Begonia

by Mamlu Chatterjee

This story, though fiction, has its core based on completely true events 

View from my kitchen verandah ( pix by author)

The move was uneventful, everything happened smoothly, we sang aloud with the radio on the drive up and none of the luggage got lost. The house was darling: painted bright yellow, with white framed windows and doors, it looked like a Lego house. Shaped like an L, it had a cosy, warm feel to it and I couldn’t wait till it was cold enough to light a fire, using the logs kept at the ready in big baskets by the fireplace. A row of tall hollyhocks lined the driveway and there was a white picket fence along the lawn from where the hills could be seen, some hazily in the distance and others closer. A long kitchen made up one end and the other rooms made up the other, broader arm of the L. An old blue fridge and a checkered floor made the kitchen quirky, just the way I liked it. Beat my city kitchen, with its miniscule space any day! I could see myself turn into a regular Betty Crocker here, rustling up hotpots and baked goodies at the drop of a hat!

The wooden floors reverberated at our steps, and we realized how hard and noisily we walked. Unfortunately, the windows rattled as well, like an evil spirit was huffing and puffing to blow the house down! In truth, their panes were desperately in need of a fix, but did we mind, hell, no! We were just happy getting away from the frenetic pace of the city and breathe in the cool air up in the hills! Mihir was happy too and in a flurry of energy, we unpacked our seven bits and bobs that very night, put fresh sheets on the beds, made some Maggi noodles with cheese and chillies for dinner and sat under the little light in the kitchen smiling foolishly over our first dinner in our new home.

Tomorrow, he would go to his new office and I would pick fresh flowers and set about turning this yellow cottage into our home.

Pix by author

I saw a hooded person with the scythe. I saw him, (or was it a her? I couldn’t tell) hanging about behind the door to our bedroom. It was morning, early, but still, it was morning and I saw it clearly, looking in my direction. I realized that it was futile to even try and tell Mihir about it because he would, first, disagree, next, be terrified, and then, would walk up to the said door tentatively, show me his dark blue track pants hanging on a hook there, and explain in that kind, calm voice, “see, it’s my track pants you saw, nothing scary, see?” I would quietly acquiesce knowing very well that’s not what it was.

The next time, it happened again, while I was washing my face. Cleaning my face with hot water, I felt someone move the strand that had fallen on my forehead; my eyes were tightly shut against the hot water and as I turned the tap off to open the cold, my eyes flew open and the face I saw staring back at me in the mirror, was not my face. It was thin, with missing teeth, sunken cheeks and kohl lined eyes. Malevolent, evil eyes. With a single splash of cold water, it was gone, like I had imagined it all. I splashed some more cold water onto my face, and with great relief saw myself again, blackheads in place, and that strand of hair stubbornly back on my forehead. This time I didn’t dare touch it. I crawled into bed and fell into a deep crowded dream.

Whooshing sounds, sighs, knocks on doors, digging hard ground sounds (later reasoned out to be the blinds hitting the wall) abounded. We made excuses for each one. ‘It’s a wooden house, an old one at that’ I explained to myself over and over again. As I saw it, if houses live and have feelings, then this one was a tempestuous, spoiled little girl, all flouncy dresses and bouncy curls. She wanted attention, and a lot of it. She was prone to pouting and fits of indignation at every imagined slight and blamed her mother for everything troublesome in her young life. So who was the older, malevolent face in the mirror?

Days went by in a golden haze; we woke up to bird-song and slept with the moon rising from behind the dark hills in the distance; we ignored the odd thumps and knocks now and then and installed wind-chimes at the entrances to ward off any lurking evil spirits, opened all the windows to let the sun stream in, filled available vases with bunches of wildflowers and talked about getting a pup. All good.

Or not.

We had to go away for Mihir’s official orientation in the city and were away for three days, during which I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that the house was upset at being locked up and was keening and calling out to me. It had got used to being taken care of, and music playing through the day while I worked and was now pouting furiously at being left behind, slamming doors and gnashing its teeth like an angst filled pre-teen. I felt it strongly the moment we walked back into the house on our return, a heavy, smoky, ill-tempered feeling, curling in spumes at the corners and sending out indigo slivers of noxious fumes. Opening all the windows worked somewhat, but a reproachful air hung heavy everywhere. Mihir, thankfully, was oblivious to any of this and I wasn’t going to educate him on the subject. I would find out myself, the history of the house and anything else that I could.

Pushpamma was a third generation worker in these parts and though originally from South India, had been born and bred in the town down the hill. She was in her late fifties, an energetic chatterbox given to doing everything at the speed of light; she knew everyone in the area; a devout Hindu, she went to the temple every Sunday with flowers in her hair and an ash coloured spot on her forehead. I would ask her, I decided.

I did and she dropped the pan she was scrubbing in the sink and looked as pale as she possibly could, slapping her hand over her mouth with an expression much like those cartoon characters whose eyebrows disappear into their hairline. I asked again, more gently this time. She turned off the tap, shook her hands and dried them on the dishcloth before she could look at me.

‘There was a child’, she said, ‘a girl. Her mother was too busy with her other activities to give the child the care she needed and left the child alone with the servants at home often; her father was busy at work and saw her for just an hour or so every evening before she went to bed. But in that hour he made her feel like a princess and showered her with gifts and gave her the love that kept the child going. Her mother was jealous and brought home a lover one day; when the child saw her mother with her lover, she threatened to tell her father, and in a fit of rage the woman pushed the child out of her way, sending her rolling down the steps leading up to the verandah, killing her. This is all I know madam’, she said, ‘maybe it is only a story, I don’t know’.

I sipped my tea while I thought about this tale. Something was missing, and I couldn’t figure out what. I took my cup of tea and went to the verandah and looked at the steps leading up to it; I had got hanging pots trailing petunias all along the verandah and rather liked the way it looked; the wind was whistling today, and even though it was a bright day, it was cold. I took a step and lurched forward, tea cup flying, and hurtled down the steps. Somewhere a door banged shut.

When I came to, three worried faces were looking at me ~ Mihir, the girl with her mouth open and a bespectacled doctor with slicked back hair; he still had a torch in his hand, and I expected him to say, ‘say aaah’ in a minute. I sat up, I was fine and impatient to get out of bed so I waved them all away and hid in the bathroom to gather my thoughts. For the life of me I couldn’t remember how I’d fallen; the ground was smooth, there was no rug or mat to trip me up, my head wasn’t swinging, so what happened? And why on earth did the doctor bring his daughter with him?

I sat bolt upright suddenly. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking at me; my questions yielded no reply from her and I wanted to shake her. I flung the door open and bellowed “OUT! out” I said, and she walked out the door very slowly, looking at me over her shoulder. Mihir came running, not used to hearing my stage voice for several years, looking perplexed; ‘what happened? Why are you yelling?’ he said and continued to stare at me, bewildered, when I said ‘Doctors aren’t supposed to bring their children on visits are they? Or is that the norm here?’

Next thing I knew, it was morning and Mihir was waking me up with my cup of tea and rolling up the blinds to let the day come in; he was already dressed for his day in the field, in his shorts and Polo tee, waving goodbye and telling me to have my warm water first. ‘The Doc will be in to check on you,’ he said, ‘stay in bed if you want to rest a little longer; I’ll get those banisters fixed and see you at lunch’ – and he was off, without answering my question about the doctor’s daughter. Aaah well, I had a busy day ahead myself, and needed to finish the manuscript I had been editing. The chimes in the verandah were making their usual cuckoo-like sounds and it looked like it was going to be another bright day.

The banisters got fixed, and every now and then the Middle Eastern tourists would wander in on their rambles and stand at those very banisters and pose for pictures at the yellow house in the hills, no doubt a memorable part of their holiday in these parts. A night-jar evolved from the forest behind, probably lured by the sound of the chimes that sounded somewhat like a brown bird in the trees; his solemn hoots at night were comforting, like a gruff uncle who looked out for us. We went about our quiet days un-disturbed, driving up to the little town nearby when we needed anything and early nights became the rule. I was almost convinced that I had let my imagination run away with me and fancied things where there weren’t any, when suddenly, out of nowhere, I had to think again.

We had gone to a young couple’s home for dinner and they had some elderly relatives visiting as well; our host introduced us to them, adding that we had recently moved into the Yellow Cottage up the hill; the look on the old lady’s face was a dead give-away – and I caught her husband’s look as well, while he tried to shush his wife, who was in no mood to be shushed. “Didn’t they break down that house? How can they be living in that house after everything that happened?” she quavered on, much to our host’s embarrassment. Mihir was alarmed, I could tell. “What happened there? What’s the story?” he asked, casually and over dinner, we heard the whole story.

“That woman had not a single maternal bone in her body”, she began in her quivery voice; “and so vain too ~ always worrying about her hair, her waistline and other nonsense stuff! I didn’t like her from Day One, stupid woman with raccoon eyes!” “That’s only because she admired my silk scarf my dear” mumbled her husband perhaps in an effort to halting her there; She carried on undeterred “she laughed at my chipped tooth you know? I was a new bride and so young, not even aware that it was something to laugh at, and she laughed, and not affectionately either. Just as well, she almost swallowed her dentures and died!” she ended with a flourish. “Now dear, you know that’s just conjecture” her husband said, looking around the table apologetically. “She actually had some kind of aneurysm and unfortunately was alone when it happened” By this time Mihir was almost apoplectic – and our host had to work very hard to veer the conversation away from his aunt’s ghoulish delight in telling the tale. By the end of the sadly unappreciated meal, we pieced together a story that sounded tragic, but not quite implausible.

On the drive back, I had a hard time convincing Mihir that this was all nonsense, made up in equal part by gossip and fantasy, embellished by each and every one who heard about it. “How do you manage to attract spooks every time? Everywhere you go?” he said tetchily, reminding me of the other times I’d encountered mysterious events. He was ready to leave the estate the next morning, convinced I was terrified and clinging to him for protection; for the first time, I saw him worried about leaving me alone at home – and I had to draw on all of my courage to reassure him that I was not in swoon mode; having sent him to work with some difficulty, I heaved a sigh and set about clearing my head and putting my thoughts in order.

So, there was this unkind, self-centered mother who had no time for her only child, leaving her to her own devices, not caring a whit that she was growing up troubled and willful. The father, though kind, was far too busy to give his wife the kind of life she wanted and too timid to stand up to her demands; he adored his little girl but had to hide his feelings because that inevitably led to jealous tantrums and severe attacks of nastiness meted out to the poor child; into this mess strode a lover, given to smooth promises and soft hands; and a horrible accident ensued when the child stood up to her mother ~ this much was true then, it corroborated Pushpamma’s story as well, so what happened next?

Debutantes at a Ball - the corner where the Bird Bath used to be ( pix by auhor )

The father, overcome by grief, turned to alcohol and turned a deaf ear to his wife’s ranting, thus further infuriating and alienating her; they said he stood for hours at the corner of the garden where his daughter’s bird-bath stood, and one afternoon, opened the secret gate that led from that corner and vanished, never to be seen again. Some said he had leapt to his death, knowing he wouldn’t be discovered for days. Alone, the woman, turned more and more bitter, her real colors showing through her sculpted face and beautiful clothes, repelling any admirers she may have acquired along the way; her bejeweled fingers gnarled and her cheeks sunken hollows, her eyes glittering and unseeing, she wandered around the house like a shadow, turning furniture over if it was in her way; hurling abuses at the help.

Little wonder then, no one came to her aid when she had her stroke, poor thing. She was found later, with her eyes wide open, gnarled fingers at her chest and her dentures lodged in her throat. Did she even realise that she had created this life, and its end for herself?

I would have to do something to release them, I thought, I couldn’t have them banging on my doors and upsetting the glasses at will! The little girl had taken to sitting on my bed while I did my prayers now – and that drippy faucet, falling drop by fat drop into the bucket placed strategically to catch those drops, sounded exactly like boot-steps across a wooden floor – and lately, I could swear I heard a large dog flapping his ears at night just outside our bedroom door on windy nights.

I should have been scared, but I was not; by the end of our first month, I had got used to the little girl following me around, and on occasion, I would speak to her – she never answered though, but once she did give me a shadow of a smile – sweet and crooked, which disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. I prayed for her, her mother as well as her hapless father, hoping to release their troubled souls wherever they were; in turn, she started doing little things for me and Mihir; no, of course she didn’t tell me she was doing them, but I knew. Mihir’s old phone that had been out of use since we got here had died a natural death, its battery fading and sighing, it’s charger malfunctioning; it had been safely tucked away in Mihir’s bedside table, till one evening when it suddenly rang out shrilly. Startled, Mihir ran to answer it, quite forgetting it was out of use; it wasn’t an important call but once it was over, Mihir’s face was a picture! “It’s fully charged” he said, “I haven’t charged it in four months and it’s fully charged. How is that possible?”

I had no logical answer, and didn’t tell him what I thought because I didn’t want to freak him out.

And so it went on, days blending into evenings, dinners by the fireplace, trips to the city every now and then; the broken banister repaired (not to Mihir’s satisfaction though) and my little collection of plants growing, as was Mihir’s vegetable and herb garden. The trumpet flowers fell, leaving the tree bare briefly, and suddenly there they were again, looking like debutantes at a ball in their cream, frothy dresses. Luscious Ferns grew in the rains, all over the hills like filigree or lattice-work, their delicate ends curling, and the stubborn ones even grew out of the tin roof, peeking over shyly. I stood often at my little verandah, watching the rain come over the hills – and perhaps an hour later, at the same place, watching the setting sun shimmer on the velvety hills, casting all kinds of interesting shadows.

Would I get tired of this one day, I wondered. Would it all pall? Would I really wake up one day and no longer hear the trilling conversation the birds had everyday outside my window? Not smile at the sight of the brave red canna soldiers along the path to the convenience store? Would my breath continue un-caught on those shiny sunny days when the sun streamed in through the guest room windows? Would we give in and finally bring a wall clock to tell us the time instead of just being carried along by the pace set by this house?

Right now, the wind is blustering; It’s being a bully; the bougainvillea is used to it but the poor red bush gets terribly agitated, like an interrupted Ballet class; but I’m unfazed. I’ve learnt that this blustery wind pushes your buttons to see how much you can take before you cave – and if you don’t, if you can say ‘look I’m all wrapped up, I can take this’ it rights itself soon enough and does an about face soon – as if to say gently, ‘I was only teasing’.

I felt Begonia’s presence (yes, I’d named the little girl Begonia) less and less and I wondered why. I looked for her over my shoulder, from the corner of my eye, but she wasn’t there; was she hiding? But where could she hide, even my curtains were light and blew in the slightest wind – and there were no secret spaces where she could hide, really. I called out to her sometimes, but got no indication of her presence. The house felt light and airy too, and even when the winds were howling outside, we were warm inside, with a lovely fire going, and roasting corn cobs on the fire became one of our favorite pastimes.

Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

One day a large, furry, beige and pink moth came in, and refused to leave. I tried everything – left the doors open, windows ajar, but there it sat, unmoving; I continued my chores keeping an eye on it, ready to shriek if it flew at me; it didn’t. It moved from the door to one of the walls in the living room, almost blending in with it ~ and when Mihir got home, it allowed him to pick it up gently and hold it, outside the window, willing it to fly away. It took its own time and flew away slowly, settling onto the grass near a rose bush. “That’s odd. It should be trying to get out of the rain, go under some leaves or something” said Mihir, adding sagely, “it’s dying, probably” as he rubbed his hands on his pants.

I realized in that moment that Begonia wasn’t hiding at all, she was standing against the wall the whole time and I wasn’t able to see her because she was the same colour as the walls! I looked around in all the rooms and called out to her, telling her I knew she was here, and was answered by silence. The crickets in the pine trees were louder than usual and I disliked them intensely at that moment. I wanted Begonia.

She never came back. I missed her and in a frenzy planted begonias everywhere, in pots, at the edge of the lawn, in the corner by her bird-bath, everywhere. White and pink begonias everywhere. Three years later, feeling somewhat guilty for having removed all the cannas when I had first moved here, I left detailed instructions for the future occupants of the house asking them to tend to the begonias with care, hoping they would.

The day we left was a bright, still day. I looked back for as long as I could, memorizing the house, the hills, the red gate, the bird houses Mihir had made, the sun glinting off the windows.

My begonias were all a flutter, waving their pink heads at me – and I knew she was there, and she was at peace.

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My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Meet the writer:

This is Mamlu Chatterjee, and here's what she has to say : 'Mamlu is a Mum, an editor, an avid reader, loves dogs and baby elephants and lives in a red cottage on a hill, in the tea plantations of Malaysia. 
Discovering new things is a favorite pastime, whether it’s a favourite fruit (dragon fruit and mangosteen currently😉) or a new artist or a new gadget. She's been writing ever since I can remember! 

Currently going slowly bonkers trying to prepare for her son's wedding by remote control!'