The woman in the mist

She sat at the dining table of the beautiful Darjeeling bungalow with her son, Krishid, helping him finish his homework and prepare for his upcoming spelling quiz. He repeated the spellings of one word after another, while Meenu encouraged and guided him. Outside, the world dissolved into mist and fog, rolling down the slopes in thick white waves swallowing tea bush after tea bush until the whole hillside vanished into white.

Inside, the air smelled of wood and rain. The once beautifully set up bungalow with its Teak and Mahogany furniture accented with handmade lace and crochet doilies was now bare. A few trunks and boxes lay around the gol kamra, packed and ready to be moved.

Left: The Gajmers - 2003. Right: Krishika and Krishid

Vikas, her husband, had been transferred to Norbong T.G., but Meenu had decided to stay back for a few more days as her son had recently started school and she thought it best not to disturb his routine, at least until he finished his final exams for the session. Her daughter, Krishika, had turned two. Meenu caught a glimpse of her maid carrying the toddler in her arms, across the master bedroom. "Sabita," called out Meenu from the dining room. But the maid didn't respond. Meenu was puzzled. This was highly uncharacteristic of Sabita.

The July rains were lashing against the window panes. The soft glow of the halogens illuminated the large room, but a high dark corner above the antique glass cabinet watched her like an empty eye. She felt something powerful dragging her from the dining chair. Wrapping her arms around her body, she put on a brave front. A jagged flash split the sky, its electric radiance flooding the golkamra, and then it was dark again. Then came the thunder. Unapologetic, roaring, ominous.

Krishid lunged into Meenu's lap. "It's okay, Kichu, just thunder. Come, let's eat. Put away your books," she coaxed, but her hands were shaking.

"Chowkidaar!" Meenu called, her voice fraying at the edges. She heard the footsteps - heavy and deliberate.

Jee, Memsaab," he appeared in the doorway.

"Why hasn’t Sabita gone home? One of you take care of Krishika. One of you lay dinner. We’re late. It's past 8:30," she instructed.

The chowkidaar frowned. "Memsaab…didi left at 8, as soon as we came. Krishika baby is with Kancha."

"Kancha!"

Kancha came in from the kitchen; Krishika perched on his shoulder, gurgling.

Meenu’s blood went cold. "Then who… who was in the master bedroom?"

Her voice sharpened. "Lock the doors. Lock the windows. Now."

They searched. Every room. Every cupboard. Nothing. Only the smell of wet earth and something else… something faint, like old jasmine and damp saree cloth.

Meenu sat looking through the window, and at the far end of the corridor, where the fog pressed against the glass, she saw a figure.

A woman. Who she had mistaken for Sabita. Saree draped in Bengali style, pallu over her head. And on her shoulder, a tiny baby, asleep. The woman wasn't walking. She was drifting. And then — she was gone. Dissolved into the mist as if she’d never been there at all.

Meenu clasped her hands over her mouth to trap the scream. "Chowkidaar!"

The bungalow perched atop a hill (AI)

That night, Vikas’s voice on the phone was the only steady thing. "I’m sending more men, Meenu. It’s the Dastoor. You all will be taken care of, protected."

By midnight, two guards with bhallas stood outside her bedroom. Courtesy of Mr J.D. Rai, the Manager of Norbong, who had called Mr Raj Sinha, the assistant of that garden.

But Meenu still couldn't sleep. On the Victorian carved bed, she lay rigid, one arm around Krishid, the other around Krishika. Every creak made her jolt. Every raindrop tapped like quiet footsteps in the dark. Meenu felt the raindrops drumming an eerie rhythm against the window. The clock ticked by and the first pale light bled through the laced curtains. The mist outside turned gold.

Krishid and Krishika slept like angels. Too peaceful. Too perfect.

Meenu exhaled for the first time all night. "Thank you, God," she whispered to the morning.

She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. With all of the paintings and wall hangings packed, stared at the empty walls.

"Was it real? Or did the fog play tricks on me?" She pinched her own arm hard.

The tea garden was waking up outside, slow, green, breathing. But inside the Bungalow, Meenu made a silent vow to herself as the mist slipped through the bushes and climbed the trees.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/821cde_ba6abab9a38a4999a6ba98f825421ed3/480p/mp4/file.mp4

Mist and fog rolling down the slopes

In the morning, she would ask the chowkidars.

About the woman. About the baby. About why some bungalows never really forget who lived in them. Was the previous night an episode for real, or was it just a figment of her imagination?

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/821cde_b71735ba2f5e450d881e214b326a5800/720p/mp4/file.mp4

A recent picture of the Gajmers: Vikas, Meenu, Krishid and Krishika. Audio: Meenu speaks about her experience.