The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma... and Other Hauntings

by Manish Mahajan

  ~~~

  Rohit’s blogpost that night read, “…and she burned to death in front of my eyes. I could not save her. I could not prevent the fire. It was not until the flames had begun to pacify that the full import began to register. Nothing had happened to me! Not even a single burn or bruise. I had not even felt the heat from the blaze. I do not know whether what happened today was real or unreal, but one thing is clear–I did not belong there.”

  And Finally, Fifteen Days Later

  “Did you pack your slippers?” Neerja yelled from behind their car. It was the first day of their holiday and Rohit’s wife was getting irritated with his reclusion over the past weeks. Getting no reply, she muttered under her breath and got in next to the wheel.

  “What’s the matter, dear? I know something is bothering you, I have been watching you. Won’t you tell wifey?” she slipped her hand in his.

  “Neerja…” He was not looking into her eyes when he said her name slowly and she understood that something was indeed wrong.

  “Yes.”

  Rohit cleared his throat and paused trying to find the right communication. But what came out was only an agitated blurt.

  “My stories are coming true!”

  Without waiting for a reaction, he narrated the happenings of the past weeks, pausing only to catch his breath. A distant rumble of lightning seemed to testify his accounts. After he had finished, he took a deep breath and looked towards his wife. His gaze was met with a grim but unwelcome face.

  “Have you gone mad? Rohit…how can those wretched stories come true? What’s wrong with you, sweetheart? Don’t you see you have been hallucinating?” she shrieked.

  There was silence. Rohit just groaned and dropped his head on the wheel. He closed his eyes as the patter of rain drops fell on the roof of their car.

  It was with irritant exasperation that Neerja fetched a copy of the book and turned to its table of contents. Most of these were familiar to her, as Rohit often spoke aloud his plots, which she used to nod at with nonchalance. She moved her finger down the list slowly.

  How the Wind Stopped Blowing in Burhanpur

  Snakes and Ladders

  A Monkey’s Revenge

  Night of the Holy Creeper

  Phakarchand’s Jalebi

  Paid Piper of Ashkelon

  Vineet

  5:34 Churchgate Slow

  Whistleblower

  Where the Streets Have No Name

  2 Kgs of Rice

  Happy Birthday to Me

  The Beggar’s Left Eye

  Poker at Gulabi’s Den

  Her Unkept Promise

  She looked up and spoke soothingly, apparently shaken by the story titles foisting fancy thoughts in her head. “Look dear…ok, let me believe you. Let me try to understand you. Let this fanciful idea of yours be true. You wrote some story called Where the Streets Have No Name and ended up seeing your imaginary plot turning out to be true. So what? Why are you so disturbed about these goddamn awful stories of yours coming true?”

  “Because I am afraid of the last story!” Rohit screamed, unable to contain himself.

  “Her Unkept Promise?” Neerja’s brow puckered as she strained her faculties to remember. “Isn’t that the one about the couple that is kidnapped, where the husband manages to escape but the wife’s hacked limbs are recovered in a gunny sack? Is that the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what are you afraid of?”

  “This was the only story out of the 15 that was written in first person!”

  The Secret in the Photograph

  The Benadryl had now reached her bloodstream and she was beginning to feel sleepy. “Good for my cough,” she thought. Anubha climbed up to the side-upper berth and lay down. The Gitanjali Express was running an hour late. The driver hooted the electric horn to clear the line but Anubha didn’t hear the horn. She was already fast asleep and dreaming.

  An armadillo walked up wearing blue trousers and handed Anubha a Bible. She said, “Thank you Mr. Vajpayee…that’s so nice of you.” The armadillo immediately turned and ran back, terrified. She laughed and put the Bible on her head and started walking on the Howrah Bridge. Her husband’s head popped out of a car and he called out, “What’s for dinner?” She smiled, “Chhole Bhature.” Suddenly the bridge collapsed and she fell into the Ganges frantically calling out to her husband.

  The train was at Rourkela junction. An old woman slowly waded her way up to the side-lower berth. She saw a middle-aged woman sleeping peacefully on the top berth. The old woman settled down on her seat.

  “Anu tum kitni pyaari lag rahi ho iss dress main. Tumhara aur Aakash ka ek photo lete hain.” Anubha had won the fancy dress competition in school. She was dressed as a fairy and was waving her wand at Aakash who was the runner up. Aakash was dressed as a clown with a red nose. The 10-year-old winner and runner up smiled when the camera clicked. Aakash and Anubha. Best friends.

  Anubha turned in her sleep. The old woman below was silently staring out of the window.

  She slapped Aakash and started crying. He screamed, “I hate you” and started crying.

  Anubha: “I hate you double.”

  Aakash: “Why did you steal my pen?”

  Anubha: “Why did you hurt Lucy?”

  Aakash: “Because you stole my pen.”

  Anubha: “I didn’t.”

  Aakash: “Then I didn’t hurt your dog.”

  Anubha: “You did, Saurabh told me.”

  Aakash: “I hate you.”

  Anubha: “I hate you double.”

  Aakash (crying like a baby): “I will never talk to you again.”

  Anubha (crying like a baby): “I will never talk to you again.”

  Anubha woke up with a start. She was sweating profusely. She had never dreamt of Aakash in these 25 years. His family moved away the very next week and that was the last she heard of her best friend. She clasped her damp face with her hands. Aakash and the photograph. All that she had was a photograph of her childhood friend. And the photograph had a mystery of its own. The photograph was her darkest secret; one which she had kept to herself all these years. It had been 25 years since she had lost touch with Aakash. Twenty five years she had kept the photo locked in a box. Twenty five years she had never breathed a word about it to anyone.

  She got down and saw the old woman staring blankly at the receding landscape. Anubha had an odd feeling that she had seen the woman somewhere. She stared hard at the woman but soon gave up and instead began looking for her slippers. One was sticking out from under a lofty suitcase and the other was where she had left it. She heaved the slipper out and snaked her way to the wash basin. Some local tribal women were squatting near the toilet. Anubha looked at their torn blouses which revealed all that they meant to hide. She sighed and splashed her face with water. The train had slowed down and she stood at the door for a while looking at the lush green paddy fields festooning the countryside. Looking at them she recalled a phrase, “The farther the grass, the greener it looks.”

  As the train gained speed, Anubha abandoned her post and got back to her seat. She sat down, removed her slippers and stacked them neatly in one corner. Her attention now inadvertently fell on the person sitting in front. Anubha thought, “How should I start a conversation? Well, maybe I’ll make some movements or noise to draw her attention.” She did so but still could not solicit even a disdainful glance. The old woman’s deadpan countenance bore on it a troubled past. Anubha was getting impatient. She blurted out, “You going to Kolkata?”

  The old woman turned and looked at Anubha. Their eyes locked and that sense of déjà vu yet again gripped Anubha’s senses as she looked straight into those melting, melancholy grey eyes. The old woman stared at Anubha, her grey eyes unblinking. The old woman’s face had an expression which beggared description. Was it astonishment? Was it fear? Was it neither? She began to tremble and grasping Anubha’s hand gave out a hoarse whistle, “Come with me, please.”

  Anubha was tak
en aback. “Where to?” she asked.

  “To my house in Jamshedpur, please beta…it’s very important, I have to show you something. It’s…it’s…necessary for you to see. Please come with me,” the old woman beseeched. Anubha couldn’t help but notice the earnestness with which the word ‘necessary’ came out from her mouth.

  “What do you want me to see? I am sorry I cannot come with you, I don’t even know who you are,” Anubha replied. Regretting her intention to start a conversation, she dished out a novel and began reading. From the corner of her eye, though, she could see that the old woman was still looking at her. Anubha decided to ignore her.

  “Aren’t you Anubha, my son Aakash’s best friend?” the old woman said, her eyes now fighting to hold back the fast-accumulating tears.

  The old lady’s words had a near paralyzing affect on Anubha. Her mouth fell open and she gasped for breath as the words aun…aun…aunty stumbled out. “Yes, I am! How are you?? and how did you recognize me after so many years?” Anubha screamed with delight.

  “Beta, would you believe me now? Please come home with me. It’s necessary for you to see something. I beg you to come.”

  So under the most strange and inexplicable of circumstances Anubha found herself seated in a white ambassador with her old escort, en route to the latter’s house. They had alighted from the train at the next station-Tatanagar-where the driver was waiting to receive them. For the entire journey the two women didn’t speak a word, both staring blankly outside the smudged glass windows.

  After an hour-long ride, Anubha was seated inside a century-old bungalow, reminiscent of the Raj days. After the servants had left, the old woman disappeared into one of the rooms and came out with a box covered with dust, cobwebs and decorated with insect droppings. She pulled up a chair and sat down, both women facing each other.

  .The old woman gathered her emotions and opened the box in her lap, took out an old yellowing photograph and handed it to Anubha. Her jaw dropped. She gasped, “The photograph!”

  “This photograph is mysterious” said the old woman. “You won’t believe me but…well…if you remember it was taken years ago at some fancy dress competition when you and Aakash were kids at school. Ever since we left our old home, a most unbelievable thing has happened. I…really can’t make you believe it, but you have been growing in the photo since the last 25-odd years! As you can now see here, Aakash is still a 12-year-old boy but you are as you look today. When I saw you in the train, I recognized you. That is why I brought you here. Thanks for coming Anu beta…I feel much lighter now.

  The world swam around Anubha’s eyes and had she not been comfortably seated, she would have fainted. Gathering herself, she drank some water, cleared her throat and spoke. “Aunty, I am beside myself with shock, because I can’t make you believe that in the photograph which I have, Aakash has been growing all these years while I am still 12 years old. I have never breathed a word about this to anyone. For 25 years, I have kept this photograph. There have been many times when I’ve wanted to destroy that photograph. It drove me towards spirituality and I learnt that there are many things around us which we do not understand. Somehow, I don’t know what to say, but we must let these things be as they are. Don’t ever disturb the order of the unknown, for the consequences can be far beyond human ken.”

  A silence now enveloped the two women. It was convenient. An abrupt end to its perpetuity was brought about by Anubha’s remark.

  “But I still don’t understand one thing. I have always seen Aakash ‘grow’ old in that photograph and over the years got somewhat comfortable with seeing him ‘grow’. However, he just stopped ‘growing’ in his twenties. And there has been no change in him since the past ten years. I still can’t figure out why.”

  The old woman’s already white face had turned a shade paler. A whisper, “Do you want to know why?” did not elude Anubha. She stared at the old woman. “Why?”

  “Because Aakash died in a car accident when he was 24.”

  Valley of the Dead

  It was not expected, hot days and humid nights at this time of the year. The torrential downpour was also rare, but the rain continued.

  He parked his Merc on the highway and started walking; an occasional vehicle passed by in a vain attempt to bless his solitude. He wore his suit. It was only after he had crossed the bridge that he left the highway and headed towards the valley. The Valley of the Dead.

  It had always been called the Valley of the Dead but no one knew why. In fact it was not a valley, it was a dense aspen grove, and as with all aspens the trees were young but the root systems were thousands of years old. The local folklore said the aspen had grown with a purpose: a sentinel to uphold those who lay buried underneath it. People avoided the valley.

  He loosened his tie and let it limp around his neck. The rain had drenched him to his bones, the Armani suit only a soggy vestige of its elegant glory when dry. The trousers stuck to his skin. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet on the sloshed ground. The distant glare of headlights on the highway behind him now comfortably escaped his ken. He fished around in his pockets and took out a grey metallic device. 12 missed calls. He looked up in the contacts and called. As it rang he smiled and tossed the device away with an air of nonchalance which would humble even the most pampered Persian cat. It fell behind without a thud; the earth was wet. Next, the wallet came out and landed in a bush. A credit card was dislodged from its pocket due to impact. It read “Jonathan Hargreaves.” He plugged in his earphones, flipped through the play list on his iPod and played A Tout le Monde. The leitmotif was perfect; next came out a bunch of keys. The Merc, the front door, the locker…all bunched together in solidarity towards their owner. The bunch was not tossed or flipped or thrown…it just slipped away from his fingers effortlessly. He was now in the valley.

  The moon peeped from behind the nimbus clouds in a vain attempt to throw some light on that lonesome wretch below. It couldn’t. The rain continued. He was now barefoot. It didn’t matter. 4:31 minutes of A Tout le Monde were over and the iPod was soon discarded. Next went the Armani then the tie and finally the shirt. He now began a search. He looked in front, to his right, to his left, bent his frame but still couldn’t see it anywhere. The aspens left no space for such a thing. Still, he searched. The rain didn’t make his search any easier.

  Soon, he found it. A dried bush with thistles dearly holding on to a drop of rain. The scratching of the thistles against his well-sculpted torso was pleasant. Pain and rain to cleanse his soul. And finally, he lay snug in this small uncomfortable place called home for the rest of the night, weeping. Slowly the embers of life also ebbed and he passed away peacefully, claimed by the elements.

  It was only morning when the last of his possessions was towed away: the Merc.

  Raag Bhimpalasi

  Although Vishambhar lived in Jabalpur, only 162 kms away from Maihar, this was his first trip to Maihar in 5 years. This small town in central India, where his sister had been married off to, appeared to have changed little. Vishambhar’s was a family of musicians and so was his sister’s. This was not unusual in these parts given Maihar’s legacy as one of the prominent musical gharanas. One of the greatest doyens of Indian classical music, Ustad Allauddin Khan had lived here for a long time and was the celebrated court musician of Maihar Maharaja’s palace. Remove music and the town would be bereft of its soul. Walking through its shabby by-lanes, Vishambhar felt transported to many years afore, his ears ringing with morning riyaaz drifting out from creaky windows alongside the lanes. Today, very few young boys and girls growing up in Maihar are interested in this grand legacy, and most leave the town for better-paying jobs. “Nothing wrong,” thought Vishambhar, “times were changing.”

  By the time he reached his sister’s house, a grand palatial bungalow built on top of a hillock, the day had progressed into a bright morning. He saw his sister standing at the door talking to a man.

  “Kamlaji, how about Sunday early morning 6:30 AM?” sai
d the man.

  “Err…no that would not work, sorry,” replied his sister with some hesitation. Vishambhar walked up to his sister and patted the cheeks of his 10-year-old nephew, Vipin. The conversation between his sister and the man took a brief intermission as the siblings exchanged cordialities. After this, his sister turned again to the man.

  “Sorry, we cannot hold the class during that time. Vipin has…has some other work planned. This is such a problem. Why do you want to reschedule the Saturday timings we had agreed upon?”

  “Kamlaji, I can’t help it. This week I have business in Delhi to attend to. I assure you that from now onwards I would not request any more reschedules. Ok, can we do it on Sunday evening instead of morning?” the man pleaded.

  “Fine. Only this time.” Kamla closed the discussion and the door.

  Vishambhar sat on the couch and drank a glass of water. Vipin had grown taller since the last time he had seen him. His nephew was a child prodigy. The musical genes of his forefathers had made their way into him and he had taken to music like a swan takes to water. His skill was primarily in playing the flute. The fact that the boy was born blind only accentuated his prowess. A rare child prodigy. The scion of the Maihar gharana.

  “Problems with the new teacher?” asked Vishambhar. He had heard the conversation at the door and the uneasiness in his sister’s demeanor had not escaped him.

  “No, no, not at all. He is very good. We were worried after the last teacher’s death whether Vipin’s music lessons could continue. You know how much his flute means to him. Thankfully we found a replacement and the lessons have resumed. In fact my boy has improved a lot over the last couple of months,” Kamla said proudly.

  “Very well,” replied her brother. He could still sense that something was wrong. There was something about this matter which was troubling her but she preferred to suppress it. He called out to Vipin to come sit beside him.