Our capacious ancestral home in Coconutville is largely unoccupied. My cousin and his family use two rooms out of six on the western wing of the first floor, the spacious corridor serving as a sitting cum dining space. The eastern wing, where my grandparents – as well as my father, in his last days – stayed, is locked up most of the time. There are a few tenants on the ground floor – nuclear families, the children still learning multiplication tables. It can appear a bit eerie especially at nightfall, the approach road lit by three energy-saving bulbs that highlight the path, but not the traveller who remains a shadowy figure. For all that, it takes a day or two to get used to it, as it happened with me. My cousin usually understands who is coming in or going out of the main gate – that acts as a bulwark for half a dozen houses – from the time on the clock and the fervour of his Labrador’s bark alerts him if it’s a stranger.

I had soon adapted to the series of stratagems as well as to the piercing falsetto of the Labrador to understand the movements just outside the house. Thus during my stay in the summer of 2018, realising I was comfortable with the house, my cousin and his family went off for a much-needed three day vacation.

I planned to settle down for the weekend with my books but spent most of the first day with the dog – walking dirt track and mad sprinting around the garden chasing the ball and the occasional off-track squirrels. I cooked a simple meal and my precious afternoon nap was prematurely interrupted by large canine paws nudging me. Time to go gallivanting again.

It was the second night. I had an early dinner and made sure that all gates had been secured. The tenants were probably asleep judging by the sole light bulb that dimly lit the ground floor courtyard. I settled down on the time-worn yet comfortable recliner in the corridor. I was leafing through the pages of a book, enjoying the coolth of the evening and the tranquilizing sound of silence.

I must have dozed off. I was jolted out of my somnolence by the sudden barking of the dog. It was past 11 p.m. and I could hear someone calling out to me from the ground floor. A faint, almost hollow, but steady voice. At first, I thought it was the sole tenant on the ground floor of this west wing until I realised – while switching on lights – he wasn't there that weekend.

I unlocked the doors and gates and went downstairs, the dog now barking furiously, accompanied me. At the downstairs gate, I saw, standing on the poorly lit porch, the shadowy figure of a man, smiling widely at me. The hollow voice rang out “How are you, nephew?” and instant recognition dawned on me.

It was Modhu Da. The chief manservant of our household whom we had seen for decades since our childhood. He was the master of all trades – the in-house electrician, the principal farmer, the head cook when a large number of guests dropped in, the nurse for the ailing... He had retired a few years back I had heard, but I never got the chance to visit him. Modhu Da always had a cadaverous frame, a sunken face with deeply hollowed cheeks and shoulder-length hair that was partly burnt near the forehead when he climbed a tree to burn down a menacing wasp nest. But tonight he looked like a ghost of his emaciated former self. I ushered him in and we went upstairs.

As I settled down into the recliner and Modhu Da on a low stool, I noticed that the dog has gone strangely quiet, completely belying his nature. I wondered at his puzzling silence. He had not seen Modhu Da before, not that I heard of. And he didn’t go anywhere near him. More so he avoided eye contact. He must be too tired after a long day. I turned to Modhu Da. “How did you get in? The outside gate is locked.” I asked. He replied with a chuckle, “Have you forgotten? I know this place better than anyone else.” True. Modhu Da knew this place inside out. Every nook and corner. Possibly every secret too.

We spoke about the remarkable days gone by. The many guests that came and went and stayed, the constant hustle and bustle in and around the house, the overworked hastiness of cooks, the commanding presence of my grandfather, the mischief of our group of boys... we glided through the best rides of yesteryears as I smoked a cigarette and Modhu Da puffed painstakingly at his ‘biri’ letting out a wheezing sound.

It was around 1 a.m. that Modhu Da got up to leave. I asked him to stay, a note of concern in my voice considering the time. But he dismissed the idea saying he has to travel far and it’s safe for him. He had come over to see me one last time. I promised to visit him to which he smiled cheekily and said: “Not so soon”. He left in a hurry as if he had just remembered some important errand and I locked up after him. I went to bed soon after and by the time I switched off the lights the dog had climbed up on my bed. Extraordinary again.

The next morning was cloudy and by the time I walked the dog out of the gate, there was a light breezy drizzle. We strode farther along our usual route before I took a turn into a lane shaded by trees on both sides. I arrived at Modhu Da’s house and from the outside, I noticed an old lady in a dishevelled white saree sweeping the courtyard. My heart raced, pounding like a jackhammer as I realised it Modhu Da’s wife.

She looked up and smiled “How are you nephew? You haven’t visited the village in years.” I smiled back at her, while trying to restrain the dog who had spotted some goats nearby, and asked how she was doing. “It’s a tough life”, she said wryly, “I have been working in the brick factory ever since your Modhu Da passed away three years ago”