The Room

She approached the unfamiliar door and nervously took the key from within the folds of her saree. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door, paused and then opened it. To her horror, she saw that the room was a mess.There was a bed in the center of the room with clothes strewn all over it; some of the clothes had spilled over to the floor. The doors of the closet at the far side of the room had been left ajar. The closet as well as the wall behind the bed were patched with posters of all kinds, taped on the surfaces. The glue had dried up, maybe ages ago on some of the tapes and the corners hanged in small and great arcs across the posters. The table was a mess of books and papers, stacked clumsily. From behind a particularly tall stack, a table lamp peeked out, it's head turned freakishly to the door, looking like it was staring at this new intruder into it's space. The chair was one of those old types with a backrest consisting of a wooden frame stringed with plastic, no armrests, and with a worn and threadbare cushion that lay skewed on the seat, half-out of the chair.

Manglamma sighed heavily. This room would take a lot of work to tidy up. She left her worn Hawaii chappals beside the bucket of water that she had hauled up to mop the room, and gingerly entered inside. It felt strange to her, that in the three years that she had worked in the house, she had never entered this room. It had not troubled her until this moment. But now, all the rumors that she had heard among the other maids rushed back into her mind.

For years, since her marriage, Manglamma had worked in a canteen in the city, washing vessels and cleaning the place. The pay was decent and the no one bothered her. Her drunkard of a husband had died seven years ago, leaving her with two children, a son who looked to be going the same way as the father, and a daughter, who was both bright and dutiful. Then, three years later, the canteen had shut and she was left to fend for herself. She had roamed around to find work at many places and finally was forced into working as a household maid. She worked hard all day and some employers were nice and some were not, but she got by. 

That was when she came to know of this house, located at the end of a street with vacant plots of land on all three sides. No maids would work there, for it was said that the old couple who lived there had lost their daughter ages ago in an accident. The accident, they said, happened after she had left the house in a huff over a misunderstanding with her father. The maids, the corporation sweepers and even the sly, old shopkeeper on the corner, believed, that her spirit still lived there.

Now, Manglamma, like many people who are busy making ends meet, had little time for Gods and even less for ghosts, though she was a very firm believer and traveled to her village far away in the countryside every three months to visit the shrine of Nagamma. But, when she heard the story about the old couple and then, when she heard about how much they were willing to pay a maid, she dismissed the stories about the ghost and the dead girl.

Old man, Srinathappa, was gruff and grumpy, often muttering to himself. Manglamma was sure that it was because he did this as he walked to the corner shop for groceries, that the neighborhood thought he was possessed by his daughter's spirit. But the couple paid a handsome salary, their house was tiny, and Srinathappa's wife, Jayanthi, was an efficient homemaker, using few utensils and keeping the house neat and tidy. It meant that for a few easy minutes each day, Manglamma could carry home a good sum. So, she started working for them. 

On the very first day, she had asked about the room on the first floor and Srinathappa angrily said, she should not worry about that. Later, she had found out that the key to the room, that always remained locked hung on Srinathappa's janivara, the sacred thread of the brahmins. For a few days, she had curiously eyed it, hidden as it was, inside the tight, white vest that he wore all day above his white dhoti. But soon, she had gotten into the routine and forgotten all about it. Initially, the old couple had seemed a little weird, living in their own little world, with no one to talk to. They did not own a mobile phone and their only connection outside the neighborhood on the outskirts of the big city, came through an old, but shiny telephone that stood on a small side table beside the television stand. It had a steel rotating dial and the first time that Manglamma had set eyes on it, she had been mesmerized. She had only seen such phones in old movies that she and her friend had sneaked off to see in the rich Patela's house back in her village when she was just a child.

Srinathappa went to the bank once a month, and every day he went to the shop on the corner of the street. Once in a long while, they would both go to attend a wedding. Manglamma would know about it in advance as Jayanthi would take out her sarees from the iron cupboard three days before, to select which one she could gift the blessed couple. Slowly, Jayanthi shared her life with Manglamma and even Srinathappa smiled once in a while, when he opened the door for her in the morning. She did not care for him a lot, however, for most of the time, he was grumpy and miserable, and rather gruff towards her. So it was a big surprise when, a few days after she had told Jayanthi that she was getting her daughter married to a young, handsome auto driver, Srinathappa had called her aside as she was leaving. He handed her a heavy paper packet, that was obviously money, and told her in his own gruff way, that it was for the wedding.

"We don't have anyone to leave behind all of this for," he said. "You do a lot for us, and we have never thanked you for coming to work here when no one else was willing. Please take it." For a moment, she thought she saw tears sparkled in the bloodshot eyes behind the thick glasses, but the brow frowned again and Srinathappa turned away. Just at that moment, she was filled with affection and adoration for him, from the frayed bottom of his dhoti, to the last of the silky white curls that framed his swarthy, frowning face. "Thanks, Saar", she had whispered. Later that night, she sat and counted out the notes and could not believe her eyes. He had given her two lakhs of rupees, neat and crisp, straight from the money machine at the bank.

Fifteen days ago, Srinathappa had collapsed on the road, as he walked back home carrying the groceries. Some of the neighbors had rushed to help, but his soul had left the body, before the first person could reach him, or so Manglamma had heard from Manja, the shopkeeper's errand boy. Jayanthi had told Manglamma, not to come to the house for a couple of weeks and she herself had locked the house and gone away. Manglamma was afraid that she would not return, and that she would lose her income, but ten days later, the shopkeeper, Kittanna, had called her on her cell phone. Jayanthi was back and had asked her to come to work.

Now, this morning, Jayanthi had asked her to clean out the room on the first floor. As she entered the room, a sudden gust of wind blew in from the window, some of the posters fluttered silently. Manglamma started to sweep the floor from the corner opposite to the door. As she sweeped, the door creaked on its hinges and shut itself, startling her. Manglamma looked around now, and the room seemed eerie. Something was not quite right, something out of place, which she sensed, but could not quite point on. She opened the door again and this time, blocked it open with the wooden wedge door block at the hinge. Continuing her sweeping, she reached under the bed, and at the corners, quickly efficiently. Soon, half the room was done.

And then it hit her. There was not enough dust on the floor. The room was no doubt dusty, but it didn't have years of dust on it. It was like someone had cleaned it out just a few days ago. She looked at the bed, the sheets were clean, the clothes strewn on the bed looked clean as well. The table was filled with the musty smell of old paper, but the books themselves looked clean. There was no layer of dust on them. She ran a finger on the table top and realized there was no thick layer of dust on it. Someone had been living in this room. She looked around at the posters, a young Madhuri Dixit smiled at her from the closet. Behind the bed, a skinny young foreigner danced on the stage, bathed in light next to a cricketer with curly hair and a thin mustache on his lip. She didn't know his name, but she had been seeing him on the television, with a mic in hand, when her son watched India play. She walked to the closet and opened it. It was empty inside; no clothes, nothing. And then a rustle of cloth behind her made her jump in her skin and she whipped around.

Jayanthi stood at the door, looking around the room. "Crazy old brahmana," she said smiling, tears filling her old, tired eyes. "He did not want to let her go. All these years, he kept the room as he had found it on that day. Now he is with her." Her eyes met Manglamma's. "Isn't that all we want, a happy husband and happy children?"