No amount of pleading would convince Som to stay back. The lockdown rules had just been eased yesterday. He had to reach home; his mother wasn’t well. He had to reach his village as soon as possible.
Working in the big city had been tough but now with the lockdown, life was a daily struggle. Living on charity and mercy of strangers, Som had missed his small village in the foothills of the Himalayas.
For the last two years, he had worked as a chef in a small restaurant, sent money home and tried to remain sane. His mother had raised him up after his father had passed away in a sudden landslide many years ago. Som had been small but he could remember his father’s voice, his calloused hands from working hard on the fields, the earthy smell – more so he remembered the tenderness of his father’s affection for him.
“I have to go, come what may!” , he told his friends. So, they had booked him a ticket on a bus to the state border. After a gruelling 24 hour drive, Som finally reached Siliguri. There, after a night’s rest, the state government had arranged for them to dropped off at respective District centres.
Luckily for Som and his fellow travellers, they had no symptoms of sickness and was allowed to travel. It was a grim journey, everyone kept to themselves. A few cried now and then. Only God knew the pain and the misery in their hearts, deprived of a livelihood, they knew that life ahead would be full of struggle.
Som thought of his mother, a strong lady who had maintained a small farm- attending to the cows, goats, a few chickens. Making sure Som was well fed and attended school.
A far cousin had arranged this job for Som in the city. The money was good and Som could look after his Mom’s medical expenses. He didn’t want her to work on the fields anymore.
As the small vehicle wound its way up the steep incline, it started to drizzle. Som was glad for the cool wind that welcomed them. The scorching city heat was finally behind and he felt a twinge of delight. The far blue mountains looked so welcoming, all his childhood memories flowed through his mind like a clear river stream.
They finally reached Tarpin Bazaar, the district headquarters. After some refreshments and a mandatory health screening, they were given instructions on home quarantine. Som asked around for a vehicle going to his village – Durpin Dara, but there were none. No one wanted to risk taking a person with a travel history.
He had anticipated this. He called his neighbour and told him to inform his mother that he would walk the rest of the way home. Soon he was talking to his mom excitedly, the feeling of going home never felt better or stronger. He tied his rucksack, filed his water bottle and started the long trek home.
It was close to 15 kilometres, a gentle sloping climb with a spectacular view, on a clear day. But it was pre-monsoon now, rain was already starting to fall slowly. Som decided that he would take the short cut home, a path that only the hardy could attempt, winding its way through the forests. He was not worried because he had done it a hundred times.
Slowly the skies above turned dark, it was just 4:30 in the afternoon but visibility was poor. Som trudged along the main road for a couple of kilometres and then turned into the undergrowth where a faint path led into the forest.
As he entered the forest, a sudden stillness engulfed the trees. He could hear only his footsteps as he boldly marched on. Here and there, he could see signs of human activity – trees cut down; paths cleared for foraging grass for the livestock. All this was not allowed as this was a protected area but dire poverty had forced the villagers to enter the forbidden territory.
After an hour or so, Som felt tired. The long journey, the change in the climate made him dizzy. His claves were aching, muscle memory was kicking in. He sat down for a while, took a long sip of the cold mountain water. His village was still an hour away but it was already getting dark, the fog was slowly creeping in.
Som looked around, the familiar seemed to vanish around him and all that he could see was the rough path in front of him. He got up and took out his phone, the network has disappeared. He put on the flashlight but then decided against it as he wanted to save the battery.
He started to walk again. A lonely pilgrim making his journey home.
The path got steeper. Rocks lined his way. As he came up a steep bend on the way, he got a shock. There was a row of freshly planted prayer flags, fluttering wildly in the wind. The white flags could mean that someone had offered a major prayer after a funeral. The flags had been planted at a high point, so the winds could take the prayers to the heavens for the repose of the deceased soul.
Som muttered a prayer silently. He wasn’t a superstitious person but he had heard enough stories to learn his prayers by heart. As the passed the flags, the wind started to rise and the flags waved with the ferocity of a squall.
Lightning forked the sky, and soon Som had to clap his ears at the approaching thunder. He figured he was still about half an hour from his village. He wiped the droplets off his face and looked back, it was pitch black. He took out his phone and put on the flashlight. It was a meagre assault on the untamed darkness but it would suffice.
He took a few steps forward and paused. Had he heard something? He looked around. Nothing. As he walked again, he heard it again. A kind of slow dragging sound. He tried to place it but couldn’t. He shouted , “ Koi Cha?”, (is anybody there). But all he could hear was a faint rustling of leaves and the sound again. In his mind, he thought it sounded like someone was dragging something heavy uphill. Maybe someone stealing timber to make a quick buck.
He waited for a while but nothing appeared. The rain was now easing and he could make out the outline of his village, far but visible. Some houses had lights. Som felt reassured.
Suddenly a loud sound frightened him. It was as if someone had dropped a thick piece of wood down the hill. He shouted again , “Ko Ho?”, (who’s there). A scurrying sound seemed to come from behind him. He pointed his flashlight but nothing was there. He started to quicken his pace. The sounds now seemed to amplify. Soon, it was as if the forest was alive with the rustling and dragging sounds.
Som swore, this was not a good omen. He was shouting his prayers at the top of his voice. His eyes were playing tricks on him, the path ahead had vanished , it was now all bushes and undergrowth.
He could hear strange voices, like a group of footsteps all around him but his flashlight couldn’t make out anything. He tumbled on, crashing his way through. He could hear now bodies crashing through the undergrowth after him. A low menacing hum emanated behind him. He panicked and started to run.
Then he lost his footing and fell. He plummeted into the darkness and lost his flashlight. A shooting pain went through his forehead and he lost consciousness.
He came to short while later. The pain was terrible and it felt. Som could sense that he was bleeding. He couldn’t see anything. The sounds were now approaching him. He tried to shout but his words were stuck in his throat.
So, he squeezed his eyes and prayed .
A minute passed. It felt like an eternity.
Then as he was about to lose consciousness again, he felt a strong pair of hands lifting him up. Soon, he was up. Someone had reached him on time, heard his shouts.
He felt relieved. He wanted to say something but the stranger was now carrying him up – swiftly and surely. The sounds vanished. Som knew he was safe- that was the last thought before he lost consciousness.
When he came to, the first thing he felt was the throbbing pain on his forehead. He tried to get up but felt too weak.
“Ama”, he whispered. She was there, holding his hands. And her old eyes filled with tears and her lips moving in silent prayer. Som slept.
After a few days, Som was walking about. He was the talk of the village. His phone and rucksack had been recovered the next morning by the villagers. His mother told him that she heard knocking on her door that night. When she opened it, Som was lying outside in a pool of blood. He had banged his forehead and there was a nasty gash. With the help of neighbours, she had nursed Som back to safety.
There was no mention of the stranger who had helped him. So he confided in his mother. She did what any mother in that village would do – she called the shaman.
After gathering a small group of elders , his mother had arranged for all the necessary ingredients for the cleansing of Som’s soul. The shaman lit a small fire in the courtyard and started chanting. His ancient hum soon reached a crescendo. He jumped in wild circles around the fire. Then after a while he went into a trance and started talking in a strange voice.
Som, he said, you walked through one of the darkest nights in the lunar calendar. It was the night where the restless had been awakened. The spirits of the forest were staking claim to all wandering souls in the forest. You were lucky to come out alive.
As the embers died down, the shaman came back to his senses. He gave Som a talisman to wear. Som’s grateful mother gave the holy man a black hen and a bottle of good liquor.
But for Som, he had been wrestling with the thought of the stranger and difficult as it was for him, he knew those hands that lifted him. For even in his pain and stupor, Som had smelt the goodness in the stranger. It was the smell of his childhood, it was the smell of the lifetime of affections that a parent has for his child.
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