A Chilling ride.
PASSENGER
- Sajid Ahmed 23 March 2019
He tightened the last nut on the tyre. A flat had delayed his return by almost an hour. A quick trip to the town to drop his neighbours’ guest was a welcome profit during the holiday season. Darjeeling was flooded with tourists and it was tough to get a vehicle to travel anywhere during “tika”, the last day of Dusshera. His neighbour had “booked” his vehicle a week in advance and Devashis was no fool, he had charged a handsome amount. Because he knew the guests were well off and visited his neighbour at least twice a year from Darjeeling.
Devashis had a sturdy vehicle. An “eleven-seater” taxi from the Tata company. He had a carrier installed to hold the extra-luggage. His Tata Sumo was his pride and joy and more so because in his far-flung village of Beebaray, it was the only vehicle that ferried passengers to Darjeeling on a daily basis. His timings were very straightforward – departure at 9 am and he would reach Darjeeling town by lunch. An hour or so gathering passengers and their shopping and by 3 pm he would start his return journey.
Since his vehicle was well known in the area, young boys often hitched a free ride by climbing on the roof or just balancing themselves on the back of the vehicle. If they wanted to get down, they would just give a thump on the roof and Devashis would slow down. Sometimes they paid but most of the times it was just a thank-you.
The route was beautiful. From Beebaray, the road was “kutcha”, not properly tarred; it was a slow bumpy ride. Devashis was extra careful because a slip would send everyone to the bottom of the hill. The slow drive through the rocky road was interspersed with small rivulets, it passed through cardamom plantations, bamboo groves and as you reached the warmer valley near the river, orange orchards and tea gardens.
Population was thin, a house here and there. Sometimes a startled fox or a hare would run across the road, thrilling the passengers. Devashis recently had a stereo installed and the non-stop music would lull the passengers as they reached Bijanbari – the midway hamlet near the river. Devashis would stop for ten minutes or so to allow his passengers to stretch their legs.
Today had been different. It was “Dasain”, the main festival in the hills. He had started late and reached Darjeeling by evening. As he entered town, one of his rear tyres had gone flat. Disembarking his passengers, he apologized to them for not being able to reach them till their doorstep. As they left, Devashis got down to changing the tyre. The cold air of Darjeeling made his task even tougher but finally he finished it.
After having put his flat tyre on the carrier, he tied it with the extra rope meant for the luggage. He was tired. It was a relief to get away from the cold and start his journey home. The sun set slowly as it followed him from Dali to Ghoom, and as he turned towards the familiar route, darkness set in.
He turned on his headlights and his fog lights because he knew the stretch from Ghoom till Liza Hill Tea estate was lined with tall trees, dripping with the moisture in the air. As the warm wind from the valley met this cold moist air, it gave rise to a thick fog almost throughout the year, especially in the evenings.
Devashis seldom travelled at night, not that he couldn’t but he liked to think of his taxi-service as a day job, with office hours and a day off on Sunday. His young wife and three year old son would be eagerly waiting for him. His old parents would chide him if he got delayed in the town.
As he started downhill from Ghoom-Bhanjyang, a soft drizzle started. Typical of the weather in Darjeeling. Devashis thought “What an omen, raining on tika-day!” The fog started to come in waves, thin here and thick in the next turn. He turned off his stereo as he wanted to concentrate on the road, the rain would make it even trickier. The sound of the vehicle was now a soft purr as it negotiated the tricky bends and rough patches. Traffic was nil as very few travelled this route at night and being the festive season, everyone was warm and snug at home. Devashis had had a death in his family last year so this year his family was not celebrating Dasain. He was just glad that the tyre had gone flat in Darjeeling and not on his way back. There wasn’t a single house from Ghoom-Bhanjyang till Liza hill, a drive of almost an hour.
As he drove, peering through the murky gloom. Devashis could hear the flap-flap of the plastic sheet on the roof. This he kept to cover the luggage during the rain. It was the only other sound that accompanied him on his journey.
Soon he reached a place called Hima Falls. Even through the gloom, he recognised the old bridge that crossed a waterfall. The unseasonal rain had fed the mountain streams and he could hear the water roar. The bridge was a British construction and the old railings had held for more than a hundred years. “Unlike the roads build by our people. Doesn’t even last a year”, rued Devashis.
Hima Falls for all is scenic beauty during the day time was a place best avoided by all travellers. No one stopped here. Not even the young crowd in bikes who clicked selfies at every turning. Even they would roar past the falls as if the devil was behind them.
It had an eerie feel about it. During winter, the water would reduce to a trickle but thick ferns grew all around it. You could see red vermillion, some khadas and flowers strewn around at times. Perhaps an offering to the old gods, who resided here in these dark impenetrable forests. But who left those offerings, nobody saw and none would claim so.
A wide turn accompanied the bridge so there was no question of slowing down. Many a speeding drunk had plunged down the steep gorge to his doom below, sometimes taking along hapless innocent lives. Devashis never drank while driving. He had heard enough stories to chill his racing liver. The litany of gruesome accidents at Hima Falls had fatally interrupted the journey of many a soul. Perhaps that was why no one wanted to stop here.
Then there were stories about suicides. Young lovers, unable to reconcile their inter-caste families had ended their lives here. Or the stories of stillborn babies, born out of wedlock- delivered to the roaring waters, sometimes heard by lonely travellers even during broad daylight.
There wasn’t any place on the route with such a ghastly reputation as this, Devashis was eager to reach Liza Hill. His friend had invited him for some tea and refreshment. And he wanted to call his wife as soon as he reached there because till you reached Liza Hill – there was no mobile network.
As he slowly crossed the fall, Devashis felt a bump below his front tyres. Fallen boulders, he thought. He shifted gears and crossed the bend.
A few minutes later, a strong wind started to rise. The plastic sheet started to flap even faster with a louder sound. Devashis didn’t want to lose it so he slowed down and turned around to look. As he quickly peered at his rear window, he saw that the blue plastic sheet had come half-way down but was still attached to the carrier. Then as he started to speed up, his heart skipped a beat. The flapping plastic sheet revealed something at the back of his car – a pair of legs in blue jeans!
His hand reached for the horn and the sound penetrated the gloom like the cry of the haunted. It startled him. He couldn’t remember slowing down for any passenger. Normally they would hail him by name and exchange a cheery banter. The legs belonged to a stowaway, someone who had stealthily hopped on his taxi when he was navigating a slow bend.
Maybe it was one of those junkies, drugged crazed young derelicts who stopped at nothing. He turned around; the plastic sheet was fighting with the carrier, making crazy noises, like a beast of the wild tied to a rope. The legs still showed. Steadily holding on. Devashis began to fear for his life. He had received a handsome amount for this trip.
He revved up the vehicle, determined not to stop till he reached Liza Hill which was still some distance away. The tall trees were swaying in the strong wind, reaching out to each other, fearing the worst. Then all of a sudden, Devashis realised something was horribly wrong. He hadn’t seen the feet! The legs had no feet!
All the stories of Hima Falls came back in a rush. The interrupted passengers, the gruesome suicides. He was now sweating, the cold air outside swirled in unfriendly patterns.
“Thump”, he heard the sound on the roof. The passenger wanted to alight. Devashis didn’t dare stop. He rolled up his windows and focussed on the road. “Thump”- a little louder, impatient and urgent. Devashis did not turn around. He started to pray, the small statue of his goddess on the dashboard gave him a glimmer of hope. He thought of his wife and son, his parents.
“Thump, thump!” The wind roared and the plastic sheet struggled harder. Devashis knew this was a ride with the devil, he had been foolish not to take a companion on his journey. But everyone had been engaged with the festivities.
The sky lit up , a forked lightning travelled the horizon and soon the thunder rolled. “Thump. Thump”. He glanced at his mobile, no network. He started prayed loudly. In all his years of driving, this was the hardest he had prayed. Somehow, he knew that if he stopped, he would meet the last passenger of his life.
With every bump on the road, he could hear the passenger thumping him to stop. To slow down and end his ride. His ears started buzzing- the wind, lightning and thunder made a heavy concoction. He lost the sense of time. All he saw was the sliver of rough road in his headlights. His wits held didn’t abandon him. The pale glow of his headlights reassured him that his passenger would never come in the light; it preferred to stay in the dark. Faceless but fearful. A being that had hitched one last ride in Devashis’ taxi. A ride that it was intent to finish along with Devashis.
The road dipped into a steep downhill, Devashis saw the lights of Liza Hill. He praised God in joy and gripped the steering wheel. The last moments of the drive till Liza Hill were a blur. He remembers honking all the way downhill till he reached his friend’s doorstep.
Everyone had come out and were shocked to Devashis sweating with fear. As they took him inside, he whispered just one word –“Passenger”. They found no one on the taxi, neither outside nor inside. The plastic sheet hung limp from the carrier. They called his wife and informed her that Devashis had caught a fever and would stay the night in Liza Hill.
It was only after the neighbours had left that Devashis told his friend about the passenger.
I heard this story from Devashis a few years ago as we drove up Liza Hill to Darjeeling on a moonlit night. I had gone to visit my wife’s family in Relling, a small village above Beebaray. We had hired Devashis to reach us till Darjeeling and he had a helper in his taxi this time. I’ll never forget the look on his face as we crossed Hima Falls and the silent prayer on his lips.
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