Dinner was served at 9:00 pm. Grilled chicken and rice with beans, roast potatoes and gravy. In an attempt to extend their hospitality, the Pinkertons switched on the radio for me. The frequency modulation however, was understandingly left to me. For the umpteenth time that evening, I glanced at the door. After the old couple had retired for the night, I lit my pipe and snuggled into the rocking chair near the fireplace in the living room, waiting. The strained howl of a distant hound wafted in through the oriel windows that filtered in the moonlight throwing eerie shadows on the hardwood floor.
It must have been well past midnight when I heard three sharp raps against the front door,
“knock, knock, knock.”
Those three cracks of the metal knocker would have roused anyone except the deaf. I got up and attended to the visitor.
Charlotte stood outside the door in her glistening white robe. She was carrying her head in her right hand; the faint glow from the lantern’s wick fell on her startled dismembered face as she shrieked, “Richard”!
Exasperated, I bellowed, “Charlotte, I said 30 Church Street not 13. This is the wrong house. And you take your head off only at 10, Acacia Avenue. And you hold it in your left hand not right. Can’t you follow simple instructions? Wish you had never died. I had to skip my rounds and come all this way for this!
Apologies rained. As always, I dismissed her till further notice.
Next morning, old woman Pinkerton greeted me with breakfast in bed. In time, I bade farewell to them and found myself riding back in the same horse carriage. I felt bad for Charlotte. Clumsy in life, clumsier in afterlife. I had my misgivings about whether her spirit could ever be free. I looked at the gathering mist on the surrounding hills as these thoughts whizzed past. The steeds were restless as before, surely they knew I was dead.
Begunkodor Ghost Station
3 September 2009
It screeched to a halt. The first train to stop at Begunkodor station—abandoned since 1967 for a very peculiar reason—had just arrived. Youth from Bamnia, Durku, Oldi, Honkol and other nearby villages stood on a makeshift podium shouting “Mamta di jano dirghayu hoye!” (“Long live sister Mamta!”). Reference was to Mamta Banerjee, the Railway Minister of India who had fulfilled her electoral promise of reopening the Begunkodor railway station. As the Howrah Hatia Express glided in to a rapturous welcome, it brought joy, it brought hope, it brought promise of a new beginning. And it also brought a dead body. A dead body - too old and perhaps too inconsequential to mar the convivial spirit around. “Heart attack,” announced the railway commercial inspector. “Raatre train dhoreche hobe…must have boarded in the night. Throw the body into the Purulia morgue.”
As the constables went about loading the corpse on to the Government hospital ambulance, something fell from the dead man’s fist. A marble.
~~~
The year was 1967 and the British had left India 20 years before, leaving the teeming masses responsible for their collective destiny. Perhaps, the greatest gift they left behind was the Railways; a nerve network of rail lines crisscrossing the country’s mosaic fabric. Lines knitted together by quaint, lonely railway stations, one of which was that of the nondescript village of Begunkodor in Purulia district of West Bengal.
That night, the villagers spoke in hushed voices around the fire, almost expecting to see or hear something jump from the shadows. Gonjo had been spotted dancing on the railway station during the last two nights. An innocuous act such as dancing could surely have been ignored but the gravity of the matter lay in the chilling fact that Gonjo had died a week back. Those hushed voices were only adding more fuel to the fire, not the fire which kept them warm, but the wildfire of ghostly hauntings at the Begunkodor railway station. What happened at the station this particular night, however, would clearly disabuse any misgivings towards the ghost of the dancing woman.
About a mile away stood the station enveloped in a haze of cold December fog. The platform was actually just leveled ground running for about 100 meters. After every few feet, there was a bench and a halogen lamp above. At its centre was the shed which had just two rooms. The inner room had a table, a chair, an earthen pitcher and two teakwood, double-door cupboards. The identity of this room’s occupant was spelled out in relief on a bronze name plate. It read:Raakhal Das. Station Master. Das was a short, thin man in his early forties. He had served in the railways all his life; a career which was littered with frequent transfers, the only constant being the trains which sped past his drooping green flags.
Das looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to nine. “Last one for the day,” he muttered. He stood on the platform for his last train to pass by. The station was deserted. He looked up and down, expecting to see only the usual denizens—a mongrel family and the mendicants. Surprisingly, he also noticed two men who he recognized as the village priest and the school teacher. He waved at them and yelled a greeting. The lack of engaging responses from the duo, however, gave him a hint that they wanted to be left alone with their business. So he went about with his. After securing the hand-operated signal to show “clear”, he turned back and retired to his room.
“I have called you here for a reason,” said the priest. “We need to talk about that land.” His companion nodded grimly.
By the time the train arrived, approaching as it did with a deafening crescendo, the clandestine conversation was in earnest progress. But their discussion or its implications were of no consequence here. As the train was passing the station, the priest suddenly gave a cry and fell to the ground. His companion also lost his foothold and they were dragged towards the rushing train. The priest, who had been standing behind a bench, reached out just in time to latch on to the leg of the bench. The teacher was not so lucky. His airborne body was sucked into the passing train. In less than half a minute, the train had passed and everything was back to normal. The stillness of the winter night was back on Begunkodor station. A piercing scream brought Das running out; he had recognized the voice. As he helped the shocked priest to his senses, they suddenly saw Gonjo. She was wearing a white sari and singing in a low voice. Then she began to dance. She looked pleased about something.
Next morning, a visibly shaken Das took the first State Transport bus to Purulia. Upon reaching the railways office, he met his superiors and explained what had happened on the night prior. Now Das had a bad reputation among his higher ups of being an inveterate drunkard. They turned a deaf ear to his demands of an immediate transfer alleging that the man was shirking duty and using a ridiculous defense. He was shown the door.
By the time he reached his shed at the station, it was late afternoon. There was panic among the villagers. The events of the night had spread to every corner even as men collected organs, bones and tissues of what used to be the school teacher. They no longer spoke in hushed voices but in clarion wails and cries. The eyewitness accounts of not one but two pairs of eyes had left no room for skepticism. The station was haunted and they would stay away. The beggars fled, taking the mongrels with them. Begunkodor was truly deserted now but for one last vestige of human presence. Rakhaal Das.
It must be mentioned here that Das was not a man of nerves, but in the face of this adversity, one can empathize with his state. Every sound—rustle of a leaf, gush of wind—made him uneasy. For the first couple of days, he survived on his reservoirs of sanity. The nights were particularly scary as the feminine spirit almost certainly made her presence manifest in no unclear terms. He often heard her cheerful humming and the skipping of her feet. But on the fifth night, there occurred an exception to this routine. Gonjo knocked on Das’s door. Not a knock really, it was an urgent rap.
“Kaun acche…who is there?” Das gasped. In the next moment, the door flung open as if in irritant reaction to the rhetoric. Her hair was flowing and her eyes were seething in fury. She walked up to Das and in a coarse, guttural voice snarled, “Give me my marbles.”
One does not require any description to understand that Raakhal Das did not l
ast the night. In the wee hours of dawn, the sweeper found his dead body in the chair. His face was white with fear and he seemed to be staring at something up ahead. When the unfortunate news reached the Ranchi Division of the South Eastern Railways, two senior officials made a reluctant visit. The apathy of the organization towards it long-serving employee was indeed sad. As far as the villagers were concerned, they were petrified. Das had been popular and had enjoyed a position of respect in the village’s social echelons. But what was singularly disturbing for the villagers was the implicit reason of his sudden death.
One would have assumed that Das’ death was the dénouement in the series of mysterious happenings at Begunkodor and that the station would have been shut thereafter. However, herein lay the saddest part. The Railways refused to accept explanations of the supernatural kind, maintaining that employees wanted postings at places of their convenience. Within two days, they had commissioned a replacement for Das. There is not much to be said about this new employee, as he mysteriously disappeared within a week. When a formal complaint was registered, the police investigation yielded nothing. Search teams scouted the countryside, but to no avail. It was learnt during the course of the inquiry that he had paid a surprise visit to his family. He was very grave, they told, and refused to talk or offer any explanation. He hastily left for Begunkodor the same evening, after buying some loose marbles. He was reported missing the next day.
So finally the Railways yielded. The employee union had refused to permit any of its staff to be posted at Begunkodor and it was abandoned.
~~~
Afterword: “Begunkodor Ghost Station” is a fictional recreation of events based on a true story. I have tried to construct the tale while adhering to as much veracity as the constraints of storytelling would permit. This story has been widely reported in the media by the BBC, The Times of India and The Telegraph. To view actual photos of Begunkodor railway station and read the press coverage, please follow these links: http://www.telegraphindia.com/1071225/jsp/bengal/story_8707498.jsp, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8236178.stm
Her Unkept Promise
The Beginning
“Wish they had used a lighter shade of orange for the cover,” he thought, rubbing his chin pensively. Just then his cell rang and a voice shrieked, “You are God. Super stories, dude. I especially loved the one about that funny flautist in that Israeli town…what’s it called?” (pause; ruffling of pages)“Yea… Paid Piper of Ashkelon. Your imagination and descrip….”
The phone’s battery had died. He smiled and spoke into the dead phone, “Thanks so much.”
By evening, the young author was inundated with rave reviews. He had written 15 stories. 5:34 Churchgate Slow and How the Wind Stopped Blowing in Burhanpur had been liked the most. His personal favorite however was Phakarchand’s Jalebi.
It all began when Rohit Bakliwal published his book of short stories.
Three Days Later
He had taken a new road tonight. After the sharp bend, he braked hard as there lay an uprooted tree across the street. The flickering glow of the headlamp made the shadows cast by its leaves dance. He stared at this fallen tree. An inexplicable stare. It was not surprised or fearful, or thoughtful; it was not even blank. Rohit’s face had contoured into a most weird expression, unbeknownst to any reasonable description. He got down slowly from his bike and looked at the trunk carefully inspecting it with a trained eye. His eyes then fell on the closed shops along the road. He gasped with disbelief as recognition registered. He now turned his stare to the sky and yes there it was…a full moon, as he had expected.
Slowly, he returned to his bike and drove away. Sleep loosened his nerves and the next day, all was shrugged off and forgotten. Until seven days later, it recurred.
Seven Days Later
Rohit frowned at the lady across the table; it was the book she was reading. Amazed and definitely shaken, Rohit let out a low whisper, The Eyes on Infinity.
It was when the lady had abandoned it for some peppy magazines that Rohit had taken the book and sat down in a quiet corner of the busy library. Today being Saturday, the place was bustling with people. As he flipped through the pages that weird expression of some days ago reappeared on his face. “Oh my god,” he exclaimed as he noticed the word ‘procrastinate’ underlined with a pencil. There was a hand-drawn arrow whose tail began from the word and ended in the margin, where the word’s meaning was scribbled illegibly–‘to delay’. As he turned the pages he saw several underlined words and their meanings. By now his brow was damp with sweat beads even though it was a cool, pleasant evening.
Rohit shut the book and flicked it aside on the table. He clasped his face in his hands and felt the warm pressure on his eyelids. Soothing. “Damn, if this is true,” he thought, “then…that means…damn, let me check.” Briskly, he strode up to the librarian and showed him the book. “Excuse me, I need to check whether this book was last issued by a boy called Vineet.” The librarian looked up over his glasses and went about attending to the request. Rohit being a known figure, no questions were asked.
“Yes. It was issued on the 15th of last month to Vineet Kumar.”
“Has he currently issued The Mango Tree?” Rohit bit his lip as he waited for the response.
“Yes,” said the librarian.
“And please could you also look up and confirm if he renewed his membership last year for a period of 5 years?”
“Well, indeed that is correct,” the librarian remarked, a little startled and irritated with this interrogation. “Why are you asking these questions, do you know the boy?”
Rohit stared at him hard and smiled. The smile then melted into a superficial laugh.
“Ha ha. Yes and…err..no.”
Later that night, by the light of the table lamp by his bed, Rohit wrote on his blog, “This is indeed inexplicable. I don’t know what to make of all this. The dead tree which lay across the road, the full moon, the array of shops…” Just then, the screen went blank and Rohit groaned. His laptop’s battery had died. “Damn me, damn that tree, damn that boy, damn this laptop!” He slammed the screen shut and went to bed.
Ten Days Later
“Can you please tell me where the post office is?” Rohit loosened his tie. It was dark now, well past 7 in the evening. The man at the magazine shop answered.
“Go straight then first left. You will see the signboard.”
“Thanks. I have been wandering around here for the past half an hour. It’s a confusing locality.”
“Yes, that is true. The municipality does nothing. Can you imagine, the streets in this bustling area don’t have names?”
A pall of horror spread across Rohit’s face. “Where the streets have no name!” he gasped. He glanced at his watch and saw the time. 20 minutes past seven. “I might still be in time,” he said to himself and ran off resolutely in a manner that startled the man at the magazine shop. Rohit ran past the houses and shops searching for a crossroad junction which could have the statue. He soon saw the statue and quickened his pace. When he reached the crossroad, he paused to catch his breath and recall the directions. “The one leading away from the back of the statue,” he thought and dashed into a small alley with private bungalows on both sides. It was a dark lane illuminated only with the spillover of lights from the porch lamps. As he had expected, it was not a long lane and soon he stood before the house–all dark and silent, but with the front door open. He dashed inside.
The house was as he had expected it to be. The big candle was placed in a stand in the centre of the hall throwing forth pale, indiscernible shadows. Light rays streaming in from the tiled windows silhouetted the majestic staircase which spiraled its ascent into the silent upper reaches of the two-storied mansion. There was no time to waste and Rohit knew that!
He ran to the candle and blew at it. The flame flickered but did not die. Rohit blew harder and closer but still could only manage the obstinate dance of flames about the wick. Agitated, he clapped on the
wick. It still burned. Now completely frustrated, he hit the wick with his palm; the impact buried the wick deep in the wax. This did it; but only for a while. The wick slowly stood back up and the flame lit up, perhaps burning with more alacrity than before. Rohit watched horrified. “Shit,” he cried and desperately pulled out his cell phone. In the search tab, he hit ‘Fi’ and the name ‘Fire Emergency’ popped up. He dialed in. No answer.
In the gloom of the house at the end of the street with no name, Rohit Bakliwal made several attempts to call the fire brigade, but all was in vain. Desperation now getting the better of his equanimity, he dashed out of the house into the lane. It was the hour when men and women were returning home from a day’s work. He ran up to a young man in a suit and blurted. “Excuse me, this is really important. That house there at the end of the road…a fire is going to start there…a raging, devastating fire it will be. There is an old lady in there, in the top room. You need to help me. Please call the fire brigade immediately.”
The man in the suit sniffed, probably suffering from a nasty virus. His glasses moved up and he remarked amusedly, “Young man, are you in your senses? Which house are you talking about? Where you are pointing is just a copse of trees! Go home.” The man smiled affectionately and walked past Rohit.
More frustrated than bewildered, Rohit looked back at the ‘copse of trees’ and saw the house, now engulfed in flames. It was on fire.
Without wasting any more time, he ran towards it and dashed inside. The candle was missing in its stand and Rohit could see the molten wax on the floor. He nervously glanced around the room and his attention fell on the mirror. The glass depicted a blazing montage of the fire play, but there was something else which made Rohit loose his wits. He did not see his reflection in it! Leaving aside this particularly nasty impression, he rushed to the staircase and looked up. The rooms were billowing with smoke. He quickly ascended the stairs and ran down the length of the corridor to the woman’s room. The door was ajar and it flew open.
The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma... and Other Hauntings Page 2
