My Encounter With Ghost

 -- This is a modified version of a piece which  I had written in Sept 1995 and was published in Pioneer  on 15th Sept 1995

 “Fear is the little darkroom where negatives are developed” said Michael Pretehard .To me, it appears, that the entire big world is a vast darkroom  where negatives are churned out day in and day out. Only a few wise men are able to see them as the source of positive print outs. And so was it in this case.  Ghost existed for me  because “It  exists only  for those who want to see them.”  

 

My Encounter With Ghost

*

It was one of those unusual days when the life practically gets crippled by the onslaught of snowy cold winter.  The whole  week was  bitten by the cold  wave  that blew mercilessly through  long mountain  slopes of the Himalayas engulfing  the entire north India. Adding to the woes was  incessant  downpour through  the whole  week  that turned the fast buffets of chilling  wind into ferocious hurricane . Thick and long branches  of huge trees, laden with weight of green bushy leaves, lay haphazardly on the roads, blocking the passage to whatever  thin traffic chose to be on the  roads .
                                                                                           
But the chilly weather, which  had forced  almost  entire town to remain indoors that day , could not  stop us from  reaching  our destination, the tiny but  decent restaurant , where six of us would habitually assemble every evening  to gossip, between sips of  tea and puffs of cigarettes, on any thing   under the sun. We fondly called it discussions as if  it was the part of our college curriculum. In between, couple of us would walk out to stroll on the crowded market roads for a change, but would make a hasty retreat, lest our absence for long would deprive the world of our confabulations on a matter of international significance.  Some others would come, participate  and go like co-opted members to a conference.

 Escaping the vigilant eyes of my grand father , I stealthily took out my bicycle and made my way towards the main market to join my friends at the restaurant. And they were all there with the punctuality of a cadet, as if absence could invoke severe punishment. As I could see from their excited faces and frayed tempers, they were  in the midst of an interesting story which  kept them all spell bound.  And the story  was intriguing enough to be really  interesting . After all , it  rotated around  popular myths and mysteries surrounding the existence of  ‘ghosts’ which, by the time I joined the group, had culminated into a lively debate  with lines sharply drawn between believers and non –believers.

 Despite our loud claims to be  rational in our out look, refusing to accept anything without convincing proof, there were obvious marks of skepticism on of the faces. Yes, some of us were  carried by the   spicy stories  that  were being narrated to provide strength and support  to  long  arguments extended by  couple of our friends  who were finding it difficult to dismiss  as mere illusion the existence of ghosts without any incontrovertible proof. Proof, and that too without any shadow of doubt!  No way.  It was not forthcoming on a theme as dicey as this.  Naturally, our so called intellectual group was caught in the dilemma whether ‘to believe or not to believe’ in these unseen phantoms . The twists and turns  in the arguments for and against,  punctuated with punches of spicy anecdotes , were too interesting and thought provoking for the on going  debate to be given up abruptly half way. But, with the darkness of night spreading intensely,  there had to be an end to it, even if  without any conclusions as usual. And we dispersed reluctantly to return to our homes.

The  day had already drawn closer to midnight when I picked up  my old bicycle after nearly four  hours of  marathon  gossiping which, I realized when I came on the road , had kept us quite oblivious of the growing darkness  of the deepening  night outside, devastating impact of thunder  and rains on the roads, the hazards, God forbid, that we might encounter on our  way home. And I did encounter the  formidable foes. I fell in the invisible hands of the Ghosts.
 

The dark clouds overhead , with blinding glares of lightenings  and deafening sounds of thunders, threatened another burst of torrential rains. I found the roads deserted except for a few passers by. Pale flickering lights from the lamp posts did little to inspire confidence. It was as if the entire area wore a dark cloak. I have not been a brave type but not a coward either. But the awful atmosphere forced me to revise my opinion about myself. My palms were moist with mist as  I pedalled hard to pick up speed, humming tunes to myself, more to allay the rising fear than for any lightness of mood. I kept moving on the long stretch which seemed unending, praying  silently  in between the changing tunes, to  reach home safely without encountering any major impediment. But that was not to be.

As I entered the labyrinth  of the old market complex, my  bicycle suddenly came to a grinding halt, as if stopped from behind.  I found myself standing on the road awkwardly, confused and helpless, with not a soul around.  I quickly checked the bicycle and found nothing wrong. It moved  smoothly with me as I walked  with it a few steps. I jumped on it to ride again and it stopped with the same suddenness. I was already jittery.   I could not help the nagging thought that this could be the handiwork of evil spirits who had in me an  easy target to play  pranks. I looked around like a dove caught between hounds. The more I thought, the more I felt the horror of the  rhythmic steps of  ghosts dancing around me  with mocking gestures.

The occasional wails of cats and barks of dogs only added to the weirdness that surrounded the area.   I made one more frantic effort to move the bike but gave up immediately when I found that it would  not move as if held  back by the invisible hands of a mischievous ghost. The prolonged discussions in the cafeteria  on the subject was already fresh on my mind. What had seemed earlier illusions of evil spirits were now coming alive before my eyes as ghosts  in flesh and blood .  All the stories heard about ghosts appeared to be true . I was gradually becoming more and more inclined to believe in their existence as much as I did in my own. What could be a better proof than what I was confronting  at that moment?  

I have  heard people say  that if we are able to overcome the fear of death, we have  conquered man’s  worst enemy . And I had reached a point where death looked imminent and  inevitable. There seemed to be no way but to fight it out with all the might and wisdom that I had in me. Once  this inevitable reality sunk in my mind and I reconciled  to the  impending fatal  disaster, the fear that had overtaken me so far  withered away like the scent in the air. ‘Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness’, the old chinese proverb flashed my mind. And I felt better. Cursing my friends for the predicament I was in , I mustered all the courage  and made the last ditch effort to save my life.

                                                                                           

 Remembering the words of  Jeremy Schwartz, "Live every day as if it is your last, because one of these days , it will be.”, I lifted the bicycle over the head and banged it on the road with all the force I could gather. And I did it using the bicycle to be a lethal  instrument in hand to hit the ghost. The sound of its fall made me feel still better. I stood motionless for  a few seconds watching the steel frame that lay on the metalled  road  with its rear rim curled up. Silence that followed the bang  assured me that I had hit the target and forced  them to retreat. I looked around cautiously for any counter attack before  I pulled up the bicycle on its two wheels and, finding nothing but eerie of terrifying silence,  jumped quickly on it. Surprisingly it moved , though with low intermittent creaking sounds . Despite the pride of a victor, I hurried towards my home without daring to look back. As I was drawing away from the scene, I started  feeling elated at the thought that I could outsmart the ghosts and had beaten them down. 

As I entered the lit premises of my residential area, I stopped to catch my breath. Holding the bicycle , I stood at the roadside for a few minutes to get over the trauma of the past and impending wrath of the future at home. Suddenly it occurred to me to  check the machine  to find out where the noise was coming from. As I looked at the rear wheel ,  my eyes got fixed on the brake. I found that the lever of the brake had tilted in a manner that the slightest pressure from above would bring it closer to the rim.  Relieved of the pressure, the rim was free to move.  As the mystery of the dancing Ghosts unfolded itself and  the truth dawned on me, I laughed aloud heartily, without bothering  that I might be taken a lunatic by  a few of the passers by . I felt like dancing on the road. After all, on time discovery of  an otherwise  insignificant fact saved me from becoming  all time convert to a diehard believer in the existence of ghosts. But the sudden  thought of two piercing eyes of my old grand father waiting restlessly for the return of his spoilt grand son busted my balloon of mirth  and mellowed down my jubilant mood. 

Delusion of Appearance---a piece of write up

This piece is based on a incident stored in the recess of my memory which serves to remind me never to form an opinion about a person  in a haste. He  may be far too different from the picture you draw about him on his  face value.  

DELUSION OF APPEARANCE

“Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience”, wrote  Francis Bacon . True, but if I say that it was both  a  precious  education and a sweet experience  when  I  had to   travel  by a passenger train , I  may perhaps not be taken seriously. Who will believe in this age of superfasts  that  I can   feel enamoured of having  travelled in a passenger train?  But, believe me, it is true and the whole stretch of journey is still fresh in my mind even after four decades.

It was a hot sunset  when,  after a long hectic day , I, accompanied by a  college friend,  rushed fast  to catch the bus which we missed by a few minutes.   Instead of waiting indefinitely for the next bus , we took a chance at the railway station and, luckily for us, a passenger train , which was running late as usual , stood  at the platform, as if  waiting to receive us. We did not give a second thought  and   boarded  a general compartment . Travelling by a passenger train ! So what .  It was better to be in the illusion of movement, we reflected , than  be  stranded.

We  stood  at the entrance and  surveyed the inside view to get acclimatized  to an atmosphere which was  alien to us  and to  locate a dignified spot where two of us could be accommodated comfortably. After all, we were white collared shairi babus(urban elite), amply proud of our English speaking talent. As I threw a casual glance ,  I saw people rubbing shoulders to create space for themselves. Most of the berths   were  already occupied by passengers of different hues and colours.  The village  folks   in their traditional attires were engaged in activities , from caressing their children to munching their meals . A group of young men were engrossed in the game of cards , unmindful of the surrounding . Some sat there lost in their own thoughts. A few amongst  women were  talking  in hush hush voices, perhaps about their inlaws and husbands. At last, my roving eyes stopped at the cabin where a group of  reasonably well dressed gentlemen was sitting ready to resume the pitch of their  discussions  which perhaps got dim and inaudible in  the din of    commotion of the standing train at one of the biggest stations on the route. And that was the spot where we settled down.   

As the train moved  I heard  the  group  talking loudly amongst them, perhaps resuming  their gossiping on topics of interest, from qualities of recent releases of films to  personal lives  of film stars , their acting talents, stories of collapsed marriages, their affairs and characters.  Gradually gossiping transformed into serious discussions, from increasing rate of crimes to increasing prices in the market , from casteist politics to pseudo-secularism. Each one spoke with an air of confidence and with authority of  an expert shifting subjects  from vagaries of weather to shrewd moves of politicians.

Though we pretended  to be indifferent, we had  our ears to their heated debates all the time . We were finding it difficult to keep aloof  and  no sooner I got the opportunity to  intervene, I pounced at it and made a valid  point. We  got drawn to the  stream of  so called intellectual interaction  and became part of the group,  as if we knew each other for years. As the discussion  advanced on a topic of utmost importance, the future of democracy in our country , views expressed by some of them made lot of sense. And I found it all to be such an exhilarating experience that I  had to revise my opinion  about traveling in a passenger train.

Far from being averse to its stoppages at short intervals , I started enjoying the journey   for its  leisurely movement , crowded and yet specious. Nobody seemed  to be in a hurry, not the train  at least. I could look  at the faces that spoke  volumes, heard peels of laughter reflecting carefree attitudes, eyes that wept without trickles of tears telling tales of want and misery.  It brought me  face to face with the bitterness of  human  existence. I could see   each one of us  carrying  an invisible burden of life like a bull carries hump on its back. And the best part was that it provided   a natural   forum for thoughtful exchange of ideas , lively discussions, heated debates,  meaningful seminars without being tied up to the formal  rules of the game or the constraints of the formats.

  

As the discussion shifted to  spirituality and metaphysics involving Vedic scriptures, Bhagavat Gita, Buddhism, Islam and Christianity,   our chatting became more and more  loud and aggressive. The pitch got raised to a crescendo synchronizing  rhythmically  with the clattering sound of the  moving  wheels of the train. But there was sudden fall of the pitch and swift mellowing down of the excitement. We had to be silent for a few minutes.

 In fact , as the  train  stopped , we saw an  old man , half clad in  dirty clothes, boarding  the compartment .and making  his way to occupy a seat facing ours.We watched him in disgust.   His black skin, coated with patches of  dust was glistening with  darkness  and touches of repulsive whiteness. His dishevelled  and dry long hair, uncut for years , as if rubbed in sand,  rested on his head like  a deserted  nest on the branch of a dried up tree. His eyes  protruding through two holes  were roving and restless  as if looking for something that was not there. He sat on the berth  unmindful of our presence and seemed lost in his own thoughts . Person with such a demeanour could hardly be welcome to an area which was predominantly occupied by white collared gentry.

As the commotion created by  sudden intrusion of this new guest subsided ,we resumed the debate, returning to the same high pitch . We could not help  watching the old man now and then from the corner of our eyes as he threw casual glances on speakers as they spoke.   Irritated by the  foul smell that his body emitted, some one amongst us commented contemptuously  about him  in English . We had no choice but to ignore him and get back to our topic of discussion. 

One of the speakers spoke  about the role of fate. He argued. "Well, if nothing happens without the will of Providence , call it with  whatever name , the god, the almighty , luck, fate or destiny, what is then the relevance of action, the karma, which forms important part of the philosophy  of Bhagavat Gita . How could the mortal beings be responsible for their actions , if they are pre-ordained . It is like holding a motor bike responsible for an accident whereas the rider on it, not the bike, has the real control over it."  His argument was contested by counter arguments. "True," countered someone, " that destiny has a part to play. But God has blessed the  man with His most covetous gift, the brain. If he cannot use it to decide what is right and what is wrong,  then  what befalls on him as a consequence of his action , he  escapes by  attributing it to the fate . Is it not pure and simple escapism?"  The arguments went on heatedly, and as it happens in case of discussions on such a ticklish subject , none was  ready to concede to the others' point of view.  

And then  we heard the thunderous voice as if coming from a long tunnel. No. It was from the tattered looking man facing us. In  his sharp baritone voice he intervened in fluent English that left us baffled and shocked .  In a few chosen words, he commented on the theory of Karma quoting profusely from Bhagavat Gita. He said that  Arjun also posed the same question to Lord Krishna, when he said :

“Sannyasam Karmanam  krsnapunaryogam ca samsasi

Yacchreya etaorekam tanme bruhi sunisctam”

(You extol renunciation of action and at the same time advocate yoga of action.  Krishna, give your considered view which one of the two is decidedly better.)

And Sri Krishna replied:

Sannyasah karmayogasca nihsreyasakaravubhautayostu

Tayostu karmasannyasatkarayogo visisyate

(Both, renunciation as well as yoga, are beneficial.  But, between the two, yoga(engagement in action ) is preferable.)

Before we could make sense of what he said , the train stopped and there he went  and got lost in the merging crowd at the platform leaving behind the bunch of idiots that we made of ourselves.We felt ashamed at our shallowness. True, in his abnormal attire and demenour he could hardly be  welcome  and that, to an extent,  abated our sense of guilt . But guilty we  did feel at  our  contemptuous remark against him  that we thought he would not be able to decipher.

As if this was not enough to teach us a lesson in humility, we encountered another episode  the same day. The train reached our destination late in the evening. We walked through the exit gate and looked for a rickshaw amongst crowded landscape outside Railway station. None was ready to go to the place where we lived . Those who agreed asked for exorbitant charges and looked expectant for the moment when we would succumb. As we stood depressed, there came from no where   a rickshaw pulled by a tall  and lanky young man in his late thirtees. Ignoring the hostile looks around him, he offered to take us . He did not bargain and was happy to get  what we thought was reasonable.

 We settled on his rickshaw and  he started pulling  it with all the strength in his frail body . As he jumped up and down on the pedal, we spotted a  patch on the back of his shirt too big to be missed. Impressed by his being reasonable despite being poor ,  we felt for him and wanted to be of some help. We  asked probing questions in Hindi and evoked interesting responses. He replied slowly in Hindi. But, in between when we made some comments about him in English for our own  consumption , he inadvertently  switched over to fluent English to reply to our queries. It was now our turn to jump with shock  on our seats. That  was too much in a day to bear.  By the time we recovered, we were in the compound of our residence. We paid him coins conversing fondly in English which brought our entire family out . They looked at us in surprise  as though we had gone mad They were not wrong . The thought of tragic plight of two wonderful characters that we encountered  was enough to drive us mad with shame and sorrow.