The stars are totally misaligned when we meet.
‘Hellew, myself Dineshbhai Patel,’ says the estate agent when I open the door. His bulky girth wobbles a bit as he stumbles at the raised threshold. My petite self is pinned to the wall as the hefty six-footer navigates the narrow hallway, nudging me with the clipboard under his arm.
‘Patel sold our house within a week,’ said the friend when I told her our offer on a house had been accepted. Countless viewings later, just when we found the perfect fit, we realised we had only a few weeks to sell our own house to stake a claim on the other one. We desperately needed an estate agent with a magic touch.
We are excited about moving, but also sad. This house is littered with fond memories. Years ago, I came to this house, a new bride standing at the threshold, tipping the small customary pot of rice over with my feet to mark my arrival into a new life. Our kids took their first steps here. During lockdown this house was our school, campsite, movie theatre…
Patel prowls around the lounge and stops. He closes his eyes, folds his hands and takes a deep breath. I notice the wafting smell of the incense burning at the mandir upstairs. A second later he opens his eyes.
“Where is your husband? Why has he left you here to manage this by yourself? His gruff voice booms as if he is addressing me from the first floor.
What a perfect casting for the story of the lion and the mouse, I think but don’t say it out aloud. Instead, I say, ‘What do you need to know? I have all the information you need.’
A dated old building when we first bought it, the renovation of our house has been a joint labour of love over the years. From the light fittings to the paint and shower tiles, everything has been replaced with care. Guests often comment on the professional finish we manage to achieve, despite having no background in interior design.
Hugging the clipboard tight to his chest, he moves towards a painting, an abstract fire and ice painting that we picked up on one of our holidays. I love how, from a random mishmash of colours, the swirling droplets of blue emerge and then transform into vibrant orange sparks by the time the colours travel to the top of the painting. One of my favourite pieces, it holds pride of place amongst the other paintings we own.
He stares at it and then shakes his head. Turning around he says, “Fire element in the living space? Don’t you know it kills harmony? Clearly you have no clue of how Vastu works.”
It reminds me of how my dad always told me to go back to primary school whenever I got my GCSE question wrong.
I want to tell him Vastu is not our thing, we trusted our preferences instead of ancient science to steer our decisions. But he is already at the back door, heading into the rear garden.
He takes his time and I assume he is checking for structural changes around the back. My husband and I have watched too many shows on the appeal of extensions which then go awry. So, when Patel returns, I say with a hint of pride, ‘We’ve not made any changes to the original floor plan.’
Time evaporates while he looks at me, at first with surprise, and then disappointment before finally settling on pity, like I have just failed a critical assessment with zero chance of redemption.
And then, spotting something behind me, he darts forward. I hastily move out of the way as he approaches the side table. There is a miniature set of three ceramic pieces on it, a small ghost with two eye holes and a mouth covered in a cloak accompanied by two ghost cats on either side, their droopy contours promising sensory delight. A quirky ornament, our guests can never resist picking it up. I love narrating how we chanced on it during our travels.
He fingers the ghost piece gingerly and says with a sigh, “Inviting Spirits instead of driving them away.” He deftly picks up all three with one hand, pulls out the drawer underneath with another, and plonks them in there, slamming the drawer shut like a slap in my face.
‘First impressions, very important,’ he says, spreading his arms theatrically like a godman regaling his followers. ‘A viewing is a boon.’ Rubbing his hands together, he lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘The buyer must be baited and caught before he leaves.’
He picks up his clipboard, pulls out a business card from it and thrusts it into my hands. I spot the “100% success rate” in bold font, but when I see the tiny print about the commission percentage beneath, it is a shocking revelation.
My fingers curl around the card for a tight moment and I drop it as I watch him walk to the door. As if on cue, he stops and says without turning, ‘Ask your husband to call me, we need to have a proper chat about this.’ He stumbles again at the raised threshold but clutches onto the doorframe. The clipboard slips from under his arm, and I pick it up as he walks into the drive.
I am standing at the doorstep, when he comes back for it – a pair of vicious chess players guarding our positions, his imposing demeanour versus my spiking annoyance. The moment stretches out like a chewing gum and then turns into a soft bubble that expands until a sudden car alarm punctures the silence. I let go of the clipboard just as he holds out his hand and it makes muted contact with the floor. His searing gaze scorches my back as I walk to the lounge, leaving the door open. He is watching as I head over to the side table and my fingers curl around the handle of the drawer.
Asha writes short stories and flash fiction. Her work has been published in print and online. She lives in Leicestershire. When not writing, she transforms into a parent taxi, racing across town driving a glamorous teenage cricketer and a wannabe football legend to their training sessions. She lives on Twitter @ashkkrish and stalks Instagram @ashkrishwrites.