The most puzzling thing about that house was that Gauri kept misplacing her combs. She usually kept her comb on the top drawer of the dresser when she left for work. She would come back from work and find it lying on bedside table, or in the bathroom basin or somewhere else. One day when she came back from work and opened the door to her room, she noticed that the office chair next to the study table was swivelling slightly. She walked in and found the comb lying on the study-table, next to the office chair—as though somebody was sitting on her chair and combing her hair right before she walked in. That was the first time she had a strange, uncomfortable feeling about Mrs. D’Souza’s house.
Gauri had moved into a room on the top floor in Mrs. D’Souza’s two-storeyed bungalow in Mahim —she had just arrived in Mumbai from her home-town, Karaikuruchi in Tamil Nadu. She had accepted a job-offer as a Maths Teacher in Janki Devi Junior College in Mahim, her first job after she finished her Master’s from Chennai. Her salary was not too high, so she was looking for a cheap place to rent. For the first one month, the college had given her a room in a guest house nearby.
Gauri accidentally found Mrs. D’Souza’s house while walking in an alley in the neighbourhood near the college. Mrs. D’Souza’s old rickety two storeyed bungalow stood at the end of a long narrow plot of land, squeezed in between tall buildings on either side. A sign on the gate said “Room Available on Rent.” On making enquiries with Mrs. D’Souza, she found the rent to be unbelievably cheap—so without further thought, she paid a month’s advance and immediately moved in.
Gauri’s room was on the first floor of the house, which she could access by a separate entrance on the side of Mrs. D’Souza’s balcony. Her room was quite big and neat, with minimal furniture, all in antique wood—an ornate bed, a dresser, and a study table next to the window. From the window, in her room, Gauri could see Mrs. D’Souza’s garden— overgrown with weeds and tall grass.
Mrs. D’Souza mostly kept to herself. She was around sixty-five years old with a shock of grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles and a wrinkly face. She never invited Gauri inside the house or talked much to her, nor did Gauri see any visitors. Once a week, she stepped out to buy her groceries. She spent most of her time sitting in the balcony crocheting or reading books.
Sometimes on her way back from work, Gauri would stop at the balcony to talk to Mrs. D’Souza. She usually asked her things about her work or her family back in Tamil Nadu. A couple of times, she commented on Gauri’s hair, “You do have beautiful hair, darling,” she would say. This was a compliment Gauri was used to getting, since her thick, long hair often evoked admiration from people, especially her students. One day, Gauri asked Mrs. D’Souza, “Aunty, what about your family? Do you have any children?”
She sighed and said, “My husband died thirty years ago from a sudden heart attack. I had a daughter too. Wendy, she was the light of my life…she died in 1995,” and her voice drifted away.
“Oh I am so sorry, Aunty. I didn’t know,” Gauri said.
“She was so beautiful. And so stubborn. Always wanting her way in everything. And how her father doted on her—buying her dolls and dresses and hairbands.”
Gauri wanted to know how her daughter died, or how old she was when she died—but she didn’t want to dig up Mrs. D’Souza’s old wounds. So she kept quiet. Then she said, “OK Aunty, I will go upstairs and freshen up. She turned to go and at that moment, Mrs. D’Souza muttered softly from behind her, “Sometimes dead is better.”
Gauri whirled around, “Did you say something, Aunty?”
Mrs. D’Souza said, “I meant none of us get out of here alive, do we?,” Gauri saw an absolutely cold and vacant look in her eyes, as though she were a dead person. That night she slept with a picture of her village deity Ammalaman under her pillow.
As the days passed, her discomfort increased. It was a Sunday and Gauri decided to nap in the afternoon. Suddenly, her eyes opened. She was sleeping on the side, facing the wall, but she had a feeling as though someone was watching her. Her breath quickened a little as she slowly turned. Two feet from her bed, Mrs. D’Souza was standing, staring at her. A cold shiver ran down Gauri’s spine.
“Oh you are up. I hope you slept well, Darling.” Mrs. D’Souza said, “I came to give you some oranges,” Mrs. D’Souza was carrying a plastic bag with oranges. Gauri could not shake off the uneasy feeling at the back of her mind, even after Mrs. D’Souza left.
Gauri’s life had fallen into a steady routine—she went for yoga class in the morning, then college all day long and once she got back, she would cook while speaking with her parents over the phone, then read a book before she retired for the night. She struck up a friendship with Meera, who was in her yoga class and lived nearby. They started spending time together, even after yoga class—sometimes going for coffee, or shopping together. Meera filled the emptiness that one feels when one leaves home to move to a big city for the first time. A few months into their friendship, Meera asked Gauri if she wanted to move in with her. Meera’s current room-mate would be leaving in a month’s time. Gauri wanted to, but the rent at Meera’s was a thousand rupees more, so she hesitated.
A few days after Meera’s offer, Gauri was leaving for work in the morning. She came down the stairs and when she reached Mrs. D’Souza’s patio, she heard faint humming from inside. Gauri had never peeped inside Mrs.D’Souza’s house since her curtains were always drawn and the front door was always shut. But this time, her curiosity got the better of her. She tiptoed to one the windows, and through a slight gap in the lace curtains, she peeped in.
Mrs. D’Souza’s living room didn’t get too much light, so it was quite dark inside. The humming was coming from the corner of the room, so Gauri leaned a bit to the side to get a view. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she saw Mrs D’Souza sitting in a corner in a rocking chair, that was placed sideways to the windows. Mrs. D’Souza was gently rocking, singing a song and slowly combing the blonde hair of a doll. The sight made Gauri’s heart lurch and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
That very evening, Gauri informed Mrs. D’Souza that she would vacate the house at the end of the month. She even agreed to forfeit a month’s rent since she was not giving her a month’s notice to vacate. She felt a little guilty the morning she went to say good bye to Mrs. D’Souza. Maybe there was nothing wrong with Mrs D’Souza, maybe her overthinking had got the better of her.
Mrs. D’Souza said, “Sit for a bit, Darling, I will get you tea.” Gauri only drank coffee, tea gave her severe acidity. But she didn’t have the heart to refuse Mrs. D’Souza, so she said “Yes.” After around ten minutes, Mrs. D’Souza came back with a really tall cup of tea. It was in a white porcelain cup with an intricate drawing of a blue dragon on it. Gauri didn’t want to drink it, so she stirred the cup slowly while talking to Mrs. D’Souza.
After a few minutes, Gauri said, “Aunty, can I please have my books back?,”
“Oh sorry, I forgot.” When Mrs. D’Souza went in to get the books, Gauri quickly poured the tea into a money-plant pot next to her chair. Even after Gauri left Mrs. D’Souza’s house, she always felt a twinge of guilt for having refused Mrs. D’Souza’s last offer of hospitality.
A few years later, Gauri was in her college library when she accidently strolled into a section of the library which she never usually went to. On one shelf was pasted a label, “Mahim News.” Big, black dusty files lined the shelf, each enclosing newspaper clippings of 5 years duration. Suddenly Gauri remembered that Wendy, Mrs. D’Souza’s daughter had died in 1987. Maybe she would find something in the obituary columns of Mahim News. She often wondered how Wendy died. She found the file that said 1995-2000 and started thumbing through the clippings to look at the obituary sections.
Suddenly, one of the newspaper articles jumped out at her—the article had a front-shot photo of Mrs. D’Souza’s house. The title read, “14 year old girl dies of poisoning in a Mahim residence.” It was a full-length article and there was another photo in the bottom of the page—a young girl was lying lifeless on the same bed and in the same room that Gauri had lived in for six months. The dead girl had really long hair. Beneath her, knocked over, was a cup—the same cup in which Mrs. D’Souza had served Gauri tea the day she was vacating her house.
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