Book Excerpt: Anamika

Aaryan Manoj Nair

The author is an engineer and a current PhD student based in New York. He has just published his debut novel, a collection of stories called “The House of Ten Thousand Rooms.” This is one of the stories from the anthology. 

The valley of the mists

The monsoon had descended upon Munnar, in craggy mountainous Kerala like a relentless blanket, transforming the lush tea plantations perched along the mountains, into a waterlogged labyrinth. Sheets of rain obscured the winding mountain roads, turning them into treacherous ribbons of mud and mist. It was through this watery veil that I found myself driving, my Honda City rental struggling against the weather as I made my way back from a solo retreat.

I had come to these hills seeking solace, hoping these verdant landscapes would be a change to the bustling city life, and a torrid, but ultimately short-lived romantic fling. A kind of an exorcism of sorts. However, I had begun to rue that a few hours earlier, while navigating these slick hairpin turns in the ceaseless rains, and by now, I yearned only for the warmth and familiarity of home. The rain intensified, drumming against the roof of the car with such ferocity that it drowned out all other sound.

Squinting through the windshield, I barely made out a battered road sign. Its message was lost to me, the letters blurred by rain and time. As the car began to wind its way through the craggy hills of Pothamedu, an ominous sputtering sound emerged from beneath the hood. 

The constant rain must have found its way to the radiator, I thought, a cold dread settling in my stomach. The engine’s protests grew louder, competing with the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. Yellow warning lights flickered to life on the dashboard. Please, just get me somehow out of this rain, I willed the car onward.

Suddenly, with a final, defeated wheeze, the engine gave out completely. A drawn-out shhhhhh… followed by silence. The car’s momentum carried it forward for a few more meters, as if it too was reluctant to accept its fate. Then, with a jolt that seemed to echo my own shock, it came to a sudden standstill.

The headlights, my only beacons in this deluge, flickered and died, plunging me into a darkness broken only by the rhythmic flashing of the ‘check engine’ light. Its incessant beeping felt like a mockery, a counterpoint to the symphony of rain on the windshield. I immediately reached out to my phone. No range. Even the signal towers were not impervious to the weather, I thought. I sat there, hands still gripping the wheel, as the reality of my situation slowly sank in. Surrounded by unfamiliar hills, trapped in a dead car, with only the pounding rain for company.

Staying put was not an option. Worse still, further rain meant the possibility of a flash flood loomed large in my mind, the car transforming from shelter to potential coffin in my imagination. I scanned the road, hoping against hope for headlights to pierce the gloom. Nothing. Not a single vehicle had passed in what felt like hours.

This path, I realized with growing unease, was clearly abandoned. Any dreams of a convenient rescue vanished like mist. My options dwindled rapidly.

A plan began to form, born of desperation and the primal need for survival. I would gather my essentials – phone, wallet, whatever meager provisions I had – and venture out into the tempest. Somewhere in this sodden landscape, there had to be shelter. A house, a shed, anything to escape the rain’s fury and wait for cell coverage to return.

The first second of getting out felt the worst. It felt like getting battered, except the water seemed to weigh like concrete. I soldiered on, hope outweighing pragmatism.

As I trudged through the relentless downpour, a glimmer caught my eye. A single lit house stood before me, a colonial era hunting lodge with intricate mahogany frames. British era, certainly. One of the homes left to safeguard these mountains. But it was the curious stone wall surrounding it that caught my eye. It seemed oddly out of place, for some reason. The stone wall felt somehow out of place?

Desperate for shelter, I gathered myself, and approached the door. My finger trembled as I pressed the ornate brass bell. Its chime seemed to echo through the storm, a lilting ring that I supposed was louder inside. Or perhaps it was just the rains that made hearing anything impossible.

The door creaked open. She stood there, a vision both earthy and slightly matronly? High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and eyes that seemed to look through me rather than at me. It took me a moment to realize – she was blind. 

“Hello, I’m Michael. The weather-”

“Come in,” she said quietly, almost with a sense of inevitability in her voice.

I stumbled into the foyer, apologizing profusely at splattering the wooden flooring with water from my drenched jacket. She waved it away dismissively. 

“I’m Anamika.”

I nodded, and walked inward.

As I stepped across the threshold, a chill ran down my spine. Damn it, I must have picked a cold with all that rain. Yet, there was something else. Something about this place, something about this woman, something was…

“I’m really sorry for the trouble- the weather was..” I began once again, trying to explain my presence.

“I’m alone here,” she opened, “except for my daughter, Darcy. We like having a visitor every now and then. You don’t have to explain any further. The weather can be like this at times.”

As if on cue, a child appeared at the end of the hallway. I blinked in surprise. The girl, no more than three, was pale as milk with striking bronze hair – a stark contrast to her certainly Dravidian featured mother. How strange!.

“Let’s get you some dinner,” my host said, ushering me towards what I assumed was the kitchen. “The weather won’t be letting up anytime soon.”

I watched, amazed, as she moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, scrambling eggs and chopping spinach as if her lack of sight was no hindrance at all. We fell into an easy conversation, her voice soothing my frayed nerves.

“I’ll be gone as soon as the rain stops,” I promised.

She smiled, a sad, knowing smile that made my heart ache. “I’ll prepare a room for you,” she said, as if my stay was a foregone conclusion.

I started to protest, but the howling wind outside made the decision for me. What choice did I have, really in this weather? Stay the night in the dead car?

She quickly gathered a fresh pair of bed linen and ushered me towards one of the bedrooms. The room looked warm, cozy, and slightly anachronistic, I thought to myself. It looked like it was built in the 1700’s- certainly a possibility in the region, but then frozen in time since then. Warm hues of deep reds, forest greens, and earthy browns defined the colour palette, creating an atmosphere of comfort and tranquillity. Heavy, velvet curtains framed the windows, their deep burgundy tones contrasting beautifully with the verdant landscape outside. 

A roaring fireplace in one corner cast a golden glow across the room, its crackling flames adding both warmth and a soothing, ambient sound. It left a slight flickering pattern on the walls, like dancing fairies from the hearth. A well-worn leather armchair sat beside a small wooden table, its surface scattered with old books and a brass oil lamp, perfect for late-night reading.

As I settled into the offered room that night, my mind whirled with questions. The tiredness from the drive, coupled with being out in the stormy rain, and the bed which had a slight smell of sweet spices, gave me sleep, but it was not a comfortable one. I dreamt of pantomime dancing apparitions, and cinnamon scented ghouls.

Torrents of Shadows

 I awoke to the persistent sound of rain pattering against the windows, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to have seeped from my dreams to reality. For a moment, disorientation clouded my mind as I took in the unfamiliar surroundings – the heavy, ornate furniture of dark mahogany, the faded floral wallpaper with its intricate patterns of roses and vines, and the lingering scent of sandalwood that seemed to emanate from the very walls. 

Then, like a tidal wave, the memories of the previous day came crashing back. The treacherous drive through winding mountain roads, the broken-down car left abandoned in the deluge, and the mysterious house that had appeared like a mirage in the storm.

Pushing myself up from the surprisingly comfortable bed, I fumbled for my phone on the antique nightstand. The screen flickered to life, its blue glow a stark contrast to the warm, muted tones of the room. But the “No Service” message mocked me from the top corner, a digital reminder of my isolation. I sighed, running a hand through my disheveled hair.

 Surely, I thought, the storm would have passed by now. But as I parted the heavy velvet curtains, my heart sank. The world outside was a canvas of gray, with sheets of rain still falling relentlessly from the leaden sky. The lush greenery I had glimpsed yesterday was now a blur of emerald and jade, leaves and branches swaying violently in the wind.

I made my way downstairs, my bare feet padding softly on the worn wooden steps. The house creaked and groaned around me, as if stretching awake. Each step seemed to whisper and I found myself wondering about the history of this place. How long had it stood here, a sentinel in the mountains?

 I assumed this was among the hundreds of country estates built by the Britons in hill stations across India, as a summer home of sorts, an ode to the colder disposition of weather back in England. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, a warm, inviting aroma wafted from what I assumed was the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread and something sweet – cinnamon, perhaps? – drew me in like a siren’s call.

Following my nose, I found Anamika standing by an old cast-iron stove, her hands moving with practiced ease as she kneaded dough. The kitchen was a curious blend of old and new – gleaming stainless-steel appliances sat alongside well-worn wooden utensils and earthenware pots.

“Good morning,” she said, her unseeing eyes turning in my direction. A warm smile touched her lips, though I thought I detected a faint undercurrent of something… wistfulness, maybe? “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” I replied, still a little amazed at how easily she moved around the kitchen. “Though, I was really hoping this rain might have eased up by now.”

Anamika’s hands paused briefly as she worked with the dough. “The rains here… they have their own rhythm,” she said, a slight smile playing on her lips. Then, she smoothly shifted the topic. “I’m just about to bake some scones. Would you like some breakfast?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I said, remembering she couldn’t see my nod. I watched her deft movements as she shaped the dough. “You’re quite the baker.”

A small, almost secretive smile touched the corners of her mouth. “An old flame” she said, almost as an afterthought. “He was French, you know. Said baking was life in miniature – mix your ingredients, apply heat, and hope for the best.”

“Ah, very French,” I chuckled, thinking of that quintessential je ne sais quoi they seemed to possess. A French baker, here in the middle of Munnar? The thought flickered through my mind, a curious little anomaly.

“Is there anything I can help with?” I asked, sensing she wasn’t keen to elaborate on her past.

She directed me to set the table, and soon we were enjoying warm scones with homemade jam and strong, fragrant tea. The scene felt oddly comforting, a pocket of domesticity carved out of the relentless storm. Here I was, a complete stranger, sharing breakfast with this enigmatic woman as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“So, Michael,” Anamika said, her hand reaching out towards a book on a nearby shelf – a worn-looking braille hardback. “I was just about to settle in with this. Do you ever find yourself lost in a good book?”

I swallowed the last of my scone. “You know, I used to read all the time. Life just seems to get in the way these days. Though, being stuck here…” I trailed off with a small smile. “Maybe it’s a good excuse to pick it up again. What have you got there?”

Anamika gently ran her fingers over the cover. “‘Pride and Prejudice’,” she said softly. “An old friend. There’s something so comforting about returning to stories you already know, don’t you think? Like visiting a familiar place.” She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Though sometimes,” she added, almost to herself, “I wonder if we reread them hoping for a different ending, even when we know it’s impossible.”

“Austen,” I said, a slight smile playing on my lips. “I wouldn’t have pictured you curled up with a Regency romance. Not that I know what I would have pictured,” I added quickly.

A warm laugh bubbled up from her. “Oh, don’t let the bonnets and balls fool you. Austen had a wonderfully sharp eye for people, for all their ridiculousness and their hidden depths. But yes,” she conceded with a playful wink in my direction, “sometimes a bit of escapism is exactly what’s needed in these hills. Especially when the rain seems determined to never stop.” She shifted slightly. “Have you ever read ‘A Passage to India’? Always felt that it might as well have been my life in Munnar.”

And just like that, we were off, talking about the complexities of Forster’s characters, the lingering shadows of colonialism, and the way literature could sometimes bridge the most unexpected divides. As we talked, her passion for stories was palpable, and I found myself genuinely enjoying the conversation, the rain outside fading into a comforting background hum.

After breakfast, I tried my phone again, pacing from room to room in hopes of catching even a single bar of signal. But the device remained stubbornly disconnected from the outside world. I found Anamika in the sitting room, her fingers moving deftly over the pages of a book written in Braille.

“Still no luck with the phone?” she asked, her head tilting slightly in soft sympathy as she heard my frustrated sigh.

“None,” I admitted, sinking into an armchair across from her. “I don’t understand. Even in remote areas, there’s usually some signal.”

Anamika’s face took on that same wistful expression I’d noticed before. “Technology can be… unreliable in these parts,” she said softly. “Perhaps it’s the mountains, or the weather.”

Before I could ponder her words further, a peal of childish laughter rang out from the hallway. Darcy, Anamika’s daughter, came bounding into the room, her bronze curls bouncing with each step. She stopped short when she saw me, her blue eyes wide with curiosity.

“Hello there,” I said, smiling at the child. “I’m Michael. What’s your name?”

Darcy looked at me for a long moment, then turned to her mother. Anamika spoke to her in a language I didn’t recognize – it sounded ancient, with flowing syllables that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. Though, of Anglo-Indian descent, having grown up in Kochi, I could certainly understand most dialects of Malayalam. This certainly did not feel like something from this region. And yet, this was Carnatic. 

She nodded solemnly, then turned back to me. “Darcy,” she said simply, nodding at me. Then, she tilted her head and said something in her melodious language, a question perhaps? It sounded like, “Ahn-nah?” before scampering over to a toy box in the corner of the room.

I watched as she pulled out a set of wooden blocks, each carved with intricate symbols I didn’t recognize. They looked almost ancient. “Those are beautiful,” I said, moving to sit on the floor near her. “What do you like to build with them?”

Darcy regarded me seriously for a moment, her bright blue eyes studying my face. Then, she picked up a block with a symbol that looked like a stylized bird and held it out to me, saying, “Kili?”

“Kili?” I repeated, trying to mimic her intonation. “Is that what this is? A bird?” She nodded emphatically, a small smile gracing her lips. Then, she began stacking the blocks, carefully placing each one on top of the other. As she worked, I noticed that she seemed to be following a specific order, as if the symbols held some deep meaning.

“That one looks like a mountain,” I said, pointing to a block with a jagged design. Darcy looked at it, then back at me, and nodded again, saying, “Giri.”

“Giri,” I echoed. “Mountain.”

When she finished her creation, a small, intricate tower, she looked at me expectantly, her eyes shining with pride.

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed by the complex structure she had created. “That’s amazing. What is it?”

Darcy frowned slightly, then pointed to different parts of the structure, speaking in that same melodious language I had heard her use with Anamika. “Ithu… pabbata  …” she said, gesturing towards the top of the tower, then pointing to a block at the base. Though I couldn’t understand the words, her tone and gestures conveyed a story – of tall towers reaching for the sky, perhaps, and strong foundations holding them steady. Then, she picked up another block and made a swooping motion with her hand, saying something that sounded like “Vimana?” It felt like she was describing something flying around the tower. I always thought children could be the greatest storytellers, even without words I understood.

As we played, she’d hand me a block, saying its name in her language, and I’d try my best to repeat it. Sometimes she’d giggle at my clumsy pronunciation, other times she’d nod approvingly. Despite the language barrier, a connection was forming. We managed to communicate through gestures, pointing, and silly goofy faces. Time seemed to slip away, the constant patter of rain outside fading into background noise as we built our silent, shared world of towers and flying creatures.

At one point, I glanced up to find Anamika watching us, a soft smile on her face. There was something in her expression – a mixture of love, pride, and an inexplicable sadness – that tugged at my heart. I found myself wondering about the story behind this little family, so isolated in this grand old house.

As evening approached, Anamika prepared dinner silently – a fragrant curry that filled the house with the scent of spices. Over the meal, our conversation deepened. She asked about my life, her curiosity seeming genuinely interested rather than merely polite.

“So,” she said gently, as she offered me more rice, her movements around the kitchen so familiar it was easy to forget we’d only just met. “What brought you all the way to Munnar?”

I hesitated for a moment, wondering how much of my life story to unpack. “I just needed to get away for a bit,” I admitted finally. “I work as a software engineer back in Europe, but I grew up in Kerala, actually. Anglo-Indian parents, from Fort Kochi. I thought ,coming back.. might… you know, help me find some clarity.”

Anamika nodded slowly, her unseeing eyes fixed somewhere beyond me. “And has it?” she asked softly. “Given you the space you were looking for?”

I gave a wry chuckle. “Honestly? I’m not sure yet. I was in a relationship for a while, and when that ended… well, a friend suggested a change of scenery. Sometimes I think you just end up carrying your baggage to a different location, though.”

Anamika considered this, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “But sometimes, seeing things from a different angle can offer a new understanding. Like looking at the same mountain from a different path – you might notice details you missed before.”

We talked long into the night, our conversation flowing easily from topic to topic. Anamika was well-read and insightful, and she seemed far more worldly than these mountains that she seemed to be confined by. As we spoke, I found myself warming to her, drawn in by her quiet strength and the hint of mystery that seemed to surround her like a veil.

Yet, as the night wore on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. The constant rain, the lack of phone signal, the strange isolation of the house – it all added up to a picture that didn’t quite make sense. But every time I tried to focus on these inconsistencies, they seemed to slip away like smoke through my fingers.

As I bid Anamika goodnight and climbed the stairs to my room, I resolved to leave in the morning, rain or no rain. I needed to get back to my car, to find my way back to the main road. Surely, I thought, the storm couldn’t last forever.

The Veil

 Morning came, and with it, more rain. I stood at the window, watching the water cascade down the glass, feeling a mixture of frustration and disbelief. How could it still be raining? But as I stared out at the sodden landscape, a surge of determination took hold of me. I would walk to my car, rain be damned. I’d push it to the main road if I had to.

I headed downstairs, my mind set on one thing. Anamika was in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of her moving around filling the quiet space.

“I’m going to try and get to my car,” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

Anamika paused whatever she was doing and turned her face towards me. Even without seeing, I could sense her concern. “Michael, are you sure that’s wise? With the rain…”

“I have to try,” I cut in, maybe sharper than I meant to. “I can’t just stay put here.”

She responded softly, almost as if speaking to herself, “You can’t see your reflection in boiling water.”

“What was that?” I asked, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation – at the weather, at her, at this whole ridiculous situation.

“It means,” she explained calmly, “you can’t make clear decisions when you’re agitated. Sometimes you need to let things settle before you can see what’s truly there.”

“And what exactly do you think is ‘truly there’ for me here?” I blurted out, the frustration boiling over. “A life spent in this damp place, watching you tend your herbs, drinking endless cups of tea, and talking about books?” Even as the words left my mouth, I saw a flicker of something – hurt? – cross her face, and a wave of shame washed over me.

A quiet stillness fell over Anamika, but she didn’t react outwardly. “At least take an umbrella,” she said gently, gesturing towards the stand by the door.

I grabbed the proffered umbrella, a sturdy black thing that looked like it could withstand a hurricane. With a quick goodbye to Anamika and a silent farewell to the still-sleeping Darcy, I stepped out into the deluge, my resolve as firm as the ground was soft beneath my feet. I was still ashamed at my selfish outburst, and I felt too guilty to look back at her. She was definitely the bigger person.

The rain began as a persistent drizzle, a soft curtain that blurred the familiar edges of the garden. My car is that way, I thought, orienting myself towards where I remembered parking. Still, I pressed on, my resolve a fragile shield. A flash of vibrant color caught my eye – a small thrush, its breast a startling splash of orange against the muted greens, flitted from branch to branch beside me. Odd, I thought, it’s been following me since I left the porch.

The umbrella was quickly coming apart, offering minimal protection against the increasing dampness. Water beaded on my jacket, a cold film against my skin. The garden, up close, was a beautiful chaos. Towering eucalyptus trees, their bark peeling in ghostly ribbons, reached towards the sky, their thin leaves whispering secrets in a growing breeze. Amongst them, pines stood like stately sentinels, their needles slick underfoot. Broad, dark leaves – perhaps the East Indian Walnut – offered brief, deceptive moments of drier air. The little thrush kept pace, a bright, persistent shadow.

As I pushed further, the rain intensified, the gentle drizzle hardening into a steady downpour. The wind picked up, a low moan that seemed to emanate from the depths of the forest. The thrush, its vibrant color now muted by the wet, struggled to keep up, its small body getting tossed by the gusts. Why is it still here in this ghastly weather? I wondered, a flicker of unease.

The rains now became a relentless assault, each drop a tiny, stinging pellet. The wind howled through the eucalyptus branches, a mournful cry that echoed my growing despair. A particularly strong gust snatched the umbrella, wrenching it from my grasp and turning it inside out with a sickening crack. I cursed, wrestling with the useless frame before a low branch snagged the fabric, tearing a long, ragged rip. I abandoned it, the broken thing hanging like a defeated flag. The little thrush dipped precariously in the wind, its wings fluttering with frantic effort.

Now fully exposed, the rain was a brutal, direct attack. It hammered my face, blurring my vision until the world was a smear of green and gray. My feet slipped on the treacherous mud, and I went down hard, my hands sinking into the cold, wet earth. Mud splattered my clothes, my face. Gotta get up, I told myself, pushing myself back to my feet.

 The thrush, caught in the same gust, tumbled downwards, landing heavily in the mud near my feet. It lay there for a moment, a pathetic ball of wet feathers, then began to roll, twitching, trying to right itself.

The rain intensified, each drop feeling like an icy needle. The wind roared like a living thing. The beautiful trees now seemed to close in around me, their branches skeletal fingers reaching out. The exposed roots, slick with mud, snaked across my path, and I tripped again, landing heavily, the impact jarring my teeth. More mud caked my face, stinging my eyes. Water gathered at my eyebrows, dripping down into my vision. Each breath felt heavy with moisture. God, please, I thought, a desperate plea, just let me reach my car.

Pushing through a dense patch of ferns, the thought returned, sharper this time. Am I even going the right way? Panic, a cold fist clenching in my chest, tightened its grip. I had to be sure.

My fingers fumbled for the Swiss knife. The small blade felt like a child’s toy. I stumbled to a eucalyptus, its pale bark slick and cold, and carved a clumsy ‘X’. Further on, I marked a pine with a slash, the wet wood resisting the blade. Then, a walnut, an arrow pointing what I hoped was forward. My hands brushed against the rough bark as I hurried, leaving angry red scratches on my skin.

But then, I saw it. On the peeling bark of another eucalyptus, unmistakable – my ‘X’. The cut still bled sap. And there, the slash on the pine. The arrow on the walnut pointed back into the deepening gloom. My breath caught in my throat. No. No, this can’t be happening. I was going in circles. God, a wave of despondency washed over me, why are you doing this?

The rain was a physical agony now, the cold biting deep. My body trembled uncontrollably, a deep, internal shivering that no amount of will could stop. The beautiful forest had become a coffin, the tangled roots reaching out to ensnare me. I fell again, my knee slamming against something hard.

 The thrush, lying still in the mud, suddenly twitched violently, then went limp. Its bright orange breast was now stained with mud. It was dead. Like me in a few minutes. Was it watching me? Was it sent here…? A chilling thought: Was it a spy? From Anamika?

The light, what little there was, was fading fast. Night was almost upon me. The rain continued its relentless assault, each drop a painful reminder of my isolation. My legs were leaden, each step a monumental effort. The cold had burrowed into my soul.

 I stumbled again, my face hitting the muddy ground. I didn’t have the strength to get up. The image of the dead thrush, its bright color extinguished, flashed in my mind. Maybe this is it. A strange calm settled over the fear. Okay, I thought, a quiet acceptance washing over me. Okay. I lay there, the cold seeping in, the rain washing over me, the darkness closing in. Okay.

Pools of Reflection

Darkness. Pain. The relentless drumming of rain.

              -x-                                                      -x-                                            -x-

Light. A swaying wick lantern hung above, its glow a fragile halo in the darkness. Anamika’s face, etched with concern, swam into focus. The sharp, sweet scent of herbs. A cool cloth. The world spun. 

             -x-                                                      -x-                                            -x-

Light. The pungent aroma of herbs intensified. My eyes fluttered open. Anamika sat beside the bed, the rhythmic grinding of a stone mortar and pestle filling the air. Green leaves, unknown flowers. The scent, medicinal and earthy. My throat, sandpaper. Anamika’s face, her chin kissed by the lantern light, turned towards me. 

-x-                                                    -x–                                                     x-

Light. The room, dimly lit by the flickering wick lantern. Shadows danced, painting the walls with fleeting shapes. Anamika stood at the foot of the bed, her arms raised, chanting in an ancient tongue.

“Sabbe sattā averā hontu, sabbe sattā abyāpajjhā hontu…”

Warm, damp towels draped over my aching body. Heat seeped in. Drifting. Anamika’s face, the lantern light catching the delicate curve of her cheekbone, a pantomime study in shadow and gentle illumination.  Who knew captors could be so beautiful?

• -x-                                    -x-                                                     -x-

Light. The faint scent of her powdered herbs. The wick lantern’s glow, softer now. Anamika wasn’t beside me. In a small alcove, bathed in the lantern’s golden light, she sat reading. One hand rolled over the pages, the other absently stroking the silken darkness of her hair. The light traced the elegant line of her jaw.

Then, the bitter taste of a black decoction. Anamika must have been near. I tried to sit. Dizziness. Falling back. The lantern swayed, its light painting Anamika’s face with fleeting strokes of brilliance and shadow as she read, sometimes highlighting the smooth expanse of her forehead, sometimes the delicate arch of her brow.

 Her eyes, however, remained perpetually in shadow, holding their secrets. If only I could see her eyes… Oh, she didn’t need them to read.

              -x-                                                          -x-                                                  -x-

Light. Pale sunlight through a gap in the curtains. The wick lantern’s glow, almost lost in the day. Anamika sat in the alcove, weaving with dried leaves.

“Water,” I croaked.

Quiet grace as she brought the cool glass to my lips. The array of herbs, the steaming bowl.

“Why?” I whispered. “How?”

Anamika’s calm face. The warm gruel, ginger and something bitter. Strength returning. As my eyes drifted shut, I saw Anamika reach for a thick book, her fingers dancing over the raised dots of Braille, the lantern’s gentle light a companion in the dim room.

• – -x-                                   -x-                        -x-                               -x-

Sunlight streamed through the windows when I next opened my eyes. The incessant sound of rain had diminished to a gentle patter. I felt weak, drained, but the fog of fever had lifted somewhat. Anamika sat in a chair beside the bed, her fingers moving deftly as she wove something – a small blanket, perhaps, or a tapestry.

She must have sensed my movement, for she set aside her work and leaned towards me. “Welcome back,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”

I tried to speak, but my throat was parched. Anamika seemed to anticipate this and helped me sit up slightly, bringing a glass of water to my lips. The cool liquid was a balm to my raw throat.

“Thank you,” I managed after a few sips. “How long…?”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for several days,” she replied. “The fever was quite severe. But you’re on the mend now.”

I wanted to ask her more – about the strange chants, the herbal concoctions, how I had found my way back to the house – but fatigue washed over me once more. Anamika sensed this and gently eased me back onto the pillows.

“Rest now,” she said. “We’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”

• -x-                                                   -x-                                              -x-                                       

The days that followed almost seemed to blend together, a soft haze of sleep and the gentle rhythm of Anamika’s care. She moved with an innate knowledge of what I needed, offering spoonfuls of a bland but strengthening gruel and the sweet, tangy Kaḻambaṃ that seemed to infuse my veins with a slow warmth.

In the hazy moments when consciousness held, I noticed the rain had softened its assault, though it still pattered a persistent rhythm against the window panes. Time remained elusive, each day bleeding into the next. Had it been closer to two weeks than one? The uncertainty lingered just beneath my returning awareness.

One morning, the first thing I registered upon waking was not the familiar scent of herbs, but the small, intent face of Darcy peering down at me. Her blue eyes widened slightly as she saw mine open, and she took a hesitant step closer to the bed.

“Hello, Darcy,” I whispered, my voice still rough around the edges.

She didn’t respond verbally but moved closer, tilting her head in that familiar way that mirrored Anamika so perfectly. Then, she suddenly darted away, returning with her paints and a sheet of paper.

“Oh, you want to paint?” I asked, grateful for the distraction.

Darcy nodded eagerly, chattering in her melodious language as she gestured towards the colors, then the window, then her paper. I watched, fascinated, as vibrant swirls of green, brown, red, and yellow bloomed under her small, dextrous fingers. This silent child, living in this isolated house… so many questions swirled in my mind.

The soft sound of footsteps announced Anamika’s arrival. She stood in the doorway, a tray balanced in her hands.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice a gentle melody of relief. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I replied, surprised by the truth of it. “How long have I been…?”

“You’ve been drifting in and out for over two weeks,” Anamika said, setting down the tray. “The fever held on stubbornly. I was… worried.”

Two weeks. The words landed with a quiet thud. Two weeks lost. I glanced at the window. The rain was still there, a constant presence, but perhaps a little less fierce.

“I need to leave,” I said, the words escaping before I could fully form the thought. “I need to get back…”

“Michael, you are still weak,” Anamika said firmly, but with a hint of concern in her voice. “You need to regain your strength. Here, I’ve made you some kalabam.”

As I ate the fragrant curry, my gaze drifted to Anamika as she spoke to Darcy in their shared language, her voice soft and full of a tenderness that tugged at something within me. Yet, I also saw a shadow in her eyes, a weariness that seemed to linger even when she smiled at her daughter.

A strange lethargy washed over me as I finished the meal. My eyelids felt heavy. “Anamika,” I mumbled as sleep began to claim me, “I think it’s time we had a talk…”

“Rest now,” she said softly, her cool hand briefly touching my forehead. “We will talk when you are stronger.” As I drifted off, I thought I heard her whisper something in that ancient tongue, a phrase that sounded almost like a sigh.

-x-                                                           -x-                                                          -x-

As dusk painted the room in long shadows, Anamika returned.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice gentle but with an underlying note of anticipation.

I pushed myself up, feeling a strength I hadn’t possessed in days. “Better, Anamika. I really think it’s time we had a talk.”

A visible shift came over her. The tension I had often sensed in her seemed to ease. “Yes,” she said, a hint of relief in her voice. “Of course. But first, you must eat something more substantial.”

Later, after a simple but satisfying meal, Anamika led me to a room I hadn’t yet seen – the foyer. With its wood-paneled walls, stone inlays, and mounted animal heads that stared down with glassy eyes, it resembled a hunting lodge room from another era. The crackling fire in the massive stone fireplace cast dancing shadows on everything. We settled into deep leather armchairs.

After a long silence, Anamika spoke. “You have questions,” she stated softly.

“Many,” I confirmed. “The rain… it never stops. Why?”

A shadow crossed her face. “It is a curse,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The rains bind me here… and now, it seems, you as well.”

“A curse? What kind of curse?” I pressed.

She sighed. “It is a long story, Michael, one tied to this valley… to choices made long ago.”

“Choices that keep the rain falling?”

She nodded slowly. “Until a certain… event… comes to pass.”

“What event?”

“I cannot say,” she replied, her voice firm. “It is not mine to know or to speak of directly.”

Frustration began to simmer within me. “So, you’re telling me I’m trapped here because of some ancient curse that even you can’t fully explain?”

Anamika looked towards the fire, her unseeing eyes fixed on the dancing flames. “Think of it this way,” she said quietly. “For me, the rain is sometimes like the father – gruff and bellowing, a force of nature you cannot deny. At other times, it is like a mother – whining and needling, a constant presence that wears you down. And yet, they are the only two parents I have known in a very long time.”

Her words resonated with a profound sense of loneliness. But I still soldiered on.”But this ‘event’… when will it happen? Am I to be a prisoner here indefinitely?”

Anamika turned her face towards me, a hint of sadness in her expression. “We are both prisoners here, Michael. In different ways, perhaps. But bound by the same relentless rain.”

“So you just accept this?” I asked, my frustration bubbling closer to the surface. “You just live with this ‘curse’ and expect me to do the same? You’re some kind of Sphinx then, aren’t you? Speaking in riddles, offering cryptic pronouncements while I’m stuck in this waterlogged purgatory?”

A visible tremor ran through her. Her face crumpled, and tears welled in her sightless eyes, tracing wet paths down her cheeks. “No,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I am no Sphinx. I am as trapped as you are, perhaps even more so.”

Guilt twisted in my gut. “Anamika, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She reached out, her hand finding mine and squeezing it gently. We sat in silence for a long moment, the crackling fire our only companion.

When she had composed herself, I asked softly, “Darcy… she’s your daughter?”

A sad smile touched her lips. “Yes, she is. Her birth… it was a cruel twist of fate. But she’s been the light in this darkness.”

“And her father?”

Anamika stiffened. “That’s none of your business,” she said, her voice sharp. Then, softening, imagining my intent behind the question she added, “It’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed, its deep tones echoing through the room. Two in the morning.

“It is late,” Anamika said, rising. “You need more rest. I promise, I will answer more of your questions when you are stronger. I want you to understand.”

As she left, I felt a strange mix of confusion and a grudging sense of understanding. Back in my room, sleep was slow to come. My mind raced with unanswered questions. Why hadn’t I grown a beard, despite the weeks I’d spent here? How could Darcy look so different from Anamika, yet mimic her mannerisms so perfectly?

As I finally drifted off, I saw Anamika’s face, serene and beautiful, surrounded by a soft, indistinct glow, like moonlight on slightly-less-turbulent-than-before water. The image felt slightly more peaceful, a quieter contrast to the storm outside.

Ripples in truth

Morning came, bringing with it more questions than answers. I searched the house for Anamika, but she was nowhere to be found. Each room I entered seemed to hold new mysteries – artifacts from distant lands, books in languages I couldn’t read, paintings that seemed to shift in my peripheral vision.

Finally, I found myself back in the foyer. In the light of day, it looked different – less imposing, but no less mysterious. As I ran my hand along the cool stone inlays next to the fireplace, something caught my eye. There, barely visible, was a name scratched into the stone: “G. Curzon.” Curzon… the name felt familiar, like a half-forgotten history lesson.

My musings were interrupted by the soft, rhythmic sound of brushstrokes. I turned to see Anamika seated at the far end of the room, a paintbrush in her hand. She was working on a stained glass window, her movements fluid and confident.

I watched in amazement as images took shape under her hands – soaring cathedrals, winding cobblestone streets, bustling piazzas. With a start, I realized she was painting scenes from Venice – scenes I had described to her during our conversations. But there were details… the intricate carvings on a Parisian balcony, the specific shade of blue of a Venetian canal at dawn… details I hadn’t consciously mentioned. Is the house lending her some kind of images from my memory? Allowing her to extrapolate beyond my simple words?

Silently, I approached her. She must have sensed my presence, for she spoke without turning.

“Good morning, Michael,” she said, her brush never pausing in its work.

“Anamika,” I replied, still marveling at her skill. “How do you… I mean, your paintings are incredible.”

She smiled, a small, secret expression. “There are many ways to see,” she said cryptically. “Now, shall we continue our conversation from last night?”

I hesitated, sensing her discomfort. But my need for answers overrode my concern. “Yes,” I said. “I really think it’s time we had a talk.”

I settled into a chair across from Anamika, my mind brimming with questions. The soft patter of rain outside provided a constant backdrop to our conversation, a reminder of the strange circumstances that bound us together.

“How long have you been here, Anamika?” I asked, my voice gentle but insistent.

She tilted her head, a wistful expression crossing her face. “Honestly, I don’t know. Time… it doesn’t move the same way here. Days blend into weeks, weeks into years. I’ve lost count.”

I leaned forward, intrigued. “Have there been others? Other visitors like me?”

Anamika nodded slowly, reaching for a glass of wine on the table beside her. I noticed her movements were slightly less precise than usual – was she tipsy?

Her unseeing eyes seemed to look into the distant past. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Though even those memories are hazy. Three stand out in my mind.”

“Who?”

Anamika settled back in her chair, a faraway look in her unseeing eyes. “The first was a warrior. He came from the north, a member of an ancient clan. He carried weapons I had never seen before – a marapidicha kundam, a combined spear and sword, and an otta, a curved weapon deadly in the right hands.”

“What was he like?” I asked, captivated.

Anamika smiled. “He was… intense. Driven. He had long hair tied loosely in a ponytail, and moved with a grace that belied his strength. He told me he was traveling the region, learning different forms of Kalaripayattu. “

“Did he teach you anything?”

She laughed softly. “Oh yes. He stayed for several months. In that time, he taught me the basics of self-defense and some martial arts forms. I remember the feel of the wooden practice weapons in my hands, the way he would correct my stance with gentle but firm touches.”

“He showed me how to use my other senses to compensate for my lack of sight. In many ways, he helped me truly see for the first time.”

I tried to picture it – a younger Anamika training with this mysterious warrior. She demonstrated a few moves, still lost in her thoughts, her hands cutting through the air with surprising precision.

“What happened to him?”

“He left eventually,” Anamika said, a note of sadness in her voice, her gentle smile losing of the light. “The rains stopped one day, and he felt it was time to continue his journey.”

She paused, taking another sip of wine. “The next visitor was quite different. A white man named Curzon.”

“Curzon?” I interrupted. “As in THE Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India? The name triggered a memory. “I saw that name scratched on the wall in the foyer,” I said.

Anamika nodded. “Yes, he left his mark here, in more significant ways. He arrived here after a long career in government. He told me he had been something called a ‘Governor General’ in India.”

“What was Curzon like?” I asked, curious about this historical figure.

Anamika nodded. “He came here after his time as Governor-General, seeking solitude in his retirement. He was a proud man, used to command, but the house… it has a way of humbling even the mightiest.”

She chuckled softly. “He’s the one who taught me to make scones, you know. Said a proper English tea was the mark of civilization. We spent many afternoons in the kitchen, the air filled with the scent of baking and the sound of his stories about the grand parties and political intrigues of Delhi and London.”

I tried to reconcile the image of the imperious Lord Curzon I knew from history books with the man Anamika described, teaching her to bake in this isolated house. “And he… he never left?”

Anamika’s face fell. “No,” she said quietly. “Curzon never left. He aged here, his once-commanding voice growing weaker, his straight back bowing with the years. In the end, he died in this house. We buried him in the garden.”

If Lord Curzon had been here, that meant Anamika had been in this house for centuries. The thought made my head spin.

Something nagged at me. “Wait, Curzon.. Darcy…..so Darcy..his daughter?”

Anamika’s face fell, and she nodded slowly. “Yes. As I said, it was a cruel twist of fate. Curzon… he never left. The rains stopped for him long back, but he never left. He grew old here, and eventually passed away. We buried him on the grounds right behind the greenhouse in the kitchen.”

The implications of what she was saying hit me like a thunderbolt. If Curzon had been here in the 1800s, and Darcy was just a child now… “Anamika,” I said carefully, “how old are you?”

She laughed, but it was a humorless sound. “Young enough to still make mistakes. Let’s just say I’ve seen more years than most would believe possible.”

“The last visitor I had,” Anamika continued, seemingly oblivious to my shock, “was a man named Anthony. He came from the lowlands, full of dreams about establishing a tea plantation in these hills.”

“Anthony was different from the others. Where the warrior was all fluid grace and Curzon was starched propriety, Anthony was just earthy. He had callused hands and a booming laugh that seemed to make the very house shake.”

I could almost see him – a robust man with sun-weathered skin and eyes that crinkled when he smiled. “What did he teach you?” I asked, guessing the pattern.

Anamika’s face lit up. “Everything about tea. He showed me how to nurture the plants, how to pick the leaves at just the right time. He taught me about different blends, the perfect steeping time, even how long to let the tea settle before drinking. ‘Tea is more than a drink,’ he would say. ‘It’s a meditation, a moment of peace in a chaotic world.'”

I thought about the delicious tea Anamika had served me. “He really did teach you well.”

She fell silent for a moment, lost in memory. Then, almost to herself, she murmured, “The house liked Anthony. The rains let up more often during his stay. But even he too had to leave eventually. He had a wife and children to return to.”

Her words caught my attention. “The house liked him? What do you mean?”

She seemed immune to the question, and smiled. “Anthony had a passion for the land that was infectious. He saw beauty in the wilderness that others might have found intimidating.”

They all seemed to leave something behind in her – the warrior’s strength, Curzon’s baking skills, Anthony’s love for tea….. It made me wonder what I would leave.

“Anamika,” I said, a thought occurring to me, “you said Curzon never left. But the others did? How?”

She nodded, her face growing serious. “Yes, they left. The rains stopped for them, and they were able to move on. Curzon… well, as I said, he was complicated.”

“But why?” I pressed. “Why did the rains stop for some and not others? The whole thing seems far too fantastical.”

Anamika took a long sip of her wine before answering. I have a theory,” she said, her voice low as if sharing a secret. “I believe the house itself is sentient. It sends me visitors, perhaps out of kindness, perhaps for its own inscrutable reasons.”

I sat back, stunned. “The house is… alive?”

“In a way,” Anamika said. “It has its own will, its own desires. We are all subject to its whims.”

A chill ran down my spine at her words. “So, what do I need to do to leave? To make the rains stop?”

Anamika shook her head slowly. “That, Michael, is the part of the puzzle you must figure out for yourself. The house… it has its own rules, its own logic. I can’t tell you the way out any more than I can leave myself.”

Frustration welled up inside me. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “That’s just not good enough,” I snapped. “I can’t just sit here, waiting for some mystical house to decide my fate!”

Without waiting for a response, I stormed out of the room. My feet carried me through the winding corridors of the house until I found myself in a large, circular room lined with books. The library. I paced between the shelves, my mind whirling with everything I’d learned.

A sentient house. Visitors from across centuries. A woman who didn’t age, trapped in an endless cycle of rain and isolation. It was too much to comprehend. As a child, I would plunge headfirst into the backwaters. This felt like one of those situations where surfacing seemed like an impossibility, with quicksand, and roots trapping your legs.

As I paced between the towering bookshelves, my fingers trailed along the spines of several books. Books were the most potent spirits, the blackest poison in this purgatory. The library was vast, a labyrinth of knowledge that seemed to stretch endlessly. My eyes flitted over titles in languages I recognized and many I didn’t, absorbing the eclectic collection without really seeing it.

My mind was still reeling from the conversation with Anamika.What kind of a Shangri-La was this place? It felt far too concocted, too far removed from the rational world I thought I knew. And yet, hadn’t I experienced the impossible myself? The endless rain, the way time seemed to flow differently here, the strange bond I felt forming with Anamika and Darcy…

I paused, my hand resting on a book about ancient Greek mythology. Something about it tickled at my memory… Shaking my head, I moved on.

As I wandered through the stacks, my anger slowly began to ebb, replaced by a more contemplative mood. My mind wandered back to the past weeks, to moments that had slipped by almost unnoticed in the strange timelessness of the house.

-x-                    -x-                                   -x-                                    -x-

I remembered a moment a few days after my fever broke. I had ventured into the kitchen, still weak but determined to do something other than lie in bed. I found Anamika there, her hands deep in a bowl of dough.

“What are you making?” I had asked, inhaling the yeasty scent that filled the air.

Anamika had smiled, turning towards my voice. “Bread,” she said. “Would you like to help?”

Before I knew it, I was standing beside her, my hands covered in flour as she guided me through the process of kneading. Her touch was gentle but sure, her fingers occasionally brushing against mine as she corrected my technique.

“Like this,” she had said, her hands over mine, showing me how to work the dough. “Feel how it’s becoming smoother? That’s how you know it’s ready.”

We had talked as we worked, about everything and nothing. She told me about the different types of bread she liked to make, and I shared stories about my grandmother’s famous pão de coco. When I managed to splatter flour everywhere but the bowl, Anamika’s laughter had rung out, warm and genuine, filling the kitchen with joy.

Another memory surfaced, of an evening spent by the fire. Darcy had been restless, unable to sleep due to the particularly loud storm raging outside. Anamika had gathered us in the sitting room, Darcy curled up between us on the plush sofa.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Anamika had asked, her voice soft and soothing.

Darcy had nodded eagerly, and I found myself leaning in as well, curious to hear what tale Anamika would spin.

What followed was unlike any story I had ever heard. Anamika wove a fantastical tale of a young girl who could speak to the rain, of clouds that carried messages between far-off lands, and of a great sky-dragon who guarded the secrets of the storms. As she spoke, her words seemed to make the very air shimmer with magic. I watched Darcy’s eyes grow heavy, even as mine remained wide with wonder.

When the story ended, Darcy was fast asleep, her small form nestled between us. Anamika had smiled in my direction, a conspiratorial grin that made me feel like we shared a precious secret.

“That was incredible,” I had whispered, careful not to wake Darcy. “Where did you learn to tell stories like that?”

Anamika’s smile had turned wistful. “When you’ve lived as long as I have,” she said softly, “you collect stories. Some you hear, some you live. The best ones, I think, are those you share.”

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There once was a day Darcy had found an injured bird in the garden. I had been reading on the veranda when I heard her distressed cry. Rushing out, I found her cradling something small and feathered in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

Anamika had appeared moments later, somehow sensing her daughter’s distress. I watched in awe as she gently examined the creature, her fingers so delicate and sure as she felt for injuries.

“It’s alright, darling,” she had soothed Darcy. “The wing is broken, but we can help.”

What followed was a lesson in compassion. Anamika guided Darcy’s small hands, showing her how to create a small splint for the bird’s wing, how to prepare a soft nest for it to rest in. Her voice was full of patience and love as she explained each step.

“Sometimes,” Anamika had said, addressing both Darcy and me, “the greatest kindness we can offer is simply to care, to help where we can. Every living thing deserves that chance.”

-x-                          -x-                                   -x-                                   -x-

As I stood there, lost in thought, a realization struck me with the force of a lightning bolt. Darcy. The child who looked nothing like her mother, with her pale skin and bronze curls. Curzon. The man who had never left, who had grown old and died here.

Good God, I thought, a wave of understanding washing over me. Darcy was Curzon’s daughter. Which meant Anamika… Anamika was far, far older than I had ever imagined. The implications made my head spin. How many years, how many centuries had she been here, witnessing the ebb and flow of time through the visitors who came and went?

Shame washed over me as I remembered my earlier outburst. Here I was, frustrated after a mere few weeks, while Anamika had endured this isolation for an unimaginable span of time. And yet, she remained gracious, caring, even joyful at times. It’s as if she wears a mask of serenity, I thought, the conversation about artifices surfacing in my mind. But what lies beneath? What burdens does she carry behind that calm facade?

A sudden urge to do something, anything, to break the tension seized me. I carefully reshelved the book I had been absently holding and made my way to the kitchen. Baking had never been my forte, but the memory of my grandmother’s spice cake, a comforting ritual from a distant past, beckoned. As I gathered ingredients, the familiar scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves began to fill the air, a small act of creation in this strange, timeless place.

The aroma soon drew Anamika to the doorway. “What’s that wonderful smell?” she asked, her head tilted curiously.

“It’s, uh, a spice cake,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just… this is all so overwhelming.”

Anamika’s smile widened, transforming her face. She crossed the kitchen and, to my surprise, pulled me into a warm embrace. “Apology accepted,” she said softly. “And thank you. It’s been a long time since anyone baked for me.”

As she pulled away, her unseeing eyes seemed to look right through me. “I understand your frustration, Michael. Believe me, I do. This place… it’s not easy to comprehend. Even after all this time, there’s so much I don’t understand.”

“What did you do before you came here, Michael?” Anamika asked suddenly, her tone casual as we began preparing the cake together. “What was your work?”

“I was… I am a software engineer,” I replied, carefully measuring out the flour. “I write code for computers.”

Anamika tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Software… that sounds like you build things, but in a way I cannot see.”

“Something like that,” I said with a small smile. “I create instructions that tell computers what to do. Sometimes it’s building new applications, sometimes it’s fixing problems in existing ones. It often involves talking to clients, understanding their needs, and translating that into something a machine can understand.”

“Clients,” Anamika repeated, the word sounding foreign on her tongue. “So you had to… present yourself in a certain way to them?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted, thinking about the various meetings and presentations I’d been a part of. “You learn to put on a certain… face. You want them to trust you, to believe in your abilities. Sometimes you have to be the calm, reassuring expert, even if you’re feeling completely out of your depth. It’s like… putting on a mask, I suppose.”

Anamika paused her stirring, her unseeing gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “Masks,” she murmured. “Yes. People wear them so often, don’t they? Sometimes they are the velvety kind, flitting on like an apparition, a subtle shift in demeanor. Other times, they have to be screwed on tight, a rigid facade to hide what lies beneath.”

“It’s part of navigating the world, I guess,” I said, resuming my task of creaming the butter and sugar. “Or what if it’s like a veil?” I mused, the mixture swirling. “Not just hiding, but coloring the very world we look out at? An outward display that you put out that shifts the inward perception?”

“I often wonder,” Anamika continued, her voice thoughtful, “what would happen if people simply spoke their minds, without these layers of pretense. Perhaps there would be fewer misunderstandings, fewer conflicts. And yet…” She trailed off, then added softly, “Perhaps some things are best left unsaid, some truths too sharp to be spoken aloud.”

“It’s a tricky balance,” I agreed.

“Indeed,” Anamika said, a small smile returning to her lips. 

We decided to share the cake on the verandah, the ever-present sound of rain providing a soothing backdrop to our conversation. As we settled into the comfortable wicker chairs, I cut us each a slice.

“This is delicious,” Anamika said after her first bite. “Your grandmother’s recipe, you said?”

I nodded, then caught myself. “Yes,” I said aloud. “She used to make it every Sunday. Said it was a recipe passed down through generations.”

“Mmm,” Anamika hummed appreciatively. “Food has a way of connecting us to our past, doesn’t it? Of keeping memories alive.”

“It does,” I agreed. “Though I have to admit, I never thought I’d be baking it in a mystical, rain-shrouded house in the mountains of Kerala.”

Anamika laughed, a sound that never failed to warm me. “Life does take us to unexpected places,” she said. “Sometimes literally.”

As we talked, I couldn’t help but notice that the downpour seemed less intense than before. The curtain of water that had obscured the landscape beyond the house’s grounds had thinned, revealing glimpses of mist-shrouded hills in the distance.

“The rain,” I said, unable to keep the wonder from my voice. “It seems to have lessened.”

Anamika tilted her head, listening. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I believe it has.”

“Does that mean…?” I began, hope rising in my chest.

Anamika shook her head gently. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The rain… it ebbs and flows. Sometimes it lessens, sometimes it strengthens. But it never truly stops. Not until…”

She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. I wanted to press her, to demand answers, but I held my tongue. Instead, I found myself studying her profile, the graceful line of her neck, the way her fingers absently traced patterns on the arm of her chair.

“Anamika,” I said softly, “how do you do it? How do you stay so… composed, so kind, after everything you’ve been through?”

She was quiet for a long moment, and I feared I had overstepped. But then she turned to me, a sad smile on her face.

“What choice do I have?” she asked. “To rage against my fate? To let bitterness consume me? No, I learned long ago that the only way to endure is to find beauty where I can, to cherish the connections I’m allowed, fleeting though they may be.”

Her words struck a chord deep within me. I thought of the warrior who had taught her strength, of Anthony who had shared his love of tea, of Curzon who had stayed and grown old with her. Each had left their mark, and had brought a piece of the outside world to her.

And now, here I was, sharing cake and conversation, becoming a part of her story just as she was becoming a part of mine.

“You said the warrior left, and Anthony left,” I said, thinking aloud. “But Curzon stayed. Even when the rain stopped for him.”

Anamika nodded. “He did. He found something here, I believe. Or perhaps… he simply couldn’t bear to leave.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I continued, “about what makes life enjoyable. It’s not the grand adventures, is it? It’s the little things. A perfect cup of tea, a shared laugh, the smell of rain on dry earth… those moments that make you stop and appreciate what’s right in front of you. It makes you reevaluate things.”

Anamika turned her head towards me, a hopeful note in her voice. “Do you think… do you think this situation, strange as it is… could be one of those moments, Michael?”

Her question hung in the air, and I looked out at the rain-softened landscape, at the ancient house that held so many secrets, at the woman beside me who had lived through centuries.

“Perhaps,” I said softly, meeting her gaze. “Perhaps it is.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the rain a gentle backdrop to our thoughts.

“Anamika,” I said after a moment, “you mentioned the warrior taught you to see in the darkness. Could you teach me?”

She smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “Perhaps, Michael. Perhaps.”

As the light began to fade, painting the sky in shades of lavender and gold, Anamika rose. “Shall we go in? I believe it’s time for Darcy’s bedtime story.”

I stood as well, a sense of quiet understanding settling between us. “Lead the way,” I said.

As we walked back into the house, the constant patter of rain seemed to soften, becoming less a deluge and more a gentle caress.

I sat on the verandah later, watching the rain fall. The mist-shrouded hills beckoned. I considered the world beyond this valley. Europe. My old life. It felt distant, almost like a dream. Here, in this timeless place, with Anamika and Darcy… a different kind of life was unfolding.

I realized then that my initial desire to escape had begun to shift. The rain might still fall, the house might still hold its secrets, but I was no longer just a prisoner waiting for release. I was… present.

These memories washed over me as I stood in the library, softening the edges of my frustration. Yes, Anamika was enigmatic, bound by rules I couldn’t understand. But she was also kind, nurturing, and possessed of a quiet strength that I had come to admire deeply. This place might be her prison, but she had not allowed it to break her spirit.

God through a looking mirror

One morning, I decided to take over coffee duty. The familiar ritual of grinding the beans and heating the water was a small comfort in this strange place. I poured two clay mugs, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. As I handed one to Anamika, I noticed a fine layer of undissolved powder clinging to the surface of my own cup. It wasn’t the usual fine sediment; this looked… almost like a dusting of something else.

“Hmm,” I murmured, examining my mug. “There’s a bit of powder that didn’t dissolve.” I took a tentative sip. “Tastes a little… off, for some reason?”

Anamika took her own cup, swirling it gently. “Let me see,” she said, reaching out a hand. I offered her my mug, and she brought it close to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Interesting,” she mused, handing it back “that, my dear Michael, is a sign of unresolved conflicts.”

I looked at her, surprised. “Really? You think so?”

She chuckled lightly. “Of course. The coffee knows. It reflects the turbulence within.” She paused, her smile becoming a touch mischievous, though I was too deep in thought to catch that. “So, what unresolved conflicts are brewing in that heart of yours? Perhaps… something to do with a certain love that didn’t quite work out?”

A wave of something akin to bitterness washed over me, though I tried to keep it from my voice. “Love,” I repeated, the word feeling heavy and complicated. “They use it so freely, for such a confusing array of emotions. Affection, certainly. Tenderness, maybe. But then there’s the infatuation; the fleeting madness.

The darker shades –Maternal Possessiveness? Paternal Pride? the desire to possess, to control, even jealousy. It’s all lumped together under this one word. I’ve never quite grasped what it truly signifies, that core essence you could isolate and say, ‘This inherently, this is love.'”

Anamika listened intently, her head tilted slightly. After a moment, she said softly, “So, is it the concept itself that troubles you, the semantics? or perhaps the… aftertaste of a particular experience?”

I sighed, setting my mug down. “Maybe a bit of both. It feels like a word people use to paint over a whole spectrum of needs and desires. And it often leads to… disappointment.” I looked at her then, a genuine question forming in my mind. “Can you truly fall in love multiple times, in the same fundamental way? Or does the definition of ‘love’ just morph to fit each new connection? Or are we simply projecting our own idealized version of it onto someone we choose to care for?”

Anamika was silent for a long moment, as if considering my questions carefully. Finally, she said, her voice gentle but firm, “Michael, sometimes you look for complexities where there are none. I was simply messing with you. Your coffee is simply a little under-mixed. You might have needed to add the water a touch more slowly, or stirred it with a bit more intention. There is no magic in this coffee anyway. Even the house is not as sentient as you make it out to be, Michael”.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Here I am, searching for profound meaning in a poorly made cup of coffee. It seems I’m determined to find magic even where it’s unlikely to exist.” A thought lingered in my mind, unbidden. “You know,” I murmured, almost to myself, “in a treasury, at a certain point, you are no longer allured by a single bullion. I’ve just become so accustomed to the idea of magic that I’ve become oblivious and accepting to it.”

Later, as we sat on the verandah, the rain continuing its gentle serenade, I found my thoughts returning to something Anamika had said earlier, about the house itself.

“Anamika,” I began, looking out at the rain-streaked garden, “you mentioned before that you think this house has a kind of sentience. That it… feels things, in a way. It’s a strange thought, but after everything I’ve experienced here, it doesn’t seem entirely impossible.”

Anamika nodded slowly, her unseeing eyes turned towards the sound of my voice. “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s a feeling I’ve had for a long time. It’s not a consciousness like ours, perhaps, but more of an… awareness. A responsiveness to the energies around it, the emotions of those within its walls.”

“And that… sentience,” I mused, “do you think it’s… intentional? Is it a malevolent god?”

Anamika’s expression became thoughtful. “It’s a question that has occupied my mind for centuries, Michael. You see, the way we perceive the divine… it changes. First, it was the very nature we worshipped—the tempest, the fire, the life-giving earth.” She paused, her voice taking on a slightly more distant quality. “Then, as our understanding of the world evolved, those forces began to gather form—the elephant-headed Ganesha, the boar-headed Varaha, figures embodying power and creation.”

“And then?” I prompted, curious to hear her perspective.

“Then,” she continued, “they began to become less numerous, and began to gather human form. Humans in their hubris, perhaps seeing themselves reflected in the heavens.”

“Jesus?” I asked, the name feeling like a marker in the vast timeline she was describing.

“Not just him,” Anamika replied. “It soon became prophets, monks, soothsayers, mediators… bearded gods, beardless ones…

“Gods of beards.” I chimed in.

 She chuckled softly.

I thought back to my initial whimsical question from the other day. “So, going back to the house… do you think there’s a specific god of this home? A being that controls the temperature of the water and gives you the tools to garden?”

Anamika turned her head towards me, a knowing expression on her face. “Oh, I think so. You could call it a God if you’d like. Sentience, otherwise. At my lowest points in life, it sometimes gives me little things—a book that tells me how I’m feeling in words far more eloquent than my thoughts. Heard of this one?—’Conscience does make cowards of us all. Dread makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.'”

“Hamlet?”

“Oh yes. Thought it expressed my predicament quite well”.

She sighed softly. “The Gods can surely be superlatively cruel,” she said, and then added, her tone shifting to something lighter, “and infinitely kind and benevolent.” She turned back to me then, a more upbeat tone in her voice. “Oh, do you think there is a God?”

“Well,” I said, a playful smile forming, “maybe it is a goddess here?” I glanced at her, a touch of flirtation in my tone.

“Oh, is that so?” Anamika responded, her voice equally light and teasing.

Just then, the screen door creaked open, and Darcy bounded onto the verandah, her small face alight with energy. She clutched a slightly misshapen, bouncy ball in her hand – I recognized the sticky texture of dried rubber sap. Innovative, I had to admit. In her other hand, she held her trusty wooden stick.

“Cricket?” she chirped, her gaze fixed on me with an eager anticipation.

I grinned. “You want to play cricket now?”

Darcy nodded enthusiastically, bouncing the rubbery ball on the stone floor. Anamika smiled, a fond expression on her face as she listened to our exchange.

“Alright then,” I said, standing up. “Let’s see if you remember the rules. You bat, I bowl.”

We moved to a slightly drier patch of the verandah. The rain had lessened to a very light sprinkle, more of a persistent mist in the air. I took a few steps back, ready to bowl. Very English weather, I thought to myself.

“Okay, Darcy,” I said, holding up my hand. “Last time, you needed… let’s say, five more runs to win. And you have… six balls left.”

Darcy’s eyes widened with determination. She gripped the stick tightly, her tongue poking out in concentration.

I bowled the first ‘ball’ – a gentle underarm toss. Darcy swung with gusto, connecting with a satisfying thwack. The rubbery ball bounced off the verandah wall and rolled a short distance.

“One run!” Darcy declared proudly, marking an imaginary score in the air.

I bowled the next one. She missed. “No run!” I called out.

The third ball came, and she managed a clumsy hit, sending the ball skittering for another run. “Two runs!” she announced, her excitement building.

The fourth ball whizzed past her stick. “Still two runs!” I said.

Darcy’s brow furrowed in concentration. She bounced on the balls of her feet, ready for the next one. I bowled, and this time, she connected perfectly. The ball shot off the stick and bounced further than before.

“Four runs!” she shrieked, jumping up and down. “Just one more to win!”

Her face was beaming with triumph. She had two balls left. The tension, even in our simple game, was palpable. I took a breath and prepared to bowl the penultimate ball. I tossed it gently, right in her hitting zone. She swung, her eyes fixed on the ball… and missed.

“Oh!” she cried out, her face falling slightly.

One ball left. One run needed for Darcy to win. She gripped the stick so tightly her knuckles were white. I looked at her determined little face, a smile playing on my lips. I bowled the final ball. She swung…

 and just as the stick was about to connect, a sudden, heavy downpour erupted, quite out of the blue. Fat drops of rain began to splat loudly on the verandah roof and floor, obscuring our view.

“Oh no!” Darcy wailed, dropping the stick and looking up at the sky with utter dismay. “I was going to win!” Her face crumpled, and her lower lip started to tremble.

Anamika, who had been watching with amusement, gently intervened. “Darcy, darling,” she said softly but firmly, “the rain has stopped our game. We can play again later. Now, why don’t you go and choose a nice book to read by the fire?”

Darcy’s face was still clouded with disappointment, but she knew better than to argue with Anamika. With a heavy sigh, she picked up her stick and the rubbery ball and trudged towards the house, muttering under her breath. I just smiled, watching her go.

Once Darcy was inside, I turned to Anamika, a chuckle escaping me. “Well,” I said, shaking my head, “I think we just witnessed two quintessential aspects of that great sport, my dear- a dramatic weather interruption at the most crucial moment, and a rather sore loser. Nothing more English about cricket than that.”

Anamika laughed. “Indeed. You’ll have her complaining about the rain like a seasoned professional in no time. And as you said, perhaps a little disappointment builds character.”

“Oh yes. My fathers words were that only a sore loser made a great sportsman”

“Or a sportswoman?”

“Or a sportswoman” I agreed.

Clearing Skies

 A Week Later

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I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library, Darcy perched on a cushion across from me. Books and papers were scattered around us, a testament to our ongoing lessons.

“Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammāsambuddhassa,” Darcy recited carefully, her small face scrunched in concentration.

I repeated the phrase, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar sounds. Pali, the ancient language Anamika sometimes used in her chants, was proving a challenge. But Darcy was a patient teacher, her childish giggle ringing out whenever I mangled a particularly difficult word.

“Very good!” I praised her. “Now, let’s try some English. Can you tell me what this is?” I held up a picture of a cat.

“Cat,” Darcy said confidently. “Meow!”

As we continued our lesson, I couldn’t help but marvel at Darcy’s abilities. She drew with both hands simultaneously, creating mirror images with ease. Her cat on the left had a droopier nose, and a wink, that somehow managed to give it a conspiratory air. It was a fascinating skill, for sure, in this topsy turvy world.

“Darcy,” I said, setting aside our language books. “Would you like to hear about where I come from?”

Her eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly.

I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Darcy, let me tell you about a magical place called Fort Kochi. It’s a town where time seems to stand still, much like our house here.”

Her eyes widened with curiosity, and I continued, weaving my words like a spell. “Imagine a place where ancient ghosts of Jewish traders still whisper in the corners of a synagogue that’s older than any person alive. The chandeliers there, oh, they’re not just any chandeliers. They come all the way from a far-off land called Belgium, and they sparkle like a thousand captured stars.”

Darcy gasped softly, completely enthralled.

“And the walls,” I said, gesturing dramatically, “they’re covered in tiles painted by skilled artists from China, each one telling a story if you look closely enough. Can you imagine such a place?”

She shook her head, eyes shining with wonder.

“Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath,” I instructed gently. As she did, I continued, “Can you smell that? It’s the scent of spices filling the air – cinnamon, cardamom, pepper – all mixing together like a magical potion. And listen carefully. Do you hear it? It’s the sound of people speaking in languages from all over the world, haggling over prices, their words dancing together in the streets.”

I painted more pictures with my words – of church bells that had been ringing for three hundred years, of bustling fish markets where the catch of the day still flopped and glistened, and of eerie ghost towns where the past clung to crumbling walls.

Then, I transported us to Europe with my tales. “Picture this,” I said, my voice filled with excitement. “A town in Spain where, for one day, everything turns red. The streets, the people, even the air itself seems to blush. Do you know why?”

Darcy shook her head, hanging on my every word.

“Because everyone throws tomatoes! Thousands and thousands of tomatoes! The whole town becomes a sea of red, filled with laughter and joy.”

Her eyes grew round with amazement.

“And in France,” I continued, “there’s a celebration where people take off their shoes and socks, climb into enormous wooden tubs filled with grapes, and dance! Their feet squish and squash the grapes, turning them into juice that will one day become wine. Can you imagine how that must feel between your toes?”

Darcy giggled at the thought, wiggling her own little toes.

As I finished my tales, Darcy sat in awe for a moment before breaking into delighted applause, her face alight with the magic of the stories I’d shared.

“Now you tell me a story,” I said, curious to hear what tales she might spin.

Darcy’s face lit up, and she launched into a fantastical narrative. She spoke of a world where dragons could only swim, never fly, their scales shimmering like fish beneath the waves. In this world, she said, humans spoke entirely in music, their conversations a symphony of emotions and ideas.

As I listened, I realized I had heard elements of these stories before. Anamika had told similar tales during bedtime stories, but Darcy’s version had its own unique twists and embellishments. It was fascinating to see how the stories evolved and changed with each telling.

For a moment, I considered explaining to Darcy that my stories were real, unlike her fantastical tales. But looking at her animated face, lost in the joy of storytelling, I held my tongue. Who was I to say what was real and what wasn’t in this place where time seemed to stand still and rain fell eternally?

Besides, I found myself wondering, were my own life stories any more realistic than the situation I now found myself in? A timeless woman, bronze haired child, endless rain – it all seemed like something out of a fairy tale. Yet here I was, living it.

What, I pondered, truly made anything more real than anything else? Was it simply our perception, our belief in the solidity of our experiences? Or was there something more, some fundamental truth that transcended the boundaries between reality and fantasy?

As Darcy’s story came to an end, I applauded, genuinely impressed by her creativity and storytelling ability. She beamed at me, clearly pleased with my reaction.

“That was wonderful, Darcy,” I said. “You have quite an imagination.”

She tilted her head, looking at me curiously. “But it’s not imagination,” she said with the certainty and indignity only a child can muster. “It’s real. Just like your stories.”

Her words gave me pause. In her mind, there was no distinction between the world I had described and the one she had created. Both were equally valid, equally real. It was a perspective that challenged my adult notions of reality and fiction.

As we began to tidy up our lesson materials, I found myself reflecting on the strange journey that had brought me to this point. A few weeks ago, I had been a software engineer in Europe, living a life that now seemed as distant and unreal as Darcy’s tales of musical speech and swimming dragons.

Now, here I was, teaching English to a child who might be decades or even centuries old, in a house that seemed to exist outside of time itself. And strangest of all, I was beginning to feel at home here.

I knew that eventually, I would have to make some decisions. About my future, about my feelings for Anamika, about whether I truly wanted to leave this enchanted valley if given the chance. But for now, I was content to let those thoughts simmer in the background.

As if sensing my thoughts, Darcy looked up at me with a smile that seemed wise beyond her years. “More stories tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

I nodded, returning her smile. “Absolutely. We have all the time in the world for stories.”

And in that moment, surrounded by books and the echoes of tales both real and imagined, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. Whatever the future held, whatever decisions lay ahead, I knew that this – these moments of connection and wonder – was something to be cherished.

The rain continued its steady patter outside, but it no longer felt like a barrier. Instead, it was a gentle reminder of the unique world I now inhabited, a world where reality and fantasy danced together in perfect harmony.

As Darcy and I made our way out of the library, I caught sight of Anamika in the hallway. She tilted her head, sensing our presence, and smiled. It was a smile that spoke of home, of belonging, of possibilities yet to unfold.

I returned her smile, even though I knew she couldn’t see it. But perhaps, in this magical place, she could feel it all the same.

“Shall we have some tea?” Anamika suggested, and Darcy clapped her hands in excitement.

As we made our way to the kitchen, I felt a surge of affection for this strange little family I had stumbled into. Yes, there were still mysteries to unravel, decisions to be made. But those could wait.

For now, there was tea to be brewed, stories to be shared, and a rainy afternoon to be enjoyed in the company of those who were quickly becoming dear to me.

And as I watched Anamika prepare the tea with practiced ease, Darcy chattering away about our lesson, I realized that sometimes, the most real things in life are the ones we feel in our hearts.

The rain outside seemed to soften, its rhythm becoming less insistent. Or perhaps it was just my perception changing, adapting to this new reality I found myself in.

Either way, I was beginning to understand what Anamika had meant about the house having its own will, its own desires. Perhaps it had brought me here for a reason, a purpose I was only starting to glimpse.

As we settled around the kitchen table, steam rising from our cups, I felt a sense of anticipation. Not anxiety or restlessness, but a quiet excitement for what each new day in this enchanted place might bring.

The future, with all its questions and possibilities, would unfold in its own time. For now, I was exactly where I needed to be.

A few months later

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The morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. I awoke with a sense of purpose, a spring in my step that had become increasingly common in recent weeks. The sound of rain, once a constant companion, was noticeably absent. Only a few stray drops pattered against the windowpane, a faint reminder of the deluge that had brought me here.

I made my way to the garden, where Anamika was already tending to her plants. Her fingers deftly moved among the leaves, checking for pests and adjusting supports with a precision that belied her lack of sight.

“Good morning,” I called out cheerfully. “Need a hand?”

Anamika’s face lit up with a smile. “Always,” she replied. “Though I’m beginning to think you enjoy getting your hands dirty as much as I do.”

We worked side by side, the comfortable silence broken only by the occasional snip of pruning shears or the rustle of leaves. As we finished up, I noticed a loose hinge on the garden gate.

“I’ll fix that later,” I said, more to myself than to Anamika. “I think there are some spare bolts in the tool shed.”

Anamika tilted her head curiously. “You’ve become quite the handyman,” she observed. “It seems like you’re always tinkering with something around the house these days.”

I chuckled. “I suppose I have. It keeps me busy, and I enjoy problem-solving. Actually, I’ve been working on a project to use the coal fireplace to heat water for the house. It should make things more efficient, especially on colder days.”

“Fascinating,” Anamika said, genuine interest in her voice. “How does it work?”

As I began to explain the basics of the system, Anamika listened intently. When I finished, she asked, “So, this is the kind of thing you did in your work before? As an… engineer, was it?”

I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see the gesture. “Yes, that’s right. I’m an engineer by training, though my work was more with software than physical systems like this.”

“And what exactly is an engineer?” Anamika asked, her tone curious and slightly hesitant, as if afraid of appearing ignorant.

I paused, considering how to explain it simply. “Well, an engineer is someone who designs and creates things, usually to solve problems or make life easier. We use science and math to build machines, structures, or systems.”

Anamika was quiet for a moment, processing this information. Then she asked, “So, it’s someone who creates things with their hands? Like a craftsman?”

“In a way, yes,” I agreed. “Though not all engineers work directly with their hands. Some design things that others build.” “Michael, have you thought about what you’ll do when you leave? When the rains finally stop?”

I sat back on my heels, wiping my brow. The question I’d been avoiding for months now lay between us, impossible to ignore any longer.

The question hung in the air between us. I realized with a start that I hadn’t thought about leaving in quite some time. The outside world had begun to feel distant, almost unreal.

“Honestly,” I said, “I’m not sure. I haven’t really thought about it.” I paused, then added softly, “In fact, I’ve been thinking about staying.”

Anamika’s hands stilled in the soil. “Staying?” Her voice was a mixture of hope and concern. “But Michael, you have to understand – I won’t age. The curse… it means I can never leave this valley. But you, you could leave once the rain stops. You would grow old here while I remained the same.”

I reached out, gently taking her hand in mine. “Maybe that’s my problem to bear,” I said softly. “Besides, it’s you who’s caught up with living with me. And what happens if I don’t plan to give up on my life anytime soon?” I added with a hint of playfulness in my voice.

Anamika laughed. “Who knows indeed? I’ve never had to kill a thing in this valley. Perhaps you’d be insufferable, and you’d be the first?” she asked, humor dancing in her unseeing eyes.

“We’d grow old together,” I said, surprised by the certainty in my voice. “We’d explore life.”

“Explore life?” Anamika raised an eyebrow. “How can you explore life if you have no plans to even leave the valley?”

I grinned, even though she couldn’t see it. “We’d explore each other,” I said softly. “Entire lifetimes can be spent understanding another person, Anamika. Every day with you, I discover something new. Isn’t that its own kind of exploration?”

Anamika’s face softened, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “You always know what to say, don’t you?” she murmured.

We laughed together, the sound of our joy mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. As we continued our work in the garden, lost in conversation and comfortable silences, neither of us noticed the change happening around us.

Outside the bubble of our shared moment, the rain that had been a constant presence for so long had almost come to a standstill. Only a few stray drops still fell, landing with soft plops in a nearby lotus bowl. The air was clearer than it had been in months, the distant hills now visible in sharp detail.

But we remained oblivious, caught up in the simple joy of each other’s company. As the morning wore on, we made plans for the day ahead – lessons with Darcy, work on my water heating system, perhaps a quiet evening by the fire.

As we finally stood, brushing dirt from our knees and heading back towards the house, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. A rainbow, vibrant and clear, arched across the sky. It seemed like a sign, a promise of beauty and hope after the long rain.

I opened my mouth to point it out to Anamika, then stopped myself. There would be time for such discoveries later. For now, I was content to hold this moment close, a secret shared between myself and the slowly clearing sky.

Inside the house, I could hear Darcy’s laughter echoing down the hallway. Anamika’s hand found mine as we walked, her touch as familiar and comforting as the sound of rain had once been.

Several Decades Later

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The soft golden light of the setting sun filtered through the windows of the old house, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. I stood at the kitchen counter, my hands moving with practiced ease as I prepared dinner. My hair, once dark and thick, had long since turned a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. Lines etched around my eyes spoke of years of laughter and contemplation.

“Anamika,” I called out, a hint of exasperation in my voice, “have you seen the cardamom pods? I could swear I left them right here.”

Anamika’s melodious laughter drifted in from the living room. “Check the top shelf, Michael. You always forget you put them there.”

I grumbled good-naturedly as I reached for the shelf, finding the cardamom exactly where she said it would be. “I don’t always forget,” I protested weakly, knowing full well that I did.

Anamika appeared in the doorway, her face as youthful and beautiful as the day I first saw her. Time had left no mark on her, a constant reminder of the magical nature of our home. “Of course not, dear,” she said, her tone gently teasing. “Just like you don’t always forget to water the plants in the greenhouse?”

I felt a flush creep up my neck. “That was one time!”

“One time this week, perhaps,” she countered, moving to stand beside me. Her fingers found mine with unerring accuracy, giving them a gentle squeeze.

Our bickering was interrupted by the sound of running feet. Darcy burst into the kitchen, her bronze curls bouncing, still looking every bit the three-year-old child I had met all those years ago. “Are you two arguing again?” she asked, her tone caught between amusement and exasperation.

“We’re not arguing,” Anamika and I said in unison, causing all three of us to burst into laughter.

As I stirred the simmering pot of curry, I marveled at how easily we had fallen into this domestic rhythm. Decades had passed since I first arrived at this magical house, yet in many ways, it felt like only yesterday.

“Darcy, would you like to help set the table?” Anamika asked.

“Only if Michael tells us a story while we eat,” Darcy bargained, already moving to gather the plates.

I chuckled. “Always with the stories. Alright, what would you like to hear about tonight?”

“Tell us about the time you made your famous Vindaloo!” Darcy requested, her eyes sparkling with anticipation even though she had heard the tale countless times before.

As we settled around the table, steam rising from our plates, I began the familiar story. “It was a rare sunny day, and I had decided we should explore the culinary frontiers of my native land…”

The tale unfolded, punctuated by Anamika’s gentle corrections (“It didn’t say a heap of garlic, it said a pinch; you could have killed a vampire with that, Michael”) and Darcy’s delighted giggles. As I spoke, I watched my little family, my heart swelling with affection.

After dinner, we moved to the sitting room. Anamika took her usual place at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys as she played a hauntingly beautiful melody. Darcy curled up on the rug, sketching in her ever-present notebook, while I settled into my favorite armchair with a book.

The scene was so ordinary, so domestic, yet tinged with the extraordinary. Outside, the rain continued its eternal patter, a soundtrack to our timeless existence.

“Michael,” Darcy called softly, her music never faltering, “would you read to us?”

I smiled, setting aside my own book and reaching for the worn copy of “Pride and Prejudice” that had become our shared favorite over the years. As I began to read, Darcy abandoned her sketching to listen, and Anamika’s music gentled to a soft accompaniment.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” I recited, the familiar words rolling off my tongue.

As I read, I found myself reflecting on the journey that had brought us here. The frustration and confusion of those early days had long since faded, replaced by a deep contentment. Yes, there were moments when I wondered about the world beyond our rain-shrouded valley. But those thoughts were fleeting, easily dispelled by the warmth of Anamika’s smile or the joy of Darcy’s laughter.

Later that night, as Anamika and I prepared for bed, she turned to me with a contemplative expression. “Do you ever regret staying?” she asked softly.

I took her hands in mine, marveling as I always did at how perfectly they fit together. “Not for a single moment,” I replied honestly. “This may not be the life I imagined for myself, but it’s better than anything I could have dreamed.”

Anamika’s smile was radiant. “Even when I hide your cardamom pods?”

I laughed, pulling her close. “Especially then.”

As we drifted off to sleep, the sound of rain a comforting lullaby, I found myself filled with a profound sense of gratitude. For the magic that had brought me here, for the love that had bloomed in this timeless place, and for the family that had become my whole world.

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The next morning dawned bright and clear, a rare respite from the endless rain. We decided to make the most of it, venturing out into the garden for a picnic.

Darcy ran ahead, her laughter ringing out as she chased butterflies through the lush grass. Anamika and I followed at a more sedate pace, our hands linked as I described the riot of colors around us.

“The roses are in full bloom,” I told her, guiding her hand to a particularly fragrant blossom. “Deep red, like the color of a good wine.”

Anamika inhaled deeply, a smile playing at her lips. “And the fruit trees? Are they bearing well this year?”

I glanced towards the small orchard we had planted together years ago. “The apple trees are heavy with fruit. We’ll have a good harvest come autumn.”

We settled beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak tree, spreading out our picnic blanket. Darcy joined us, her cheeks flushed with exertion and joy.

“I found a new hiding place,” she announced proudly. “It’s perfect for hide and seek!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how do you expect us to find you if it’s so perfect?”

Darcy’s grin was impish. “That’s the point, Michael! You’re not supposed to find me easily.”

Anamika laughed, reaching out to ruffle Darcy’s curls. “Perhaps we’ll have to use our other senses to seek you out. Like how Michael describes the world to me.”

As we enjoyed our picnic, I found myself marveling at how our relationships had evolved over the decades. Anamika and I had grown together, our love deepening with each passing year. And Darcy, though unchanging in appearance, had matured in her own way, her mind expanding with each new story, each new experience we shared.

Later that afternoon, as the clouds began to gather once more, we made our way back to the house. Darcy skipped ahead, humming a tune she had composed herself.

“Race you to the greenhouse!” she called over her shoulder.

Anamika and I exchanged an amused glance. “Some things never change,” I murmured.

“And some things do,” Anamika replied softly, squeezing my hand. “For the better.”

As the first drops of rain began to fall, we quickened our pace. By the time we reached the shelter of the house, the downpour had resumed in earnest.

Standing in the doorway, listening to the familiar patter of rain, I was struck by a sudden realization. The noise that had once filled me with frustration and longing now, now felt like music, like home.

I turned to Anamika, drawing her close. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what?” she asked, tilting her face up towards mine.

“For everything.

I sat on the verandah gently, watching Darcy as she practiced her cricket swing on the glistening lush lawn. The sun was shining, and the air was filled with the sounds of birdsong. Anamika sat beside me, a gentle smile on her face as she listened to Darcy’s enthusiastic commentary on her own batting prowess.

Darcy turned to me, her eyes sparkling. “Michael, can you bowl to me?”

I stood up, a familiar ache in my knees, but a lightness in my heart. “Alright, Captain,” I said with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The Gods can surely sometimes be superlatively cruel, with the lack of choices we are given, and yet sometimes be infinitely kind and benevolent for the very same lack of choice.