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.