“. . . out of the corner of our eye we can always glimpse another world . . .’ — Michal Ajvaz.
On the corner of Briarwood lane there stands a derelict stone cottage. Dwelling within its crumbling rubble is a mirthless reminder of what once was. A gloomy silence pervades, the abandoned ruins making a mockery of itself through the thick layers of dust that swirl like disintegrating powder particles trapped in turmoil or in thoughts too deep. Time has not been kind to this cheerless structure.
The inclination is to turn away, to run. But one is compulsively drawn by degrees to look closer, to seek what lies beyond. Hidden in the stillness. And so one stays sensing that the spirit of the house remains, still and deep as its owner, like an uncertain dweller-in-waiting.
An intricate pattern of cobwebs repel and attract, filling the unyielding darkness within. They weave obscure lacework, entangling in silver shatters the cottage’s mystery. It heightens the overall melancholy which aches to be gone. All around parts of the paneling, the wooden rafters, the beams, are moth eaten and crumbling.
Out of the upper bay windows hang twisted twigs and branches pushing through broken panes. They produce a hollow scratch and moan. The roof is wide and gaping, the shingles missing. It filters the sky. A green spread of moss and lichen cover the rest. Nature, the indomitable mistress has taken over.
Some vintage bric-a-brac remains. One could have a rummage sale with the assortment of farmhouse clutter. They magnify the picture of a home that once was, that the owners did not leave at all, that they wished to return. Or perchance had left in a tearing hurry. The flight of lost souls. The image is uncharacteristic of a sanctuary, of a cozy home where a wild soul runs towards, not away from. It sends a shiver.
Undoubtedly such a cottage could easily have stood a thousand years or more, if one could only see through the tunnels of time—the picturesque Victorian garden overgrown and full with trellised plants and shrubbery, rambling rose bushes that climb in disarray to meet fragrant honeysuckle vines and clematis blooms amidst the creeping ivy. The profusion at the casement windows would be too colorful to miss. Unfortunately its endearing charm was also its intense vulnerability. And there one stops ruminating.
For, eerie as it may be, it would be testing fate to step into that other world lurking within those cold stone walls. It was tried once with grisly results. So none dare enter. Local legends remember three young lads up to no good one summer, who dared. They were never seen again.
Stranger tales grew over the years–some such poppycock they had best be relegated to a mad jumble of theatrics around a winter’s fire; or savaged behind closed doors while tippling ale. But far best, left unspoken. The boys were headed west to seek their singing fortunes with a troupe of nomadic Romani people. Eavesdropping coupled with malicious gossip-mongering has a way of twisting entrusted stories.
Suffice to say the lads promptly vanished, exactly as the mistress of the stone cottage had long ago with never a trace. She was a still water with thoughts so deep it was no exaggeration. What had haunted the village for decades would return to hit home harder than anyone could imagine. Barely a hundred miles away three bodies would mysteriously wash up on a remote outcrop of rocks attached to an island. Bloated. Ripped from throat to sternum. Their faces so charred as to be barely recognizable. Blistered wounds covering the rest that appeared to have been chemically cauterized.
The once peaceful village deep in shock would never recover. Robbed of their idyllic history from decades of pastoral slumber blame would attach to the erstwhile first owner Hildegard–a strangely-gifted polymath of vast learning, widely recognized for her unusual prophetic ability. Oftentimes she cautioned, her weird predictions guiding the village through some of their most dire calamities, her manner sorrowful, too distressed by her own harrowing visions. Mostly her premonitions were unwelcome but true, saving the village each time from certain disaster.
She left no heir. Puritanical thoughts darkly dwelling in her forbade marriage. Born an esoteric grimoire, her mind a textbook of cabbalistic knowledge—secretly practising her craft, she developed early in life baffling mystic abilities based on her beliefs. Her thoughts ran deep. Her prognostications were so mind-shattering, often she would be mocked for throwing caution to the winds, taking salve in the chaos she had created. Many who came under her spells would not be spared either. In time people began to fear her even as they sought her, as her delusions increased.
Inexplicably she had seen it coming, the excruciating fate to befall the three hapless youths of the village. Her warnings went unheeded, till she herself uncannily vanished one brutal winter. Villagers would recall hacking in desperation with pickaxes and mattocks, whatever available, through mountains of ice and snow, to reach the stone cottage. Past the dying farm animals devastated by the frigid cold they dug. The rescue would prove futile.
The wizened old woman named Hildegard, of vague Huguenot descent, the last of a long line who had settled in this peaceful countryside fleeing religious persecution, would never be seen again. Bequeathed of vast acreage by her forebears, the grey stone cottage and its verdant farmlands would be all that was left to remind one of her.
No other sign of her death. No body. No presence. It was as if the angel of her visions had carried her aloft into the heavens, body and soul. There were villagers who would swear by this apparition. They had seen a white moving light, then the ghostly wraithlike silhouette of an angel of death with wings appeared. Like the sculpted figures from Byzantine mosaics the shape would enfold Hildegard in its loving arms as they rose together skywards.
A long trail of climbing red rose blooms would stretch from the earth to the sky, to disappear into the white fluffy clouds above. The entire apparition would fade from view leaving sweet-scented white jasmines to flutter earthwards. Like a shining rain-shower the gleaming wet petals would fall, which would be all that was left of Hildegard’s mortal remains. Her secrets, her thoughts too deep for mortals would die with her, spirited away spectral-like, as she lyrically departed in flower showers.
Services would quickly convene in the local church that day, the entire village grieving. Rituals would be observed. A few would attend out of curiosity, surprised at the peculiar phenomena witnessed by many. Others would participate simply haunted by the unforgettable experience. Still others to be comforted. The few would castigate the many that her ghost would return. The strange sensations brought on by Hildegard’s demise would stir the mourners too stupefied by the chicanery to even gossip.
A single wreathe of white jasmines would be painstakingly woven by the women present, collected from the jasmine-shower the day Hildegard free-floated heavenwards. Gathered diligently into reed baskets, heavenly perfume would fill the air, like incense. The more they eagerly wove the more jasmines would appear—filling the overflowing baskets, waiting to be knotted. The solitary jasmine wreathe would swell so disproportionately in size it would be unlike any funereal wreathe anyone had ever seen.
With great effort, pushing and heaving, it would at last find its final resting place in the family vault–a private nook in a dank crypt, lying quietly hidden behind the stone cottage. There the wreathe would remain interred for all time although none dared verify the illusion, or the story, or the trimmings of mock reality. The crypt once sealed could not be opened. Hildegard was an unimaginably creative woman, cherishing the nuances of ancestor worship to such a degree, in keeping with the widespread practices of those fretful times. The depth of her abilities was unlimited.
Faraway in a distant land where everyday is eternal sun-scorched summer, where skies burn blue in a golden blaze, a white jasmine garland blown by powerful wind drafts, surging trade winds, as it is unleashed to an uncertain future, slowly travels eastwards. Guided by the manoeuvres of sun, moon and planets performing in orchestral harmony, a La Traviata duet—sometimes discordant, sometimes melodic, sometimes melting-pot, through whirling sand storms, over mountains and oceans, and the Tropic of Cancer where the stars align, where death signs hover, it floats. Often going astray.
At long last the mystical jasmine garland makes landfall, its destination–the house of a small family of four. They are in the midst of final preparation, putting finishing touches to long distance travel far away to a new land—America. Land of their desire, land of their dreams. There are tears. There is excitement. There is joy. There is gratitude. At the leave-taking.
“Its up to you—vagabond shoe! New York! New York!” someone is belting out in deep baritone, our of tune.
“Newark! New-Waarrkk!” someone else is vociferously correcting.
“Yes, yes, same song I’m singing also. Places are same, no? Amreeka! Amreeka!!“
“But singing do quietly beta. Even sleeping cows are waking. I hear moo-moo.”
“Maa, in big city peoples are everyday yodeling. All day! All night!! King of hills, I love—New York! New York!”
“Uph-pho! Nira, what you got in your hand? All suitcases popping full!”
“Nothing Maa. Just a pretty flower garland dropping from sky, to me.”
“Fresh jasmines? They don’t look real. Eeew, funny smell. No room for more baggage you know. Throw flowers away. Now bubbli!”
When Nira and her family finally arrived in the Big Apple late fall, they were hugged by scores of well-meaning relatives and friends gathering at the arrivals hall of the international airport. The family looked lost. They felt lost, not only lost, but alone, despite the busloads of fellow countrymen. There were tears. There was excitement. There was joy. There was gratitude. At the home-coming.
And for their new home there was a picturesque stone cottage. What could be more perfect? There it stood a reassuring real home in the style of a postcard picture from Switzerland, with lush farm lands attached to sylvan glades overflowing with freshness. Obtained cheap. Very cheap. They were spellbound, brimming with happiness, praising the Almighty and all the stars in favor of their great good fortune.
“You lucky dog you! Same day born like Raj Kapoor yaar!”
“Arre, tell SuperStar Rajnikanth!”
“Same-same all movie-heroes yaar! Clint Eastwood style. Now we in Amreeka we talk Amreekin “
Samjhaa na? All laughed. All heaved a collective sigh of relief. All praised the real estate crack team for their deliverance. All tucked collectively into a satisfying spread of home-cooked niceties—samosas, biriyani, tandoori, washing it all down with goblets of rich almond-milk.
“What a cute little place. Four bedrooms, no? We must have four bedrooms.”
The cozy inglenook fireplace burned brightly as the wood crackled. Golden embers sparkled in bleak bursts. All talked about old home and how much they missed it. The village they left behind. The sun. The rain. The ripening wheat fields. The goats. The cows. The cattle cries. The quiver of neem leaves. The overripe guava fruit. The ancient temples. And the flavored lassi tinted with saffron.
The white jasmine garland which had accompanied them unbeknownst lay on the bare table forgotten, looking as fresh as the day the flowers were picked. It had survived the arduous journey. A heavenly incense perfume filled the cottage rooms, fragrant with sweet-scented odors emanating from the flowers. Each petal had curled voluptuously at the tips exuding scents from its dark pink lips.
Nira, enamored of the jasmines the most, apportioned the garland in two, tying the fresh flowers around her ankles. She surveyed her handiwork. The pale crowd of petals. The neat shape of one brown foot. Then the other. Both feet shone with a lovely pearl-like luster suffusing her body in its paleness. Silkily cocooned in her newfound nacre, she glowed. When she moved, everywhere she went, the anklets of jasmine vibrated in lavish profusion, resounding with beats. Heart-beats. Flower-beats. The unrestrained luxuriance was like an outpouring of buzzing sounds running deep, not unlike a dancer’s salangai. When she ran it took on the energy of frenzied footwork, bobbing insanely, not unlike the silver payals she traditionally wore–those little dancing bells pitter-pattering in the reeds, tinkling in the fields, rippling in the wind. Prattling endlessly.
When the visions started, her family was in shock. They grew apprehensive. It turned acute, scandalous, like an electric current administered fatalistically. None could explain. None knew how to deal with it. Where to turn. Where to hide. Where to run.
The oak floors spoke to Nira in cuneiform. The cedar furniture whispered in rhymed couplets. The stone walls breathed the smoke of distorted shapes snorting fire, basking in embers. In her dreams she saw grandeur, the way Hildegard had. She saw the magnificent architecture and masonry of the Renaissance. The royal chateau of Chambord. Villandry. Loire Valley. But she had never been to France.
And through it all her anklets chimed plentifully.
Her family was aghast. Deeply mystified they blamed the new country. The old country. Then her tender age. The weather. The brutal winter affecting their livestock. Financial hardships. The creepy-looking sealed crypt discovered behind their stone cottage. The school. The books. Her first period. Her friends. The full moon. The new moon. The no-moon. The ghosts. The misalignment of the stars. Kali-yug. The end of the world. The lack of friendly neighbors. The over-friendly neighbors.
The sudden soil disintegration pushing up black rose bushes. Anklets of jasmine.
Then they fell to blaming each other. It was expected. This turned into a screwed- up battle of wills. When it got out of control, that was when all relatives participated. Extended family and friends from all parts of the new and old country. Each conspired to provide helpful insights. In the meantime Nira turned impossible to analyze.
Father took the entire brunt of attacks full volley. Failing to tackle the accusations launched, all in unison lamented the strange crypt most—Hildegard’s daunting sepulcher to immortality sheathed in masonry, standing passively remote behind their old stone cottage, like a gargoyle-in-waiting. They grew horrified to learn what lay inside. Dead bodies. Her ancestors. A modern day catacomb. The stories. The unpleasant deaths. The black rose cultivar sprouting like poppies. The verbal assaults felt choir-like.
“How you can be living nearby so many dead people? So many dead roses?”
“Small child, oh no! She definitely getting frightened yaar.”
“Even I will be going crazy in head in bhoot bungla haunted house. Guaranteed.”
It would fall on Mother to eventually take her daughter to various temples, faith healers, distant prayer halls, discovering release through the leap of faith to cure the deep thoughts affliction ensconced in her remote daughter, which showed no outward signs of abating. Psychiatry within the community was looked at askance, too taboo to be even considered much less spoken about. What had so altered Nira, a lively, bubbly girl?
All proved to no avail. Life thereafter became a mad dash of lateral movements– the stone cottage grab stemming from contagious panic for this family of four teetering on the edge trying desperately to settle in, even as they turned vigilant and unsettled. In a short time their land of dreams was melting in mutiny, like a dissolving honey pot attacked by marauding bears.
Nira in the meanwhile unencumbered by a mind paralyzed with fear started seeing other things. Her mind heated up in terror propelled by nocturnal hallucinations. They took on the quality of waking nightmares, youthful and edgy. From out of the dark shadows an old woman appeared cowled in grey, her thin face shriveled. Nira saw a train disaster, then a raging river in flood. A town going up in volcanic explosivity, rain of dust clouds traveling miles. Then a gory spectacle. Three young lads. Their skins stigmatized. A man writhing in agony. He bore a familiar look. The shapes moved furtively lacking substance but well defined in the harm or horror they prognosticated.
She took to forecasting the future with dread certainty the way Hildegard had, the accuracy of which seemed surreal. In stages she was growing as uncannily infamous as her predecessor of long-ago once was. Her quest for solitude in one so young, just a mere child, was equally worrying. She quickly shunned the company of others preferring to stay confined within the cold stone walls of the cottage instead. She turned dreamlike. A recluse pale and wan. A creature of quietude. She would soon quit school altogether.
On the eve of her fifteenth birthday Nira had a sudden awakening. It was bizarre. Setting her normal dream-like pattern aside she catapulted out of her vacuous state, rushing in haste into her English country garden which was bursting with blooms. Her frenzied activity was in the manner of someone being playfully chased. Like a gazelle bounding. No one noticed. A spirited eagerness suffused her childlike countenance as she sped, propelled by an unknown force.
Anklets of jasmine buzzed animatedly in collusion with another unfamiliar sound. Crisp-calling. Jangling. Their vigor and clicks hurried.
It would be her first and last summer at the stone cottage. Through the kitchen door she ran, tripping, jumping, hopping and skipping. Sometimes stumbling. Dark hair billowed about her delicate face in a long black cloud of voluminous trails. The day was uncommonly warm. There was a lush garden to cover. She struggled against the profusion of vines and creepers, pushing against the thorny rose bushes in flower.
Father was in the clump of trees. Dead ahead.
The buzz sounded loud. Strident. Immediate. Black rose murmurings growing in susurration. The faster she moved the more overpowering it sounded, the closer it came–a child’s rattle vigorously shaken. Poised to strike. Terror wrapped in passing seconds.
Father turned. A relieved smile etched the furrows on his weather-beaten face into relief. He watched Nira emerge from out of the tangle of blood red rose bushes–a dancing sprite in motion.
Dead behind.
A frozen scream punctured the animated definition of her delicate face, unable to shatter. He froze. She gesticulated wildly with an immediacy so rapid, not to be ignored. Facial muscles bulged—eyes widening in horror.
The slithery terror glided into view, forked tongue flicking, mouth agape, fangs distended. Violently, with venomous hiss it broke in sudden snap from the slim brown bough of the leafy birch tree around which it was slightly camouflaged—to dart lurid death swift and savage, the eye barely catching livid movement. Bite spent, long coils surfed the primulas in disjointed undulation. Just as suddenly as it had appeared it was in seconds lost to view. In moments the bright English garden with a bumper carpet of alpine flowers overflowing in pinks and purples assumed the intense blooming look it always wore under sunlit skies.
Father fell to the ground writhing in agony, clutching his neck, his complexion deathly pallid—a snake of white diamonds.
In a faraway distant land where the vivid flame of the forest gul mohar is in full blossom, its red blooms spilling blood, thickly carpeting the earth, the grass grows lush and green. Wheat fields sway in golden motion. The painted skies melt adorning infinity in vibrant deep blush, the color of ripening peaches. Some would say mangoes. In the scarlet blaze of the peeling sun fleecy clouds scatter a patchwork of hues, the shade of jasmines, as if by their flight there is an unseen hand at work to deliberately dispossess sky cover. The celestial sphere sediments and the clouds become less cloudy acquiring flower-like qualities as they flee in jasmine-anklets. Soon they will disappear into the blue twilight spaces of the far beyond with as much mystery as they first appeared, leaving hardly an echo or trace–
Leaving a solitary jasmine-garland of unknown origin to float uninterrupted to another destined passage.
The symphony complete, other plaintive notes sound, intrusive and solemn–of flute, of cow bells. They are herding the cows home.
