As would be wanted of any person settling in a new place, my friend and myself were frantically searching for a place to live. The company guesthouse provided to us was fast approaching the last day. Fear of being thrown on the roads made us roam around half of Kolkata in search of the elusive place to live. We had our own constraints, vegetarian diet and provision to cook our own food, complicated things to an extent making all paying guest accommodations impossible. Rental flats bore a deserted look and the cost of furnishing it would have made eating impossible.

Today morning we got to hear of a house on Park Street. It was a paying guest accommodation and food was strictly not provided. To our delight the rent was affordable and a phone call ensured that we had a fully furnished twin sharing room, with electricity and water inclusive. We could even receive calls. As the evening set in, we set out for Park Street. Our hunt took us through a stream of Biryani stalls – characteristically Muslim in taste and appearance. These stalls were lined with Bengali Muslims – doing what a typical Bengali likes the most – eating.

As we approached the house, the dilapidated look gave it a Victorian existence. Hardly a window was open and there was darkness prevailing. The balconies carried a typical old Parsi look – back home in Mumbai - with green wooden windows and structures that must be as old as the Parsis in Mumbai.

The Iron Gate leading to the main door was slightly open and as we stood verifying the address we had with that on the nameplate, people passing looked at us strangely. My belief that we were at the wrong address and that it was a spooky old haunted place strengthened. However, we gathered courage and entered. In the corner of the mansion, there was a room with a light and in it sat a couple of people chatting. It was a law firm – ramshackle in appearance. Surely the lawyers had been chatting for ages, and not practising. They pointed upwards when we asked them about the landlady.

As we climbed the flight of steps, the interiors of the house badly needed a dusting - at least. The colour bore a telltale indication that it was white once upon a time. Poverty that is all pervading in Kolkata was intimidating. As we reached the door, we searched for a bell and the moment it rang it broke the eerie silence that filled each corner of the house – almost frightening us.

And then silence! We were almost ready to return back when nobody came to open the door for what seemed an eternity. But the need of the house held us back. Slowly the door opened and a lady in her late forties opened the door. The introductions followed and as we had already rang up; she immediately went in to fetch the keys. I peeped into the door and found a long passage with a writing desk and a shoe stand on one side and a lot of clothes hanging on a sagging cloth line. The darkness prevailed inside too.

She led us down the stairs that we had just climbed. There were a lot of unused rooms and we were led to the corner-most, with its door hidden under the door. ‘Nice hiding place for a nefarious goon,’ I thought. The room opened in front of us. It was ‘fully furnished’. A bed – unkempt, a mirror – with a crack in the middle, a dressing table cum writing desk that had drawers with no locks. There was already somebody staying there and his clothes lay strewn across the beds. There was a fan, must be a 1912 model – when Kolkata was born. ‘Did it work,’ was my innocent question, but I lacked courage and prudence to ask. The yellowish light reminded me of my days in IIT. The cupboards shelves built in the walls with a wooden plank provided an idle resting-place for books, undergarments, toiletries and idols of Ganesh and Kali - simultaneously.

Somehow I felt it an apt place for budding artists - rooms filled with clouds of smoke while they ‘changed the music of the world’ or read some script of a movie which was ‘path breaking’ or ‘nakedly realistic’. The dim yellowing lights would stand testimony to one of them sing some old Hindi Gurudutt or soul rendering Gulzar hits while others with unkempt beards, dishevelled hair, thick wide rimmed glasses reclined on beds with a novel in hand and tea cups lying around – just as in Hindi movies. Remember those struggling days of the common man being the gist of all contemporary Hindi cinema?

“Where’s the bathroom,” my friend asked. “It’s quite near. Come, I will show you”. We followed her as she took us back to the first floor where her husband stood with a cigarette in hand and shawl wrapped around. He took over and led us through another maze of passages lined with ‘pan’ stains and fumbling doorsteps to a corner. He searched for the light and we saw the bathroom. Again the similarity to my hostel toilets came to my mind. There was one bath and two toilets – as promised.

“Is their hot water?” – my friend.

“You won’t need it. In the morning, as we pump the water from the underground tank, it is already warm.” All my knowledge of friction and geography came begging and as I racked my brains, I could not comprehend how the water could be warm – leave aside being hot.

“If we wish to take a bath at night?” my friend persisted.

“You have to do with cold water.”

“How many people live here?” – my innocent question spoke about the fear of mornings.

He counted slowly, “Four,” but quickly completed “but each have different timings. So there won’t be a problem.”

The house reminded me of those spooky old-fashioned mansions, which have more rooms than people and with time and lack of maintenance, take on a weird look. I imagined myself with a candle in one hand opening the creaking wooden door of my rooms, climbing the stairs… groping for the light switch…desperate to reach the bathroom…

A tinge of fear ran down the spine and the option did not seem lucrative any more.

Out came our joint reply - “We’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

We ran down the flight of stairs with the shock not yet subsiding. Once out, we looked at each other and then laughed.

The laughter continued till we reached the guesthouse.