The residents of Bambolin grabbed their beer bottles and plates of pork vindaloo. Chatting nineteen to the dozen, they gathered in front of a giant TV screen on the sprawling lawns of a tourist resort. One could feel the excitement in the air. And why not? Their favourite, Anton Sequeira, who rose to fame as Goa’s first Masterchef, was the finalist in India’s most popular horror reality show ‘Who’s the Bravest of ‘em All?’ and was touted to walk away with the coveted prize money of five crores.

Putulbari, Kolkata

Despite the presence of cameras around the dilapitated house, Anton couldn’t help but feel a shiver travel down his spine. Parmeet Nagra, his co-contestant, was applying makeup to her aged face. Anton’s eyes darted to the first floor. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, occasionally swaying in the breeze that crept in from the broken panes of the arched windows.

As part of the final challenge, he would have to enter that forbidden room and take out one doll. Nobody knew how many figurines were there. None had an inkling of where and how they were arranged. It was rumoured that the doll’s house in North Kolkata was haunted. The locals had even clucked their tongues when they saw the crew arriving with the two finalists.

Anton tried to shove aside the ominous thoughts. The show had begun with thirty contestants. The chef, already down on his luck and facing a debt running into crores, managed to eliminate his rivals. After travelling through the length and breadth of India, staying in rundown havelis, he braced himself for the final showdown.

“I’ll win this show!” he muttered to himself.

11 PM

Anton woke up with a start. It’s not a dream. Somebody was calling him.

“Anton! Are you ready for your final supper?” The baritone voice echoed across the room.

Beads of sweat formed on Anton’s forehead. In a quivering voice, he addressed the stranger, “Who is this? Is this a joke?”

“No, Anton! What is a talented chef like you doing here? Picking up a doll is not your standard. You should be rustling up your signature dish among the ghosts. Now, that’s something! Don’t you agree?”

Of his own accord, Anton’s feet dragged themselves to the sprawling kitchen. The stove was squeaky clean. Pots, pans, and ladles were arranged neatly on a table.

But where are the ingredients?

As if guessing his question, the voice boomed, “You must find out the vegetables, proteins, and spices yourself. They are hidden somewhere in this house.”

Anton grew excited. Maybe the director has changed the format of the show. After all, I am Goa’s first Masterchef. Don’t I deserve a finale befitting my stature?

Feijoada. That was the dish that clinched it for Anton. Having decided to recreate the magic, he went around the Putulbari looking for red beans, pork, and coconut milk. The aroma of freshly ground spices wafted in from a room across the corridors. Armed with a beaming smile, Anton rushed inside.

What the fuck?

The room was devoid of any furniture. Anton was about to exit when he spotted footprints leading to another door. Curious, he followed the trail until he entered a tiny veranda. The aroma continued to torment him. Sniffing like a dog, he stood there for a second.

A soft creak disturbed his reverie. Anton resumed his search.

The veranda seemed vast. Just like the sea he used to bathe in when he was a child.

Anton’s head began to reel, but he didn’t pause. He felt the walls closing on him, but before he could flinch, they withdrew from him. One room led to the other. However, there was no sight of the ingredients.

They are definitely here. I can smell them.

1 AM

Anton’s knees gave way, and he allowed himself to fall on the tiled floor. It had been around two hours, and he could have sworn that the doll’s house also boasted a labyrinthine maze, among other notorious secrets. The spices still eluded him.

It must be the imp’s doing.

“You there?” He called out to the director. Silence greeted him.

“Parmeet?” His voice quivered. His co-contestant didn’t respond.

A chunk of flesh hit him on his chest, and Anton screamed. He got to his feet, looking around. His face was stamped with the fear of the unknown. He picked up the pork meat and sniffed it. The seasoned chef in him knew instantly that it was from a freshly slaughtered pig.

“Hello, jee!” It was the man again.

Anton dropped the meat.

“You didn’t recognise my voice, did you?!”

Anton gasped. Simranpreet Singh!

Despite his best efforts to block the unpleasant memories, they came gushing in torrents.

2 Years Ago

The battle of the masterchefs had aroused the nation’s interest. Representatives from every state fought tooth and nail to win the coveted title of ‘India’s Prime Chef’. Two talented and handsome contestants, Anton Sequiera from Goa and Simranpreet Singh from Punjab, were the favourites of the audience. The judges were also of the opinion that the grand finale would see both the young chefs slogging it in the hallowed kitchen.

Anton set his eyes on the trophy and the prize money. But Simranpreet was an obstacle. Not only was the boy from Chandigarh an expert in desserts, he could also rustle up a mean meat dish in a jiffy.

“I’ll win this by hook or crook!” Anton swore.

The final episode of ‘India’s Prime Chef’ passed by in a blur. Simranpreet seemed disoriented. His voice had a slur, which was surprising because the Punjabi was a teetotaler. The gajar ka halwa turned out to be a disaster. Even the relatively easy savoury dish couldn’t redeem him. Anton, on the other hand, won the judges’ hearts with Feijoada and Bebinca.

The twenty-year-old man from Goa had scripted history on national television. Social media was abuzz with recipes for the winning dishes. As was the case with public memory, Simranpreet Singh became the target of viral memes and, after two months, was forgotten.

The Present

“S…Simranpreet? D..Didn’t you die?”

“Die? You mean suicide, don’t you?”

Tears rolled down Anton’s cheeks.

The voice continued, “What did you gain by spiking my coffee that day? I am not angry that you wanted to win. But I am sad that you resorted to such a cheap step. You made a mockery of me. Everywhere I went, people taunted me for my behavior. Drunkard! Drug addict! They called me names. My family was hounded. Our family WhatsApp group was flooded with my memes. It was getting unbearable. Death seemed the only solace then.”

“I’m sorry, Simranpreet. I admit I won ‘India’s Prime Chef’ by unfair means. But I didn’t want you to die.”

“Ah! Is that a confession, Anton?”

Anton looked at Parmeet Nagra as she emerged from her room. Suddenly, he slapped his forehead.

Damn it! This bitch is a mimicry artist. How did I forget it?

“Is this your idea of a joke, Parmeet?” Anton had recovered his composure by then.

“No. All I want is to clear my brother’s name.”

Anton raised his eyebrow. “Simranpreet?”

Parmeet nodded as tears welled up in her eyes. “My baby brother. A pure and gentle soul who never thought of harming even an ant. And what did you do to him?”

Anton threw back his head and laughed. “You crazy woman! Nobody’s going to believe you. You think you could imitate your brother and scare me? But I must admit, your idea is indigenous. Now, tell me one thing. How did you manage to recreate that maze?”

It was Parmeet’s turn to be surprised. “What maze?”

“Come on, hag! Didn’t you order me to look for the ingredients?”

“What ingredients?”

“Don’t act like an innocent girl. Remember the final supper? You asked me to recreate Feijoada.”

“I threw a chunk of pork meat at you. Then I called out…. oh no!” Parmeet paused. She covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes were wide. “It can’t be!”

Anton staggered back. Holy Lord!

Bambolin

Dear Viewers!

Due to unforeseen circumstances, the grand finale of ‘Who’s the Bravest of ‘em All?’ stands cancelled until further notice.

Please accept our sincere apologies.

Mumbling and cursing under their breaths, the residents of Bambolin emerged from the lawns of the resort. They had been rooting for their boy, Anton Sequiera. After all, he had put Goa firmly on the talent and entertainment map. But this? Anton appeared on the show, dishevelled and delirious. He had ignored the task of picking up a doll from the haunted house in Kolkata. Instead, he had walked around the Putulbari as though it were a never-ending maze.

When Parmeet Nagra’s turn came, she refused to execute the task and walked out of the show, citing a lack of interest.

“She has chickened out of the task,” smirked an octogenarian in a bar in Bambolin.

“Who cares for that hag? But what about Anton?” retorted his wife.

The debate continued in the bar. But nobody wanted to know why Parmeet had wiped away her tears and requested the viewers’ privacy. So engrossed were they in Anton’s delirious behaviour that they failed to notice his incoherent ramblings.

If only they had paid full attention, they would have grasped the word that spilled over in broken syllables from Anton Sequiera’s mouth.

Simranpreet!