Matilda House
Priyan R. Naik
The burglars had watched the house for the last three weeks.
It was a lovely old bungalow named Matilda House, huge and sprawling, built in the old Potuguese style. Its main door — solid Burma teak — had been made in the good old times when felling trees was not an offense and craftsmen would satisfy every whim of everyone who could afford a bungalow in Panjim. The unkempt garden in the rear, scattered with fully-laden coconut trees, held a stone well surrounded by creepers. In a corner of the garden, was a small plot under which the members of the family were to be interred. Little gravestones in disrepair were visible through a padlocked gate, their names illegible behind the rubble and grass. This small gate was locked with a very large chain and padlock.
No one seemed to know what to do about the deplorable state of the bungalow, as nobody knew the bungalow’s current owner. The last known owners had been divested of their ownership by the military of the Indian republic that had freed Goa from Portuguese rule. The owners hadn’t been seen since, and rumor held they’d all preferred the noose to penury. Neighbors claimed they saw a European man in the bungalow's verandah every once a while, but that was all the detail they offered.
“Such a huge bungalow and only one occupant?” The burglars wondered. What could be the matter? Had his wife abandoned him ? Where were his children? They didn’t even have a dog. No board announcing “Beware of dogs” either. And a security guard? Such gigantic bungalows usually sported snarling, gruff-looking Gurkhas, didn’t they? Was this just a case of carelessness or were these things beyond the present owner’s means?
As the thieves watched the house, they noted that the man had quite regular habits. His days were spent in the bungalow. Perhaps it doubled up as his office. In the evenings, just before sunset, he would go for a walk on the beach, invariably returning around seven-thirty. He would then step out yet again, this time to return with a shopping bag. Later in the night, he would step out again, now in the car, only to return at a very reasonable hour. This routine was adhered to largely through the week, except on Wednesday evenings when he took his car out for an hour-long drive to unknown destinations.
But he did go out of station. Three days ago, he had stepped out of the premises and had not returned! All the lights were on, in the house, in the portico and even the ones strung up on up the well behind. But who was he trying to fool? Didn’t the newspapers pile on near the door? Didn’t the milkman abandon two satchels besides the newspaper pile before he realized that the occupant had left? Didn’t the lights continue through the day and night? Of course the bungalow was right there, waiting, inviting even asking for it!
Tonight seemed just right, thought the burglarsthieves.
There was no moon. The municipality hadn’t yet gotten around to changing the bulb of the streetlight. The house to the right was dead silent. The staff at the sanitary ware godown to the left had packed off for their homes a long time ago.
Three in the morning. The thieves silently lifted the handle of the front gate and entered the compound. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the night. There were no vehicles on the normally busy road. Nothing moved. The only sound was the slip-slap of their own hawaii chappals.
There was a small flower pot under the window by the door. The smallest of them climbed on to the pot and peeked in. There was nobody inside. It was going to be child’s play. It was as if God himself was on their side. Within minutes, the seven-lever lock on the big Burma teak door was prised open and they were in.
What a pretty house! It was even nicer from the inside. So neatly and tidily arranged. Spic and span and orderly. The stero-cum-recorder seemed so handy. And it was portable too! It had to be kept aside. What of the Godrej almirah on the left? The master keys helped again and it was opened in minutes.
And then the ransacking began. Every shelf, every piece of cloth , bed-sheet, pillow covers, singlets, underwear, kerchiefs, and each and every item was pulled onto the ground. They were looking for cash and jewelry. These should have been hidden in the corner of the almirah or within the folds of the bedsheets, but they could be hidden anywhere. So everything had to come down to make an ugly pile and spoil the orderliness of the room.
They moved next to the dressing table in the far corner. Old, ancient, very elaborate and with plenty of drawers. Convinced they had hit pay dirt and looking forward to the reward for their labors,they found only papers and more papers; files and newspaper cuttings, photographs and cheap memorabilia, all valuable only for the occupant. In sheer frustration, one of the thieves picked up a can of shaving cream from the dressing table and sprayed the floor with the thick antiseptic foam. But the ransacking had to go on, and every paper, every file, came tumbling down to the floor.
The TV stood not on a stand, but on a makeshift table of two solid boxes. This, they decided, was where the booty must be hidden. Down came the TV, guided by two expert pairs of hands. It was lowered very gently to avoid rousing the right-side neighbors with any noise. No luck here either. Both the boxes revealed more piles of clothing- ladies and children’s clothing.
Perhaps the next room would bring them some luck! This turned out to be a child’s room with a small almirah parked next to a washing machine and a shoe rack. Out of the almirah fell dozens of children’s toys of great value to kids of particular age, but meaningless to four burglars looking for a payoff. One of the burglars realized the Reebok shoe size lying on the shoe rack, matched his size and got into them to make up for his disappointment while the other helped himself to a Coca Cola cap which looked so red and attractive. Then, the burglar who’d filched the shoe looked over to one of the house’s many glass doors and spotted something lurking in the shadows.
It was a woman!
A woman in an exuberantly embroidered waist jacket over a long-sleeved shirt and a flowing blue skirt. A scarf held up her hair and another circled her neck, crossing over her chest and tucking in at the waist. Even the money pouch wrapped around her waist and hanging off her hips was embroidered.
Unnerved, the burglar pressed his nose to the glass and held his breath. He stared and stared at her , forgetting what they’d come here for. But the longer he looked, the less he trusted what he was seeing. This woman did not look Indian, nor was her dress familiar. She didn’t blink at all, but her lips did. She was saying something, but in a language he did not understand. The burglar turned to see if any of his colleagues had noticed the apparition. No one else seemed to have noticed the figurine in the shadows. They were all engrossed in a desperate search for gold, electronic items, currency, anything of value. He tried to call out, but felt overwhelmed and did not want to disturb the stillness of the night. His reverie ended when his colleague dragged him by his hand to the drawing room, yelling “lets go – why are you standing here doing nothing?”
He looked back but didn’t see the woman. Under his fellow burglar’s instructions, he got to work. The thieves moved into the drawing room and pulled the cushions off a settee, revealing a trunk underneath. Out came sweaters, shawls and pullovers, no gold, silver or treasures. Disgusted by their luck, they decided not to open the trunk under the other matching settee.
It was getting to be dawn and time to move. All they had got for their labors so far was one cassette player-cum-recorder, one iron, one pair of Reebok shoes, one Coca Cola cap , one coat, two table clocks, a pillow cover which doubled as a carry bag and a bed sheet to wrap their booty! They left by the very same solid Burma teak front door, leaving it slightly ajar out of disgust. Life simply wasn’t fair! There should at least have been some cash or a little gold. It would have made their efforts worth the while.
But luck had deserted them totally. Just as they stepped out, the mobile police van drove past. Panicked, they threw the booty wrapped in the bed sheet in the neighboring compound and made a hasty getaway. Even the paltry bounty would be snapped up by the undeserving workers of Panjim Sanitary Ware Pvt. Ltd.
The burglar with the Reeboks credited the shoes with his escape. He’d decided to keep the vision of the woman to himself, partly out of fear of ridicule and partly in the belief that she’d contributed in some small way to his lucky escape. This decision was tested soon enough.
◆◆◆
Later in the year, the rain clouds rolled in from the Arabian Sea to clash against the Western Ghats, emptying their waters as the notorious Goan monsoon. The three rivers of Goa — Chapora, Zuari and Sal — were swollen by this bounty, the ponds were full and green was everywhere. Fields of wild grass bent in waves, whipped by the wind.
The burglars, who used to spend all their time together, both at work and at play, had come out doors during a break in the rains. Sprawled under a magnolia tree on the main road, they whiled away time playing cards before the rain resumed and pushed them inside again. Amidst this idyll, the burglar with the Reeboks suddenly spotted the same apparition he had seen in the bungalow during his attempted robbery.
He could see her under a mangled mango tree in the far distance, her shadow merging with the shadow cast by the tree trunk. He squinted, incredulous, at the sight of the foreign woman. Her mane of abundant hair seemed to have grayed but her dress looked brighter. Her face sported a jaunty smile. He noticed the scarf on her neck again, only it was now a rope. He was suddenly distracted by the crowing of a solitary crow nearby. “One for sorrow.” He jerked his eyes in mild panic, to the mango tree. She was gone.
His colleagues had, once again, noticed nothing. “Let’s get away from here,” he told them, tossing down his hand and starting to walk away.
“Already?” they called after him as they packed up their cards and collected their handbags, but he was long gone from earshot.
◆◆◆
One day towards the tail of the monsoon, the most enterprising of the burglars — now the rightful owner of one red Coca Cola cap — borrowed his friend’s taxi to take the four of them on a spin through Panjim to survey more bungalows. A deafening silence hung in the air outside the taxi as the dark gray cumulonimbus clouds gathered again, making way for the cacophony of the wind. Suddenly, they were faced with a torrential downpour. Rain fell in buckets on their taxi. Although they struggled with the windows, trying to close them all the way, the rain still trickled through. The windshield was just splashes of running water, the wipers having long given up on what seemed a very unequal fight.
Despite this, they persevered. They drove towards Miramar beach, intent on surveying a bungalow they could possibly burgle, even as they admired several two-storeyed Portuguese bungalows, their large verandas and balcaos — entrance porches — facing the street and sheltering the porch-sitters from the pouring rain.
Distracted by the bungalows and vision obscured by the downpour, they all shrieked fearfully in unison when a deep thud rocked the bonnet of the taxi. The driver slammed the brakes bringing the taxi to a screeching halt. After regaining their wits, they stepped out in the pouring rain to find the source of the thud, praying for something that wouldn’t file a complaint messing up their lives.
As rotten luck would have it, it was a woman.
A European woman. She was a tall and fair woman, dressed in several colorful and densely embroidered pieces of clothing. The thief who had taken the Reebok shoes recognized her immediately, noticing the fringed scarf around her hair and the embroidered money pouch around her waist.
He rushed to her aid apologizing profusely while his colleagues surrounded the pair in a rather panicky state. The robber who stole the Reebok shoes stared at the woman’s face. She was clearly of Portuguese stock. What had they done? A European woman! The police would hang them upside down!
Then, almost as one, they all attempted to flee. Why get involved in all this? Just the burglar who was driving the taxi would be held culpable. Not wanting any involvement with the police, all of them tried to scamper away. But the woman would not let them off so easy. She shouted at the top of her voice, “Please! I don’t reside too far… Look at the weather! The least you can do is drop me home!”
Three of the burglars immediately agreed and let the woman into the car. The burglar who stole the Reeboks tried to convince them otherwise, speaking in Konkani so the woman wouldn’t notice. But the others, seeing this as an opportunity to handle matters without involving the police, shrugged off his concerns. He joined them in the taxi, careful to keep as far away from the woman as he could.
The burglar with the Coca Cola cap, drove cautiously following the directions the woman delivered in alien words — probably Portuguese — and her pointed fingers. She occasionally offered sentences in broken English, but the burglars decided to keep up the pretense of understanding none of it. The ears of the burglar who stole the Reeboks picked up on one sentence. “My name is Matilda,” she said. The burglar spun around in the seat to see if she was joking, but found only a politely puzzled expression. He turned around, wondering where he had seen that name before.
After a few turns through the rain, the other three burglars began to grow nervous. It couldn’t be. It must be a coincidence. Wasn’t this neighbourhood familiar ? They pulled up exactly opposite the bungalow where their recent robbery had gone awry. “Please stop here… I’d like to walk the rest of the way,” she told the driver in broken English, leaving three of the burglars perspiring in the cab and the fourth, the one who had picked out the Reebok shoes, staring wide eyed at the main gate of the bungalow. “Matilda House” — a nameplate proclaimed.
Priyan R. Naik is a columnist and a visiting professor living in Bengaluru. He has had several op-eds and articles published in the Deccan Herald, Hindustan Times, Hindu Business Line, Times of India, Navhind Times, Daily Star of Dhaka and on on- line websites. Priyan always had an interest in the supernatural and has been recently focusing on writing fictional short stories.