Dev’s life could be carried in three boxes. One for his clothes, one for his books, one for his memories. Still, he dreaded the shifting process. His second visit to the house was even more disappointing than the first. The paintings in the bedroom had not been scrubbed off or painted over. The faces still stared at him, draining his spirit, or whatever was left of it.
On the fifth attempt, the broker picked up the call. “Sir, don’t worry, the owner has promised to paint it over before the new year,” the broker reassured Dev.
“That’s still a month away,” Dev said with his eyes wide open, this is not going to happen. The broker stood firm in his stance and ended the call. He wasn’t going to pick up the next call, Dev knew.
He took matters to his own hands and closed the room, locking it, never to open it again. I could live without that room.
The biggest hassle of moving to the new house was lighting it. There was hardly any light coming into the house, even with the windows and doors open. It took him a ton of time and money to get the house lit up enough to be visible at night.
Should I look for a new home? Dev thought to himself, putting down his last set of packages, pushing it to a corner, left to be untouched forever.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
A week passed by.
The house grew on Dev.
His bedroom was a world of its own, spending a large chunk of time moving between his bed, his study table where he stared at his laptop, and then back to bed. His daily routine would extend to the living room and the garden. Yes, there was a garden now. Mrs Sheela, a lovely woman in her 60s who always walked down the street to take her grandchildren to school, gave his house a discerning look and returned with a few rose saplings one day.
“Give it a try, it may help make the house look more homely,” She said, passing the saplings.
“Thanks,” Dev replied bewildered at how to respond to this unsolicited kindness. Should kindness be asked for, or be expected? he thought.
“I was planning on popping in to say hello,” Dev said, embarrassed about not meeting them while moving in. “But got really busy with the shifting.”
“Oh, no worries. I was telling my husband we should visit our new neighbour, glad we could at least meet today,” she said smiling.
“Pleasure is all mine,” Dev responded, shaking his head, glad to find a new company in the area.
“What do you do? Are you working?”
I am a writer Dev wanted to say with a puffed chest. But he didn’t find anything to be proud of in that. He was just a normal kid who won a short story competition in his school, planting the notion that he was a gifted writer. Deep down, he knew he was just another con artist pretending to be something he was not. The publisher’s rejection letter affirmed it. He stopped counting after twenty.
“I work at the state school, joining early next year,” he said, swallowing the ugly truth. Ever since his parents died, Dev hadn’t come out of his apartment. Losing his job, friends and a bunch of his savings. His friend who worked at the ministry begged him to take this job, to find a life outside his apartment. He pulled a lot of strings to get him a job at the state school far away from the city so that Dev could have a new beginning, away from the memories of his parents.
“Oh that’s wonderful, my grandchildren study there. I walk them to school every day,” Mrs Sheela said surprised by the news.
“Yeah, I’ve seen them, they are so happy around you” Dev said, a shadow of the past crossing his face before it returned back to normal.
“Their parents leave them with me when they are out of town, I love their company dearly,” she said, tears filling her eyes as she smiled at their innocence.
“OhI’ve taken up too much of your time. You may have a lot to do, I’ll be on my way,” she said, making her way down the road to her home.
“Have a good day,” he called out, looking at the rose saplings in his hand. How long will it take to make this house homely?
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Christmas was on the horizon.
He still stared at the laptop screen. Not a drop of letter.
Mrs Sheela would occasionally visit his garden, checking on the roses. He met a few other neighbours, who all seemed enthusiastic about the new dweller. What a lovely neighbourhood, he would think often.
Nights, however, had not been so relaxing. The deeper into December it got, his bed started to feel like ice. He had never relied on a heater and still didn’t know if he should buy one now.
One such night, he got a visitor.
He remembered waking up, his blanket on the floor, and a woman in golden nightwear walked up to him. He knew someone who wore the same nightwear. The red petal patterns on it were etched in his memory. His mother stood by the bedside, pulling up the blanket from the floor, covering her son like she used to do when he was young.
“Sleep tight, my child”.
Dev would wake up to the same dream for another three days. Almost as if he was reliving the same night over and over. But one night was different.
The door to the room with the paintings was open.
Dev stood puzzled. He remembered closing it the day he moved in. He had never opened it since. No one else had come inside either.
Is there a cat somewhere, he wondered, looking around to find the imaginary cat that would open the door. There was nothing to be found. He was the only living thing in the house.
The door to the room remained ajar as he went closer. The glimmer that caught his attention on day one, did the same again. He couldn’t back out. This time, he had installed a bulb in the room, lighting it up completely. He walked in with a newfound courage.
The same faces that welcomed him on the first day, stared at him again. A lot of them. He searched the room, but still nothing.
But his eyes were drawn to something else. A face in the wall that looked so familiar. There was no mistaking it this time. Mother? was his first thought. No, this face looked recent, he had met her yesterday. Mrs Sheela.
What? Dev reached out to touch the face but took a few steps back. Am I dreaming? he thought, trying to wake up, but he was not.
He walked out of the room straight to the garden locking the room and the main door behind. But it did not help. The face followed outside, this time smiling and talking. He wasn’t listening to anything Mrs Sheela was saying, his mind wandering about.
“Son, are you alright?”
“Yes, yes…” Dev looked back at the house, he then turned and hastily moved towards her. No.
“There’s faces…,” his thoughts trailed off.
“I don’t understand, did something happen to your face?” she looked worried, moving her hands toward him with motherly care.
“There’s a painting of you on the bedroom wall,” Dev managed to speak out a complete sentence.
“Painting?” Mrs Sheela asked, still sorting out what happened to the young man.
“The girl painted your face on the bedroom wall.”
“Dear, what are you saying? what girl?”
“The girl who lived here before me? You’ve never met her?” Dev stared at her eyes. Has everyone gone mad?
“Nobody has lived here since I was born,” she said holding his shoulder as she saw him trembling, missing his footing, falling on his knees.
The roses started to shed their petals one by one.
So did his life.







