I’m a Weirdo, and I’m Real

by Sanchita Das

It was 12 o’clock. Yo, why does it invariably have to be noon? It could be night, too.

I walked through the parlor and into the backyard garden, grabbed a cortado while listening to Danzel Sax’s “Midnight Coffee.’’ Then, as I customarily did, I turned on the patio lights, wrapped my shawl around my body because there was a nip in the air and then sat down on the sofa (Aura Outdoor Patio Wicker Rattan) and leaned back snugly.

At that time, while sipping my coffee cup, I set out to write something in my diary with my go-to pen. As I was writing, I suddenly reminisced about the 1998 South Korean film Whispering Corridors, where windows symbolize the confinement and surveillance experienced by the students. But what did I jot down?

* * *

Sanchita dozed off with her head on her diary. Whenever she awoke, it was past midnight. A mild breeze was blowing westward through the long, barred window. The caress of that breeze didn’t make her shiver, but the touch of mugginess played on her skin. It had been raining cats and dogs for the past five days, and the soggy zephyr was still blowing.

Sanchita’s weary mind, surmounted by her cushy state, stared in surprise at the luminous orb of the lunar crescent. The alfresco was awash in light. The sky captivated the gaze with its silvery resplendence in conjunction with the bleak wilderness that was conspicuous far and wide. Afterwards the emblic purple-leaf plum woodland began. Perchance some nocturnal creature was calling from there, intruding upon the silence of the night and transmitting a message of its awakening and Sanchita’s awakening.

The diary was unresolved. The writing instrument in her hand, Sanchita couldn’t recall incisively what she had authored before her involuntary slumber. The insomniac writing was vague that she was irate with herself. What was the point of burning the midnight oil? At the same time, she was lollygagging in her hypnagogic writing, thereby disrupting her sleep. How frequently had she reflected that she would just shut the window and settle in to write, to boot.

But glance at that! She didn’t notice that at night. How will Sanchita account for how many nights she has frittered away in her longing to step out, how many manuscripts she has left undone? The publishers conclusively ceased voicing vexation. Concomitantly, no longer did the phone ring; nobody was rushing to write. Nevertheless, Sanchita was in haste, reluctant to undermine the characters who were capable of coping.

The author of the novel wanted to bring about an influx of migrants in the tide of the turbulent river drifting with the current of words and washing away the characters. Wasn’t there a lot more to express, notwithstanding where was it stated? Whenever one fell into the realm of sleep, the manuscript was never finished. The river, separated from words into letters, began to flow back toward its source through the estuary.

Click! Click! Click! Immediately afterwards, a gecko crawled up the wall, staring at her with a stern gaze.

“You know!” she told the gecko. “Don’t dart an incensed glare at me.’’ But that esoteric lizard incessantly tried to penetrate Sanchita’s transcendental allure.

Out of the blue, Sanchita broke her silence when she beheld someone at the window. Who was standing outside her window at witching hour? People didn’t tread along that narrow path at this late hour. Sanchita had a weird feeling of eeriness.

With a hypnotic charisma, she stood up from her chair and ambled to the window. “Who’s there? Who? Who?’’

“Oh, madam, the inundation is approaching. Come out pronto. Everything will be swept away forthwith; let’s seek refuge...’’ Mona concluded her remarks and vamoosed from that spot.

“Deluge is imminent. Flood? But what will befall my manuscript then?’’ Sanchita cried out in a sob.

“Live your life, kook, then you will ponder the paper,’’ Mona proclaimed in a booming voice, gesturing forward.

Sanchita stood there, nonplussed. All her oeuvre was preserved throughout this house. Each brick, every furnishing, the expanse of red flooring, the shelves of the cupboards, they all reverberated with her narrative. Would Sanchita forsake those she was created to create? She didn’t want to leave them in the ignominy of neglect, even if they were just mundane anecdotes. So, what was the way?

Before she could envisage a way, about sixteen more people popped up. All were inhabitants of that region. They made a pandemonium and declared vociferously that they had to abandon everything and escape swiftly for safety. Sanchita was in a quandary. Someone who has had no one since infancy but had myriad creations stored away, it seemed appropriate for her to be discombobulated! They hadn’t yet seen the light of day, hadn’t found freedom on the white page, and hadn’t crossed the reader’s thoughts. There was a hubbub! It was impending; the flood was coming! The composition was on the verge of completion, with only two more pages left to complete. Sanchita dove back into writing with her pen.

A long time passed, time dragged on. At length, Sanchita felt reinvigorated. She couldn’t hear anyone else’s voice. Did the flood come? In the moonlight, Sanchita saw that there was nobody outside the window, nobody was calling out to her anymore. Everything was void, nature was stationary and ubiquitous. Did anyone bring tidings of the torrent? Or was it all Sanchita’s hallucination? After a while, it was dawn. Sanchita rested her head on her pending novel.

Tina has been fidgety nowadays. Only six years old but look how she’s become a local drifter! Feigning deafness to her mother’s calls, she runs off to the homes of kith and kin and elsewhere... Despite a thousand warnings, she tunes out. The bystanders also say, “Oh, let her come, hearing that girl’s garrulity fills our hearts with joy.’’ Aphoristically: “She can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’’

Tina has a confidant. When she approaches her, Tina becomes composed anon. She is all ears when she says meekly she is none other than Sanchita. Tina oft goes to the front porch, where that casement window is, and stands there. She solicits Auntie Sanchita to tell her stories. Whereas she is swamped, she wants to hear tales from Sanchita. Tina is also the icing on the cake. Even though Sanchita has no other listener, she is beholden to the li’l girl for this one listener who harkens to every word she writes.

That occasion, Tina’s first cousin, Zara, stopped in her tracks when she saw Tina standing at the window, chatting cheerfully. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. Renowned scientist Amit’s domicile was now a derelict. The bricks plus plaster were crumbling. Cracks had formed in various corners. A few ruddy stems emerged from this accumulated substance. This dwelling had been left unoccupied for eons. There was an ill-omened tale regarding this house, which was known to all and sundry.

“Hey, Tina, who are you standing there talking to? Move away!’’ Zara beckoned with her hand reiteratively.

“What’s wrong? Why are you calling?’’ Tina was mute. She answered from there, but still stood by the window ledge. She stayed put.

“I’m telling you, come here instantly. It’s vital,’’ Zara gesticulated again.

“Tell me: what transpired?’’ Tina asked, dancing and standing in front of Zara.

“Who were you talking to there?’’ Zara asked.

“Why, with Auntie Sanchita. I tend to come here frequently and chat. Do you know how many stories Auntie Sanchita tells me? I wrote down the story Auntie Sanchita told me in the ‘English Story Writing Competition’ at school last week.’’ Tina chuckled.

Zara’s heart went pit-a-pat. She needed to bring this girl back shortly. She has to tell everything to Auntie Nita, Tina’s mom. Sanchita was Amit’s only born. But that was donkey’s years ago. It was ascertained that Sanchita, who had been ailing since childhood, couldn’t go to school after enrollment. She was home-schooled. She flew into a rage over trivial issues and kept banging her head against the wall. Nobody could handle her then.

Sanchita, who was motherless at a young age, was also sick, hence she started getting scorned by her own father due to such conduct. The scuttlebutt was that at one point her insanity had escalated, that she had to be confined at home. She used to dream of bearing fruit, of achieving recognition in society, of enthralling in a bright environment. Ergo, it was taken for granted that, in her utopia, numerous publishers would be eager to know her whereabouts and get her manuscript.

Over time, folk commenced stating that Sanchita was incommunicado. The room in the five-story building where Sanchita was kept had nothing but a casement window. It seemed like she resided on an isolated island. Even in Amit’s manor, Sanchita’s life lacked purpose and was filled with nihility. She exclusively used that window to shout to the passersby. But nobody paused for long; everyone had their fair share of work to do.

Inevitably, Sanchita would fixate on the pages of that diary. Eventually, when the house was uninhabited, the moment occurred to unlatch the door of that besieged prison. Amit had passed away eons ago. Sanchita, her niece, who used to come to look after her, alas, later contracted typhoid fever and met her demise.

No one kept any news of what had happened to Sanchita. Most of the houses in the flood-hit villages became derelicts. By then, people resumed returning to the rhythm of daily chores gradually; everyone forgot everything concerning Amit’s manor with Sanchita.

But how did Tina get to know that psychotic woman all those years ago? Moving ahead, Zara saw a murky, clammy room visible through the corroded window bars. Nowhere was anyone.

Although Tina was sent home, Zara couldn’t turn around that night owing to the pressure of studying for the exam. The next morning, no sooner did the sun rise than Tina disappeared abruptly. But when Tina couldn’t be found, despite all efforts, Zara told her parents all that had come about the previous evening. By the time Tina was extricated from Amit’s dilapidated house, it was all over. The writer had summoned her only minor listener with some ineffable allure.

* * *

The door opened with a creak. Raj entered and signaled to the others with his hand. Lina with Mac crept inside.

“Nearly all in this estate is decrepit. But look, how rigid each pillar of this house is!’’ The room trembled at the sound of Mac’s rumbling voice.

“True, the house is a skeleton overall, but how can a room like this stand like this? Even if there is a flood, it will still stand,’’ Lina’s voice faded away.

A film crew came to Bhadreswar in the Hooghly district of West Bengal, India, in quest of a cabana and unexpectedly found a garden house. Seeing the tumbledown house that had been there for many years, Raj couldn’t resist the urge to turn around and look inside.

“The inundation swept through this region many moons ago. The house is jinxed,’’ advised multiple community members. “Not only was the landlady of the house studious, she was also a lunatic. It is contended that she wouldn’t head out anywhere day or night. She would write around the clock. She had no audience. An indefatigable author but few readers.

“She asserted that she had to write every day on account of the publisher’s ardor; she was so appreciated and esteemed by the readership. We haven’t explored any of her writings. Her name is also unprecedented to us: Sanchita Roy. Have you heard her name? Or haven’t you? Did I mention it?

“The deranged woman was compelled to be locked up in her father’s house. There was never any benefit from treatment. That happened ages ago, as passed down from our ancestors. We heard it through the grapevine that this entire area was deluged. Unable to leave, she is still ensnared there. Don’t set foot there; none of us knows what is inside that house.’’

And even though everyone backed down, Raj’s stubbornness prevailed. These three — Raj, Lina and Mac — had become bosom buddies since beginning their film’s production. Of the three, Raj and Mac were hand in glove, therefore they were called “David and Jonathan.’’

And, to boot, Raj and Mac both liked to take the bull by the horns implausibly. Hobson’s choice, Lina had to accompany two. It was no-go to return to such a place but for visiting it. How can we miss out on such a riveting experience while figuring out the logistics of a film shoot??

Unanticipatedly, noticing a flicker of light in the gloomy, dank room, Lina proceeded toward a wall. Inside was another room! With the concerted efforts of the three of them, they broke down the door of that room.

This room was much like the outside room. The layout of the room was squarely like the prior room. This room also had cupboards arranged sequentially, coupled with books organized inside them. Incontrovertibly, this house was a repository of books. It was a moot point that such a person was psychotic.

“Look, another room! Multitudinous rooms in a row? When we look from outside the house, we never considered that it could be multiroom successively?’’ Mac sounded a little befuddled.

“Indeed, I’m also feeling a bit under the weather now. Have you observed that not a single cupboard can be opened? Even if we bash the door with a hammer, all the wooden cupboards are as sturdy as iron. What will I be doing here for an extended period?’’ Lina said.

“What is that?’’ Raj raised a quivering finger and pointed ahead. A window that opened like a door, swinging outward with just a simple turn of a crank handle. Through it, a lone shaft of moonlight illuminated a refectory table. A pen lay on the scattered papers on that table. It wasn’t lying, it was moving, moving on the pages. Its sound was rustling. It continued to write while hovering over the table.

Like magic, a dark apparition surrounded Lina and vanished in a nanosecond. Lina let out a shriek. They darted out of the house. They passed through one door after another, but the rows of rooms aligned in that order never seemed to end. Had there been so many rooms when they arrived?

Mac halted all at once. He crouched down and started gasping. Then he cackled maniacally, making the room jiggle. Lina and Raj, flabbergasted, peered at him inquisitively.

“We can’t get out. There’s no exit door in this room. There’s only one window. Look, we’re running around in the same room. There’s a pen writing on the table, and outside the window, a little girl is standing holding the grill, since when?’’

And there: Tina has arrived, Sanchita’s devoted listener. Today, she simply must tell her to come home; the girl hasn’t stepped inside even once.

It was a starlit night. Beyond the window, the Milky Way and the Ganges, the celestial river, were flowing in parallel streams, unmixing.

* * *

Sanchita revived again. Today, a cognitive dissonance arose in Sanchita’s mind. She awoke and scanned with effort and saw that night had come back. Another day had gone by. The ending was unwritten. She picked up the pen from the table again.

In truth, Sanchita herself hadn’t kept track of how long she had been lost in a dream world, engrossed in writing her own supernatural story.