Putulbaari -The House Of Dolls

"This is magnificent, don't you think?" Satyajit gazed in a state of awe.

"Babuji, You are crazy. Do not live here. I will take you to a hotel right behind. But please, not this one" beseeched Raja, the auto-rickshaw driver.

"Who would stay in a lifeless hotel when you have this breathtaking obelisk right in front of you. I need fresh air, Raja; those small walls wouldn't let me breathe. And don't worry about me as I can take care of myself. You should soon go for other passengers and we shall meet the day after tomorrow for my ride back to the airport."

"But can I see you tomorrow?" requested the auto-rickshaw driver. "I care for you as you're a nice man. We don't see nicer people every day."

Satyajit smiled and bade him adieu.

Satyajit Mukhopadhyay was born in the erstwhile Calcutta city but was a year old when his parents moved to Ireland. As time passed, his interests grew around writing and photography. He wrote several blogs concerning historical monuments, which one day propelled him to visit his birth land. This monument called 'Putulbari' or the house of dolls was located at Arihitola, opposite the vast river Ganges. It was of Roman architectural style, ornamented with dolls from the early 19th century. It was said that it belonged to the owner's daughter, Maantu Bose, who had died at a very young age for reasons unknown. The rooms at upper storey of the warehouse were restricted and no one dared to even peer into the rooms, for it was known for a series of sickening tragedies.

As per the local legend, this place was once used by the rich landlords to exploit young girls and kill them to hide their heinous crimes. The souls were believed to have wandered around this place. Although Satyajit's lineage too belonged to the landlords and his forebears were bestowed upon with the title of 'Zamindars', he was unaware of the tragedies here and decided to stay for a night.

The red brick structure wasn't maintained properly and was in a dilapidated state. But there was something that allured Satyajit to choose this place as his subject of interest.

"Kay dhukeche baadi te?" ("Who entered the house") a voice stammered.

Satyajit saw a silhouette trudging towards him who turned out to be an old caretaker of the warehouse.

"Ma aami Satyajit" (I am Satyajit, Aunty')

"Aesho"( Come, follow me!), directed the old lady.

As he followed the lady to his room, just as he was about to enter, the room adjacent to his, he saw a beautiful girl brushing her dark wavy hair, sitting in front of a mirror to the bedside. She faintly smiled at him and turned back to look at the mirror.

Confused, Satyajit kept following the old lady to his room.

"Call me whenever you need anything."

Before Satyajit could revert, she left in a jiffy.

He sat on the bed, tired, and started to look at the surroundings. It had a uniquely bizarre aura. The room had a triumphal arch over a huge wooden door. The ceiling was beautifully etched with Roman scriptures and supported by Tuscan columns made of up stone. The walls were cracked, with lanterns hung on it that donned shades of cobweb. The set up demonstrated itself of the renaissance period, although its beauty was visibly seen deteriorating with time and lack of maintenance. 

He threw himself on the bed and stretched his body all over. Gazing at the swirling bronze colour ceiling fan, he wondered how ancient it was. It's slight but regular rattling noise did not bother him in the slightest way. 

Suddenly, an image flashed on the glass that ornamented the top of the fan. He cringed at the sight, for the same girl he had just seen a while ago, was lying beside him, with her long tresses spread to one side. She looked at him through the glass, smiling. He managed a peripheral view; he was all alone.

He smirked at his stupid imagination and rebuked himself, "I think I need a good sleep". He felt a slight pang of hunger and called out to the old lady, "Amma, kichhu khete ache ki?"( Amma, do you have something to eat?)

Silence echoed in response.

He trudged back to bed and lay down, tried to read a book but was too tired to keep up. He soon drifted to sleep. 

(Jao pakhi bolo haowa chholo chholo,

Abchhaya janlar kaanch;

Ami ki amake hariyechhi baanke,

Roopkotha anach-kanach.)

(Fly away bird, Breezes blowin',

Misty are the window's glass;

Have I lost myself completely

or it'll turn into a fairy tale at last)

How mesmerizing, he thought. "But who could that be?" He was now desperate to know its genesis. 

Like the kids that followed the tune of the pied piper of Hamelin, he followed the song to the abandoned stairs. 

There she was - a dusky maiden with dark eyes. She looked as if she was made of porcelain. Her black wavy hair oscillated below her waist as she walked up the stairs, singing. Her beauty was unprecedented. She wore a white Saree with fine red lines. The end of the cloth pulled over from one side of her shoulders and hung loose. She smiled at him and he followed her up to the stairs. 

With each step, he entered into a different time. The Sun gleamed in its full valour, illuminating the walls and the stairways. The colorful veils that were suspended to the railing from one end and unraveled from the other, flew all over. Enthralled, he entered the whirlpool of colors, making his way out by uncurtaining it form both his hands. 

The hypnotised soul went behind it in desperation and landed into one of the rooms; he did not know that the air smelled of the curse.

The song was suddenly overshadowed by the cries of young girls. The chortles of men devoured the soft cries of the maidens. All types of men, mostly old, forced themselves on them. Their bangles clinked, pleading for freedom but the men wouldn't listen. They were the devils gorging on meat, with no signs of mercy. 

Satyajit couldn't bear the sight and the cries of the girls clung to his ears. He tried to cover them with distress but couldn't stop the whimpering that pierced into his mind and guts. 

He ran out of the room with disgust and hobbled down the stairs calling, "Ma!"

To his surprise, there was no one. It was entirely dark. He did not see a single soul. There were no answers to his forlorn cries. The entire warehouse looked abandoned for years. 

He turned in despair and found himself surrounded by girls whimpering, but their eyes demanding justice. Their cries and countenance were not in sync. The place echoed with their eerie cries and they approached slowly towards Satyajit. As they moved closer, Satyajit was shocked by the state of unconsciousness.

Next day, the rays of the sun fell on the warehouse and it lit up again. It was quiet except for the soft chirping of birds. The girl in saree walked subtly towards the room and sat confidently in front of the mirror. The eyes were highlighted with dark kohl and the forehead was beautified with a dot of vermillion. 

Satyajit smiled with pride, looking himself at the mirror. He stood up, swayed all alone with his saree, flowing along. He moved like a woman and snaked up the stairs. He danced all over the house in a state of trance and sang.

(Jao pakhi bolo haowa chholo chholo,

Abchhaya janlar kaanch;

Ami ki amake hariyechhi baanke,

Roopkotha anach-kanach.)

(Fly away bird, Breezes blowin',

Misty are the window's glass;

Have I lost myself completely

or it'll turn into a fairy tale at last)