Barda declared, “Those who do not believe in ghosts should not be forced. I myself don't ever attempt that. Except once.”
It was summertime, and as the poet Kalidas had said, the sun was fierce and the moon was warm. Some of our club members had decided to see exactly how warm, so we sat down in the club's vast courtyard. In the eastern sky a faint moon rose above the trees. Our faces were easily visible. Most of the club members had removed their upper body coverings, signifying that the moon, indeed, was warm.
We had ordered bhaang for ourselves. Our calculations said to match the warmth of the moon we needed the ice-cold drink to soothe us. And so we eagerly awaited the sharbat.
Having been placed in such an environment, when Barda started with his “those who do not believe in ghosts,” we were naturally alarmed. It was clear from the start that this sharp introduction would soon reveal itself to be a complete story.
Moonlit summer nights are not usually favorable for listening to ghost stories. Winter evenings or rainy nights are known to be more suitable. But once Barda announces his start, there is no escape.
Fortunately, the bhaang sharbats arrived right in time to calm our nerves. Prithvi took a small sip from the edge of his glass and retorted, “Ah! If only the world would become as cold as this sharbat!”
Barda said, “Hmm, what do you mean by the world? There are places in India where it is snowing now. This time last year, I went for a hike in the mountains and saw the bitter winter--”
I asked, “Which mountain are we talking about?”
Barda said, “Think Mussoorie or Nainital. I won't name names, but it wasn't a place where you go for a change of air. A relative of mine was transferred there, and I spent a month there with them. There was this one incident…”
Amulya said doubtfully, “I'm sure there was, but why wouldn't you tell the name?”
“Because, Amulya, the characters in the story I'm going to tell you are all alive. So you'll pardon me if I cannot, in good conscience, reveal their precise identities. Anyway, let us start the story.
Living in hill stations makes people more westernized, if I may say so. Men there have defected to coats and pants. The girls, however, did not leave the sarees, but their mannerisms are not exactly Indian. Men and women eating at the same table, a peg or two of whiskey or port after dinner -- it has become part of life up there.
Ah well, can't blame them -- if you live in a cold kingdom, better to follow the rules of winter.
The relative I was talking about is a brother-in-law. In response to his invitation to spend a few days with them, I showed up.
It hadn't even been a week of my stay there, and I could feel my muscles getting stronger. My brother-in-law is a big carnivore, his kitchen dished out chicken and mutton on a daily basis. We were spending time on the hills, hiking, so we would get even hungrier by the hour. The place really is magnificent; beautiful landscape, clean air and water.
I made some new friends. There are about ten or twelve Bengali families there, all of them very genial, overjoyed to meet new people. I met a boy named Pramath Roy. He was of twenty five or six years of age, soft-spoken, sweet, and charming. Pramath was employed in the government, and seemed very modern, but not radical. Every other afternoon he used to come and play tennis with us at our house on his way back from work. The boy was unmarried and alone; so he would spend his evenings gossiping with us over tea or cocktails before he went back home for the night.
My brother-in-law, in one such session with Pramath, brought up ghosts.
“Pramath, you do not believe in ghosts, do you? Our Barda is a seasoned expert in such matters. If you want to know for sure if ghosts exist, this is your chance, I'm telling you.”
Pramath laughed, “You are an educated person. How come you still believe in these things?”
Even though he said it lightly, it struck me, “My dear boy, educated people believe in many things that an uneducated person would be ashamed to believe, no?”
“Namely?”
“Hmm. Such as Freudian psychoanalysis. Or Pavlov's behaviorism.”
Pramath started laughing. His intelligence prevented him from arguing. The ghost, well, we left buried there.
Two weeks had passed since I came to the mountains. I was at ease; my weight was increasing, my mind was at peace, my bed was free of bugs, and my body relaxed. I didn't realize how time had passed by. Good times are like that, you don't know they are good times until they are over, or almost over.
Pramath invited us to tea one day.
My brother-in-law and I were there on time. I thought nobody else was coming, but there she was -- a young woman I had never seen before. Beautiful, slender, and tall, with a little hint of sadness on her face. There was no extravagance in her makeup, but there was care. She looked like she was in her early twenties.
My brother-in-law greeted her very eagerly. “Mrs. Das, what luck! I did not expect to meet you here.”
The young lady greeted us with a smile. “I came to the town for the week's groceries. Met Pramathbabu on the road, he brought me over.”
Pramath then introduced me to her. I had picked up some cues from the environment to understand that Mrs. Das was a widow. She lived about three miles from the city, on a high peak called Har-jata. Only a few families lived up there. The road from Har-jata to the town is not easy, therefore, the people who live there make routine journeys to the town to get their groceries in bulk.
And then there was tea and cake. We were talking to one another. I noticed that Mrs. Das is on the one hand completely modern, and on the other hand, calm and restrained. Her face commands attraction, but it doesn't permit anybody to get too close. She laughs with everybody, but no one dares approaching her. Her beauty was her armor.
I was also looking at Pramath at the same time.
Until now, I had no idea that there might be any romantic complications in this young man's life. Now, I could see that the poor boy was struggling. Pramath behaved just like the needle of a compass, steady at all times but impatient and chaotic near a magnet. His every word, every gesture revealed that he loved the girl; and not even the matter of public shame could make him hide his state of mind.
But Mrs. Das is a widow, albeit progressive and modern, yet a Hindu widow.
The situation excited me. What was to happen of this strange, forbidden romance that has somehow sprouted from the cold of the mountains?
Mrs. Das got up as soon as the tea was over, she had to return to Har-jata while there was still daylight. She invited us over to her place, “Why don't you come to Har-jata one of these days? It is a little quieter than here, but otherwise a beautiful place. You'll never see such a sunrise from anywhere else in the world.”
We thanked her for her kind invitation, and she left.
We left too, after a while. Seeing that Pramath was constantly spacing out despite his best efforts at hospitality, we did not want to trouble him anymore.
On our way home, I could not help but question my brother-in-law. “So, what is the matter? There is something, isn't there?”
He smiled at me. “You noticed too. I had heard the rumors; saw it with my own eyes today. Pramath is desperate to marry Savitri.”
“Savitri, that's her name? What does she have to say about it?”
“As far as I have heard, Savitri doesn't want it.”
“Why not? Religion? Something else? She doesn't like Pramath?"
“Can't speak to that, brother. Maybe religious prejudice, maybe love for her dead husband.”
“Interesting,” I thought. “How long has it been since the husband died?” I asked my brother-in-law.
“Been almost two years now. The gentleman was a senior railway engineer. Fell on the line. Terrible accident.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“Only a little. A very muscular man, about thirty-five years of age. He had been married to her for a year.”
“What a shame. Why does she still live in Har-jata, by the way?”
“Well, the house belonged to Das, Savitri inherited it. Plus Das died on duty so his widow gets a stipend from the Railways. That's her living.”
“What's your opinion of her?”
“Admirable. Young, lives alone, but no dishonor to her name.”
“And what's your opinion about widows getting remarried?”
“I think it would be good for her. There's no point in spending your whole life looking back at the past. It's not like she has children to look after. But I guess Savitri will not marry again.”
Ten more days passed after that. Pramath was not visiting us anymore. As a result of what we revealed, he seemed to be avoiding us.
I was preparing to leave the mountains when Pramath decided to finally show up one day. He looked a little shy. He sputtered out a couple of words that could be construed as exchanging pleasantries, and then he came to the point.
“Mrs. Das has written a letter and has invited the three of us to go watch the sunrise. How about it?”
I had no objection. But my brother-in-law hesitated. “If one wants to see the sunrise, he has to go to Har-jata the night before, or leave here at two o'clock in the morning. That doesn't sound convenient, does it?”
Pramath took out the letter of invitation from his pocket and said, “Read this, doesn't sound like it would be inconvenient.” The letter read:
“Greetings, dear Pramathbabu,
I see you took my invitation lightly the other day. However, I would really love to have all three of you over. You can stay the night and watch the sunrise from here in the morning. It won't be a problem at all, my house is big enough to accommodate three guests.
Let me know when you are coming. In fact, I will be just as happy if you show up unannounced.
I hope you are well.
Sincerely,
Savitri Das”
My brother-in-law had no space left for objection after that.
Pramath looked enthusiastic. “It's Saturday. Shall we go today? If we leave around five o'clock we will be there by six.”
And so we were on our way to Har-jata the same afternoon.
The Har-jata peak can be seen from the valley below. The peak has been aptly named indeed, it looked like the matted locks of the meditating Mahadeva, getting more and more twisted on the way up. White bungalows in its indentures looked like blooming dhutura flowers.
Wonderful view, but the road to get there is not nearly as beautiful; it took us two and a half hours to walk three miles.
It was the end of daylight when we arrived in front of Mrs. Das's bungalow; when the final rays of the sun were shining on the crooked coils of Har-jata. Mrs. Das was sitting in an easy-chair on the front porch of the house, and she greeted us with unadulterated cheer. She was genuinely happy to see us, it was a treat to the eyes.
People say impending misfortunes tend to herald their arrival, through shadows and omens and whatnot. But surprisingly, I did not foresee the accident that was about to happen that day. The lyrical light on that mountain evening seemed only to be divine bliss. None of us could have imagined that evil might be hidden behind it. I think even Pramath had no idea.
Mrs. Das took us inside the house. I splashed some warm water over my face before coming into the drawing room, where tea was served.
There were no male servants in the house, only two local girls helped around the house, cooked, and lived there.
Electric lamp was yet to arrive in Har-jata. We sat down to have tea in the soft light of a kerosene lamp. Mrs. Das started serving us with the help of her maids.
An enlarged photograph hung on the wall of the drawing room. I could not see it well from afar, so after I finished my tea, I naturally walked closer to the portrait and stopped to look.
This was the prematurely dead Mr. Das, no doubt. I took a good look. The appearance, I wouldn't call it beautiful, but there was a certain firmness about him. A fold in the middle of the wide chin, eyes a little stiff. The smile at the corner of the lips was only there because you had to smile while taking photos, but it clearly failed to cover the rigidity of character.
Just as I was comparing this face with the soft and sweet one of Pramath, a mellow voice sounded from the side, “My husband.”
I saw Mrs. Das standing next to me.
Pramath also walked over and stood next to us.
Mrs. Das looked at the photo for a while and took a sudden glimpse at Pramath's face. Her face was calm, you couldn't tell what was going on in her mind, but I think that she also compared the face with the photo, like I did.
We came back and sat down.
It has never been easy reading a woman's mind; especially one like Mrs. Das'. The poets say it takes a thousand years of endeavor to find your way to a woman's heart. I began to think. It is certainly true that she is refusing to marry Pramath, but can it also not be true that she has some sort of weakness in her heart for him? Is it just worldly kindness that she has invited a stranger like me to her house today? Or was there a hidden intention to get close to a certain person?
It is unnecessary to describe Pramath's condition. It was the same as the other day, the needle of a magnetized compass, aimed in no other direction but her.
The night fell as a very cold wind rose from the north and began to blow overhead.
Cooking was finished in the late hours. It was about eleven o'clock when we got up from dinner. Our hostess announced it was time for bed. “But remember, you have to get up before 3:30 in the morning, or you're going to miss the sunrise.”
It seemed unlikely to me that I could get up by half-past three. And that would totally defeat the purpose of the visit. “I wonder if there is an alarm clock?” I asked.
Mrs. Das said, “No. But don't worry about that, I will wake you up in time.”
My brother-in-law asked, “How are you going to get up yourself, ma'am?”
Mrs. Das smiled a little and said, “I am not sleeping. I'll be reading for the next few hours. It's a habit.”
That did not sit quite right with me. The lady stays up all night while we sleep?
Pramath came forward and said, “Let me stay up as well.” He looked at us and said, “You may go to sleep then.”
This proposal did not agree with me either. Two middle-aged men sleeping in the other room, and the two young people with a definitive chemistry staying up together all night? That simply cannot be.
My brother-in-law solved the problem, "Why don't we all stay up? Sleep usually evades me at new places. I'd be staying up either way.”
I said, “It's the same with me.”
Our kind hostess objected, but we did not listen. We sat down and made ourselves comfortable in the drawing room.
It was only a matter of four hours; it was going to pass by in the blink of an eye. The possibility of playing cards had been suggested by my brother-in-law, but there were none available at Mrs Das' home.
Our conversations started in enthusiasm, but it got slower as the time passed. Mrs. Das was sitting on a reclining chair, my brother-in-law was laying flat on the couch smoking a cigar, and I was quite comfortable curled up in a cushioned chair. Only Pramath was moving restlessly around the room, moving things from their places, tinkering with the lights and so on.
Mrs. Das' calm eyes followed him.
It was twelve o'clock.
My brother-in-law sat up. Pressing the burnt end of the cigar on the ashtray, he said, "Aren't you ever afraid, Mrs Das? You live here all alone."
Mrs. Das looked up a little. “Afraid? Afraid of what?”
The cold wind was whistling overhead. I stifled a yawn and said, "Say, ghosts."
Pramath was standing in front of Mr. Das's photograph, looking at him with scornful eyes. He walked over to us, mockingly saying, “Fear of ghosts! I'm telling you, there's no such thing as a ghost. Bardababu and his superstitions, pfft!”
I asked, “Are you of the same opinion, Mrs Das?”
She remained silent for a while. “I do believe in reincarnations. But ghosts -- I don't know.”
Pramath was loud all of a sudden. “There are no ghosts. What are ghosts but the remnants of our past? There is only the present and the future. Is that not enough?”
He looked flushed.
Pramath is a soft-spoken person, we had never seen him so upset. It is as if he wanted to tell Savitri something, but he could not because we were there.
My brother-in-law also understood what was happening. He said, “If there is a present and a future, there must be a past, Pramath. We all have past lives -- those are our ghosts. You have ghosts too. You can't avoid it. But the difference between us and dead people is that a dead person is a ghost completely, and those of us who are alive, have some present and future left about us.”
Pramath did not understand that my brother-in-law was blathering on with the ambiguous meaning of the word bhoot. He became obstinate. He waved his hand and said, “All that nonsense. Can you prove that the soul lives on after death? Can you?”
My brother-in-law laughed and said, “I can't prove anything. Barda here keeps track of ghosts and seances and such, ask him.”
I said, “Look, Pramathbabu, one who sleeps awake cannot be awakened. If you are determined not to believe, there is nothing on earth that can make you believe. But I will say this much, many scientifically-minded geniuses have believed in ghosts. For example William Crooks, Oliver Lodge, Conan Doyle…”
Pramath said firmly, “I don't believe it. If you can prove it, feel free to, otherwise you won't be able to win me over just by dropping some names.”
I won't lie, I was a little upset by his behavior. I said, “Well, believing is definitely up to you, Pramathbabu. I see no harm in trying. Mrs. Das, what do you say about a planchette?”
Savitri looked a little alarmed. “Planchette? You mean calling out to spirits?”
“I certainly don't see any other way to take the edge off Pramathbabu's disbelief. But we won't proceed if it makes you uncomfortable or afraid.”
She said, “No, I'm not afraid.” She took a quick look at Pramath and continued, “Well, let us do it. We can kill some time, if nothing else. What will you be needing?”
“Only a three-legged table will do, ma'am.”
The table was already in the room. I then explained how a planchette works in a few words. Then the light was dimmed and the four of us sat around the table.
My brother-in-law asked, “Who shall we call?”
I said, “Whoever you want to, but it has to be someone we all know. At least by their face.”
The picture of Mr. Das was hanging on the wall not far from where we sat. Pramath was sitting with his back to the picture, and Mrs. Das was facing him. Mrs. Das looked up at the picture, and immediately our eyes followed hers. We couldn't see the whole portrait in the low lights, only his face.
Mrs. Das looked down from the picture and looked at me. I understood the question in her eyes, so I said, “Yes, let's call him. I haven't seen him, but the portrait should work. Everyone, close your eyes and think about him.”
Our hands were placed on the table with fingers touching one another's. Then we closed our eyes and started thinking about Mr. Das.
When the ghost appears on the planchette table, the table usually moves. The dead wood of the table seems to have come to life, with a pulsation coursing through it. We sat there for about ten minutes, but the table did not move, there was no life in it.
I opened my eyes and looked at everyone's faces.
I only had to take one good look at Pramath to tell that the ghost had appeared; not on the table, but on a person. Pramath's face was hanging over his chest, his lips were quivering, and the appearance of his face had changed drastically.
I asked, “Is anyone here?”
Pramatha slowly raised his face. Then he opened a pair of bloodshot eyes and stared intensely at Mrs. Das.
I reached out and turned up the light. We could finally see Pramath's face clearly, and we were terrified. It was a hardened, firm and fierce face, with cruel eyes twinkling in the light. It didn't look like Pramath himself was staring at us, it was as if another person was peering through his eyes.
Mrs. Das looked at him like she was hypnotized by whoever that was.
Pramath growled, “Savitri!”
Even the sound of his voice had changed. Mrs. Das' eyes widened, her lips parted.
She cried out, “You! It's you!” before she fainted and fell to the floor.
What happened after that cannot be described. Pramath jumped up, he was foaming at the mouth. I tried to stop him, but I failed to get a hold of him. He had the strength of a demon. He threw me away like I was nothing, and jumped on Savitri's unconscious body, shaking her with both hands and shouting, “You want to marry again, huh? I will not let you, you hear me? I will never…you are mine…”
Think about it. These words, these exact words were coming out of Pramath's mouth!
But we didn't have time to think then; my brother-in-law and I pulled Pramath apart from Savitri. Meanwhile the two maids had heard the screams, they came running, picked up Savitri, and laid her on the couch.
We dragged Pramath towards the bathroom. There I threw him on the floor and started pouring buckets of cold water on his head. I kept shouting, “Leave, Mr. Das, you need to leave!”
“No!” he replied, “I won't go…I won't let Savitri get married…”
Pramath was grinding his teeth as we were pouring water. Gradually his voice lowered. He wasn't struggling anymore.
After half an hour's worth of effort, we both carried him and put him on a bed. He had no strength left, yet he kept muttering. “I won't let her… I won't let her…”
I left my brother-in-law to look after him and went to the drawing room to check up on Mrs Das. She had come to her senses.
She broke out in tears when she saw me. “What just happened, Bardababu? Why did it happen?”
When the innermost thoughts of a woman are revealed, they usually have no other cover to hide behind except crying. I sat next to Mrs. Das and tried to calm her down, as much as I could. I asked the maids to make her a cup of strong tea.
We missed the sunrise, of course. Seven o'clock struck with two patients in two rooms.
However, Mrs. Das managed to get up, but Pramath wasn't waking up at all. I didn't even dare to force him to wake up, lest he start his act again. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. We had to go back.
When he didn't wake up until one in the morning, we got worried.
Fortunately, an old doctor living in Har-jata was called. He examined Pramath. “A little cough built up in the chest, just a regular cold, you don't have to worry. But it's best that he doesn't get out of bed today.”
We looked at Mrs Das with anxious eyes.
By this time she was completely back to normal. She said “Let Pramathbabu stay here today. If you two absolutely can't stay…”
My brother-in-law said, "Look, we really need to leave, but if it is cause for embarrassment for you to be here alone with him…”
“Don't worry about that,” Mrs. Das said.
The old doctor was listening to us. He said, “You shouldn't worry, I live nearby, I will stay the night at Savitri Ma's house. My wife can come too, if necessary.”
The old doctor was a very no-nonsense man, he didn't speak or ask questions unnecessarily. We felt reassured as we left. There was no reason to worry about Pramath, we were sure he would be fine when he woke up.
Before we left, Mrs. Das called us to a corner to explain how it would be best for everyone if there was no discussion about the incident of the previous night.
We assured her that there will not be any indeed.
Then we came down from the peaks of Har-jata.
The next evening we found out that Pramath was back. But he did not come to meet us.
I was running out of time, and had to leave the mountains in a day or two. I thought it wouldn't hurt to go and meet him myself. After all that has happened, he might be hesitant to come.
The next morning I went by his house on my way back from a stroll. The front door was closed. I knocked, and Pramath came and opened the door.
There was a subtle change in his face. He stared, sort of angrily, at me for a moment, then slammed the door shut in my face.
And that, my friends, was my last meeting with Pramath. The day after that I came down from the mountains.”
Barda stopped after this.
The moon over the club yard has risen much higher up. It was either because of the bhaang's intoxication, or the story Barda had just told us, that the air now felt quite cold.
Prithvi asked, “It ends there? What happened after that?”
Barda lit himself a cigarette and said, "A month later I received a letter from my brother-in-law. He gave surprising news; Pramath married Savitri.
Now, we thought after what happened, their marriage was off the table. Pramath's harsh treatment of me in the end, I also thought, was a reaction to his failure. But I could see my calculations were wrong.
My brother-in-law gave another piece of news, which was even more strange.
Apparently, Pramath's appearance has changed a lot in this short period of time. In fact, everyone is saying that his face is becoming more and more like Mr. Das. Even a small fold appeared in the middle of his chin—”
Barda took a long drag on his cigarette and continued, "So far, I have simply narrated the story as it happened, without making any judgment. Now you lot, tell me this -- is it Mr. Das' ghost that has uprooted Pramath from his body, settled himself in permanently and remarried his widow? Or -- well, what else can happen?”
None of us answered.
Barda said to himself, “And if so, what happened to Pramath? Where did he go?”
Barda had just finished his string of questions when a sudden, long, and hoarse cry rang out in the night sky.
All of us looked up at once, startled.
And there, we saw a bat-like bird flying over the summer moon. It had dark, triangular wings.
None of us said anything. We only watched the strange creature fly away, with cold shivers, as if from the mountains, running down our spines.
Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay was an Indian writer famed for creating the character of Byomkesh Bakshi. Adeeba T. Tasneem is doing her Masters in Development Studies at Brac University. She can be reached at [email protected].
