seen some light ahead. In pitch darkness, I started moving slowly toward this imaginary light.
But the room was empty. I stopped, defeated. I turned around and decided I had to go back.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it again. The flash. I thumped my torch, hoping that would rescue me. Something heard my plea, but it was not my torch. From within the mirrors the room was suddenly softly lighted, like when one holds a candle high up to the ceiling in a dark room. I could see myself standing in the centre of the room looking into the mirrors again. I was smiling. But I didn’t remember smiling. I remembered shaking. I looked again. No, here in the mirrors, I was smiling. Something was very wrong here. I looked closer. It was not a very nice smile. It was not a smile I had ever seen on myself before. The smile was sharp and shrewd. I didn’t recognize myself. No, this was not me … this was someone else.
Why was this woman now lying down? There were thick, rough hands with chipped fingernails clasped tightly around her throat. I saw a throbbing vein in the middle of her forehead, just like the vein on Veer’s forehead that throbbed when he was distressed. The woman’s eyes were wide, as if inviting what was going to happen next. The claw-like grip of those coarse knuckles grew tighter, and her forehead veins were ready to burst. Her mouth curved up at the edges to reveal the depths of her malice. Until she could smile no more. She lay still, very still. He had killed her! I tasted warm salty tears on my lips and came back to the darkness. I was going mad. What had just happened? What had I seen?
I sat down on the cold dusty floor. I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I didn’t care if the evil in the room consumed me. I only cared about what happened to the woman in the mirror. Her eyes … beautiful doe eyes, not in pain, but in hope … hope of a release… finally being fulfilled … and then stone-cold evil. I could not get those eyes out of my head.
My mother’s voice was calling me, “Maya! Maya, come in from the cold. Veer is here to get you.”
Veer’s smiling hazel eyes look down on me. I am lying on a rose-strewn pillow and now Sheila’s voice: “Maya-Beti, I will help you….”
I felt my face on the floor. The
coldness of the ground against my cheeks sent a chill down my entire body. I must have dozed off. I sat up and wiped off the thick layer of dust covering my face, hands, everywhere.
I had definitely napped. It must have been a dream, all nonsense. The exhaustion of the day had gotten to me. There was no one in the house. I was sure of it.
Just then my torch flickered weakly, giving me a bit of light. I wasted no time to prove to myself that I was alone in that room. I quickly moved towards the first mirrored panel. It was empty. Then the second, the third, the fourth. I was right. There was nothing and no one here. There was only one last closet left. It was tucked behind a tattered maroon jacquard drape. I quickly drew the drape and pierced a large spider’s web. Behind the drape, the carved ebony closet door creaked under its own heaviness. I recognized the stuffy cedar odour from my grandmother’s attic where she stored her heirlooms. More empty shelves.
But it was cold. My fingers stiffened, and the torch fell from my hands. I bent down to pick it up and saw that it was pointing faintly to a deep corner of the bottom shelf. There was something stuck between the seams of the closet walls. I stretched out my hand to pull it out carefully. It was a piece of torn paper, curved, and jaundice yellow.
Pressing it to the floor, I carefully rolled it out with my fingers. It was a photograph!
My heartbeat stopped once again. It was the same beautiful face looking back at me. It was the lady in the mirror. Peeking out from under her dark waist-length hair were the same brute knuckles, this time clutching her waist firmly. A shimmering sequinned silk gown gracefully accentuated her narrow hips to end just above dainty ankles decorated with silver trinkets. She was holding a conspicuous black-and-white polka dot book. Her wrists caught my attention. They were adorned with the most exquisite pair of gold bracelets, with clasps in the shape of peacock heads! Her head was bowed, but she was looking up just enough to reveal her beauty.