You know” he said going for my Idli as I watched him nervously swallow piece after piece. “Yesterday!!!” gulp (he sips a mouthful) “I pataoed the boss and had him khalaas, flat on the ground.”
“No way.” I said going for my idli.
“Yes” he said, “The best way to your boss’s mind is through the heart of his wife, so if you ever have to impress him, you have to impress his wife first.”
“Oh come on!!!” I protested contemptuously.
“No, listen,” he insisted. “You know his wife was here this afternoon.”
“Yes” I nodded gulping the last Idli as fast as I could.
“Well, exactly at 2.30 he called me in his room and introduced me to his wife.”
“So!!!” I sounded full of disbelief, “He must have called you for some thing else and you just presumed that….!”
“You know how badly I wanted that Micro-Hydel project”.
“Yes, and so did I”.
“Its all in here,” he said flapping his pocket.
“How?” I stammered like a crow who had just lost his piece of meat.
“A child’s play” he exclaimed boastfully, “you see, just when I had taken my seat, I noticed that she had a book by her side, some ‘ Indian Anthology of Poet’s”.
“You mean ‘An Anthology of Indian Poem’s”
“Something like that, and now, here is the magical trick. You know how good I could be with the opposite sex, but in reality it takes just a trick or two that I seems to have picked up watching the girls over the years. So you see, when I saw that book, I immediately knew that this book was the key to her darkest and deepest secrets, and so, I took this God sent opportunity on its stride and immediately initiated a conversation… Madame! I said, you toooo like poetry.”
“Yes” she responded as expected, “but my husband has no interest.” “Ah that’s not true” our Boss protested, “it is just that poetry is not my cup of tea.”
“Do you also write poems” I asked
“Occasionally.”
“Oh how nice” I smiled back, “Poetry makes the world beautiful and for me personally”, I went ahead and finished “Poetry for me is like my breath, without it I will cough to death.”
“Oh that is so cute!” she said teasing our boss, “So what have you written lately.”
“Well” I cleared my throat,” Nothing much, but I am working on it, I can, if madame would be interested recite a few lines from it.”
“Certainly do” she jumped with excitement, “Please, I would love to hear it.”
“It is my pleasure madame, Uhmmm… I cleared my throat and sang in a soft and pleasing voice.”

“Why is it that our earth always has to be flat”

“That’s my poem” I said
“I know, now just listen…”

“could it not also be round

and did it ever matter much to you as to ask

as to why the bottom of the paper has to be just mere 11 inches”

“You are incorrigible” I almost shouted back at him. “You have completely ruined my poems. You had the audacity to pick random lines from my poems and pass it as your poetry. Come on, stop doing this” and saying so, I picking my lunch box, and violently walked out of his sight.

“How can he do these things”, I kept muttering to myself. I had slogged nights on this project. I have cut my veins and poured my blood over it, how can he even think of pulling such a cheap one on me. I wanted to hit him on his face with my fist, but walked quietly to my desk and behold! On my desk was a thick green file with a note clipped on the top. ‘Start work on the Micro-Hydel project immediately

Just then, in a moment of instant mischief, something fiendish and devilish crossed my eyes. I picked the file, removed the slip with my name on it and quietly placed it on his desk, then fringing complete ignorance ordered a cup of tea and waited impatiently for the ensuing drama.

Use your own Imagination as to what followed…as for me, I am here in the beautiful laps of Arunachal, a few kilometers from Darang, training a group of young enthusiastic monks how they can power up their monastery by using the underground stream that passes just a few digs below their feet.

*******

At times I wonder, as to what exactly did I find so offensive about him. Maybe it is his use and abuse of my poem for his own selfish ends, then may be I genuinely disliked his character so much that I could fall to any extent to have him humiliated.

That reminds me how as a young boy, I came about writing my first poem
what was it..yes:

An ant

comes searching here

for food

while a cloud

wanders above

silently

alone.

On the surface, if I may say so, the poem has a child like innocence, and at the same time it appears as something familiar and ordinary. On the other hand, the circumstances under which this poem was written, happens to hide its essence, within the folds, of some deep but unfamiliar history. And this essence of its genesis, no matter how hard a person tries, cannot be read into by him or the audience, because the event under which the poem unfolds itself, remains forgotten and lost to the reader, forever.

In the above case, the forgotten event runs something like this:
I was satmahasa baby, or someone born premature and before his time. And because of this early birth I seemed to have suffered from certain speech impairment known as dyslexia. And one of the games my seniors used to play on me is to ask long spellings which I could never spell, so one day I asked them if they can make a poem on the fly… well as expected they counter challenged me to make one or face dire consequences -which usually meant some sort of punishment. Anyway, I made the above poem on the spot.

After finishing, I was asked, where the ant is, and I showed them one, in fact it was a large black plump ant we in India call Cheenta, they usually are found running all over the place in a typical Indian flat.

I was then asked by one called Shyamal: The boss among them as to where the cloud was and I promptly said: “You have to go to the terrace to see one. ”

This person called Shyamal had a strange history. Sometimes you have no Idea how and why a particular entity shows up in your life, nevertheless he had arrived as a friend of my mother’s younger brother and ended up staying in our house for six years. These six years completely ruined our childhood. Over the months he started showing his dark colors, and was quite violent, and often beat us up behind our parents back. But my recent stunt and poetic abilities seemed to have caught him by surprise, but to speak the truth, I don’t think he really believed that I had made up the poem right there and then on the spot. But more than my poem and his surprise, was the new found confidence that I seemed to have discovered in myself, to the extent that I had even started to threaten him that if he ever bate me, I will tell everything to my parents and they will certainly kick him out of our house.

Well, I am sure every child has his Shyamal. Shyamal which means dark, dark like the Cheenta.

So may be I did something wrong, and may be I should not have played such a silly, but potentially dangerous prank on him. One can imagine how he must have tiptoed to thank his boss only to be ridiculed and shamed and how just this one incident might have destroyed his otherwise over confident but childlike ego. I know it was a cruel joke. I sometime wonder as to the far-reaching effects a character like Shyamal can have on you. We don’t yet know as to what such a company does to us, and I sometimes wonder whether somehow, we end up growing into mirror images of our former tormentors. I was after all only a boy of 10.

*******

I am sure you may be wondering as to what became of him. Well to speak the truth, I have no idea. He left our firm and even changed his mobile no. Meanwhile I left my old company and joined Siemens and moved from Micro-Hydels to Super Giant Turbines capable of generating several hundred megawatt’s of power.

Then, one fine early noon sitting in Tunga, one of the finest seafood joint in Mumbai, I felt some one wave at me as I was busy cutting through this extremely delicious lobster. While still trying to focus, my fingers moved and glided the knife gently cutting into its translucent flesh and allowing the juices issuing from its garlic soaked body to tingle every little cell of my taste bud. Then with a gentle chew, I allowed it to dissolve and spread its lavish nutrients into every corner of my mouth, and as it was sucked into my body, I sipped and swallowed my tabasco tipped vodka allowing it to soothe and caress my already excited nerves and nudge them gently towards that emerging tipping point which we Indians call trupti, a state of total satisfaction.

There!!! Someone waved again, and even before I could realize who it was, a man in a tight black suit walked right across the room and slapped my shoulder “Kaise ho” (how are you).
It took a while for the bulbs in my head to flicker and light the lost webs of memory and announce that it was him indeed.
I assure you that he took me by total surprise and he looked so different in his rather so elegant suit, his neatly gelled hair and with that golden Rolex dangling loosely on his wrist. Yes it was indeed him, no doubt about it.
“Arre you” my mind stuttered with puzzlement , “What a surprise. Come join me.”
“Sure” he said already mouthing a large chunk from my lobster. I order another drink “Scotch” he mouths “soda and yes no ice.”
“So!” I burst into a forced smile, “Where have you been for all these years, you just disappeared, vanished like an old film.”
“Film, flame, all old story!” He said slanting his head to his left in style, “But what about you!” He grabbed my cheeks and pulled it to right and left, “Still a bachelor! han.”
“I am into turbines now.”
“Turbines haan, good, But it’s time for you to change” he muffled casually chewing the juiciest chunk of my poor lobster. “Beyond a certain point” he continued, “Its all dirty politics and you are stuck with the label ‘Senior Engineer’ for all your life…right boy.”
“Actually, I am quite happy!” I responded softly with confidence.
“NOoo you are not.” he gave me a stern glance. “To be happy means to be in control, to be your own demon, to have the power to make and break things. “Happiness!!!” he paused opening his eyes as wide as he could, “Is the growth and maturing of all that which empowers you and makes you feel strong and godlike.”
I kept sipping my vodka and smiling back at him unable to make any sense of his contentiousness.

“So…why don’t you join me”, and before I could say anything he swished his business card in his typical filmi style and slipped it right across my palms.
“Oh thanks”, I said taking a good look at the card and gently going through its content. “Mountwell Automations”, I exclaimed, “So you have finally joined them…Good!”
“No” he grunted swallowing another large chunk of my lobster, “That’s my geisha, my girl.” he repeated, and the last one with some emphasis and stress which sounded like ‘my gaaaaarl.
“Correct me “ I said, “But did it not belong to the Thakkars…or maybe!!!” .
“And his daughter is my wife.” he gleed at me with some relish and then sipping his scotch repeated “My wife” and saying, swallowed the very last piece of my juicy and delicious lobster. My eyes helplessly followed the fork as he tossed in shamelessly in his loud and stupid mouth. Well, there it goes, Its over.

And still, all this didn’t sound right, did it, I am not ready to believe every sound that enters my earspace to declare outlandish things and especially if it happens to be his voice. “You…” I stuttered with some strong overtone, “You need to grow up. What is this geisha business and Thakkars daughter got to do with you.”
“Come on show surprise, roll on the ground” he smiled as if he was anticipating my surprise, “but it is true.”
“You…married that…wasn’t she” I gulped my own words, “a model”
“A fashion model” he corrected me, “As beautiful as a flower, as delicate as a wisp of a summer breeze…! My words by the way, and this time they are not ripped from your dairy.”
“Greeeat” I echoed like a goat not knowing what was happening to my voice. “Neeeice for you. But I still don’t believe you”.
“Never mind.” he exclaimed, and after a pause surprised me with; “How much do you get here.” He must have read the surprise from my face and immediately corrected himself. “How can I put it, well to be honestly straight, I want you back with me.”

There was a long silence between us as I tried to figure out as to what on the earth he was talking about. After a long pause he cut back in: “I still haven’t forgotten what you did for me.”
My breath skipped a few puffs and I almost choked by gulping a large swallow of my tabasco tipped vodka.
“I did what!!!” I said in a chokefull.
“You put that project file on my desk because I had told you how desperately I needed that project.”
“I did ?” I muttered with cheeky surprise.
“Only a…a real friend can do that, and what I want in my company is a friend like you.” Then in a surprise move, he bent over me and whispered: “I am surrounded by wolves” and having said that, staring right into the center of my eyes muttered: “All those filthy cousins of her.”

I still could not believe him or any of the things that he had just said, and he knew and could sense my confusion, I think he even enjoyed my surprise and disbelief. Anyway, I gently rested my glass and stared at his otherwise well maintained and cut to order face in hope of catching that elusive truth behind the façade of pretentious costume and style.

“Ok!” he broke the growing unease between us. “I have to go now, But don’t forget, you will become our new CEO and I will see to it that they relent. I am banking on you, Call me on Monday at 9. Your card!” I sheepishly hand him one.“You haven’t even asked me as to how I knew I would find you here.”
“Oh! How?” I ask surprised.
“Never mind” his eyes almost glowed, “Remember, Monday morning…right boy.” Then slapping my shoulder he walked away in the very manner he had come and disappeared right through the hotel walls.

*******

I am sure all this was another of his well intended prank, but this time, I was over with it even before I had left the restaurant. And as I drove on this not so unusual monday morning to my office, my mobile buzzed and danced and almost jumped off the car seat.
“Hello”
“Look on page 6 of Economic Times” “
Hann, I don’t have One.”
“Then go get one, and call me back.”.
“I am on my way to…” he hanged the phone even before I could complete my sentence.
I drive to my office, ask my peon to get me a copy of Economic Times, and in 15 minutes I read: “Mountwell Automations have a new CEO.” My hands start to rattle, I go for my mobile, but then drop the idea. I get up and walk through the corridor, no one notices me. I walk down and head for the Bar, order a glass of whisky, gulp a few sips and just when I was starting to feel relaxed, my phone rings, its him again.
“What is this” I ask in polite anger.
“Where are you” he speaks all excited but softly. “You should be in your office buddy” and hangs.
My phone goes crazy with SMS’s, It never stops ringing. I feel a bit tizzy. My car seems alien to me. I search for his card, but then decide to go home.

*******

I spent the night tossing and turning. I saw strange and disturbing dreams. My slumber were cut short by the beeps on my mobile. I scrolled through the sms one by one. ‘Greetings’, ‘Congrats’. It seemed all my relatives and friends had by now got the news. At the very bottom of the inbox was one by him asking me to make it by afternoon as it was something very important. I checked the time of the sms and it registered and odd 03 Am.

I brushed, cleaned my self, had breakfast, but was unsure as to whether I should go or take a leave today. I don’t think I am feeling well but being a creature of habit as soon as the clock struck 9 I got ready and drove to my office…. I believe it is still my office. I have not officially resigned and still, having reached there, I noticed how the attitude of my own people had undergone a subtle shift. Over night they seemed to have become reserved, cautious, to an extent that even my otherwise chatting peon had gone silent.

I spent the morning reading and going through the report and filing copies and doing the usual stuff, with an exception that I felt as if I was over doing everything. Usually I would only do a few reports at a time but today I was digging into the archives and doing everything that I would never do or only do it on special occasions, especially when a particular project demanded that sort of cross referencing.

As the afternoon approached I felt a strange unease creeping into me. I was nervous confused and felt as if I was on the border of a nervous breakdown.
I have to settle this I kept murmuring to myself. This has to be dealt with once and for all. I cannot carry on like this . I have to end this and it had to be done now. Having convinced myself of the unviability of his proposal, I drove to his office in the evening wanting to take him one on one.

It was a tall eight floor tower with a 10 foot wall guarding it like a fortress. The watchman asked me to sign in his book and gave me a token.
‘Whom do you want to meet sahib?’ He asked.
I handed him my card. My name sent him into an involuntary convulsive salute.
The reception hall was large and designed like a five star lobby. On the right sat a young lady dressed in a designer sari.
‘May I help you Sir?’ She spoke in a soft voice.
I handed her my card . Her eyes brightened up. She punched a few buttons on her intercom and a well dressed boy in his twenties came running out of the door. He looked odd in his brown striped tie, creased white shirt and terricot black pants. ‘Sir…’ He greeted me in a dignified voice and gestured me to follow him. We alighted on the 8th floor. He led me through some twisted corridors to a polished Burmese teak door that had my name engraved in bold.
The room was large and well ornamented.
I was unsure whether or not I should sit in the large comfortable chair behind the desk, meant for me. Instead I decided to sit on the sofa and relax.
The boy kept his eyes on me and occasionally smiled as our eyes crossed. From his posture he seemed a bit confused and disoriented. I picked up the newspaper and glanced through the head lines.’Protests against price rise’ ‘Indian merchant navy ship hijacked’ Woman murdered’. Nothing new I thought. The third page contained a quarter page obituary by Mountwell Automation.
The door slammed and I noticed that the boy had left. I stood up and started going through some of the books that were neatly stacked in a cabinet of mounting rows. Strange I thought to myself, he had taken care to stack the books of my choice.
But something was not right. Something that I could feel but could not lay my fingers on. And as I went through the books a creeping chill creept up my spine. I picked up the newspaper again and read through the obituary on the third page.
This must be a joke I said to myself and a bad one at that.
I instantly rang to my peon and asked him to read out the bottom section of the third page.
As he read my legs began to shake, the ground under my feet become wobbly.

‘Dear …… (my peons voice echoed from the other side)

You gave us direction and in you we found our strength. We will miss you.

Mountwell Automation Family’

The door opened and I recognized the lady who had just entered the room. His wife. The heiress whom his friend had married.
I wanted to greet her but my body was numb and shaking.
She greeted me with a forced smile, but I noticed that her face was wet and moist.
I pointed to the newspaper that was still in my hands, and in a shaky voice I asked “What kind of a joke is this? Anyway”
Her eyes straightened itself and with an inquiring glance she took the newspaper from my hands, went through it and then scanned my face for something that I could not understand what.
I took her by her hand and made her sit and she burst into a fit of sobs.
I had never felt so strange, so angry, so funny and foolish at the same time.
She wiped her face, cleared her nose and spoke in a choked but sad voice.
He had proposed your name that day and left saying that he had some urgent business to take care of. We got the news of his accident around 12.15. We rushed to the hospital. He passed away in an hours time.
This was Saturday I confirmed, Saturday around 12.15.
Yes she cleared her throat which was still choppy from prolonged sobbing.
I don’t understand’ I said trying to compose myself. “How could he have died at 12.15 when I met him the same day around 1.15 in the afternoon. What sort of joke is this”, I voiced a bit rudely.
She looked away from me, and spoke in a slow deliberate, but settled voice. “He was very fond of you and always spoke of you warmly. If someone else had joked about this in the manner you did, I would have dragged him through the eight floors and thrown him out into the streets.”
“No” I said . “I am not joking. That prankster…..”
“Out” she screamed and pointed me to the door . “Get out”.
As I walked out of the door, of my, but not yet my office door, I dial his number on my mobile and it harkes back “This ‘no’ no longer exist. It has been temporarily withdrawn…”
I leave the building and head straight back home.

*******

Well, to speak the truth I felt relieved and was now doubly sure that he wanted to pull one of his cheap tricks on me. And it gave me an inner satisfaction that I had not given him this pleasure. I was glad that it was all over now. I slept soundly that night only to be woken by the buzzing of my mobile phone. How I hated these phones, how intrusive they have become.
“Hello.”
“Hello. Its me.” said the voice on the other side. “Can we talk?”
I recognized her and wondered what it was this time, “Yes,” I said, “Please feel free.”
“No, not on the phone. I want to meet you personally.”
“Now!!!”
“Yes Now. I’ll be there I five minutes.” And the line went dead.

This was quite a surprise. I wondered what he was up to. Wasn’t the game over and out in the open! I got up and washed my face and already from a distance I could hear the odd drool of a car. I sipped a mouthful from the fridge, and heard the opening and shutting of its door, and with it the same familiar unease started to creep itself up my body. It was 2.30 in the night. She was coming this late an hour. He was rich and powerful and could go to any extend to pull a trick or two, anxious and disturbed I waited.

My bell rang and she walked in wearing a black salwar kameez. She sat down on the bamboo sofa while my eyes kept following her movement for some clues.
“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She responded in a strong but courteous voice.
I went in and made some coffee.
I placed two cups on the center table and sat staring at each other.

She looked embarrassed and lost. “He liked you” she began. “He often spoke of you with great fondness. He missed you and when he announced your name as the new CEO, I could sense a strange sort of excitement in his voice. Later after the meeting he told me that he was doing all this for our child”, her hands went over her belly trying to feel the force of life quickening in her womb.
“Pardon me Madam” I interrupted her, “Can I be very honest with you.”
“Call me Nina” she returned. “And please be at ease.”
“Nina…”, I began “Both of you are younger to me. Still, I knew him even before you had met him. You may not know, but my friend dear Nina was always an odd ball, a sort of naughty person full of pranks and fun. He never seemed serious about anything. He was childish and at the same time foolish. At times I would get angry at him and even scold him. Even now I assumed all this to be just another of his silly pranks which he was trying to pull on me. But when you called for me this late an hour, I am stating to have doubts. No one can be this silly and this cheap, so you have now got me worried and concerned.

She waited for her mind to collect and compose itself, “He”, she began, “spoke so highly of you, but the way you behaved at my office today, irritated and infuriated me. I had pictured you as a very serious, no nonsense kind of person. When you insulted him, calling him a prankster, I could not control my anger. But your accusations kept returning back to me, and they have haunted me ever since. What made you speak in such a harsh and insulting words!”
“I was unaware” I assured her pleading glance. I had no inkling as to what had passed…I doubted, I suspected, even till these last few minutes, I am still confused, and I am sorry for having hurt your feelings!
“I am sorry too…” she confessed.
“Of course, I looked at her suspiciously, In fact to tell you the truth, I am even more confused now than before, still it is ok I suppose, we both would have done the same in similar situations, so why bother! But do listen to what I am about to tell you dear Nina, and what I am about to tell is absolutely absurd and unbelievable, but you have to trust me, I am not the sort of person who lies or plays tricks on people. All my life I have worked hard, and never ever in any circumstances compromised my integrity or honesty. Even when he made me the CEO of your firm, I drove to my office as usual. So please try to understand the seriousness of what I am about to tell you.”

I then narrated to her the whole Tunga incident, the phone call, the SMS, and everything.
She listened to me calmly then asked if she can have another cup of coffee.
From inside the kitchen I could hear her sobs. She wiped her eyes when she saw me come out.
“I don’t know “ she almost whispered to herself, “I don’t know what to believe in. All I know is that, after the press conference on saturday, where he named you the new CEO against the will and wishes of my cousins, he left for an important meeting. Around 12.15 we received the call asking us to come as fast as we can to the hospital. His body was badly battered and his mind was in a general state of shock. The inspector wanted to know exactly as to how the truck had rammed into his car but he kept looking at me and kept gesturing for a piece of paper. The inspector handed him one and with great effort he scribbled your name on it and CEO besides it. And then something strange happened, he effortlessly lifted his hands and stroked my face. He passed away by 1.10. The cause of his death was brain hemorrhage.

She looked away and I noticed that she was sobbing, still facing away she struggled to control her poise, and bring some command in her otherwise breaking voice, “So you are now telling me that he visited you around 1.15 and you want me to believe this. Tell me” she turned around to face my eyes, “How am I to believe you.” “HOW!!!”

“I don’t know” I tried to calm her down, “Like you, I am confused, I don’t understand any of this. If what you are telling me is true then I have no way to explain our last meeting at Tunga.” and as I spoke this, I felt something odd about the air in my room. It was unnaturally cold and dry. I felt some sort of heavy presence in and around us. I tried reading her face for some hint but she just kept sobbing in muffled coughs and with each passing second, the heaviness in the air grew, What ever it was, it had expanded and taken over the room. Even the air seemed to have become charged and intimidating. I grabbed her hand in mine nervously “Something is not right here” I stuttered looking worried.
“Yes” she responded looking around nervously, and then withdrawing her hands, spoke in a voice that seemed to have lost it bearing “Give me my time” she pleaded, ‘and I will believe you but of now I have to take your leave.” She stood up with her palms gently creasing the folds of her tummy. “I have to go” she said in a quick voice and hurried out of the door, and even before I could see her off she was gone. The roar of her car gently dissolved and vanished into the darkness of the night.
Back in my room the chill that had come over my place was gone. I was nervous, frightened, I needed a drink. This was way beyond any prank now. This is utterly unbelievable.

Something deep within me still wanted to believe that all this that I was experiencing was after all just a mere prank, a bad joke. I hit my bed hoping that in the morning he will show up and this dark heavy air that had started to creep in and around me would be gone. I noticed that I was weeping. I needed a friend. I needed someone to be with me. This cannot be happening to me. He is not dead. Everything will be okay in the morning.
And as the night crept upon me, the beautiful face of Nina lingered for a while before it all was swallowed up by the darkness of my own dream.

THE END

“anyone wants to be a guest, as to what followed next?”

© RajivMudgal., all rights reserved.



What is a ghost, but a memory trying to escape the boundaries of its time, a memory that has by a mere accident become one with its surroundings. A delicate repeat of events in its minutest detail that arise, appear and in its rising gathers itself into the same and familiar.

Time on the other hand is certainly a mystery, and still, it is only memory that holds time and oblivion within the very same region, and it does so by letting each shine forth in its own light.

**********

I cannot remember when I met her for the first time, I think it was during the college elections where she was canvassing for someone whom I vaguely knew as an eccentric scholar of the occult. Yes Sunda was quite a strange creature, loving and at the same time quite disturbing. On the other hand there was something extraordinary about Aruni, something magical, something spiritual, If I may still use that word, a spirit by whose presence the surrounding bloomed and a certain liveliness appeared. They say only the invisible presence of a god can bring things to bloom into spontaneous flowering. Often in olden days they could divine their closeness by the appearance of joyousness in and around places and mehfils. “Gods” the ancients inform us are attracted to poetry like a moth to a flame. Ka after all is the most potent spirit to exist in the three worlds, the mother of speech, the wine of the gods.

That day when she visited my rented room, I could not take my eyes of her. Time and again I kept wondering as to what on earth could produce such a bewitching beauty who by her mere looks could bring things and object to bloom. Even the walls, windows, trees seems to partake her spirit, and shine plumed with radiant joy.

“So what’s up with you” I asked, becoming nervous by her beatific presence.
“Nothing in particular” she replied smiling, just that Sunda was explaining to her the other day how one can send ones ownmost memories into the future, into past and into parallel worlds.
“And can you!. …really can one!!!” I asked trying to hide my embarrassment as her lips rubbed past my cheeks almost creasing my face.
“Certainly… Why not?” she replied playing with my ears, “why not” she echoed mildly taking a whole circle around my body, teasing it as my arms gently slipped around her waist, holding her tightly like an atom that hold in its grip the secrets of the beyond.
“I don’t think it is possible dear! I mean… think” I whispered back.
“Why not?” She responded, loosening my grip and withdrawing my arms from her waist.
“Why not! Good question.” my eyes followed her delicate scent. “Why, why” it kept stammering, “its common sense my dear”.

“What is common about this sense” she responded, closing her body in and gently resting it over my chest where her breath playfully caressed my neck while her eyes kept nervously searching for something deep and beyond the obvious glint and shine of my otherwise brown eyes.

“Ok ok” I said. “But first and foremost, let us agree upon some basic commonsensical facts such as the future Aruni does not yet exist, like you are 19 and I am 20 and not 40. A is not B and two of us cannot occupy the same space at the same time, as our own bodies won’t allow us such pleasure.”
“It does allow!” she protested moving a little away. “Distance too like time is an Illusion.”

“Time?” I echoed trying to figure as to what exactly she was after. “Time is a dense and dark possibility, but illusion it certainly is not”
“Your hopes and desires” she snapped sipping the coffee that she had by now grabbed from the table “is what covers it with expectations, fills it with sights and happenings. This filling is like pouring breath on an imagined grid of endless possibilities” .
“Time! I mean…I…I Think…( I stuttered at her uncanny confidence) “LOOK” I said gathering myself, “You cannot send your thoughts into a future that does not yet exist because there is no way to predict or know what the world will be like and in what shape and form. So where are you going to throw your thoughts at.

She stared at me with her deep eyes that spoke more than her smile, There was a certain uneasiness in her glance that didn’t seem to like the shape and feel of that which was now trying to surface itself out of the dark recesses of my otherwise numb and uninteresting mind. “When you see something”, I continued “for example that old man there on the street, you acknowledge him and thus bring his being into existence, into a world, into…a ”
“Into…?”
“WELL!!! Time is the evolving web secreted from that living relationship between you, me and the world, between us them…” I struggled for words “between two beings in their beingness.”
“Been there, known that” she tried to distance herself, “I don’t think time is some sort of silk secreted by the living in their coping and struggle to be in a world.”
“True, yes” I spoke almost embarrassed. “Look…I know that in all these things I often sound confused and outright stupid, but I too have tried to know and I have like you often wondered about these…things. -remember what I said about Sunda’s tantric and occult explanations, that I find Indra poetically more difficult to fathom than Agni, you see, ‘time’ is the concerned movement of the body in trying to appropriate a stance, so bodily space rather than the mystical is what puzzles me.” and as I spoke these, I noticed how her face flushed and swelled and deep dark lines appeared on her forehead, she after all was a creature of mystery. I watched her face darken, I wanted to stop but it was too late, like some demon caught in his own momentum I went on. “Time” I said, “is my body in movement to a world, to you, to that old man. Agni is what guides this movement by lighting things, making them…!”
“Shine…!” she prompted.
“Yes shine, and by this act bring into relief, a world, as loka.”
“What are you saying!!!” She sounded exhausted.
“What am I saying, look!” I took a deep breath and relaxed, “I am worried about you and all this Sunda stuff, …alright!” She looked away, “alright, alright, fine, have it your way, now suppose, if the future already exists, that is in some sense already achieved, then what would you actually achieve and struggle to bring yourself to; would not all such self-movements then be mere folds of lapsing delirium.
“No, not delirium” she sounded disturbed, “by illusion I mean something other than delirium. Anyway, you are a confusing person” she winced clearly irritated. “Sometimes you make a lot of sense and sometimes you are simply incomprehensible. Wasn’t it you who lectured us endlessly on how this brain, that is my brain has to first come to its own.”
“Yes, but I meant it in some other sense, that is, that your actual evolution operates from another level of intelligence than your usual consciousness, a consciousness that you usually associate with your being-ness, your ‘me’ that wishes to send its thought into future it cannot even touch.”
“No no, that is not what you meant” she protested. “You said,” she continued in a deliberate tone, “that man is an evolutionary failure. He seems to be auto piloting on billions of delirious programs which keep telling him what he is supposed to do. He no longer knows how to stop or purge what is driving his cell in its innermost crust. As a species, he has written himself off. And then you proposed in a flamboyant fashion -Ladies and gentleman” (she acted me out) “I propose to you a riddle. What happens when this brain, that is this (she said pointing at my head) has been running routines from thousands and thousands of years, suddenly stops working in the only manner it knows how to work.
“Now” she paused for breath, “I have thought about this and I along with Sunda and others have finally cracked that riddle. We now know that when it is no longer processing things as it normally would, that is secreting this ghostly silk of yours!”
“Poetic metaphor” I objected.
“Yes, when it is not spinning this poetic thread of yours, then you have a new brain. For the first time in the evolution of man, our brains would finally be operating from its own intelligence and not from some millions and millions of delirious programs telling it what to do.”
“No, It is not like that at all.” I protested, “ Agreed that I may have said that man is an evolutionary failure, and that he wanders possessed as if by million ghostly voices, what has this got to do with tunnelling memories into future or some parallel space time continuum?”
“Well that’s exactly what I wanted to ask you. Do you think that this intelligence, which is also THE intelligence animating the universe, will this intelligence be interested in sending memories into the future?”
“Or,” I said with some irritation, “Will it, for the first time, look into why it wants to do so!”
“Can you repeat what you just said!”
“You don’t get it, don’t you,” I said frustratingly, “I gave a funny answer to a silly question. End of it.”

She threw her hands up in disgust and her eyebrows quivered with anger, “so!”, she nodded her head in disbelief, “You think I am silly! and a fool!”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” And even before I could complete, she violently pushed the cup on the table spilling its dark portendious liquid over its shiny lacquered teak.
“All right.. Ok.” I said, knowing fully that I may be playing with the very thing that mattered the most to her while at the same time having not the faintest Idea what she might be going through “So to whom would you be sending these memories?” I asked meekly,

She didn’t reply but kept staring at me with her glistering dark and wet eyes and then from the extreme corner of her left cheek a wicked smile slowly dawned, and with its arrival, magic and mystery once again flooded the whole room , and filled it with joy and liveliness. I should have stopped then and there, lifted her in my arms, kissed her lips, and showered her with all the love I cared about in the three worlds, and still like a fool I went on talking. “You know” I continued, “we were having a party that night, and all of you had something interesting and exciting to say about strange and wonderful things, so I coughed some of my own, but let us go by my words. See, even if what I said, and even though I was obviously in a partying mood, and inspite of it all, you did hear what you wanted to hear or understood to have heard me say things that clearly made sense to you from your perspective. The point of contention then is this: if someone wants to transmit his memories and he happens to be the same brain that is operating from some millions and millions of delirious program telling it what to do, then what sort of memories will it be sending into the future!”
“That’s exactly what we want to know.” she said wiping the table clean, “On that day you also said that our brain is not some sort of computing device operating in a state of mechanical absurdity, but is a meaningful sibylline center because we never ever encounter a swirling cosmos full of frequencies, signals, particles or empty spaces, but a universe which holds us. We see the sky, the earth, the rivers full of teeming creatures. It is these that our brains keep reaching out for.”
“Yes, I do vaguely remember saying something like that, but they were merely poetic words, articulated to bring into focus simple and ordinary things such as how ideas and explanations come to exert their sway over us by attuning us to their ways, by delicately shaping our choices and marking our decisions from within. On the other hand my darling, I cannot just simply ignore the mere presence of our physicality which for me is something utterly undeniable and mysterious. So, what I said was never supposed or intended to be taken in its literal sense.”
“All right” she said in a soft and closed voice, then turning around she gently picked her belonging, her bag, her books and left.

I don’t know what came over me that day, why did not I stop her, or followed her to the door, to the gates, to the bus stop. Why did I allow her to walk away and vanish like a puff of smoke. What kind of stupid creature just watches his most precious, and his most beautiful gift disappear just like that. And still, that was the last time I saw her, she never turned back and from there on I never heard from her again. For all my wise wits, it was after all my ego that stopped me from reaching out to her and then when I did start looking, it was obviously too late. She had by then disappeared into the inner circles of the city that encloses and envelops millions of living creatures into its dark and deliberating folds of perceptual oblivion.

**********

Somu and I were good friends. We went to the same college, smoked the same pipe, and both dreamed of becoming fighter pilots, having girls by our side, saving princes in distress and watching girls swoon and faint at the mere mention of our name.

After graduation, I started freelancing for various Dailies and Somu cleared his civil service and ended up being an IPS officer.

It was June and unusually sultry. I can distinctly remember the excitement in Somu’s voice as he flashed the tickets howling Ooohoo like a wolf who had his voice exchanged for an owl.  In my younger days, Sridevi was the heart throb of young India. We never missed her films, and It always had to be first day first show.  Even before we entered the theater, our eyes were all colored with posters of Chandni blooming all the way down into the very hollow of our skulls. Oh man, what a film, fantastic is all I can tell you, and when we came out of the theater, we were mesmerized beyond belief. She was every where, in our heart, feet, eyes, nose. You stare up and there she was, look down, there she was, her charms were written all over our face.

It is not easy to hail a taxi in these late hours; To catch one we had to cut right across the inner circle of connaught place, so we started to walk through the thicks of Central Park, humming the song from Chandni that seemed to have come stuck on our lips.

At 12 in the night these places are usually deserted except for the occasional thulla banging his stick on the ground. We walked quietly and Shomu pulled out a quarter from his left pocket. We relaxed and sat under the Jamun tree and sipped a few gulps. I think we must have dozed off because I awoke with an eerie feeling that something was wrong. There was a dark silence, you felt as if your eardrums had suddenly gone numb. In the faint light I became aware that Somu had sat-up all stiff and was staring unblinkingly into the momentless darkness that had come to surround us.
“Somu”, I whispered but there was no reply. I shook him but found him rigid as a log. I looked in the direction he was staring and behold, I saw a faint outline of a woman who appeared to be floating in air. The very thought of a ghost froze my heart. She seemed to be in her mid 30’s, her dark brown hair was neatly tied in a purple scarf, she wore a red Rajasthani Ghagra and a pink Tshirt, thick stacks of white ivory kanganas dangled from her right hand, and on her left I noticed a faint glitter of a gold watch. She had no shoes but I could see silver payal on her ankles, a Gandhi style bag hung from her shoulder.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I became aware of her soft and beautiful features. Her face glowed like a moon and her body was lit as if from its inside, her skin seemed translucent and shining. To this day I have never seen a woman so beautiful, so perfect, and in full bloom of  her womenhood. But at the same time there was something sad and mournful about her. You often see such expressions in the paintings and portraits of the young wives of Maharajas.

She certainly reminded me of someone, and as she floated close, she seemed even more familiar and more than that, she was breathtakingly fascinating. I wanted to touch her. I stretched my hand but she backed a little. I stood up and moved a few steps but already she had started to vanish, and as her apparition dissolved, I could hear an eerie sound like the one you hear when you slowly tear a piece of a newspaper into two.

Somu was in a state of panic. “Bhoot!” he shouted. “Bhoot Bhoot.”
“Yes, I saw her.” I assured him.
“You saw her. My God, My God, it was a Bhoot.”
“It could also be a trick, a prank.” I tried to reassure him unsure and confused.
“Who would trick us at this hour, there are thullas all over the park.”
I had to agree with him, but I don’t believe in ghost; It had to be something else, but then what could it be?

Shomu certainly was creped out, The shock and fear was clearly visible in his looks. His hands were shaky and I had to take him back home myself as he was in condition to go all by his own, That night I stayed in his house. Shomu did not sleep but stuck close to me. Even in sleep I could feel the shiver in his hands as he tightly gripped my left forearm. he even woke me up once as he wanted to fetch some water from the kitchen..

**********

Times change and I left journalism to become a puppeteer. In few years I migrated to Bombay.
In the winter of 2006 I was invited to Delhi to attend and lecture for a puppetry workshop organized and funded by the ‘Indian Art and Craft Foundation’. Having finished my lecture, I stayed back to enjoy the cocktail party with my friends and colleagues. It must have been 10.15 in the night when I left the hall. But instead of hailing a taxi, I strolled around CP enjoying the pleasant weather and allowing distant memories to visit my unusually cheerful heart. After spending some time sipping hot ginger crushed tea, I walked my way to the Metro station and waited for the train.

In the preceding years, Delhi had experienced some radical changes and CP in particular had undergone a complete face lift. What was missing from its map was the whole of Central Park.
This gigantic Metro station was built right under what was once a dense woodland of towering jamun trees. To construct this Metrodrome they had to mow down the whole thicket till not a single of these ancient Jamun trees remained. Imagine doing something like this to the New York’s Central Park, there would be a public uprising, anyway, with its disappearance, the era of technological spitting lifeforms had finally arrived, and its telltale signs were everywhere, from high pollution to the deafening noise of engines and the peeps and onks of swift and trendy cars; nothing had escaped its gaze, be it, undrinkable ground water to pesticide ridden vegetables. But down below, the station was almost empty with just few souls scattered here and there.

I must have waited for 5 minutes or so when the train arrived. But as I tried to walk I couldn’t move, my legs seemed as if they were nailed to the ground. Slowly my whole body froze in a icy chill. I couldn’t move my hands, legs, head, nothing. Every part of my body was as if immobilized by some unearthly and alien force. The train dragged itself on gaining momentum as it left leaving behind an echo that kept fading into the void of irrecoverable distances. And as the silence spread, I felt a strange eerie feeling creep into the air. I also noticed that what ever had taken control of my body had by now left. I walked a few steps and looked around but there was no one to be seen. The station was empty and then I noticed something move to my left. I turned around and saw an apparition floating in the air. She wore a red Ghagra and pink Tshirt. Her hair was neatly tied backwards in a purple scarf. She had two thick stacks of white ivory kanganas on her right hand.

There was something dead and wooden about her. Her face was dark, almost a mix of purple and blue with shades of green and teal. Her gaze was heavy and dreadful. She looked torn and broken, I have never seen anything so frightening and so dreadful ever in my life. I began to run. I ran for the exit but she kept coming close, I could almost feel her icy breath on the back of my neck, and then as I turned and ran up the stairs, I noticed she had stopped following me. In fact she had vanished.

I was frightened and trembling all over.. I saw a bunch of boys go down the stairs, but I was not going down there. I was not even going to my hotel at Mall Road. Instead, I called an old friend of mine who lived in Lajpat Nagar and asked him to pick me up. Back in his house he offered me some whiskey but I could not drink …and as I snuggled myself under the thick razai of his bed, I noticed how my body was shaking with fear. The bed rattled as I tried to sleep.

I woke up with the telephone still ringing in my head. It was already 9.15 in the morning. My friend gently shook my shoulder. “Its Somu” he said. “He wants to talk to you.”
Somu sounded nervous. “Come to AIIMS as fast as you can. I will meet you at the main gates.” and hung up the phone.
I reached AIIMS by 10.00. Somu guided me to the morgue.
On the table was a badly crushed body of a girl.
“Do you remember her?”
“No” I said. “Who is she?”
He stared at me with wide eyes, “You don’t remember Aruni”.
I felt the blood in me turn cold, my lungs struggled for breath, slowly the world receded away into a dark bilious cloud, the walls were spinning, and I blacked out. When I awoke, I noticed that the nurse was reading my pulse.

“Somu” I whispered nervously.
“I am here.” he said taking my hand in his.
“Aruni, Arundhati” I kept repeating. There she lay lonely and abandoned, her face torn and cracked. It was then I noticed that she was wearing a red Ghagra, her blood stained Tshirt was pink.
I turned to the table where they had kept her belongings, a purple scarf, a Gandhi bag, a silver payal and pieces of ivory kanganas. Besides the payal was an old brown leather diary which looked just like the one I used to keep in my college days. Then one day it had mysteriously disappeared.

I touched her blood stained face; her torn skin looked so frail, so fragile, so soft.
He later told me that she had jumped in front of the metro train around 8.30 in the morning.
Her body was released in our custody, thanks to Somu’s influence.
We called her parents in Trichur. They couldn’t come and left the matter in our hands.
We gave her a traditional farewell. She went into flames that evening.

notes:

CP: Connaught Place, the heart of New Delhi

IPS: Indian Police Service

Chandni: A popular hindi movie

Sridevi:A beautiful actor of Indian Cinema

Regal:Theatre in Connaught place, New Delhi

Thullas: Policemen

Jamun: The rose-apple, a kind of black plum.

Amavasya: Moonless night

Rajasthani Ghagra : A beautifully embroidered traditional skirt of Rajasthan

Kangans: An ornament for the wrist

Payal: An ornament for the ankles

Maharajas: Kings

Bhoot: Ghost

Bhopal: Capital of Madhya Pradesh

Lajpat Nagar: A place in Delhi

Razai: Traditional Cotton Quilt

AIIMS: All India Institute of Medical Sciences

Trichur: The cultural capital of Kerala, a state that lies on the south west corner of India.

© RajivMudgal., all rights reserved.

(to be continued)

© RajivMudgal., all rights reserved.

Clang, clang, fuch the knife tore through Mark Lee’s right bicep staining his white silk sleeves red.
Even from a distance I could see the 2 inch long cut gaping like parted lips vomiting blood.
We rushed him to the hospital where he was declared dead.
His last words were Chi, Chi.
People kept telling me that it was not the knife but Chi that killed him. No one ever dies of a cut on his arms. True. But then what killed him! I have wracked my brain over the matter but his death remains shrouded in mystery.

The magistrate had asked me to appear in person. I was after all an eye witness to a murder…What would I say to him…my mind remained clouded..confused.

I remember how the aircraft kept circling several times before landing.
My mission here was very clear, I had to find ways to initiate series of confidence building measures between the warring factions in the riot hit Jakarta.
Thousands of Indonesians of Chinese origin were looted, raped, and killed in what is known today as the bloodiest act of sectarian violence in modern Indonesia.

As you can see, the task I had on my hands was enormous, and still, in spite of all odds, I was in the end able to accomplish what I had set out to achieve; though this modest success would not have been possible without the help I received from my Indonesian counterparts Tofik and Mark.
But fate plays cruel jokes on us humans.

The Indonesian Council of Social Research had organized a seminar to honor the work UN has been doing over the months. There were series of lectures, followed by a cocktail party for all the visiting guests.

I find these parties boring, rather I always find excuses to get bored on such occasions. But I was not the only person who liked to carry their long face around; Take Mark for instance; he avoided me the whole day, but I finally caught him sitting alone on the other end of the hall; I sensed something more than mere boredom on his face, I think he looked sad; something was bothering him.

These drinking bouts tend to work on your head in strange and unpredictable ways; especially when your wounds are still raw and young: They can often make you feel nostalgic, melancholy, gloomy and depressed.
“What’s up?” I said.
He gave me a faint smile ”So, when will you be leaving…?”
“Sunday.”
“Good for you…I wish I could come along; By the way, I have applied for a job in Singapore.”
Mark’s answer came to me as a total surprise. I was under the impression that he was very passionate about his present job. To me, he was a ray of hope, the very thing his community needed in its hour of distress.
“I just want to get away from them.” He said.
“Them!”
I saw him shake his glass and gulp the whole thing in one go.
“Them” He grasped for his breath. “I lost my whole family to those bastards.”
“What about the work we have been doing?”
“Work? huh! We made them what they are, we gave them culture, prosperity, a way to the future, and look what they did to us.”
“Calm down” I patted on his back.
“Its a fact” he said ”we like to cultivate illusions…Did you read my report?”
“Yes..why?”
“I vouched there that these riots were the result of panic investment withdrawals by overseas investors, a move which dangerously destabilized the social structure causing widespread rioting. But that’s just a minor part of the story, actually the riots were all pre-planned; It was out and out racist and political in its origin.”

A crowd had gathered around us, they always do on such occasions.
“This Tofik,” he continued “he calls himself my best friend, ask him; where was he on that day…raping girls. ya?”
I was unaware that Tofik was standing behind me. He gave Mark a slight push, “Enough”.
“He is drunk” some one shouted “Mark you should leave” A voice announced from behind. “Leave him” I heard some one say, “He is just sad; Respect his sentiments.”
“Why leave” slurred Mark, “ask Tofik”. Tofik gave him a hard push and Mark’s chair fell over. The hall erupted into a hoo-ha. Mark meanwhile had grabbed a kitchen knife and seeing him everybody moved away to a safe distance. “I am not going to be pushed around like this.” he shouted “Come on, show me that you are a man Tofik.”
Tofik pulled a penknife from his pocket and in a blink of an eye, they were knifing each other like two cocks with razor wrapped to their feet.

On the surface it looked like an ordinary fight, but everyone in the hall knew and could sense something uncanny, as if something dark and delirious had found a way to unfold its evil. I thought Mark was really quick, and then, in an instant he was bleeding; and reeling in pain.
Seeing blood, Tofik panicked and ran out of the hall.
We rushed Mark to the hospital where he was declared ‘brought dead’.

The civil court is situated at the very heart of Jakarta. It is an old European style building. One could see shrubs and trees growing out from cracks in and around pipes that ran up like creepers.
“Room no 41?” I asked.
“To the right, third from the row” the tea boy replied, pointing his fingers.
“Thank you.”

“Are you sure” affirmed the magistrate “Did you see him put something over his knife?”
“Yes.”
“You said that his last words were Chi. What do you know about ‘Chi’?”
“Nothing” I said. “That was the first time I heard it.”
“Chi” the Magistrate explained “is the mystical force. It is the lifeforce that circulates in our body. Around the sixth century AD, Buddhist and Hindu traders arriving from India introduced the Tantric practices which have since become an integral part of our culture. Contrary to the popular belief that it is a Chinese word, it is in fact derived from the Sanskrit word Chit-Shakti.”
“Do you believe in these things?” I inquired.
“No” he said, ”but culture is something that has a habit of slipping into ones milieu; personally I don’t believe in it.”
“So”, he said turning towards the window “You think you saw him wipe his knife and you suspect he was coating it with something.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I didn’t say anything.

It must have been more than 20 minutes, the steno kept jotting every word that came out of my mouth.
The words “Are you sure” kept ringing in my ears. The fact is that I was not sure, I think I made it all up, but it seemed plausible. No, I don’t think I made it up, I think I did see Tofik roll his fingers over the blade; was it after or was it before…?
The magistrate knocked the table with his knuckles “Hello, anything else you would like to tell us in regard to this murder?”
“No.”
I am sure you are aware that your statement will be used against Mr. Tofik Hossain. Do you wish to change something?”.
“No…Can I leave now?
“Please”, He got up and out of courtesy led me to the door.
As we shook hands, he stared into my eyes and said “US has no business fiddling in the personal affairs of our country..It will do your chaps good if you left. Our people here don’t like the kinds of you.”
“Pardon me” I enquired.
“I am just your well wisher” He smiled, “And you are an intelligent man.”
I came out of the building disturbed by his last remark. Why did he say ‘US’?

I had started counting the number of days I would be here. In fact I was even counting the number of hours, minutes and seconds.
Towards the evening I received a call from Inspector Sanuwara who was in charge of the investigation.
“Tofik would like to speak to you.” He handed him the phone.
“What is it Tofik?” I asked.
“Why are you lying?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well that I had no intentions of killing him.”
“But you killed him nevertheless.”
“It was an accident, all I know is that: as he was swinging his knife at me, I felt my body tighten and a strange force started flowing through my hands investing its deadly powers into the knife.”
“Nonsense.”
“Listen, don’t hang up” he pleaded. ”You don’t know what Chi is.”
“Tofik, you have no regrets, no remorse!”
“Please, I am saddened by his death, he was after all my best friend; Listen; Chi can be used in many ways; One can use it to destroy a person’s self esteem by turning him senile and stupid. The Chinese Chi operates from that level.
“Stop that!” I cried.
“Please Please” he pleaded “You must change your report. It was a mistake, a fit of anger. You know very well that I had no intentions of killing Mark.
“But you did.”
“It was an even fight. He had a bigger knife.”
“Fruit cutter” I corrected.
“Its worse”, he said. “A 6 inch fruit cutter, can actually pierce through your vital organs, where as no one ever dies from a 2 inch fruit peeler.
I was in no mood of listening to his bunk. “It does not matter,” I said “What matters is that Mark is dead and he died because of you.”
“It was an accident…you have to change the report. Its a lie. Why are you lying?”
“We were here” I shouted, “to create peace, not strife, but look what you have done you stupid fool.” I slammed the phone.

Five minutes later the phone rang again.
“Please, you have to believe me.”
“Believe in someone who knifes his best friend and then runs away leaving him to die!”
I ran because I became afraid of my Chi. My Grand father was a great Dukun, an exorcist, a collector of Jinns. My father Tarik had inherited his powers, it runs in our family.
“What is this Tofik?” I said in an angry tone.
“You can ask anyone. The whole Jakarta knows about the puppeteer Tarik Hossain.
“ Tofik! Mark is dead, does this mean anything to you?”
“They slaughtered our families 12 years back as they did his. My family was as much a victim as his. You have to listen to me.”
“I told you Tofik. I don’t have time for all this.”
“You cannot do this to me. Your evidence is weak, they will find nothing in his body. I will be out before you know…don’t push me into all this…you have no idea what I can do…Please..please change your report…I will not let you get away with a lie. I will send for you the Angel of Death” remember, The Angel of Death.”
I hung the phone and immediately called Maj. Gen. Pol Noegroho Djajoesman and told him what had transpired.
The phone never rang again.

“Cham cham… cham..cham. that’s the noise it makes running all around the bungalow.”
“When did you first encounter her?” asked Rana.
“About 8 months after we moved in.”
“How many times a day?”
“Previously it used to occur once a week. Now I hear it almost every day.”
“Hmmm…!” Rana exclaimed pouring the tea for me.
“Any odd or untoward incidents such as a stray dog walking in, or a child begging his way into your bungalow especially two or three days before your first encounter?”
“None that I can remember Rana ji.”
“Sugar?”
“1 spoon.”
“Its not a ghost” he said steering the tea.
“Is it a prank?”
“Could be…I will have a couple of security guards put around your bungalow.”
“That’s very kind of you” I said.
“Don’t worry. That Bungalow is on a prime location and hoteliers all over Kathmandu have their evil eyes on it…I am sure to catch the bastard.”
I felt reassured.

Rana by the way belonged to an illustrious line of Rajput clan that had ruled Nepal for almost 800 years. His great grandfather was in his own times the only south asian to have won the prestigious Victoria Cross. Rana himself looked after the finances of the present King of Nepal. Lately there were rumors that he was a maoist sympathiser.
I first met him at the kings palace, since then we often ran into each other in odd locations.

“Stay for dinner” he said.
“No…I have lot of work. I have to file a report and dispatch it by tomorrow morning.”
“Oh come on. Report shiport to chalta rahega. Today Changez is cooking Murg Mussallam. Stay over.”
Changez was his personal cook. He used to cook in a five star hotel previously; Since retirement he was with the Ranas.
“Don’t worry, the security guards will take care of everything. And if you want I will drop you back but only if you promise to make one of your famous Irish Coffee.”
“Filter Coffee Rana ji”
“What ever!.”
“My pleasure Rana ji”
So I stayed back; And as expected the food was excellent. Changez was indeed a maestro of culinary delight.
After dinner we had some Spanish Saffron Liqueur and around 11.20 Rana offered to drop me back home.
“Tell your driver to go back” he said in a heavy voice.
You could feel from the slur in his voice that the liqueur was doing its job.
I called for my driver and told him to take the car back and retire.

It took us 30 minutes to reach my bungalow. The security guards were already there and had taken their positions. Rana walked straight to the drawing room and went slump on the sofa. “What a lovely bungalow you have!” he said. “One day,” he looked at me with a mischievous smile, “it will all be mine.”
“The whole Nepal, Rana ji, is yours.” I said.
“No” he said in a heavy voice. ”Nepal today does not even belong to its own people, its going down the drains; Everyone today wants freedom, but this freedom is an illusion, it is like a narcotic drug, it creates a false sense of life; Once it takes you over, it makes you her slave: Individualism and consumerism is a disease that is eating Nepal from the inside.”
“I will get the coffee Rana ji” I said and excused myself into the kitchen. The rumors that he was a maoist sympathizer were after all not totally baseless.

“Coffee” I said.
“Thank you.” He took the coffee from my hand and walked towards the window.
“What is this beautiful girl doing outside the window?” he muttered.
And even before he could collect his thoughts the girl flew past through and through him and vanished.
I turned around and saw Rana ji on the floor in an epileptic seizure; His whole body was twitching; The hot coffee was all over him.
I rushed for his driver.
“Call the doctor” he said. “yes yes”. I hurriedly dialed the number of my personal physician.
“He is in a state of shock” he said. “What happened Rana ji?”
Rana ji was unable to remember anything.
“The burns are minor. He will be Ok.”
The driver drove Rana ji back and on the way dropped the doctor home.

It was past midnight, I was tired and sleepy and as I switched the lights off, I heard a ‘cham’.
There was another ‘cham’ and then I heard someone walk past me cham cham cham and sit on my bed.
Just then the phone rang.
“Hello”
“How do you like her Indian Babu?” The voice said from the other side.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Tch Tch, You have such a poor memory Indian Babu. I warned you, I will send for you ‘the angel of death’.”
“What nonsense, who are you?”
“’Death’ Indian Babu. She, who is sitting on your bed is death herself.”
My heart froze. I wanted to shout but my throat choked.
“Enjoy her” the voice continued, “because with every passing day, she will turn nasty.”
There was silence across the line.
“Tofik, I am Tofik. Now you remember me don’t you?”
“You are crazy Tofik” I screamed madly.
“Listen!” Tofik said mischievously. “You are wearing a white kurta pyjama. You have a blue woolen quilt with an image of a Chinese tiger on it. Titan watch on your left wrist. Tagore’s collection on the cane rocker to your right, you have earmarked the page no 42.
See.. She tells me everything.”
“You!” I shouted, “They should have thrown you in a mental asylum.”
“Cool down Indian Babu, you are leaving a bad impression on her.”
I was speechless…
”What is this Tofik?” I stammered.
“Consider her as a gift from me.” He sneered. “Enjoy her; She can cook food, make love, you will never find a better partner than her: Any time, any day, as many time you wish, she will be ready to fuck you but beware Indian Babu, with each passing day she will turn nastier, so enjoy her now for in time she is sure to enjoy you…d e a d.”
His last word sent a chill down my spine. I was afraid to even move. I tiptoed to the sofa, I don’t know when I dozed off.

I was unconformable all night, and in the morning I was down with cold and a mild fever.
Around 6 in the morning Rana called me up. He asked me to come immediately to his Kothi and from there we drove to an old Devi temple situated on the Bhairav hills.

“This is way beyond anything we know” Puroshotum ji, the Mahant (head) of the temple kept telling Rana.
“A ghost does not make love or cook food, only Yaksha or Jinn‘s do that.”
“You are saying” inquired Rana, “that some one has set loose a Jinn after us.”
“Yes” he said. “That is why changing residence will not work: Jinns are powerful beings; A ghost is a bachcha (kid) in front of her.”
“Can’t you do something, anything?”
“I don’t know, I never had such a case”. He called for Hari; an old man in his 80’s came hurriedly in.
“Hari…Woh Jinn ke bare me batao inhe.” (tell them about the jinn incident)
“kaun patthar phek?” (stone thrower)
“haan wahi.” (yes)
“Kutch yad nahi aa raha hai thek se.” (can’t remember anything)
“Theek hai tum jao.” (Ok you can go)

The pundit went inside the temple and brought a Pothi (a long scroll).
He then started going through it. “Yes here it is” he exclaimed. “Mata Buvashdevi Banglapur Siliguri. She is the one who can help you. I think you should not waste any time and meet her immediately.”
“Any more details?”
“That’s all there is. I suggest you should immediately leave. Your life could be in grave danger.”
“You can take my car” said Rana. “My driver knows Siliguri very well.”

We left Kathmandu and reached Siliguri by evening. We asked the owner of tea stall where Banglapur is.
“18 kilometres to the south babu” he said pointing his finger in the southern direction. “See that road, that goes straight to Banglapur: Whom do you want to meet babu?”
“Mata Buvashdevi.”
“Never heard of her.”
We finished tea and headed for Banglapur.

In the twilight hour we saw a boy coming our way.
“Hey” I shouted to him.
“kya?” (what) he replied.
“Mata Buvashdevi kahan rehti hai?” (Where does Mata Buvashdevi stay.)
“She is dead.” he said seeming curious as to why we are here.
“What?”
“Only her ghost roams in and around her hut. You should avoid going there.”
“Where can I find her?”
“See that hut” he said pointing to a dimly lit house; “That’s hers.”
I asked the driver to wait and walked carefully through the paddy field. The house seems deserted except for the faint glow of kerosene lamp flickering inside through the thin sheet of purdah (curtain) that hung from the door.

I called out: “Mata Buvashdevi. I come from Nepal…Pundit Puroshotum sent us to you.”
“Go away” the voice echoed from inside. “Didn’t the boy tell you that I am dead?”
“Please its about a Jinn.”
“Jinns don’t exist, don’t waste my time.”
“She wants to kill me.”
“Then even my jadoo tona cannot save you.”
“I have come from far with lots of hope.”
“Why should I help you? What can you give me in return?”
“Anything you ask” I pleaded.
“Then marry me” she laughed.
I was silent and stunned.
“Why do you come to me?”
“For help.”
“Then will you marry me?”
I was silent.
“Its better than dying like a dog ‘Indian Babu’…and I am quite young and beautiful.”
I saw her walk out; She wore a sari and had a purdah. She stretched her hands. “Touch it.”
I didn’t.
“Don’t be afraid; touch it.”
I touched her fingers.
“Am I not young?”
Yes! I had to admit that her fingers were smooth like that of a young girl.
“Ah ha see. So, you want to get rid of her?”
“Yes.”
“When the Angel of Death herself stalks babu, you don’t stand much of a chance, do you? So the deal is through, now run and fetch a bottle of wine, a kilo of meat; It should contain pieces of all the organs of the goat, his heart, liver and the rest…And yes, a coconut. a betel nut. a betel leaf and some rice, kumkum and a few drops of your B l o o d.”
“Pardon me” I said, “can you please repeat again?”
“She is here I can sense her, now Go Go Go, fetch a bottle of wine, a kilo of meat, which should contain a piece from every organ of the goat, a coconut, a betel nut. a betel leaf, some rice, kumkum go.”
“And…where can I get all this?” I said inquiringly.
“Go get it from anywhere…Dead men don’t ask.”
I returned to the car and told the driver what the problem was.
“We have to go to Siliguri.” he said. So we rushed to Siliguri, and within an hour we were back with all the samagri (items).
She asked me to keep the samagri inside a 6 inch ditch.
She then drew a square around it and divided it into two halves.
“You sit here” she said, “and see to it that you don’t slip beyond this line. This side is Death, that side is you.”
My throat choked as I tried to gulp my own spit.

She began her rituals which must have lasted for a long time. At the end of it she took my palm in hers and even before I knew what she was up to, she pierced it with a knife. “Ouch” I cried as she poured the drops of blood over the samagri.
“Now take this and bury it anywhere outside your bungalow.”
I took a bundle of notes from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Take this dirt and push it in the hole of your bitch, you bastard. Now leave before I loose my temper.”
I hurried towards the car.
“And don’t forget the deal” she shouted and burst into a hysterical laughter.

I had a feeling that she was watching me, following me. In one sense that was reassuring, on the other hand there was something eerie and deceptive about her…something that I could not exactly pin down.
We reached the bungalow next morning and immediately started digging a ditch and having done so emptied the samagri in it.
Now its been a week since and there was no sign of that dreaded ‘Cham’.

I had applied for a vocational leave. I was missing my father and wanted to return to Mysore. As there are no direct flights, I would be flying first to Bangalore and from there taking the bus at first light. The flight was scheduled for the night, so I poured myself a glass of whisky, and even before I could take a sip, the phone rang.

“I am Riaz. Tofik’s friend.”
“Yes Riaz.”
“There is some bad news Sir. Tofik is no more.”
“What! How?”
“Last Saturday when we were eating our breakfast, the ground under our feet shook violently, the whole house seemed to have come alive. Tofik got thrown all over the place, then the earth sucked him in…dead. I know this sounds crazy but that’s exactly what happened and as he was smashed around, he kept shouting, ‘Tell him — she has fooled us both’.”
“I am sorry,” I said “and saddened.”
“Don’t have to be;” replied Riaz “There was no honor in what he he did; They found all his vital organs missing; They had all vanished.”
I was stunned, shocked. Images of him and Mark flooded my mind. How the two had fought! Now my own karma was stained: How cruel can things get.

As I hung the phone, It hit me like a bolt. The wine glass lay shattered. “Oh my God!” I shouted: “Oh my God! the Chudail of Banglapur! She made the same sound when she came out of her hut!”
I noticed something move behind me. The shades on the reflective photo frame changed. I turned around but did not see a thing, and then I heard a ‘cham’. A chill ran down my spine.

There was food on the table and a mild aroma of Mogra and Gulab (Jasmine and Rose) lingered everywhere. I noticed from an angle that the bed was spread with flowers -as it is the custom among newly wedded couples.




notes:
Chudail: Witch
Kumkum: Traditional Red powder
Dukun: An Indonesian shaman.
Indian Babu : A slang, used for english speaking Indian clerk who served the Raj, a derogatory of ‘Sir’

© RajivMudgal., all rights reserved.