The Koel's Melancholia

Away From the Chaos

The Darjeeling Mail at 2200 hrs is a few minutes late; otherwise I would have missed it. Running, out of breathe, I have just embarked on the floor of the train- my luggage still halfway up- when it starts moving. I heave a sigh of relief as I pull my trolley behind me to find seat no. 32. I would have killed myself rather than surviving another night in the stewing pot that is Kolkata, even in the mid-winter. I can't believe I waited until the last minute to leave.

Wait for what, though? This is stupid, I tell myself. There is nothing left in the humid, narrow neighbourhood of North Kolkata to wait for, anymore. Leaving my job had been the last straw. I don't need to see the walls of my dreams day after day, breathe the scent of the flowers that we planted together, or hear the tinkle of the wind chimes he once bought from the alleys of Esplanade to remind me of what I have lost. I have no strength to face it all.

I pick up the trolley and put it on the upper side berth of the train, then my backpack. It's still early to turn in, but the man in the lower berth is sleeping like he hasn't slept in all eternity. I remove my scarf and throw it on my seat before climbing the side rails and on to the seat. I lean my head against the bags, lie down on my back and pull out my phone. The keys clicks in my pockets, but I have secured them inside with a chain. I am not losing these keys for all the world.

These keys were given to me by Daxita when I told her I wanted to leave. I had no idea she had an ancestral house in the hills somewhere, let alone hope that she would rent it to me for a few weeks, to unwind. But Daxita insisted that I take the keys, spend months or even a couple of years in there, since she has no use for it right now, and she would like to have that place looked after. We don't even know each other that well, apart from the fact that she has proven herself to be a goddess with her skill to cook dumplings with the hottest sauce there is, and she is trusting me with her family heirloom of a house. But I have been down in the dumps since the last few months, and she is the trusting kind.

I tune out the world and the shadows of the past as the train moves forward in the screech of wheels through the cities and towns and villages, and I fall asleep listening to the sound of the latest Bollywood hits through my headphones.

It's 0630 hrs when I wake up. Everyone around me is bustling around, trying to get a slot to wash their face or use the bathroom, and I go straight to open the train gate to look out. The hills are visible from here. It has been almost five years since I have been to the hills, as my job would not permit me to go on vacations. To paraphrase, my superior officers were jerks and they wouldn't authorise my leave requests. I drink the sight of the beautiful, green hills in the horizon waiting for me, and the cold, fresh air hitting my face; I feel like I have come out of a stuffed barrel stewing in the heat after ages.

It takes five hours to reach Darjeeling from Siliguri by a car. The greenery surrounding me too captivating for words; the morning dew is on still on every leaf and every petal on the way, and even though its freezing, it feels fresh. Tall trees with robust trunks standing guard against the filth of the city, and long, spiked needles hanging from them in the chill of the winter makes me feel like an unwelcome outsider, warning me not to go too deep into the mysteries of the wild.

The driver is a very mellow man, singing old Nepali tunes in his rustic voice. He tells me our destination is not exactly in Darjeeling, it is halfway through Kurseong and Darjeeling and is not a very crowded place. I am glad. I was hoping it would be quiet.

The car stops in front of a bushy entrance that obscures the view within, but I can tell something bigger and more majestic than anything I have hoped is afoot. The driver helps me unload the luggage, even though there were only two bags, and salute with a smile before he leaves. Clearing through the bushes, I come across a wooden gate  with rusty handles. It takes a while to push them open, and when they do, I feel my jaws drop. It is not a house. It's a mansion!

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Author's Note:

Hey, everyone. This is my new book that is a murder mystery novel. Set amidst the mysterious, cold and spooky climate of Darjeeling, India, the story is set around a group of people with their own secrets, and motives to be the killer.

Stay tuned to find out what happens next.

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