The tall, lanky middle-aged author had to pay a King's ransom for this dilapidated Bungalow situated in the outskirts of the town but he had considered it a worthwhile investment. A circular balcony protected with iron fencing at the top gave a palace-like feel to the structure that was built symmetrically from all sides with French windows all around. On the ground level, an open corridor ran beneath the porch, stretching up to the façade of the bungalow. Massive trees that swung intensely in the wind surrounded the property and it appeared like they were shielding the house from the other forces of nature; some seen but most that kept in the shadows. The trees seemed wild; almost like they had their own personality and they would make weird creaking sounds as their branches rubbed against the windows of the house. The property was old, dating back to the times around the settlement of the East India Company. The interiors were full of vintage tarnished wood, broken panes, squealing furniture and many unsolicited sounds with no explanation of their origin. It was said many a creative genius had flourished under its shadow, the peaceful environs giving them no excuse to do anything else other than dabbling in their own fanciful energies. He had hoped that the bungalow had imbibed some of their flair and a bit of it would rub on him if he stayed in it.
Another rumour afloat was that the property was supposed to be haunted. As a man of science, he did not believe in ghosts even
The Other Side
109 though he had to deliver lectures on the occult and had written a best-selling book on the topic. But who cares about your personal beliefs. He was of the opinion that when the market demanded, a writer had to deliver. Fame and money were at stake. People were stupid enough to accept plain mumbo jumbo overcooked with his vocabulary and served with a spooky setting. And he laughed at his good fortune, not the sarcastic kind of laugh but the oh-I-am-sotalented-and-I-know-it kind of laugh.
But he did believe in the passage of energy onto the matter surrounding it. He simply thought that there were places, which had vibrations that stimulated the human imagination and made their thoughts, come alive. Weaker minds would call them supernatural experiences. For him, they would be manifestations of a powerful imagination. He was sure the tales of the haunting were just excuses to keep the nose-poking locals away from the area. He sure hoped that the end result of his stay would be even more vivid and colourful than Thirteen- tales of the unexpected.
Now all he needed to do was start writing and that was proving to be difficult. Used as he was to the constant buzz and commotion of Delhi, he was finding the utter quietude and serenity of Shimla disconcerting. It would take some time getting used to the surroundings, he was sure about that. He was also missing his office, friends and acquaintances. But he had not despaired yet. He was waiting for the muse to come calling. It was just a matter of a single flash of inspiration. That is how he had written his earlier books. A blinding flash of inspiration, a single moment of revelation, and everything fell into place. He would know what he had to do post the call of the muse. Now all he had to do was to wait for that moment of illumination, wait for the muse to knock on the door of his mind. He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply on it and sighed in pleasure. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize a new story and new characters. Nothing! He sipped the single malt delicately and tried to think again. Blank!
“Argh, no muse is going to visit you today, Mr. Mukherjee!” he said out aloud, banging his glass on the table in frustration. Suddenly, the tape stopped, a cold sensation rose in his bowels, crawling upwards making him shudder. Something seized his mind, freezing his thoughts to a succinct absorbing standstill and then the feeling dissipated just as quickly as it had taken over him.
“What happened, Mr. Bestselling author?” He was surprised to hear a feminine voice say, “Writer's block?”
He swirled his chair around in the direction of the sound. He was startled to see a young woman dressed in a blue lacy nightgown, sitting cross-legged on the settee.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” he blurted.
The woman broke out in peals of laughter. Despite his shock and surprise, he noticed that her laughter was pretty musical, almost as melodious as Beethoven who had gone quiet by then.
“I am your muse,” she answered with a smile.
“Huh? What?” Abhijit frowned.
“The muses are ghosts and sometimes they come uninvited,” the woman laughed.
“Huh? Stephen King in Bag of Bones? But who are you?” Abhijit asked again.
“So many questions, friend! So many questions! Be patient and the answers will come… will come when your time comes,” the woman said, her lips still curling upwards.