It was the darkest hour of the night. Ronin tossed and turned in his bed. Lately, the sleeping pills were not helping him. Whenever he did manage to doze off, he would be jolted awake; his heart raced each time he heard the chair being pulled from under the writing desk, then the tapping of the pen, followed by the swishing of endless pages! This ordeal continued all night long, interrupted by soft babbles, like the gurgling of a baby, until the sun was up and he finally slept.
House no. 6 was an old mansion in Verna, a small town in Goa, built by his great-grandfather, Antonio Peres da Silva, a senior Portuguese official. As a small boy, Ronin was fascinated by the stately house that bore a vestigial semblance of its earlier grandeur. He longed to spend more time at Verna, playing hide and seek in the big house and exploring its green fields. But his father’s faraway postings made it difficult for the family to visit their native town that often. Over the decades, most of his cousins migrated, and with the older generation dead, the house remained locked under the supervision of the caretaker’s family, who lived in the premises by a small pond.
Ronin too had left the country to study in the United States and eventually settled down in Philadelphia. He taught management and wrote many books. Ronin married Sophie, an American artist, and lived the American dream. Life was good until the pandemic hit, and as an aftermath of Covid-19, it got him thinking about the deeper aspects of life. Self-reflection brought him back to his roots in Mumbai and Goa. He decided to stay for a while in Verna, far away from the hustle and bustle of city life.
Da Silva mansion still overpowered his senses, just like it did when he was a young boy. It brought back many memories, and he started restoring the old house with a hope of making it a comfortable family home. A few of his cousins chipped in, while his nephew started drawing plans of converting it into a heritage hotel. The house was becoming the focal point of the Da Silva clan.
Ronin found his perfect spot in that big house to write his books. A long sabbatical, a longer distance from his shaky marriage and the longest road to success – the natural progression was writing the next management book! He contemplated the subject of emerging economies in the current geopolitical background. He had a knack for understanding what would sell in the career and mentoring space, and his writing was meticulous.
In his mansion, though the cuckoo clock pushed out a rickety dead bird at every hour that brought morbid thoughts to his mind, the antique furniture, the wooden window panels, and old chinaware created the much vintage look that gave him a feeling of aristocracy. Ronin’s friends were awestruck. “We must visit you more often, drink local booze and eat the most amazing seafood.” His friend Ravi chuckled. Ravi and his wife Sonam became regular guests, driving down from Mumbai at any pretext.
In the midst of all that, his publisher Maya visited him in Goa. The attraction was lethal, and the setting served as a perfect catalyst for two seeking hearts. As Ronin enjoyed his life in Goa with a new set of friends and a whirlwind romance in a parallel setting, his focus shifted from management books and economic indicators to the lighter side of life. He waited for Maya to return and spend weekends on the beach, wining, dining, shacking up and enjoying the thrills of forbidden romance. The house grew on him while the coastal wind with its salty aftertaste set him free.
Ronin was fiercely keying in the data on economic indicators when a sudden bout of rain splashed across his face from the open window and shook him in the most peculiar way. He realised that the evening had set in. Pouring himself a glass of whisky, he sat back on his grandfather’s armchair facing the large windows, mesmerised by the picturesque view. He was reminded of Maya’s words, “This is a perfect setting for period romance or historical fiction.”
“And why not?” Ronin whispered aloud, taking a large swig. The rain knocked on the windowpanes, and he smiled, “Ah! Are you saying yes”?
The laptop went back in its bag, the reference books found a place on the shelves, and the prodigal son returned to the family’s writing desk. In an old-fashioned way, he started, writing his first fiction on paper using his uncle’s old ballpoint pen. He started scripting ‘You and I’, a love story.
In the evenings, he wrote pages after pages as if in a trance while sipping on his drink, and in the mornings, over his cup of filtered coffee, he reviewed the previous night’s work. It wasn’t bad for a first-timer. “ In fact, it is really good!” Maya pulled his nose. “Ron, get going. I will find you a publisher for fiction, and I know it will be a fantastic read.”
“You are my muse.” He laughed shyly. “ Could you identify yourself in the book?”
“Of course I did. Mallika. Except for the fact that I am a fishmonger’s daughter in love with a Portuguese gentleman, my language and choice of words are impeccable.” She giggled.
“Not at all. I have used a lot of colloquial words.” He frowned. “You didn’t read it properly.”
“It is good. I was just pulling your leg.” She laughed and pulled him close. “And now I am pulling you.” She kissed him hungrily, wanting more.
Ronin closed his eyes. The weekend was over, and he was lonely again in the old house. He returned to his writing desk. It was the only place in the huge house where he found solace. Once it was sundown, he was drawn to writing like a moth to fire. He was another man then. His head full of ideas, his heart ready to explore and his senses heightened. But ‘You and I’ wasn’t quite shaping up the way he had expected it to be. The book was near completion, but it was becoming another story. He knew that Maya was already lining up publishers and nagging him to share the summary, but something went amiss.
“I will need a soft copy now. Make all your fine changes and start editing on the laptop.” Maya told him firmly. “Quickly finish with the paper and pen writing.” The week’s agenda was to revisit the chapters and lock those for the computer.
As he read through the novel, it was puzzling to find that Mallika had disappeared from the pages. He skimmed through the bundles and sheaves of papers and muttered under his breath, “But I had it all together. Where are those chapters when they made love? When was it that he ran to meet her in the rice fields? Didn’t they go swimming in the sea on a moonlit night? What the hell…”
He found a few scratched-out pages under the table and showed them to the housekeeper. “ I am sure the new servant boy has done this. Speak to him or throw him out. These papers are very important. Where are the other papers?” Ronin lost his temper.
A commotion broke out in the da’ Silva house as the young servant boy cried and wailed, swearing on his mother that he didn’t enter the study.
“Who did that? I need an answer by tomorrow, Kodu Amma,” he glared at the old housekeeper. He was disgusted with the whole setup. “ Can I get my dinner now?”
After a couple of drinks, he sat down to write. “Where is Mallika in the story?” he spoke aloud. Something told him she would never come. He had, perhaps, known it all along.
“ She has to come. For the sake of Alfredo. She will love him. She will complete him. They will have a family together. Their many sons.” He blabbered.
But Alfredo never grew up. He seemed to know that too. “Alfredo is a fragment of my imagination, my character. I built him slowly and gently. He cannot disappear. His story must be written.” His voice echoed in the empty room.
Ronin stumbled on the edge of the carpet and slowly climbed the stairs to his room. He slumped on the bed, overwhelmed by the weight of his thoughts and the vivid presence of Alfredo in his mind. He was quite drunk. He dozed off in the confusion of the night, hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
It stayed in the corner listening to Ronin snoring, laughed a soundless laughter and walked those invisible steps.
The next morning he woke up with a hangover and Kodu Amma breathing down his neck, “How much did you drink? You are following your ancestor’s footsteps, son. Do you know they died of drinking?”
“Enough, old woman. Just leave me alone.” He spat out. Kodu Amma gave him a long look and sighed.
“Please go back to America before this house gulps you down.” She said softly and left.
Ronin was a soft-spoken fellow, but he seemed to lose his temper easily. He was out of control. Perhaps the sudden change in his life was too much to handle. He waited for Maya to come. She made him happy and calmed his nerves, and without her, he seemed to lose count of days and time.
He had a quick lunch, packed off the servants and sat to write in the afternoon. He wrote in longhand and fell asleep on the daybed. He must have slept for many hours when he woke up to the cry of crickets outside the window. He shut the windows and went back to his desk.
Ronin collected the sheets and started sequencing the bundle, numbering them as he read: ‘Alfredo was hiding in the wooden chest, his heart pounding and his eyes filled with fear. The holes on the sides made it easier for him to breathe….’
“Why is he hiding in the chest? How will he fit in there?” He let out a frustrated cry. “Why did I write such crap?”
“But I am a little boy. I never grew up.” Someone whispered in his ears, as if taunting him. “And Mallika will never come.”
Ronin jumped up and looked around. There was no one, except for the boy in the painting smiling at him. The innocent and sweet little boy who looked so terrifying.
“I am losing my mind.” He shouted. He rushed upstairs and pulled out his medicine bag and popped in a pill. Then another one and hit the bed. He slept like a log. Every night he wrote something, read some jumbled-up words, and his mind spoke to him, or someone in his mind spoke to him, or was it in his ears? He couldn’t think anymore. He popped the sleeping pill.
Maya visited him after a fortnight. She was shocked to see him totally dishevelled. He hadn’t shaved for days, hair unkempt and a deadpan expression. He looked at her blankly and said, “Hi, Mallika.”
“Hi. You are funny.” She laughed. “You gave me a scare. Are you not well?”
“I am good. Never better. Do you want a drink?” His words sounded empty.
“What happened?” Something wasn’t right. “Why don’t you freshen up? You need a shower.” Maya started getting worried.
As the day went by, once again she found Ronin adorable, laughing and engaging in a conversation. They drove to the beach and walked on the sand hand in hand on a moonlit night. It felt magical. They went back to the house, happy and contented. Ronin held on to her so tightly as they went to bed that she literally gasped for breath.
“You are hurting me, Ron.” She whispered.
“Promise me you will stay tonight. If you get up, I won’t be able to sleep.” He drifted into a slumber, muttering incoherent words. “In the morning you will see that they have changed all my words. My writing is gone. If there are no Alfredo and Mallika, you and I will never happen…”
“Kodu Amma, where are Ron’s writings?” Maya was having a trying time arranging those papers, trying to make head or tail of it. “Where is the previous bunch?” There were sheets of paper lying all over the room; some were written in a kid’s handwriting with plenty of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, and the rest were empty. A few scratched-out earlier pages lay crumpled in balls in the drawers, under the cushions. She was at her wit’s end.
“What is this, Kodu Amma? What is happening here?” Her large eyes filled with fear. “Is he not well?”
“Take him away, please.” The old lady cried. “The old people looked after the ‘others’. The ‘others’ are very powerful. You have to respect them. You have to respect the secret of this house. Mansions were built on the lives of men. The curse too needs to be honoured.”
“You are scaring me. What on earth are you talking about? Who are the others?”
“The ‘others’ are tampering with my book,” Ronin spoke softly as he came close to Maya and touched her hand.
“You need a doctor. There is so much negativity here.” She shirked off his hand. “Where are those carefree moments when laughter echoed through these halls? I barely recognise this place anymore. Your friends don’t visit you now? Where is that cousin of yours who wants to make a hotel?”
“Sometimes, happiness can be drowned out by the weight of history," but it’s not too late to reclaim what was lost.” Ronin sighed. “I don’t want anyone around. I need to figure out why Alfredo keeps disappearing from my pages. Mallika is becoming a distant dream. Do you think I am Alfredo? Are you Mallika?” Ronin's eyes searched her face, and Maya winced.
“I am leaving right away. I will not spend a single more day here.” She wiped her tears as she tugged at her suitcase. “Do you want to come with me or not?”
“I cannot leave. I have to finish my book. Maya, if you leave, Mallika can never come back. Don’t go, please.” He begged her as he watched her pack her bag.
“Come with me,” she said one last time and walked away without looking back.
“I cannot go, Mallika. I saw you on the beach, picking conches, little shells. I followed you to your shack. I wanted to put flowers in your hair and swim with you in the moonlit night. I waited for you. I will wait again, forever now.” He sat muttering.
Kodu Amma covered her face with the end of her saree and ran out of the house. She knew that the ‘others’ had got him like many boys of the da’ Silva family. There had been stories floating around about the much-alleged family and the strange occurrences. She too had heard whispers and echoes in the empty rooms in her younger days and felt scared every time the doors creaked. The old matriarch would laugh and say, “Do your work, Kodu, and be a good girl; everything will be fine. Follow the rules of the ‘others’, and they won’t trouble you.” She had spent more than fifty years of her life working for the family and knew so many things that were not easy to describe. She wiped her eyes as she walked through the narrow road to her little shack.
Ronin entered the study, opened the doors and windows and called, “Alfredo, are you there?” He looked around. Then he walked to the large sitting room, the parlour, and the family room, looking at every object and every old picture on the wall. He stood in front of the picture of the smiling boy and asked, “ Are you Alfredo, or are you the character of my book? Did I imagine you, dream you up, or did you find your way to me?”
Then he looked around and said loudly, “Are you the others?” A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and he ran his hand through it and said, “I will write your story. Tell me tomorrow and I will listen. Now I will hit the bed. Alfredo, Alfie buddy, goodnight.” He climbed the stairs slowly, casting a long shadow behind him.
Under the stairs, a pair of shining eyes sat huddled in the blacked-out corner, letting out soft purring sounds, waiting for the moonlight to stream in through the dome of the atrium. In the puffy, smoky hue, a gentle shape frisked by; limbless, formless, slippery and restless. A bit of a mind and a piece of a heart were tucked somewhere in its empty silhouette. Perhaps those were to disappear soon, like the rest of its existence. Before all was lost, the story had to be told: what became of the little boy?
Once again, it started to climb those never-ending stairs. The mind whispered if it could reach the top, it might just find a way to be free, and the heart would find peace. It started to forget how long it had been climbing. In the darkness, the night was getting longer and the flight of stairs larger as the steps had multiplied. Someone must make it all go away. “Help, help, help… I have something to say. Listen to my story. I think I was Alfredo before it all happened.”
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