Roflindian@Roflindian
The newspaper had always been a ritual in my life. Every morning, I'd sip my tea and delve into the headlines, sifting through the stories that ranged from the mundane to the mystical. But it wasn't the news that captured my attention one Friday morning; it was a small advertisement tucked away in the bottom right corner of the 5th page of The Daily Times.
The ad was that of a seaside homestay in Pondicherry. A beautiful French Villa with turquoise waves kissing the sandy shore, and palm trees swaying in the coastal breeze. The rates for a 2N3D stay were unbelievably attractive. It was an offer that begged me to pack my bags and revisit the place where I had spent my youth.
You see, I used to live in Pondicherry, but I left it all behind after a tragic accident that changed my life forever. Years ago, I had accidentally struck a young man with my car. It wasn’t my fault. I was driving within the speed limit. The man wasn’t wearing a helmet, and suddenly crossed my path while trying to take a U-turn. Fell from his bike and hit his head on the pavement. I hadn't fled the scene; I had rushed to his side, nursed his wounds and then taken him to a hospital, where he died a few days later.
I too had lost something precious that day - a lucky charm that had been with me for as long as I could remember. It probably fell out of my pocket when I had pulled out the handkerchief to cover his head wound. Since that day, my life had spiralled into a series of misfortunes. I lost money in business ventures, and my health suffered as I carried the burden of my guilt. That lucky charm had been my talisman, my protector, and its loss had left me feeling weak and vulnerable.
Despite the unpleasant memories, the allure of the homestay was too strong to resist. I made up my mind to revisit Pondicherry, hoping to heal old wounds and maybe even find a sense of closure. Since it was meant to be an intensely personal trip, I lied to my wife that I’d be going for an official assignment. She had allowed, only after extracting a promise to visit Goa later in the year.
I arrived on the appointed day. The villa, though somewhat secluded, was a veritable slice of paradise right at the beachfront. There was an elderly manager to receive me, and he politely showed me my room. That day, I strolled on the beach, ate a hearty meal and retired early, only to wake up the next morning to the sight of a mesmerising sunrise as seen from the balcony.
I had a full day ahead of me. I rented a scooter and began exploring the town. I revisited places I used to frequent in my youth. I drove down familiar streets, visited the bustling markets and ate at old food joints. And when, by evening, I had exhausted all places to go, I summoned the courage to visit the site of the accident that had haunted me for years. I stayed there for a while, silently reliving my memories, and found a strange sense of calm embracing my quivering heart. I was happy. Pondicherry had welcomed me back, allowing me to make peace with my past in a profound way.
The next day, it was time to leave. As I was settling the bills at the reception, my gaze fell on the photograph of a handsome young man hung on the opposite wall. For a fleeting moment, I thought the man’s face vaguely resembled that of the manager, only that this man was much older. “Nice guy..died young”, I thought. The manager, who was poring over a calculator, probably read my mind and looked up.
“The owner of this place, Sir. Died in an accident on Bussy Street twenty years ago. Hit by a car.”
The manager's word's struck me like a bolt of lightning. Bussy Street? Twenty years ago? This was exactly where the accident had happened. I slowly raised my eyes, past the manager’s shoulder, to gaze at the man’s face. The memories of that fateful day came back in a flash. Beads of cold sweat spurted on my forehead and my limbs went numb, as I signed the register with tremulous hands and turned to leave.
“I hope you loved the stay Sir. Do come again”, the Manager smiled, holding up a small gift-paper wrapped box. “This is for you. A small memento that will always remind you of this beautiful place.” I turned to take a long, last look at the Villa. An eerie feeling suddenly made my hair stand on end. I walked away, hailing a cab from the street to take me to the airport.
Back home, as I was unpacking, the memento gift box fell out of my rucksack. I began unwrapping it, lost in thoughts of the villa, the photograph of the young man and the string of weird coincidences that took me back to face my past. As I opened the box and looked inside, my blood ran cold.
There, in the box, lay the long-lost lucky charm - the very same trinket I had lost all those years ago on the night of the accident.
Stricken with panic, I started searching for the old Friday newspaper that carried the ad, only to find that that my wife had given it away to the garbage collector the previous day. Luckily, my neighbour also read the Daily Times. I borrowed the paper, frantically turned to page 5, and rubbed my eyes in disbelief. There was no advertisement for the homestay anywhere. Not on the 5th page, not anywhere else!
Aghast and bewildered, I drove down to The Daily Times' office. One of my clients had a contact working for the newspaper, and he let me access their archives. I combed through the entire month of newsprint but could find neither the advertisement nor any record of the ad ever being published. It was as if the homestay ad had never existed.
I recalled I had a friend who had recently been posted in Pondicherry. With a pounding heart, I called him up, gave him the exact address and requested him to get the property checked out, merely telling him that I had seen the homestay in an advertisement and that I wished to visit the place the following week.
After some time, my friend called back, his voice laced with amusement. “Don’t fall for the ad, my dear, there’s no homestay there.” he said. "The place you mentioned is actually the ruins of an abandoned house. It's been that way for years."
