The House of Intrigue
Outside the rusted window grill, a small procession of senior men and women marched purposefully down the muddy street to their destination. The light shower that commenced an hour earlier had just stopped, allowing the elderly students to leave their homes and attend English class.
As the last person disappeared from view, Nilhma gazed up at the soft blue-grey sky, edging closer to the window to feel the cool air.
Wasn’t it a week ago that she and her friends saw the older students heading to their first day of school?
“Why are they attending school at an age when their lives could end at any moment?” Tora, a homemaker and Nilhma's friend, had wondered aloud.
“To read and sign documents and to communicate with their grandchildren living in other cities and states. None of these elderly people know how to sign their names, and some have been deceived by relatives who forged their signatures. They’re just learning basic English. Let them,” explained Soha, their friend and retired teacher.
Tora frowned at Soha. “You can learn to sign without going to school. And why should they learn English to communicate with their grandchildren? Can’t the grandchildren learn their mother tongue instead?”
Soha brushed off Tora’s comment and turned to Nilhma. “You know, he is my sister-in-law's neighbour.”
“Who?” Nilhma and Tora asked in unison.
“The founder of this school. He is a former journalist or something.”
Nilhma turned away from the window when she felt a slight change in the air inside. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. The antiquated fan was motionless.
Nilhma sighed; The old appliance seemed ready to give up, much like the person on the bed beneath it.
She approached the switchboard and flicked the button off and then on again. Nothing happened. She repeated the process twice more, and the timeworn appliance began to stir slowly.
Her gaze lowered.
The person on the bed appeared to be diminishing with each passing day.
When Nilhma was hired as a live-in nurse six months ago, she could hardly contain her excitement. Her own reaction appalled her. As a middle-aged woman, she felt her reaction was childish and inappropriate. Nonetheless, her self-reprimand did little to dampen her enthusiasm. This was, after all, one of the oldest grand homes in their small town, a place that had piqued the interest and wonder of little Nilhma and her friends decades ago but had remained off-limits.
Just a few days into her stay, her enduring curiosity was finally extinguished.
The house had no secrets, hidden doors, or enigmatic artifacts. No passionate, scandalous letters were lying around threatening to spill the owner’s secrets.
Nilhma wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved because now the house would no longer distract her from her duties.
Nilhma returned to the window, grabbed a magazine from a chair but did not open it.
Throughout her career, she witnessed many deaths, often in the company of grieving family members. The old woman in the bed, Jalaja, would have only Nilhma by her side in her final hours. Jalaja's only child, a son, lived in America. Then there was a niece in town who visited weekly to check on her health.
Jalaja was mostly asleep, waking briefly for Nilhma to administer her medicines, feed her liquid meals, and clean her.
The first two months of Nilhma’s employment were different; Jalaja showed more signs of life, occasionally engaging in very brief conversations.
All gone now.
Nilhma spotted a figure in the street resembling Jalaja’s niece. Wasn’t it time for the young woman’s visit?
Every time the niece came over, she’d quickly check the pantry, head out for supplies, and restock it with everything Nilhma needed. Nilhma could have had anything, but she never overindulged.
…
Quietness never bothered her. In fact, she always soaked in it.
Yet, there were times when the stillness of the house felt like sleeping under a thick blanket on a hot summer night.
So she began touring the house.
The rooms were sparsely furnished and that surprised her. She had expected to see mahogany furniture, antiques crafted from costly materials, luxurious fabrics, and artistic metalwork throughout. Aside from a few family portraits and landscape pictures, there were no heavy decorations that reflected the tastes of its previous occupants or current owner.
The house appeared forlorn, and the faded, flaking walls made her imagine a time when the house was full of life. That must have been a far cry from its current state, where the walls were eternally doomed to only watch the creepy-crawlies inhabiting them.
What would happen to the house once Jalaja was gone?
The son would undoubtedly inherit it, but she couldn't see him giving up his life in the United States to return to the family home.
As she went from room to room, Nilhma became aware of something following her.
The hush.
It was somewhat disconcerting how quiet the residence was.
Even the empty houses made noises when sneaky rodents, vagrant cats, and opportunistic lizards took over them.
But not Jalaja’s house.
Jalaja’s house was just as quiet as she was.
It appeared that its life energy was tied to its owner, and as the latter aged and deteriorated, so did the former.
...
One afternoon, Nilhma found two photo albums in a musty drawer in an upstairs room.
The albums revealed vintage monochrome photographs from the past. Unknown faces beamed at her; some looked serious, while others frowned, suggesting they were likely there against their will.
And among them was a particularly pretty face—young, newly married Jalaja, smiling with gentle shyness.
In the next photo, Jalaja stood beside an older woman. They could easily be mistaken for mother and daughter due to their similar graceful features, but the older woman was actually Jalaja’s mother-in-law.
The story was well-known to every family in their small town.
A wealthy merchant's only son falls for a woman of a different faith. Both parents, especially his father, oppose the relationship. Torn between his love for his father and his beloved, the young man falls ill. Ultimately, the father gives in and allows the couple to marry. A lavish celebration ensues, enchanting the entire town.
Nilhma turned the page.
Here, Jalaja was holding her baby son while standing next to a man whom Nilhma vaguely recognised as the husband. The couple smiled at her.
The smiling couple may not have realised how brief their love story would be.
One day Jalaja’s husband was there, and the next, he was gone.
Just like any small town or village, whispers rapidly carried the tale to every household. And speculations were wholeheartedly contributed —
Maybe her character is not as good as her looks!
Maybe her presence was causing a rift between the patriarch and his son.
Or, maybe the son fell in love with another woman.
Nobody anticipates the transience of everything in life.
Nilhma reached the end of the album and placed it back in the dusty drawer.
A squirrel’s faint squeak echoed from somewhere outside.
Nilhma recalled how one of the whispers had proven right; Jalaja’s husband had indeed found a new interest.
But what Jalaja lost in one, she found in another.
Love.
Although Jalaja’s father-in-law’s feelings for her remained the same, her mother-in-law began to dote on her. Some older townsfolk believed it was because the elderly woman had always wanted a daughter, but the complications of her first pregnancy made it impossible for her to conceive for a second time. As she had yearned for a daughter, the arrival of her daughter-in-law fulfilled that longing. Over time, her affection grew so intense that it gave her the surprising courage to stand up to her husband and relatives, who blamed Jalaja for her husband leaving her for another woman.
Nilhma walked out of the room, leaving it empty again.
As she descended the stairs, she reflected on how the townspeople’s interest in Jalaja had eventually waned, much like her own and her friends’ had. Her education, career, and caring for her sick parents became her primary concerns in the years that followed. During that time, she would occasionally see Jalaja and her mother-in-law taking slow evening walks, looking content, as if their lives were going well.
At the bottom of the stairs, Nilhma checked her wristwatch and made her way out of the house.
She waited by the gate for almost ten minutes before noticing the familiar figures approaching.
Since Nilhma became Jalaja’s caregiver, this routine gave her a nice mental break. She would chat with her friends for about an hour until Tora’s teenage son arrived with a sour face and pouty lips to fetch his mother. Soon after, Soha would leave as well.
…
She saw Jalaja watching her from the bed.
Nilhma closed the magazine and placed it on the chair before standing.
As she walked to bed, her nose wrinkled instinctively.
No matter how hard she cleaned, the stale, musty odor would not leave the room. Especially strong near the bed, the smell reminded Nilhma of mothballs. While others could inoculate themselves from the miasma of decay and death, the caregivers of dying patients could not.
Nilhma smiled but received no reaction. With a quiet sigh, she pulled the cover up to Jalaja's neck, just as she preferred.
She then perched on the edge of the bed, gazing at the lifeless figure with mottled skin and fragile bones.
The image of young Jalaja smiling flashed in her mind.
“Do you want something?” Nilhma asked, expecting no response.
To her surprise and delight, Jalaja's bony fingers peeked out of the cover, then moved up and down.
Nilhma leaned closer to the nonagenarian.
“Okay, tell me what you want. You didn’t take your medicine or breakfast today. How will that work?”
Jalaja's hazy, sunken eyes lingered on Nilhma's for a beat before gradually lowering, like curtains falling at the end of a play.
After watching the sleeping figure for a moment, Nilhma left the room.
Outside the gate, Nilhma waited. Minutes passed, and then she saw them – elderly students coming down the street.
She offered them a smile and nod. Some wore sheepish grins on their wizened faces.
An older woman with a crutch stick trailed far behind the others.
Nilhma used to know her daughter-in-law, a vivacious woman with a loud, infectious laugh. When she, her husband, and their son died in an accident three decades ago, nearly half of the town attended their funeral.
The woman came to a halt next to Nilhma, cast a sorrowful glance at Jalaja’s house, and then turned to her.
Nilhma shook her head.
“She’ll depart soon,” Nilhma said.
“Her son?” the woman asked.
“I have already informed him.”
“My expiry date is unknown,” the woman said, looking at her crutch.
“Studying English, huh?”
“Don’t tease.”
“Oh, no, I’m not. Like they say, you’re never too old to learn. Actually, it is quite admirable.”
The senior woman made a head motion that was halfway between a shake and a nod before continuing on her way.
…
Nilhma was gently lulled into sleep by the approaching night, accompanied by the sounds of chirping crickets and croaking frogs. She always felt eased by these wild rhythms, which gave her a rare sense of security.
Then, a noise reached her and she jolted awake. Was that the sound of water running?
She sat up on the sofa and listened.
The house was silent, as it always was.
Nilhma dismissed the sound as a dream fragment and peered at the wall clock in the dimly lit room.
She was surprised to find she had slept for over an hour. This had never happened before.
Earlier that evening, she had tried to coax Jalaja to eat something, but Jalaja responded by blinking twice, indicating that she did not want to. So Nilhma retreated to her usual spot on the sofa in the living room, started reading a magazine and eventually dozed off.
She rose from the sofa and went to Jalaja's room where only the window lamp was shining.
To avoid disturbing Jalaja, Nilhma did not switch on the main lights.
A sense of unease washed over her.
The slight form on the bed was still.
Too still.
There was no rise or fall in her chest.
Nilhma quickly turned on the main light.
Under the brighter light, her fears were confirmed.
Nilhma softly placed her hand on the still, ribbed chest of the woman she had been caring for the past six months. “You left without saying goodbye, huh? Don’t worry, I prefer this.”
The room gradually grew stuffier and warmer, and the musty odor overwhelmed her nose. Nilhma nearly staggered back before catching herself. Then she looked up at the ceiling.
The fan had stopped.
Nilhma hurried out of the room and called Jalaja’s niece. The news did not surprise the niece, who was expecting it to happen soon.
As Nilhma walked out the door, the lights in the house began to flicker.
She paused in the courtyard and looked up.
The moon, with its opalescent halo, beamed at her. Her mind fell silent, and her breathing became rhythmic and slow. Under her attention, the brilliant celestial sphere appeared to grow brighter and brighter until it subsumed her entire being.
Then a distant dog bark jolted her out of it.
And the house plunged into total darkness.
Nilhma looked at the neighbors’ houses. They had power in their homes.
A wave of exhaustion hit her. Nilhma wanted to leave but her limbs wouldn't move. She stood in a daze until a car neared the house.
She walked out without looking back, passing two men and Jalaja's niece at the gate. The niece said something to her, but Nilhma didn't register it.
Nilhma wasn’t sure where she was going. The dog's bark became louder and sharper as she moved forward, the only sound piercing the quiet night.
Nilhma knew she was getting closer to the barking dog.
***
