Different times. The early nineties in a small Himalayan town. Nestled on a spur, Kalimpong is a small hamlet on the hill. The hillside is covered with tall trees and old cottages.
I was used to the quiet. Sometimes, during long summer days, all I could hear was the birds and the buzzing of insects. A small stream ran nearby, which in the monsoons became a raging torrent.
My books and my music were my getaway. With my father busy with work, Mom and I took care of our small cottage and the garden.
My friends were all away. Busy with college admissions. We had just given our school exams and waiting for the results. Life was waiting out there, somewhere in the vast dry plains. Phone calls were a luxury though we did have a phone, and the phone number was only three digits. You were lucky if you could call because most of the times I could heard only static or nothing at all.
Somehow I wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere. I used to walk to town on most afternoons to the library to borrow books or just read. I used my mom’s library card as I hadn’t made mine yet. I could travel the whole world in the ocean of words.
Such was my life when I met Jess on that stormy afternoon while returning home from the library.
****
One day, while walking together, she asked me about the book that I had been reading the day I met her. It was a western, a romantic saga by my favourite author Louis L’ Amour , The Lonesome Gods. She was intrigued as she had never heard about the author.
My grandfather has introduced me to cowboy stories. A born storyteller, grandpa would regale me with bedtime tales of cowboys and trails, camping under the stars and sleeping by the campfire.
“Wow. That’s so amazing. Wish we could have a campfire”, she exclaimed.
“Why? What would you do?”, I asked her.
“We could sit by the fire, sip coffee and tell each other ghost stories”, she replied.
I saw that she was excited by the idea and her eyes were twinkling.
“I have an idea. Since an evening campfire would be out of the question, let’s have a campfire in the afternoon and I could tell you a tale or two. I’ll invite some kids from the neighbourhood.”
*****
As the kids gathered around the fire, we put on a dry log to increase the warmth. All quiet and expectant as I started the tale. She was looking at me, half-smiling. I didn’t expect her to believe me, I just wanted her complete attention.
“Let me share a really chilling tale that has haunted me since childhood. This one runs in the family.
My uncle was a boisterous youth. I’ve met his friends who testify for his feisty and spirited nature which he extracted upon his hapless opponents on the football field. (Mind you- those were the barefoot days with real leather balls!)
Since he was the eldest son, he was pampered and allowed many liberties. One of the many worrying issues for my grandparents was his coming home late. As a very friendly lad, he had no dearth of friends and definitely no doubt they wanted to spend much time together as possible.
Home was a long walk from Kalimpong town. The absence of street lights and barking dogs was not a deterrent for my Mama. So, one cold foggy monsoon night, he bid finally goodnight to all his friends and started for home. He knew his mother would be waiting up for him.
As he proceeded on his way, he noticed the absence of barking dogs that night. With no one heading his way, he started whistling a popular tune to keep up his pace. The fog was thick and there was a slight drizzle. The water dripping from the trees added to the solitude.
When he was halfway home, he stopped whistling because he thought he heard footsteps behind him.”
At the point in the story, you could hear the crackle of the flames as the sparks rose in the air turning into invisible ash. The audience was hanging on to my every word.
“He stopped and turned around but couldn’t see anyone because of the thick mist. The footsteps also stopped as if to listen to anyone walking ahead. Mama resumed his walk and soon the footsteps sounded nearer. Again he stopped and turned but couldn’t see anybody.
In the back of his mind, he knew someone was following him. To calm his senses, he slowly took out his most reassuring vitamin from his pocket – his “khaini”. As he started to rub the mixture in his palms, he thought heard a slight cough behind him. He decided to ignore it.
Then someone called out “Bhai”, so he had to turn. As he turned he could see an outline of a human form standing right behind him. But it had no head. To his absolute horror- there was a pair of eyes on the chest and a mouth which was just below the eyes. It spoke again “Bhai, alikati khaiduim na”. (Brother, let’s have a little bit).
My Mama’s senses dropped from his head to his two feet and he ran and ran. My Grandmother said he reached home near midnight, incoherent and scared.”
The fire had turned low so someone added another log to it started to blow some life into it. Tea was served. She had so many questions in her eyes.
“Mama had fever for three days and the story came out in bits and pieces. It was many years before he ventured out alone after dark.
Why would a headless form ask for “khaini”? Is it bad to whistle at night? Was it the ghost of a murdered man?
I’ve never had the guts to ask my mama for the story. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to talk about it. So the next time you are returning home late and night and hear footsteps, think about this.”
The kids went home, excitedly muttering “khani, khaini”.
On her way home, she asked me, “Did it really happen?”
“Yes, my grandmother says it’s true.”
She was quiet. “I’ll miss your stories”.
With that single sentence, I already started missing her.
---TBC----
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