THRILLER STORY

                                                         "DOLLY"

Part 1

Outside, the heavens of July had opened their gates in Guwahati; in their long living room, Mr. Nilakantha Das read his Sunday newspaper; his right leg balancing itself on the left one. His five year old son, Gopal, sat on the green carpet in front of him, busy with drawing a picture of a house with mountains in the background. His wife, Reema, could be heard shuffling in the kitchen; the occasional ding of utensils sending high frequency shivers throughout the house. The old Uptron TV blared its idiotic morning nonsense of astrology and teleshopping.

“What should I bring from the market?” he asked Reema as she came out of the kitchen, bottle in hand.

“I made a list last night; it is on that mid-shelf,” she replied “I might have forgotten about the chillies…and don’t forget to take the umbrella.”

“Ok, I shall go in 10 min,” he said, his forefinger scratching the place just above his left ear; young Gopal was looking intently at his father’s thick eyebrows, which merged together at the crevice where his spectacles rested; Soon, he pencilled thick black crows flying over his house.

Mr. Das left for the market. Gopal was staring at his colour pencil box, pondering over whether he should have a house with a green roof or red. The TV rabbitted on selling stuff for less than half the price. The front door was slightly ajar.

“Come here, little child”, the kind voice through the door startled Gopal.

The man wore a brown coloured kurta with a dirty dhoti; before Gopal could call out his mother, his eyes darted to the man’s hand.

“ A gift!” he exclaimed slowly moving towards the man on the door.

“Just for you, my child,” he said, as he handed over the wrapped box to Gopal. “Take care of her and she will take care of you. Don’t show her to anyone, they will take her away from you”.

Mesmerized and happy, a wide grin broke out on Gopal’s face; as the kind Uncle went away.

There was a power cut and the sudden muting of the blaring TV brought a welcome silence. A familiar din from the kitchen broke the silence; soon Reema could be heard cursing the electricity board. Once in his room, Gopal shook the cardboard box, of the size of a shoebox; as the wrapping paper lay wasted on the floor, “There is something small inside this big box”, he thought as he clawed at the cello tape.

Inside there was a small wooden doll. Dressed in a light magenta frock, her blond hair fell across a side of her smiling face. Gopal immediately fell in love with it. “Dolly”, he decided, “I will call her Dolly”. Now his child mind began to search for a place for Dolly. That Uncle had told me to hide her, a voice inside his head reminded him, “But where?”

“Grandpa’s wooden almirah!” he chuckled at his brilliance. The old almirah was kept in one corner of the house; it was for Grandpa’s old clothes which his father could not bear to part with. He had once hidden a blue stone there and no one ever found that. Even he had forgotten all about it.

Grandpa’s coats stood arranged in their covers, as Gopal opened the almirah. In the corner, beneath the coats, he placed the shoebox. “My Dolly…” he smiled as he placed the doll inside and closed the almirah.

Soon he heard his mother’s shouting for him to take bath; then his father arrived and he had brought a new colour pencil box; Gopal was soon lost in his world. He forgot all about his Dolly. Late at night, as he lay in his bed, Dolly came in his dreams. He woke up with a start. “I am hungry”, said a voice deep inside him. He walked up to the living room to the refrigerator; street light flooded through the windows casting pale blue shadows; he took the glass of milk on the side rack. He then slowly went to the room where the almirah was kept. The light outside their front door peeked through the window, so it was not very dark. Slowly, he opened the almirah; his ears fearing that the usual creak would wake his parents up but surprisingly there was no creak; soon, he picked up the wooden doll and fed some milk to it. Slowly but surely, the milk disappeared as he watched incredulously. Somehow, it seemed natural to him that a small doll would love milk like most children do. Soon, he kept it inside and was back to sleep. As he slept, Dolly came in his dreams and soon, she took him to a land of fairies, where he saw a woman weaving clouds and letting them fly.

Thus began a regular ritual of feeding Dolly at night. She would always come in his dreams later and would lullaby him to sleep with her stories.

Slowly, Gopal found a new thing in Dolly. She seemed to have grown. Though she still easily fit into the box but she had definitely become larger. “My little Dolly is not so little anymore”, he chuckled.

It was October, when Nilakantha came from his office and announced, “I have got a promotional transfer”. “What…? Where will we go to…?” thundered Reema as she arranged the food on the dining table. “We are shifting to Delhi by next Sunday”, his voice carried a weight which Reema hated, “There are good schools in Delhi”, silencing Reema’s thoughts of argument.

Before Gopal could realize what this excitement was about, big cardboard carton boxes filled up the rooms. Clothes, the blabbering TV, cutlery, the dining table, the perfumes and the spices – everything was soon packed. A growing sense of adventure caught hold of Gopal as his friend from the neighbourhood exclaimed when he heard the news, “I have heard there are kings and forts in Delhi! Yes! Kings who ride on horses!”

Thus, in the excitement of it all, Dolly was soon forgotten.

Part 2

Thirty year old successful entrepreneur cum writer, Mr Gopal Das received a call early on a Friday morning.

“Hello!” he answered; his mind still half-asleep; “I am Anamika. I saw your advertisement for giving your old house on rent. I am interested.”

It had been years since he had gone to Guwahati. His parents lived with him; their deteriorating health and his own busy schedule took most of his time. He had kept a caretaker to look after the old house; the funny and loyal Ramen was the best man for the job; the previous tenants had left after a many-year stint; and he had put up the advertisement.

“I am planning to go to Guwahati for the weekend. I will show you around then”, he said, his thoughts moving back an era, to his childhood days.

“Thank you so much, Mr Das”. She replied.

He left for Guwahati the next day itself.

The old house looked so much the same. Memories flooded through Gopal as he stepped on to the porch. The neighbourhood had changed so much. Instead of the small cute V-roofed houses, there were plain, straight flats. As he walked on to the living room, he remembered where the old Uptron TV had once stood. He was almost straining to hear the dings of the kitchen but there were none. He went to his own room, tears beading down his cheeks. He wished his childhood back.

Ramen, the caretaker, had cleaned up the rooms. As he went around the house, he exclaimed “I hear voices Sir, at midnight! Only I hear them Sir! Some day’s I thought Reema Bou was here! I swear Sir, I swear!” and Gopal laughed out aloud. “This guy was always a crackpot, he hasn’t changed at all!” he chuckled.

Gopal went to his old room to sleep. His dreams flooded with memories of his childhood; soon he dreamt of being in fairy land, and then he saw an old woman who was weaving clouds…”Dolly!” he suddenly woke with a start. He smiled to himself. He had loved that doll. “I wonder if she is still in Grandpa’s almirah”, he thought, “I will check tomorrow morning”.

Next morning, after breakfast, Gopal, in a voice flooded with nostalgia, said “Ramen Da! Open the old wooden almirah” Ramen miraculously produced the old blackened key from somewhere. “I had kept a small doll inside, my favourite doll, when I was young!” he told Ramen as he tried opening the lock. Somehow, it was not opening. After two-three trials and frantic jiggling of the key, the lock finally gave away!

As he opened the door of the wooden almirah, Ramen shrieked in terror, his eyes rolling in confusion and shock. Inside, Grandpa’s coats lay in tatters. Dressed in a light magenta frock, an old woman was sitting inside. Her skin wrinkled with age, her blond hair falling across her face.

“I am hungry”, she muttered.

__END__

                                                                                                              SOURCE BY-ROHIT

PUBLISHED BY-OURHELLO.COM