Manderley

‘’Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’’ This is the opening line of ‘’Rebecca’’ by Daphne du Maurier. One of my favourite books, its text is beautifully, hauntingly sensuous in its description of Manderley, the country mansion where the heroine lives. From the time when I first read it in my early teens, I longed for a home with such mystical magnetism, a home hewn out of wilderness. My desire saw light a few years later when we built a house outside of Pune, on a densely wooded hill. It is called Girivan – the forest on the mountain.

It’s been three years since we moved in, but the anticipation of driving up to the house never grows old. The car snakes up a zigzag road that abandons all pretence of being tarred as we go higher and deeper. Deeper into the tangle of trees and shrubs that can swallow up the road at the slightest negligence by the pruners. And just when you begin to wonder if you’re lost, the yellow house rapidly mushrooms out of the greenery like a large toadstool in a flat clearing, discovered by a child much to his delight. Rising up, yawning wide.

The tiny white tiles of the terrace shine as we pull up. They trail off into a graceful S-shape along the curved walls of the house. When there is a breeze, you can hear the light sound of the wind-chime. Otherwise a drowsy stillness hangs in the air, heavy with the smell of a million leaves and wildflowers. The dogs bark and howl and generally create a racket before attaching themselves to your heels.

Columns of potted bougainvillea draw you towards the entrance, their white and pink blossoms bending in welcome. A lofty door awaits your knock. There is time enough to trace the grain in the wood while the translucent coloured-glass inlay glows invitingly with the light from within. Somebody is leisurely walking the length of the house towards the door. Watches have no place here.

The door is thrown open to a vast hall, stretching off into a corridor at one end. The high ceiling is intersected by trusses – vestiges of past styles of architecture. Familiar symbols of comfort dot the room. A pale green sofa here, a fading patterned rug there. Tea is served in a friendly-looking mug, always on a coaster.

Evenings warrant a stroll in the sweeping veranda overlooking the valley. The pillars are wrapped in climbers that swing like trapeze artists and perform a wispy shadow-dance on the ruddy terracotta flooring. Some tiles are glazed with unseemly paint – a memorably disastrous experiment.

Your walk leads you onto a square deck jutting out over the garden like a strong jaw. Lingering echoes of countless gatherings, conversations and parties are trapped within its railings. The last light of the sun kisses it softly, leaving it faintly warm as it retreats into the flaming sky in the west. You can fully feel the absence of buildings and smoke when your eyes reflect this uninterrupted melange of hues.

The garden which looks so pretty and cultivated in the day wears an entirely different cloak at dusk. Its grassy undulations swell and dip away suddenly like ocean waves, hiding the creatures of the night from view. A bamboo thicket in the corner sways in the now-strong breeze as its slender leaves flutter like the long, extended fingertips of a wood-nymph. They beckon upwards.

On summer nights, mattresses are laid out on the terrace in a row. The time has come, as Lewis Carroll said, to talk of many things. The wind brings folk music up from the villages in the valley, the hills all around bearing silent witness to the communion. Bit by bit, voices dwindle and you slip into a blissful reverie. Fireflies become stars and stars become watchful. The night gathers you up in its arms, and you float on the wind. This time, there is a definite tinkling of the pipes of the wind-chime, each producing its own sweet distinct note. A palm rests on the smooth tile, and breathing becomes steady.

Morning rushes into your senses with the sharp scent of wet earth being watered by a gushing hose. An orange orb is creeping up the sky from the east. Bathed luxuriously in the diffused glow, you stretch contentedly like a cat. I am at Manderley.