The Dismal House -- Part 1

Life, like Einstein's vision of the universe, has a way of turning back on itself. Or else, why should Manish have ended up buying an apartment so close to the dismal house that stood at the crossing of S.N. Roy Road and Palm Street in Kolkata. It was a white-washed, two storied house, with two rows of windows on the first and the ground floor, all painted green. Architecture wise, the house had little to commend for itself even during its salad days. Now, however, it had clearly fallen on bad times. The green paint on the windows had pretty much surrendered to the ravages of time and the walls bore a dirty grey look. Besides, the ivy that climbed down all the way to the ground level from the terrace did not receive much attention either. It looked more like a collection of dried twigs clinging on to the southern face of the house, with little patches of green desperately trying to survive, reviving memories of happier times.

The house badly needed a repair job, but few appeared to be interested in its restoration. The windows were permanently closed and the single one on the first floor, through which a light glimmered in the evenings, revealed nothing but mystery lurking behind the grimy curtain that cut off the house from the flow of life that surrounded it. To Manish's mind, the house bore an uncanny resemblance to Miss Havisham's residence in Dicken's Great Expectations. He couldn't help wondering what lay inside the single lighted room. Was daylight banished from it forever as Pip had discovered in the room Miss Havisham occupied? Did someone sit there in her decayed wedding dress and 'sick fancies', advising an Estella or the other to 'break his heart'?

He wished he could avoid the house, but it stood stubbornly on the only street that led to the grocery store nearest to his home. And each time he passed in front of the house for the five years that he had spent in the locality, he found it hard not to stare at the building and wonder about the tightly closed windows and the only door that led to its interior.

***​

A century seemed to have passed by since he had walked out of that door for the last time. The house was still incomplete at the time, but Shyamali's family had already moved into the ground floor. The construction of the first floor was probably held up on account of fund shortages, her father having been a person who belonged to the lower rungs of middle class existence.

Manish's family, on the other hand, was far worse off. They hid behind a facade of middle class dignity, but in truth had little to hang on to. Manish was used to waiting for the clothes and shoes his elder brother and older cousins had outgrown and he did his best to cover up his material wants by pressing his threadbare trousers and polishing his worn out shoes every time he presented himself before the world. He must have been a pathetic sight, he recalled now with a sardonic smile, and perhaps looked no better than Pip himself when he was called upon to play with Estella.

Shyamali had been no Estella though. Neither pretty nor unfriendly, she was a plumpish girl with brown cat-eyes that didn't seem to suit a dark haired Bengali girl. Yet, her eyes did possess an attractive shine about them and Manish was never sure if the spectacles she wore had a role to play in the matter. On retrospect, Manish felt Shyamali's looks never concerned him too much, though he enjoyed her lively company as much as anyone else. It was plain friendship with not a trace of romance on the part of either individual.

Till that is Sunil took a special interest in the psychology of Manish's relationship with Shaymali.

Will hopefully continue ...

 

To smileypooja:

Let's see where it takes us.

 

Dear Kamla:

This is the hardest piece of fiction I have tried so far. Let me see if I can deliver. I know the end of the story. But I am still struggling with the ways to reach the end.

All the best.

oj