The house stood behind two imposingly large trees, their crowns interlinked high above. Mira looked carefully, trying to figure out what trees they were with leaves as large as human faces. "Ficus lyrate or the fiddle leaf fig," a voice emanated from within the overgrown garden. Mira and Shyam peered through the enormous black iron gate to see who might be speaking to them, but they could see no one. A profusion of foliage screened every living thing from view. Even on a quick count, Mira checked off at least thirty varieties of plants of varying hues: greens of every conceivable order, purples, maroons, reds, and the speckled ones which snuck into the spaces in between. The entire place looked like the plants had the run of it, but instead of the usual calm and peace that comes upon one in a garden, Mira felt her heartbeat quicken, filling her with dread.
Shyam didn't look very pleased either; he was itching to return to the hotel, where, he fancied, a late lunch of Sri Lankan delicacies awaited. The buffet ran during specific hours; he would be really annoyed if Mira's unplanned sojourn cost them their lunch. He put his hand on her arm, "Oy, let's go back. Seems like no one lives here."