Penguin Book Of Indian Ghost Stories (16 page)

‘Fritz came into our room last night. Those little marks on my quilt were his footprints.’

There was very little I could do at this except put my hands on his shoulders and shake him. How could I talk sensibly to someone whose mind was obsessed with such an absurd idea?

‘You didn’t see anything for yourself, did you?’ I said finally.

‘No. But I could feel distinctly that whatever was walking on my chest had two feet, not four.’

As we came out of the car at the circuit house, I decided Jayant must be given a nerve tonic or some such thing. A tranquillizer might not be good enough. I could not allow a thirty-seven-year-old man to be so upset by a simple memory from his childhood.

I said to Jayant upon reaching our room, ‘It’s nearly 12 o’clock. Should we not be thinking of having a bath?’

‘You go first,’ said Jayant and flung himself on the bed.

An idea came to my mind in the bath. Perhaps this was the only way to bring Jayant back to normalcy.

If a doll had been buried somewhere thirty years ago and if one knew the exact spot, it might be possible to dig the ground there. No doubt most of it would have been destroyed, but it was likely that we’d find just a few things, especially if they were made of metal, such as the buckle of a belt or brass buttons on a jacket. If Jayant could actually be shown that was all that was left of his precious doll, he might be able to rid himself of his weird notions; otherwise, he would have strange dreams every night and talk of
Fritz walking on his chest. If this kind of thing was allowed to continue, he might actually go totally mad.

Jayant seemed to like my idea at first. But, after a little while, he said, ‘Who will do the digging? Where will you find a spade?’

I laughed, ‘Since there is a garden, there is bound to be a gardener. And that would mean there’s a spade. If we offered him a little tip, I have no doubt that he would have no objection to digging a bit of the ground near the trunk of a tree at the far end.’

Jayant did not accept the idea immediately; nor did I say anything further. He went and had his bath after a little bit of persuasion. At lunch, he ate nothing except a couple of chapatis with meat curry, although I knew he was quite fond of his food.

After lunch we went and sat in the cane chairs on the veranda that overlooked the garden. There appeared to be no one else in the circuit house. There was something eerie about the silence that afternoon. All we could hear was the noise made by a few monkeys that sat on the gulmohar tree across the cobbled path.

Around 3 p.m., we saw a man come into the garden, carrying a watering can. He was an old man. His hair, moustaches and side-burns had all turned white.

‘Will you ask him or should I?’

At this question from Jayant, I raised a reassuring hand and went straight to the gardener. After I had spoken to him, he looked at me rather suspiciously. Clearly, no one had ever made such a request. ‘Why, Babu?’ he asked. I laid a friendly hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t worry about the reason. I’ll give you five rupees. Please do as you’re told.’

He relented at this, going so far as to give me a salute accompanied by a broad grin.

I beckoned to Jayant, who was still sitting on the veranda. He rose and began walking towards me. As he came closer, I saw the pallor of his face.

I did hope we would find at least a certain portion of the doll.

The gardener, in the meantime, had fetched a spade. The three of us made our way to the deodar tree.

Jayant pointed at the ground about a yard from the trunk of the tree and said, ‘Here.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked him.

Jayant nodded silently.

‘How much did you dig?’

‘At least eight inches.’

The gardener started digging. The man had a sense of humour. As he lifted his spade, he asked if there was hidden treasure under the ground and, if so, whether we would be prepared to share it with him. I had to laugh at this, but Jayant’s face did not register even the slightest trace of amusement. It was the month of October and not at all warm in Bundi. Yet, the collar of his shirt was soaked in sweat. He was staring at the ground unblinkingly. The gardener continued to dig. Why was there no sign of the doll?

The raucous cry of a peacock made me turn my head for a moment and, in that instant, Jayant made a strange sound. I quickly looked at him. His eyes were bulging. He raised his right hand and pointed at the hole in the ground with a finger that was trembling visibly.

Then he asked in a voice turned hoarse with fear, ‘What … what is that?’

The spade slipped from the gardener’s hand. I, too, gaped at the ground, open-mouthed in amazement and disbelief.

There lay at our feet, covered in dust, lying flat on its back, a twelve-inch-long, pure white, perfect little human skeleton.

Satyajit Ray

I met Anath Babu on a train to Ragunathpur, where I was going on holiday. I worked for one of the dailies in Calcutta. The pressure of work over the last few months had nearly killed me. I definitely needed a break. Besides, writing being my hobby, I had ideas for a couple of short stories that needed further thought. And I needed peace and quiet to think. So I applied for ten days’ leave and left with a packet of writing paper in my suitcase.

There was a reason for choosing Raghunathpur. An old college mate of mine, Biren Biswas, had his ancestral home there. We were chatting in the Coffee House one evening, talking of possible places where one might spend one’s holiday. Upon being told that I had applied for leave, Biren promptly offered me free accommodation in Raghunathpur. ‘I would have gone with you,’ he said, ‘but you know how tied up I am at the moment. You won’t have any problem, though. Bharadwaj will look after you. He’s worked for our family for fifty years.’

Our coach was packed. Anathbandhu Mitra happened to be sitting right next to me. About fifty years of age, not very tall, hair parted in the middle, a sharp look in his eyes and an amused smile playing on his lips. But his clothes! He appeared to have dressed for a part in a play set fifty years ago. Nobody these days wore a jacket like that, or such collars, or glasses, or boots.

We began to chat. It turned out that he, too, was going to Raghunathpur. ‘Are you also going on holiday?’ I asked him. But he did not answer and seemed to grow a little pensive. Or it may be that he had failed to hear my question in the racket the train was making.

The sight of Biren’s house pleased me very much. It was a nice
house, with a strip of land in front that had both vegetables and flowers growing in it. There were no other houses nearby, so the possibility of being disturbed by the neighbours was non-existent.

Despite protests from Bharadwaj, I chose the room in the attic for myself. It was an airy little room, very comfortable and totally private. I moved my things upstairs and began to unpack. It was then that I realized I had left my razor blades behind. ‘Never mind,’ said Bharadwaj, ‘Kundu Babu’s shop is only a five minute walk from here. You’ll get your “bilades” there.’

I left for the shop soon after tea, at around 4 p.m. It appeared that the place was used more or less like a club. About seven middle-aged men were seated inside on wooden benches, chatting away merrily. One of them was saying rather agitatedly, ‘Well, it’s not something I have only heard about. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. All right, so it happened thirty years ago. But that kind of thing cannot get wiped out from one’s memory, can it? I shall never forget what happened, especially since Haladhar Datta was a close friend of mine. In fact, even now I can’t help feeling partly responsible for his death.’

I bought a packet of 7 O’clock blades. Then I began to loiter, looking at things I didn’t really need. The gentleman continued, ‘Just imagine, my own friend laid a bet with me for just ten rupees and went to spend a night in that west room. I waited for a long time the next morning for him to turn up; but when he didn’t, I went with Jiten Bakshi, Haricharan Saha and a few others to look for him in the Haldar mansion. And we found him in the same room—lying dead on the floor, stone cold, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. The naked fear I saw in those eyes could only mean one thing, I tell you: ghosts. There was no injury on his person, no sign of snake-bite or anything like that. So what else could have killed him but a ghost?
You
tell me?’

Another five minutes in the shop gave me a rough idea of what they were talking about. There was, apparently, a two-hundred-year-old mansion in the southern corner of Raghunathpur, which had once been owned by the Haldars, the local
zamindars.
It had lain abandoned for years. A particular room in this mansion that faced the west was supposed to be haunted.
Although in the last thirty years no one had dared to spend a night in it after the death of Haladhar Datta, the residents of Raghunathpur still felt a certain thrill thinking of the unhappy spirit that haunted the room. The reason behind this belief was both the mysterious death of Haladhar Datta, and the many instances of murders and suicides in the history of the Haldar family.

Intrigued by this conversation, I came out of the shop to find Anathbandhu Mitra, the gentleman I had met on the train, standing outside, a smile on his lips.

‘Did you hear what they were saying?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I couldn’t help it.’

‘Do you believe in it?’

‘In what? Ghosts?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you see, I have heard of haunted houses often enough. But never have I met anyone who has actually stayed in one and seen anything. So I don’t quite ….’

Anath Babu’s smile deepened.

‘Would you like to see it?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That house.’

‘See? How do you mean?’

‘Only from the outside. It’s not very far from here. A mile, at the most. If you go straight down this road, past the twin temples and then turn right, it’s only a quarter of a mile from there.’

The man seemed interesting. Besides, there was no need to get back home quite so soon. So I left with him.

The Haldar mansion was not easily visible. Most of it was covered by a thick growth of wild plants and creepers. It was only the top of the gate that towered above everything else and could be seen a good ten minutes before one reached the house. The gate was really huge. The
nahabatkhana
over it was in shambles. A long drive led to the front veranda. A couple of statues and the remains of a fountain told us that there used to be a garden in the space between
the house and the gate. The house was strangely structured. There was absolutely nothing in it that could have met even the lowest of aesthetic standards. The whole thing seemed only a shapeless heap. The last rays of the setting sun fell on its mossy walls.

Anath Babu stared at it for a minute. Then he said, ‘As far as I know, ghosts and spirits don’t come out in daylight. Why don’t we,’ he added, winking, ‘go and take a look at that room?’

‘That west room? The one …?’

‘Yes. The one in which Haladhar Datta died.’

The man’s interest in the matter seemed a bit exaggerated.

Anath Babu read my mind.

‘I can see you’re surprised. Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth. The only reason behind my arrival in Raghunathpur is this house.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I had learnt in Calcutta that the house was haunted. I came all the way to see if I could catch a glimpse of the ghost. You asked me on the train why I was coming here. I didn’t reply, which must have appeared rude. But I had decided to wait until I got to know you a little better before telling you.’

‘But why did you have to come all the way from Calcutta to chase a ghost?’

‘I’ll explain that in a minute. I haven’t yet told you about my profession, have I? The fact is that I am an authority on ghosts and all things supernatural. I have spent the last twenty-five years doing research in this area. I have read everything that’s ever been published on life after death, spirits that haunt the earth, vampires, werewolves, black magic, voodoo—the lot. I had to learn seven different languages to do this. There is a Professor Norton in London who has a similar interest. I have been in correspondence with him over the last three years. My articles have been published in well-known magazines in Britain. I don’t wish to sound boastful, but I think it would be fair to say that no one in this country has as much knowledge about these things as I do.’

He spoke very sincerely. The thought that he might be telling lies or exaggerating things did not cross my mind at all. On the
contrary, I found it quite easy to believe what he told me and my respect for the man grew.

After a few moments of silence, he said, ‘I have stayed in at least three hundred haunted houses all over the country.’

‘Goodness!’

‘Yes. In places like Jabalpur, Cherrapunji, Kanthi, Katoa, Jodhpur, Azimganj, Hazaribagh, Shiuri, Barasat … and so many others. I’ve stayed in fifty-six dak bungalows, and at least thirty
neel kuthis.
Besides these, there are about fifty haunted houses in Calcutta and its suburbs where I’ve spent my nights. But ….’

Anath Babu stopped. Then he shook his head and said, ‘The ghosts have eluded me. Perhaps they like to visit only those who don’t want to have anything to do with them. I have been disappointed time and again. Only once did I feel the presence of something strange in an old building in Tiruchirapalli near Madras. It used to be a club during British times. Do you know what happened? The room was dark and there was no breeze at all. Yet, each time I tried to light a candle, someone—or some-thing—kept snuffing it out. I had to waste twelve matchsticks. However, with the thirteenth I did manage to light the candle; but, as soon as it was lit, the spirit vanished. Once, in a house in Calcutta, too, I had a rather interesting experience. I was sitting in a dark room as usual, waiting for something to happen, when I suddenly felt a mosquito bite my scalp! Quite taken aback, I felt my head and discovered that every single strand of my hair had disappeared. I was totally bald! Was it really my own head? Or had I felt someone else’s? But no, the mosquito bite was real enough. I switched on my torch quickly and peered into the mirror. All my hair was intact. There was no sign of baldness.

‘These were the only two slightly queer experiences I’ve had in all these years. I had given up all hope of finding anything anywhere. But, recently, I happened to read in an old magazine about this house in Raghunathpur. So I thought I’d come and try my luck for the last time.’

We had reached the front door. Anath Babu looked at his watch and said, ‘The sun sets today at 5.31 p.m. It’s now 5.15. Let’s go and take a quick look before it gets dark.’

Perhaps his interest in the supernatural was infectious. I readily accepted his proposal. Like him, I felt eager to see the inside of the house and that room in particular.

We walked in through the front door. There was a huge courtyard and what looked like a stage. It must have been used for pujas and other festivals. There was no sign now of the joy and laughter it must once have witnessed.

There were verandas, around the courtyard. To our right, lay a broken palanquin, and beyond it was a staircase going up.

It was so dark on the staircase that Anath Babu had to take a torch out of his pocket and switch it on. We had to demolish an invisible wall of cobwebs to make our way. When we finally reached the first floor, I thought to myself, ‘If wouldn’t be surprising at all if this house did turn out to be haunted.’

We stood in the passage and made some rough calculations. The room on our left must be the famous west room, we decided. Anath Babu said, ‘Let’s not waste any time. Come with me.’

There was only one thing in the passage: a grandfather clock. Its glass was broken, one of its hands was missing and the pendulum lay to one side.

The door to the west room was closed. Anath Babu pushed it gently with his forefinger. A nameless fear gave me goose-pimples. The door swung open.

But the room revealed nothing unusual. It may have been a living-room once. There was a big table in the middle with a missing top. Only the four legs stood upright. An easy chair stood near the window, although sitting in it now would not be very easy as it had lost one of its arms and a portion of its seat.

I glanced up and saw that bits and pieces of an old-fashioned, hand-pulled fan still hung from the ceiling. It didn’t have a rope, the wooden bar was broken and its main body torn.

Apart from these objects, the room had a shelf that must once have held rifles, a pipeless hookah, and two ordinary chairs, also with broken arms.

Anath Babu appeared to be deep in thought. After a while, he said, ‘Can you smell something?’

‘Smell what?’

‘Incense, oil and burning flesh … all mixed together ….’ I inhaled deeply, but could smell nothing beyond the usual musty smell that comes from a room that has been kept shut for a long time.

So I said, ‘Why, no, I don’t think I can ….’

Anath Babu did not say anything. Then, suddenly, he struck his left hand with his right and exclaimed, ‘God! I know this smell well! There is bound to be a spirit lurking about in this house, though whether or not he’ll make an appearance remains to be seen. Let’s go!’

Anath Babu decided to spend the following night in the Haldar mansion. On our way back, he said, ‘I won’t go tonight because tomorrow is a moonless night, the best possible time for ghosts and spirits to come out. Besides, I need a few things which I haven’t got with me today. I’ll bring those tomorrow. Today I came only to make a survey.’

Before we parted company near Biren’s house, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Please don’t tell anyone else about my plan. From what I heard today, people here are so superstitious and easily frightened that they might actually try to stop me from going in if they came to know of my intention. And,’ he added, ‘please don’t mind that I didn’t ask you to join me. One has to be alone, you see, for something like this ….’

I sat down the next day to write, but could not concentrate. My mind kept going back to the west room in that mansion. God knows what kind of experience awaited Anath Babu. I could not help feeling a little restless and anxious.

I accompanied Anath Babu in the evening, right up to the gate of the Haldar mansion. He was wearing a black high-necked jacket today. From his shoulder hung a flask and, in his hand, he carried the same torch he had used the day before. He took out a couple of small bottles from his pocket before going into the house. ‘Look,’
he said, ‘this one has a special oil, made with my own formula. It is an excellent mosquito repellent. And this one here has carbolic acid in it. If I spread it in and around the room, I’ll be safe from snakes.’

He put the bottles back in his pocket, raised the torch and touched his head with it. Then he waved me a final salute and walked in, his heavy boots clicking on the gravel.