ON a night like this, he would not have been out. But tonight, it was different.
This night had arrived with dark clouds and smell of jasmine. Not fresh jasmine, but the stale, wild fragrance of potpourri. And he knew. Another episode of the saga of hunger would unfold tonight. He, the old caretaker of the dilapidated mansion located far south of the town, would remain the lone witness to it.
He proceeded to the gate of the mansion. Trudging on the once-gravelled, weed-ridden path. His legs were heavy. Rheumatism. Old age. How old? He could not guess. He could never remember when he was young. The night was violent. Lightning flashed often. Ripping the black breast of the sky with dazzling, purplish, zigzag lines. Clouds thundered, the wind howled. The rain hammered the shards of the windowpanes.
The smell of jasmine grew stronger. A blaze of lightning illumined a statue. In spite of his age, his eyes glistened. He observed the statue in the garden. A woman with a pitcher. Sculpted of white marble, pale as death. Yes, water was flowing from the pitcher. Like witches’ oils.
Burning green and blue and white.
It was time. His weary feet reached the rust-eaten-iron gate. He opened it with a screech like the cry of a bird of prey. A young man, wet with rain, holding an electric-torch, was waiting.
“Who are you?” asked the man, curiously.
“The caretaker, babu.”
“I want to enter the house.”
“Babu, go back. It’s dangerous.”
“I know. I want to explore.”
“As you wish.”
The man entered. His torch went out. He walked briskly to the door. It creaked as he opened it. He went in. The old man watched. Through the holes of the motheaten, dusty, damask tapestry. With a wry smile on his wrinkled lips.
A candle was lit inside. The light flickered. His eyes turned to the statue. A vague, graceful form, draped in white, descended. She kept the pitcher on the moist earth. He went inside the mansion. Slowly, silently but surely. The scent of jasmine lingered in the damp wind. The thunder rumbled. Its roar seemed to be strangled. The candle’s flame flickered. Not with a bang but a whimper. She came out. Walked into the garden. Took the empty pitcher in her hand. Petrified into marble again. Jasmine faded away. Lightning dazzled. He saw the fiendish smile gleaming on her bloody, crimson lips.
It was over. He retreated. He would not be out again until another night came. When monsoon mingled with jasmine and witches’ oils. When the statue’s insatiable hunger took another life. As it had taken his. Long ago.
BY Sayantika Mandal, Times of India, Kolkata