章 4: CHAPTER 3- THE MIDNIGHT BEAST
Within the shroud of night, an eerie union of silence and mist coalesced, birthing a chilling tableau that whispered of unseen horrors lurking just beyond the veil of darkness. Amidst this spectral landscape, the light emanating from a magnificent bungalow perched atop a hill seemed but a glimmer of fireflies against the stark white fog, casting long shadows that danced with the imagination, beckoning forth the curious and the courageous alike to uncover the mysteries concealed within its walls. Every window within the walls was veiled by fog, save for one, which seemed to beckon a restless spirit, ceaselessly gazing out in pursuit of elusive truths.
There seemed to be a lot of tranquilly in the room that the window was linked to. There was plenty of décor in the area to catch the eye of the contemplative. Upon the table lay white roses, their once vibrant petals now kissed by time's gentle decay, while amidst them rested a solitary red rose, its crimson beauty juxtaposed against the sand-colored wooden floor, where scattered petals whispered tales of fleeting passion. Atop the table's corner rested a stack of books, their worn spines attesting to their countless readings. Just above them lay a folded piece of white paper, its surface marked with fading black ink, as if a secret message had been hastily scrawled and then cut away, leaving only fragments of its intended meaning. Adorning the walls were a plethora of aged paintings, skillfully portraying the delicate dance between sorrow and joy. At the room's center stood a magnificent bed, crafted from the finest mahogany, flanked by petite round tables adorned with twin white lamps emanating a soft, comforting glow. Draped in opulent golden sheets, the bed was ensconced in billowing white curtains, elegantly scattered to enhance the room's ambiance with a timeless aura of elegance. On the bed lay a black typewriter, its presence accentuated by the scattered thick white paper sheets. Nearby, a young woman reclined, her focus intent as she pored over a book, her voice barely above a whisper, immersed in its pages. Her deep brown eyes fixated on the words spread across the page, as though she sought to fathom a depth within them, an unspoken yearning driving her gaze. "Oh Banquo, you will be better than Macbeth but not greater. You will not be as fortunate as Macbeth but much happier. Your descendants will be kings in the future," She read the words with remarkable clarity, seemingly lost within the tale's narrative. With effortless grace, she glided through the pages as though they were delicate panes of glass.
"The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be. Which the eye fears, when it's done, to see." With a delicate touch, she closed the book, nestling it beside her with care, as if safeguarding a cherished treasure. It seemed as if the words started feeling like words again. She could no longer shake the image of the two golden, pearl-like eyes she had seen in the library that morning. In that moment, she couldn't shake the feeling that the eyes, straight out of the city of stories, had leapt from fiction into her world.
She shifted her gaze towards the expansive table positioned adjacent to the bed, adorned with a pristine tray bearing an array of bowls brimming with delectable fare, a solitary white plate, a handful of gleaming spoons, an empty glass, and a resplendent golden jug. She cast a fleeting glance at each dish; every morsel had grown almost cold, and the blame rested squarely on her shoulders. The meal had arrived at her room barely an hour prior, yet her insatiable thirst for literature had kept hunger at bay until its intoxicating grip abruptly released her. She lifted the bowl containing the coveted winter delicacy - Gajar Ka Halwa, revealing its treasure trove of visible dry fruits. With a graceful motion, she carefully spooned a portion onto the pristine white plate. As the delightful sweetness caressed her tongue, she found herself lost in thought, her mind swirling with myriad contemplations. As though a cascade of suggestions inundated her mind all at once. Setting the plate gently back onto the table, she shifted her attention to the stack of blank, thick, white sheets strewn across the typewriter. She longed to imbue those pages with a tale of exquisite beauty, crafted with words that danced upon the paper. Yet, in this moment, the elusive brilliance she sought eluded her grasp.
She descended from the bed, her footsteps gentle as she embraced the sensation of coolness caressing her feet upon the floor. She commenced pacing within the confines of her room, fingers tenderly gliding through the cascading waves of her hair, lost in contemplation as her restless mind refused to settle. This was a familiar cycle for her: as she pondered her next words, her mind would seemingly empty, leaving her grasping for inspiration. Then, without warning, a flood of thoughts would rush in, much like the unexpected arrival of death in one's life. That's when, outside her room, the faint echo of footsteps caught her attention, as though someone had recently passed by. Her pace decelerated, a curious sensation enveloping her as she realized she wasn't alone in the quiet of the night. The nocturnal company stirred unsettling thoughts within her. Thoughts of the dreadful antagonist from all the horror stories recounted by the maids there began to invade her mind, instilling a creeping sense of fear within her. She struggled to dismiss it as her own misinterpretation, a feeble attempt to muster courage within herself. A hush settled over the surroundings, broken only by the rhythmic echo of her own breath. Then, abruptly, the quiet was shattered as footsteps resounded once more, now from a distance, their origin cloaked in mystery. This wasn't a figment of her imagination. Now, her mind wove a bouquet of fear, each petal laden with dread, for her. But there was still some courage left in her mind, reassuring her again and again that perhaps someone else might still be awake.
She crossed the room's threshold with cautious steps, the delicate balance of fear and courage nestled within her. Ahead lay a narrow corridor, illuminated by the soft glow of a small yellow light bulb. Adjacent to the wall stood two additional rooms, one guarded by a locked door while the other was secured by nothing more than a simple latch. For decoration, there were some small, black polished tables in the corridor upon which golden flowerpots rested, accompanied by chairs crafted from bamboo sticks. As she reached the end of the corridor, she turned left and descended the wooden stairs, recently coated in black paint to mask their aged stains and marks. Downstairs, the corridor was still illuminated by burning bulbs. Now, her mind buzzed with more questions than fear, each one clamoring for attention like restless spirits in the night. She cast her gaze along both sides of the corridor, as though she felt the presence of another lingering nearby. Nearly all the rooms along the corridor remained closed, except for one where white fluttering curtains danced, appearing and disappearing before her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath and started walking towards the room. The white walls of the room were adorned with portraits of numerous old English officers, frozen in time, their presence so vivid it was as though they still breathed within the confines of the frame. But upon stepping into the room, her gaze was immediately drawn to the grand, ancient black fireplace adorning the wall before her. Within its depths, only scattered remnants of burnt wood and ashes lingered. But a sense of unease crept over her as her eyes fell upon the unfamiliar black homburg hat resting upon the table, its presence an enigmatic anomaly in the room. She ventured closer, her hand reaching out tentatively to lift the hat. A mysterious fragrance enveloped her senses, emanating from the depths of the unfamiliar headwear. The fragrance compelled her to shut her eyes, surrendering to its intoxicating allure as she immersed herself in its essence. As she savored the fragrance, a faint sound broke the silence from behind her, as if something delicate had brushed against the table. With a swift motion, she spun around, her senses heightened by the unexpected sound. In her line of sight, a man stood fixated on the portrait of a British governor, his back presented to her in silent contemplation.
"Ahh!" Without a second thought, she shouted in a harsh tone, the sound of which echoed through the bungalow, illuminating the other rooms with its intensity.
The person standing in front of her slowly turned back, leaving Maithili feeling disappointed that she had shouted. He appeared to be a youthful figure, his age hinting at the vicinity of twenty-eight summers. His complexion, fair and flawless, bore no trace of blemish or the scars of past battles. Three or four strands of black, shiny hair delicately brushed his forehead, each one a silent witness to his enigmatic presence, adding a subtle touch of elegance to his countenance. He donned a simple white shirt, its purity juxtaposed against the dark brown of his formal pants, cinched together with suspenders. Adorning his feet were ornately embellished black leather boots, their gleam reflecting the care he bestowed upon his appearance. In one hand, he clasped a finely tailored German suit, its hue echoing the richness of his pants, while the other casually nestled in his pants pocket. His sharp, dark eyes remained fixed on her, imbued with a captivating intensity.
Just then, three people entered the room with wrinkles on their clothes. An elderly man, approximately 60 years of age, clad in a light yellow kurta and white pajamas, with a white shawl draped over his shoulders, said in a heavy voice, "What is the commotion at this late hour?" His face bore the unmistakable signs of displeasure, evident in the weariness etched across his features from lack of sleep and fatigue. Just behind him, at the threshold of the room's doorway, stood a young man clad in a black sweater and stained white half pants, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to grasp the unfolding scene.
"I.. aa.. actually..," Maithili herself, like the others, failed to understand the situation there.
The old man turned his eyes toward the young man who stood there, still gazing at Maithili with a serious expression on his face. "Did you encounter any issues, Mr. Daman, that necessitated your presence in this room at such a late hour?" He asked him.
"Beside the jug within my chamber, I find myself in need of a glass for water, an item glaringly absent from my surroundings." He spoke in a tone imbued with a mixture of pride and self-respect.
"Hmm...Chandan," Mr. Verma said. The young man standing behind him stifled an impending yawn and promptly replied, "Ji, I will keep it now." With those words, he stepped away from the threshold.
Maithili now looked even more confused, her father likely noticing her perplexed expression. "This is Mr. Daman Kapur, Maithili," he explained. "He, along with your brother, has come here as our guests for a few days." With a gentle smile gracing his lips, he directed his gaze towards Mr. Daman as he uttered those words.
"I'm sorry he isn't the midnight beast of your stories, Miss Writer." The young woman at Maithili's side addressed her in a tone laced with mockery, her words dripping with taunt.
"Ankita," Mr. Verma spoke as if he had conveyed a message for her to remain silent.
In that moment, Maithili felt the urge to speak, yet she found herself at a loss for words, uncertain of whom to address or what to say.
"I am sorry for the inconvenience," Mr. Daman said, as he approached Maithili, causing her to feel a bit nervous, "Hat." He spoke as he slowly extended his hand forward.
With a quick flutter of her eyelashes, Maithili deftly handed him the hat she held in her hand. He caught it gracefully, uttering, "Goodnight, everybody," as he exited the room with a subtle air of departure.
"Goodnight," Ankita said sarcastically before leaving the room.
Mr. Verma looked at Maithili and gave a small smile, which seemed to say that everything was fine, and went away from there with his slow steps. But Maithili remained rooted in place, her mind swirling with questions, pondering the events that had transpired in those fleeting moments.
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