It was afternoon. The writer sat in the hall, working intently on his laptop. He was deep into a new book he had started just days ago. Since breakfast, he had been unusually focused, serious, silent, and immersed. His ears, however, were stuffed with cotton. The sole reason: Rishi.
Unlike the writer, Rishi had been scrubbing the house since morning. The writer had promised that if Rishi handled the cleaning, he'd earn the right to ask two questions. For Rishi, that was his first step. He had half a mind to strangle the writer, but he needed answers. Two questions a day were far too few, but arguing would only reduce the number to one. So he scrubbed the floor with fury, as if wringing out the writer's soul instead of a mop. The writer wasn't oblivious to this rage.
"How can someone be so cruel, so heartless?"
"This is outrageous! In our culture, guests are treated like gods."
"I'm a journalist, not a servant!"
"Even housemaids aren't made to work this hard."
"Are you planning to take all that money to your grave?"
"What witch has possessed this writer's body?"
Rishi had hurled countless such barbs, loud enough to be heard. But the writer didn't flinch. Not a twitch. As if he hadn't heard a word. That silence only fueled Rishi's fury.
The writer glanced at him, cold, expressionless and returned to his screen.
Rishi was boiling. But the house was filled with expensive things. Every time he thought of smashing something, his year's salary flashed before his eyes. Even his camera loan mocked him. That ₹300,000 camera was his golden biscuit. So he vented his rage on the mop stick. He slammed it down and the stick retaliated. It struck his foot hard. Rishi yelped, clutching his foot, and slipped on the wet floor with a loud thud.
Now he was sprawled on the ground, wet, bruised, and humiliated. Tears welled up. Even fate was mocking him today.
The writer tried to laugh, but his laughter was imprisoned. His lips moved, but his face returned to its usual seriousness.
"Why are you so cold-hearted? I'm exhausted. I can't do this anymore," Rishi whimpered, flailing his legs like a stubborn child.
He sat on the floor drenched, angry, and slightly injured. His eyes glistened, perhaps from pain, perhaps from realization. He shoved the mop aside and rubbed his foot.
Finally, the writer shut his laptop. He exhaled deeply, as if surfacing from a long dive.
"Ready?" he asked.
Rishi squinted. "For what?"
"Your two questions."
Rishi's face lit up like a starving man offered biryani.
"First question," he said, "Why are you always so serious? Did your heart ever break?" He instantly regretted asking something so childish.
The writer tried to smile forced, reluctant. Like dusting off an old book.
"My heart didn't break," he said. "I never opened it for anyone."
Rishi blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, while people play with emotions, I play with words. And words never betray."
Rishi took a deep breath.
"What a strange man I've landed with," he muttered. The writer didn't react.
"Fine. Second question."
He paused. "What's your book about?" He pointed at the laptop.
The writer was silent for a moment. Then he spoke softly.
"It's the story of a journalist who enters a writer's home. To clean. But in truth, he wants to uncover the writer's past."
Rishi's eyes widened.
"What?"
The writer smiled. "What's your name?"
"Rishi."
"Then this story is about you."
Time froze. Rishi stared at him, breath held, eyes wide. The writer sat with folded arms, calm and still, like a statue briefly brought to life.
Suddenly, Rishi grabbed his hair.
"Do I look like an idiot to you?"
(pointing at his forehead)
"Does it say 'IDIOT' here?"
The writer squinted, leaned forward, examining his forehead like faded ink on an ancient manuscript.
"Seems like it," he said.
"But if it does say 'IDIOT', the spelling's wrong. Whoever wrote it must've been illiterate."
Rishi was fuming.
"You promised me two questions!" Rishi snapped.
The writer shrugged. "And I answered them."
"Those were answers?"
"No. Your questions were wrong. Next time, come prepared."
The writer stood up, calm and deliberate, like someone who had just finished a chapter. He walked toward the door. Rishi followed.
"Why are you so strange?" Rishi demanded. "I want real answers!"
The writer opened the door, stepped outside, and picked up a shovel. Without a word, he began digging into the garden soil.
Rishi froze. He looked at the shovel, then the dirt, then back at the writer.
"Will I be alive tomorrow? Why does it feel like you're digging my grave?"
The writer replied without looking up. "You'll dig your own grave. Right now, I'm planting something. For the owls."
Rishi's eyes widened. "Who plants trees for owls?"
"What's the problem with planting for them? They like trees."
"But there's a whole forest out there. Why plant one here?"
"Not everything is done out of necessity. Some things are done just because. I like darkness. So do owls."
"Sometimes I feel you're not a writer at all. Maybe a secret agent."
The writer said nothing. He picked up a large pair of shears and began trimming the plants. His hands moved with precision. Rishi could tell this was routine. Every flower bed, every leaf looked like it had been painted by an artist. Clean, elegant, but eerily deserted. No one ever came here, yet the writer kept it pristine, as if waiting for an unseen guest.
Night fell. Rishi sat in the room the writer had given him, the only one in the house with light. The rest of the house remained cloaked in darkness, save for a single solar lamp flickering outside, casting a dim glow over the garden.
Rishi stood by the window. The garden was filled with towering trees. Among them, the sapling planted earlier swayed gently in the wind.
The cold crept in. Rishi rubbed his palms together. Suddenly, his eyes caught movement in the trees. Owls. Dozens of them. Their glowing eyes pierced the darkness. It was the first time he had seen any birds here. And they were all owls. The place felt truly haunted.
He quickly drew the curtains and decided to step out of the room. It was seven o'clock—dinner time.
Rishi hated the writer's obsession with punctuality. Even a minute's delay was unacceptable. Downstairs, the hall was dimly lit. The kitchen glowed a little brighter. By the time Rishi reached the dining table, dinner was already served.
His fear had lessened slightly. He no longer felt uneasy wandering the strange house. But the real reason he had come here hadn't even begun.
They ate in silence. Rishi cleaned the kitchen and dishes, just like the night before. The writer poured himself a drink. Then they moved to the library. The same routine: the writer wrote, Rishi read.
It was two in the morning. Rishi had fallen asleep at the table. The writer glanced at him and sighed. His face was blank, but his eyes lingered on the shadows. Shadows that seemed ready to pounce on Rishi, held back only by some invisible force. One slip, and they would devour him.
The writer stood. He tried to wake Rishi. Rishi stirred, turned his head, and drifted back to sleep. Exhausted from the day's labor.
Eventually, the writer lifted him. In his arms, Rishi felt like a child, light, innocent, and tired. His fingers clutched the writer's T-shirt, like a child clinging to a mother's sari. The writer's face was warm, but it meant nothing to him. Rishi was just a pawn.
He laid him on the bed. But Rishi's fingers still gripped his shirt. The writer had to lean in. Rishi's hair fell over his closed eyes. Something stirred in the writer. He gently brushed the hair aside.
Rishi slept peacefully. Fatigue had softened his face.
The writer tried to free himself from Rishi's grip. But Rishi pulled him closer. He would have fallen on top of him if he hadn't caught himself in time, arms bracing around Rishi.
His gaze lingered on Rishi's face, then settled on his lips. But in the next moment, he yanked his hand free and walked out.