The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma... and Other Hauntings

by Manish Mahajan

  The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma and Other Hauntings:

  Ghost Stories from India

  By Manish Mahajan

  “Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six”

  -Revelation 13:11-18

  Foreword

  It is with a great sense of the rich history short stories have in horror literature that I write this foreword. None of the great horror novelists, from Edgar Allen Poe to H.P.Lovecraft to Stephen King, have been able to resist the temptation of writing short stories. I have enjoyed all their creations over the years and with the same sense of satisfaction I enjoyed Manish Mahajan’s stories.

  There is a wonderful undercurrent of tragic irony in all these stories you will read. I believe, the worst kind of horror that we experience is the sheer helplessness we feel when we can’t stop bad things from happening in this world. Most of those terrible things are our own creations, but some are completely unexplained. Those are the ones that give us the feeling of utter horror. And that’s the reason I loved Manish’s stories.

  There is also a deep sense of loss in these stories. It is something that resonates with all of us. From a man reminiscing about a friend who suddenly disappeared one day, to an author who experiences the impending loss of something he has forever held dear, to a man who has lost his entire family in one stroke of bad luck, these stories also tell you about the horror one experiences when the realization of loss hits hard.

  I have a number of favorites in this collection. I am sure you will too.

  Rohit Gore

  18 Jan 2013

  Author of National Bestsellers “Focus Sam” and “Circle of Three”

  Preface

  I am not new to writing, but this book which finds itself in your hands is certainly my long-awaited debut. The first story I ever wrote was called “The Kettle” and was published in the college magazine when I used to be its editor in 2002. It was over the following 10 years that the stories which form this book were written. So, in essence, these stories inadvertently mirror how my life and the influences therein have changed over the decade. Most of the characters in these stories are real people I’ve met or known during this decade; from college buddies to ex-colleagues, from online friends to housemaids, from neighbors to bosses: my humble attempt at immortalizing people who have unfortunately slipped into the vast nothingness of my thoughts. The occurrences in the stories, although, are purely a figment of my fecund imagination and do not aim at promulgating any belief or superstition.

  The most common questions I get asked are, “Why supernatural stories?” and “Do you believe in ghosts?” I will now try to answer both questions.

  The short story is a highly challenging and technically demanding format for writers. It is also my firm belief that there is no other genre that tests the writer as much as the supernatural. Not only do you have to tell a unique story every single time you sit down to write but you must also be able to create a visual scene in the minds of your reader using powerful language. No other genre necessitates scene-setting, for example – a haunted castle, foggy marshes, dark alleyways etc. As they say, a lot of the horror is unsaid and imagined rather than explained. This is what has always attracted me towards writing supernatural stories.

  Do I believe in ghosts? To be honest, I do not have an answer. While the Hollywood portrayal of demons and poltergeists in popular culture might be difficult to believe, I certainly do not subscribe to the science-can-explain-everything argument. In my personal life, I have witnessed events which have puzzled me enough to warrant an open mind towards the supernatural. That then brings us to the question – What is supernatural? We must make a distinction between horror and supernatural.

  In the realm of my conscience, supernatural is simply anything which is beyond the natural, beyond current understanding. If a particular species of shrub inexplicably always grows at a distance of exactly 1 meter from the road, I would call that supernatural. Supernatural does not necessarily mean scary, spine-chilling, grotesque, anthropomorphic beasts hunting down every living human on earth or vengeful spirits entering the bodies of young girls and speaking in male baritones. On the contrary, I have always believed that a supernatural story can be simple, funny, silly, emotional and maybe even boring!

  I would like to dedicate this book to each and every person who has urged me to write over the last decade. That list would be very long to include here, however, I must accord a special mention to Shreerang Joshi, Yogesh Mali, Tejas Joshi, Swati Verma and Jas Bhambra for their sustained encouragement and conviction in my abilities as a would-be writer. Many unknown friends on blogs and online writing forums provided feedback to improve my writing; thanks are due to them as well. I am greatly indebted to Neerja Yadav for reading the drafts and guiding me with her invaluable editorial inputs. My sincere gratitude to Jessica Faleiro, author of “Afterlife, Ghost Stories from Goa” for agreeing to review a sample of my work. Last but not the least, I am deeply honored and thrilled to have a foreword written by my good friend, mentor, and national bestselling author Rohit Gore.

  These are stories that are intrinsically Indian; geographically and culturally diverse stories set in cities. as varied as Pune, Shimla, Bangalore, Kanpur and in states as diverse as West Bengal, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. Some of these stories have been built upon a pre-independence, colonial motif. I have consciously retained the authenticity that such settings would warrant. To that effect, the use of vernacular words and expressions (Bengali in “Begunkodor Ghost Station”, Marathi in “The Greatest Dare of All Time” and Hindi in “The Secret in the Photograph”) is intentional and meant to enhance the regional feel of the story. I trust this will not distract the reader from enjoying these tales.

  This book is meant to be read slowly. This book is meant to be read in the solitude of the night, preferably under the yellow light of your night lamp. This book is meant to be read by the bonfire on a cold night while camping out in that jungle. This book is meant to be read on that night train when everyone else has slept. This book is meant to be read on that lonely beach with just the sound of gently lapping waves.

  And by the way, while you have been reading this a dark shadow has silently crept up and is standing beside you. Look to your right!

  Manish Mahajan

  03 Jan 2013, Bangalore

  Reach me at www.goodreads.com/manizoya

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/manizoya

  Contents

  The Peepal Tree of Lachhmangarh

  13, Church Street

  Begunkodor Ghost Station

  Her Unkept Promise

  The Secret in the Photograph

  Valley of the Dead

  Raag Bhimpalasi

  Strefford’s Roll Call

  The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma

  Lost

  Burn the Old Papers

  The Greatest Dare of All Time

  The Peepal Tree of Lachhmangarh

  It was with his third strike that he drew blood.

  It had no effect on him, but the village folk of Lachhmangarh scurried back to their hamlets and locked themselves up in the apparent safety of their respective hovels. Devendra Singh Rathore wiped a few beads of perspiration from his brow and delivered a crushing fourth blow. More blood, even more…till there was a continuous trickle.

  Rathore was cutting down the Peepal Tree.

  The Peepal was bleeding.

  Lachhmangarh was a sleepy village in central India. It was named after its bravest son, Lachhman Veer Na
ruka, who rose to become a general in the great Rajput king Maharana Sanga’s army. In the course of its turbulent history it had changed names every two hundred years each time honoring a denizen. But Lachhmangarh had stuck as no one had been born to humble the great general. It had some hundred-odd families. The rich inhabited the northern and eastern parts, a geographic schism resulting from the meandering Ulwa river. The soil of the Ulwa was believed to possess therapeutic properties and was smeared on the bodies of all infants born in the village. The demarcation that Ulwa drew on the map of Lachhmangarh did not extend into its ethos as in this village the old and the young, the Rajputs and the Gujjars, the rich and the poor lived in harmony.

  But all was not well. The month of migration had arrived and the villagers were hastily making last minute arrangements.

  Ah! The month of migration: how every soul dreaded it.

  This month began after the last leaf of the Peepal fell; the villagers had to leave and take abode in nearby villages. When they returned, their bijou village presented a grotesque montage of wrecked huts, uprooted trees, dead livestock and the odd human who had not caught the fall of the last leaf—strung upside down from the branches of the Peepal. There was evil in that tree.

  Anil Tiwari was a very old man. Nobody knew how old he was but everyone in the village had always remembered him as an old man. It was said that the Peepal was as old as him. It was also said that he knew much more. But Tiwari never spoke. No one had ever heard him speak about anything alluding to the Peepal. The rumor-mongers vouchsafed that he could ‘speak’ to the spirits. He lived outside the village with his hazel-eyed granddaughter, Aravali.

  The wind was now a swift gale. The clouds looked ominous. Blood had begun to collect in the footprints Rathore had made in the damp soil around the tree. Every muscle in his body ached but he kept on. Something brushed against his left shoulder and stuck to his skin because of the sweat. The last leaf of the Peepal had just fallen…on Rathore.

  Rathore was all of 23 and betrothed to Aravali. Anil Tiwari never had even the slightest hesitation in giving his granddaughter’s hand in marriage to this young lad. Rathore had always been a very ordinary boy. Deeds of valor or courage (which were the insignia of men in those days) were always in his dreams. His parents had died when he was six. Nobody talked about how his parents had died. In Lachhmangarh the unfortunate victims of the Peepal were fast forgotten.

  Last year, Rathore had lost someone very dear to him; his younger sister. The villagers had found her strung upside down by her right leg, the left lying a few yards away. Her eyes were missing and the intestines were drooping from the frame much to the amusement of juvenile crows that had a rare feast that day. Since then Rathore knew what he had to do and the seminal day had indeed dawned today.

  Aravali heard the thunder roar from her room where she had been locked up. The wind screamed menacingly. Rathore was completely drenched in blood as the trickle had given way to spouts from all over the tree’s trunk. He stopped and dropped on the blood-sogged earth. Looking up at his adversary, he saw the Peepal swaying wildly but not with the wind.

  For one entire year Aravali had dreaded this day as she knew her man would go after the Peepal. She had almost fainted when Rathore had stormed into her house that night and proclaimed his murderous intentions. Although this was expected, what had provoked him into action, she had no clue. She had run out to everyone in the village, crying. The elders had rushed to pacify the young lad. Soon the entire village had assembled in Tiwari’s courtyard. Rathore stood in the centre…back straight, chin up, not uttering a single word. Tiwari lay on his choupai perfunctorily smoking his hookah, least bothered about the worried congregation of villagers around him and the purpose of their assemblage. Perhaps it was the sight of his beloved granddaughter weeping helplessly which had caused his apparent ennui to disappear. He sat up and looking at his grandson-in-law to be, spoke, “Whatever you do, don’t yawn under the Peepal tree.” Everybody was silent. The irony did not escape Tiwari’s conscience that the first time he ever spoke about the tree he was not heard as Rathore had already turned to leave. Rathore had not heard them. As Anil Tiwari watched him walk away he closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Whatever you do son, don’t yawn under the Peepal tree. The spirits will enter your body and then….” Tiwari pulled at the hookah and took in a deep drag.

  It was raining now heavily and the frequent streaks across the sky momentarily lit up the countryside in blinding shards of silver. Rathore sized up his progress. He was more than half way through and another hour hacking at the opposite side would finish the job. The wooden handle of his axe had splintered his palms and they were bleeding profusely. His blood and the Peepal’s were different shades of crimson but the rain freely mixed the two. It was only now that he noticed the last leaf still sticking to his shoulder: a suggestive omen to his inevitable fate now. Smiling, he closed his eyes, stretched out his muscular arms and looked up towards the black skies. Suddenly a branch of the Peepal veered ferociously and hit him across his chest throwing him to the ground. Rathore writhed in pain. With a banshee yell, he lunged at the tree and drawing every ounce of strength from his muscles started cutting the tree down savagely. The Peepal responded by swaying even more wildly.

  An hour passed. Aravali had fallen asleep, exhausted. Tiwari lay on his choupai staring blankly into the darkness.

  Rathore lay motionless, his frame resting against the Peepal’s almost cut trunk. The Peepal too had lifelessly drooped its branches despite the howling wind. Rathore was feeling sleepy. He didn’t resist it. A little rest and he would do it, thought his semi-conscious mind. He was just about to drop over into sublime unconsciousness when it happened.

  He yawned.

  The village priest at the Mahakaal temple had just finished repeating the Maha Mrityunjaya Jaap (the prayer for conquering death) for the tenth time when a man’s blood-curdling scream pervaded through the village and far into the countryside. It started slowly till it reached its highest pitch and then abruptly ended. Subsequent screams followed, but these came from a locked room in Tiwari’s house and were out of delirium mixed with an emotion called love. Anil Tiwari continued staring at the darkness in front of him. The strained muscles of his eyes closed involuntarily and two saline drops slowly left a moist trail on his wrinkles. No one dared to step out of their homes. One by one everyone at Lachhmangarh fell asleep and soon it stopped raining.

  It was only a couple of serene hours later that dawn broke on Lachhmangarh. The heavenly scent of rain on earth dashed with a whiff of marigolds on fresh air descended on the village’s morning calm, as if from the heavens. The villagers soon woke up. Vijay, the leper, slowly but boldly began walking towards the crowd. He could see that everyone was already up and moving in the direction he was heading; on the path that led to the Peepal tree. He also noticed that everybody was silently staring at something in front of them. He tried to see but could not barge his vision through. Nobody even noticed him as he desperately pushed his way to the front. Vijay stopped dead at what he saw. There in front of him lay the Peepal…cut, defeated and dead. But there was no trace of Rathore. Not even his footprints. The only thing which caught the discerning despondent eye was the red color of the soil. Three days later Aravali immolated herself.

  Well, that was two hundred years ago. Today, Lachhmangarh no longer exists. One can often catch the teacher narrating to the disbelieving children how their village got its present name. Rathori-named after its greatest son.

  Afterword

  “In India, the Peepal tree takes pride of place in tales of the supernatural. Bhoots, prets, munjias and other unearthly beings all take up residence in this most hospitable tree; when they get a chance they take possession of unwary passers-by and play havoc with their lives. (I have been warned all my life not to yawn under a Peepal tree. ‘A mischievous pret will jump down your throat!’ And then my life, I am told, will not be my own; even if the pret does not kill me or make me
insane, it will completely ruin my digestion.”

  Ruskin Bond

  The aforementioned lines are excerpted from the introduction to “A Face in the Dark and Other Hauntings”; collected stories of the supernatural. They sowed the seeds of inspiration for penning this story

  13, Church Street

  I arrived late afternoon at the British Naval officers colony of Shimla cantonment, the carriage dropping me off at 13, Church Street. The afternoon sun was making angled patterns on the garden that had been weeded carefully with its hedges cut prim. In the living room, two old, sepia frames hung on the walls; from them a sea-faring Admiral and a freckled woman with monocles beamed down upon me. The welcome from the Pinkertons too was warm and my lodgings were promptly arranged. It was clear that visitors were common, and those with deep pockets were given such warm welcomes. The house at 13, Church Street belonged to a blissful septuagenarian couple, Darby and Joan Pinkerton. But they were deaf and I was their guest for the night.

  On the way there, my fears had been confirmed by the talkative carriage driver. Charlotte had been visiting 13, Church Street on random nights. “She wears white, carries a lantern and always knocks thrice on the door,” whispered the driver. Had his ponies been more docile, I could have found out more. But they were obstinate beasts, asking to be whipped into submission. Maybe the animals had a reason being recalcitrant. Maybe they did not want us to canter along Charlotte’s tread.

  I spent most of what remained of that dull afternoon reading the papers about Sir Stafford Cripps’ mission to convince the Indian leaders to ally with Britain in the war; and then afterwards just watching the Pinkertons. In the garden, in the living room, in the kitchen—they were on song everywhere. The silence in their ears meant that they never heard those knocks, a natural defense to the maiden’s nightly hauntings. With dusk settling, old man Pinkerton got busy with photographing the setting sun. As evening advanced, my anxiety grew. Would Charlotte knock tonight?