“So which all ragas has our prince learnt?”
“Shivranjini, Bhairavi, Yaman, Malhaar—all of them,” the boy replied exultingly.
“Wonderful. I am so proud of you dear. What about Bhimpalasi? I remember you used to struggle with that one.”
“Yes, I can!” shouted Vipin. He immediately put the flute on his lips and began playing. Mellifluous notes filled the room and Vishambhar smiled. The boy’s ears were his eyes. He saw with his ears. He pulled his nephew close to him and kissed his forehead.
The next morning Vishambhar got up rather early. It was Sunday and a day of rest to be spent with the family. Business would have to begin from tomorrow. He was lodging in one of the guest rooms on the second floor. He lay on his bed staring blankly, thinking of the day ahead. Bored, he got up and walked to the window for a breath of fresh air. The sound of a flute was serenading the morning air. He took some deep breaths and soaked himself in the tranquility.
At the breakfast table, Kamla inquired whether her brother had had a good night’s sleep. He replied in the affirmative and also related his early morning visuals from the window. “And I must say,” he continued, “Vipin’s early morning riyaaz was very soothing to listen. He does wield the flute so well.” Kamla smiled uneasily and said, “It wasn’t Vipin. You must have heard someone playing in the garden outside.” Vishambhar was about to say something when other members of the family joined the table and the conversation veered to other matters.
The next day onwards Vishambhar got busy with his work. Soon one week had passed. A marriage function on Saturday evening was a big celebration in Maihar which went on late into the night. He was dead tired when he finally dropped into bed, thinking he would not wake up early. In minutes, he was sound asleep. It was not long before he woke up with a start. The sound of the melodious flute had woken him. “Muaaah,” he yawned as he looked at the clock. “It’s only 7!” He groaned and turned in his bed. After several minutes he gave up any more attempts at regaining sleep and instead lay listening to the tune which wafted in beautifully in the stillness of the morning air. “What lovely notes,” thought Vishambhar. “Must be some maestro honing his skills on the flute. He plays a couple of notes, then pauses, and then he begins again.” It was not long before Vishambhar realized the raag on which the tune was based. “Why, isn’t that Bhimpalasi?” he exclaimed. The music with its timed intermissions went on for a while longer and then it stopped.
For several Sundays, thus went the scheme. Vishambhar used to get up early to enjoy the music. It was only when his curiosity drove him to find the flautist that the events took a queer turn. It happened like this one Sunday morning:
Out in the garden, Vishambhar realized there was no one playing the flute there. In fact, the music was coming from inside the house and not outside. He followed the music’s general direction and soon found himself standing in the courtyard. It was clear the flautist was in one of the rooms on the ground floor towards the eastern wing of the bungalow. This area of the house had a row of rooms with a common passageway lined with columns and arches. When he reached the passage, Vishambhar sensed that it was the last room. “Yes, he is in there. The music is definitely coming from that last room,” thought Vishambhar as he quickened his pace. In a moment, he was in front of the door. It was an old teak door with metal hinges. A sculpture of Goddess Sarasvati with her veena was exquisitely carved in relief. The door was locked from the outside. The veneer of dust was indicative that no key had turned in it for months. Someone inside that locked room was playing Raag Bhimpalasi on a flute.
It was late afternoon when Vishambhar finally got a chance to speak to his sister. He had been uneasy all day. All sorts of questions were dancing in his disturbed mind. “Who was playing the flute? Why was that room locked? Why did Kamla say the music was coming from outside?” Finally, when he narrated the morning’s events to his sister grimly, she gave in and blurted out the whole mystery. The family believed that the room was haunted. The ghost of Vipin’s previous flute teacher was making those soulful notes. They had done several things to exorcize his spirit but nothing had made it leave. She mentioned that it was not harmful and had never tried to scare or annoy anyone and they had become so used to this Sunday morning routine that now no one really bothered. As guests and visitors often came on weekends, they preferred to keep the room locked lest any unsuspecting visitor wandered in there.
Vishambhar rubbed his chin. This was all very weird. “So they used to have classes in that room?” he asked. Kamla nodded, “Every Sunday morning.”
“Hmm…and…that was the reason why you refused the new teacher to schedule for 6:30 AM on Sunday morning!”
“Yes Dada, with great fortune we have found a replacement teacher for Vipin and I don’t want to lose him.Vipin was very fond of his old teacher and we never told him about his tragic death. Thankfully he has gotten used to the new teacher now.”
Her brother nodded and smiled, “Yes, off course, I perfectly understand.” But in reality, he was curious to get to the bottom of all this.
Over the next few days, Vishambhar spent a lot of time reading and learning about the supernatural. This haunted room and its mystery music had excited him enough to know more; that was his nature. He met a lot of psychic researchers and also went to the extent of meeting the local tantric. The more he thought of it, the more he tried to understand, the more he was perplexed. “There is something all of us are missing,” he shook his head.
For the first time since he had arrived at Maihar, Vishambhar decided to rise early on Sunday. The alarm sounded and it achieved its effect almost immediately. He got up and straightened his hair. After ablutions, he made his way down the stairs to the room. The music had started by now. He reached the door and could clearly hear it emanating from inside. With a slight push, the twin doors opened a crack. The bolt on which the lock hung creaked but held its bearings. He peered in through the slight crack. The music had now stopped. “Is there anyone in there?” Vishambhar said in a firm voice. There was no reply, no sound at all other than the chirping of sparrows in the courtyard.
It was too dark in there to get any sense of what or who was inside. He gave it up and leaned on the wall of the passageway, thinking. The music began again. “Why does it start and stop?” he frowned. “I have never heard the notes being played without breaks. There is only one way to find out,” Vishambhar briskly stepped out into the chilly morning.
~~~
Kamla was sorting raw mangoes for preparing a pickle in the afternoon when her brother hurried into the hall and called out her name excitedly. He had been out of the house since early morning and had even skipped breakfast. Kamla hastened her steps towards his earnest summons. When she came up to him, she could see that his face was sweating but contained the glow of excitement. He was panting heavily. She gave him a glass of water.
“Please give me the key to that lock. Next Sunday I want to enter that room,” Vishambhar said slowly, between gulps of water.
“What! Dada, are you in your senses? Why do you want to enter that room? Where have you been since morning?” Kamla exclaimed.
“Kamla, trust me, I cannot tell you anything right now. If you want this ghost music to stop then please do as I say. Give me the keys,” he paused, as if trying to find the right words to convey the hardest part. “…and…well…allow me to take Vipin with me into that room. He wants Vipin.”
Vishambhar immediately regretted his choice of words in getting the request across. His sister went berserk and blatantly refused. Only after persistent beseeching did she finally agree. Moreover, it was agreed that this plan would not be shared with anyone else in the family and more importantly with Vipin. “He must behave naturally once he is in there,” Vishambhar said. “I do not want any pre-meditated actions from him.” His sister nodded uneasily, completely confused what her brother was talking about.
As arranged, in the wee hours of the following Sunday morning, Vishambhar and Vipin wen
t into the room. It was very dusty and completely empty; even light switches and ceiling fan regulators were missing from the whitewashed walls. The windows had been plastered over so there was no way the sun could come in. Residual light spilling over from the courtyard through the open door was the only source of illumination. Vipin sat down on the floor and Vishambhar sat a few feet away. Earlier, he had spoken to Vipin with a purposeful and stern voice which would positively elicit the desired response from his nephew.
“Beta, let’s do some early morning riyaaz. I will play a few notes on the tape and then pause it. After I stop the music on the tape, it will be your turn. Take up your flute and try to play the tunes exactly as you heard them. We will continue like this. Is that ok?” The boy had nodded sincerely.
Exactly at thirty minutes past six, the ghost music began. It startled Vishambhar so much that he jumped from his seat. There was nothing he could see, no manmade or otherwise entity which could be causing that music. Yet, there was absolutely no doubt that it was originating from within the room. In no time, he gathered his composure and drew close to Vipin, nudging him to listen attentively. Expectedly, the music stopped and Vishambhar whispered into Vipin’s ears “Now, play as you just heard it.” The obedient lad followed the diktat.
Vipin confidently positioned the wood pipe beneath his lower lip, placed the fingers impeccably, took a deep breath and blew. He went on flawlessly for about a minute, exactly repeating the notes as he had heard them. Then he stopped. Immediately the music began playing the next couple of notes from Bhimpalasi. Vishambhar was left stupefied. No more prods were required as Vipin had gotten into the act. One after the other, he flawlessly played the sections of the raag. As the ‘jugalbandi’ between the ghost and the blind boy neared its completion (it had been almost 25 minutes since they were at it), Vishambhar had an idea. He spoke softly to Vipin, “Excellent, my boy! But now, I want you to do it differently. Don’t wait till the music stops. Play with it! Go.”
Vipin stepped in perfectly. He had mastered the raag and knew how it went. For a moment, his uncle forgot the purpose for which they were in that room and listened, enraptured by the perfect synchronization of two notes–one played by the boy and the other by the ghost. He thought the rigor and pitch of the ghost music now increased and decreased unexpectedly, as if trying desperately to dislodge or outsmart the kid, but Vipin held on beautifully. They both executed the end of Bhimpalasi with one long breath. Perfectly synchronized. Then it was over.
Vishambhar looked around the room. The silence was eerie. He thought he had heard a voice. It appeared to be more of a squeal of delight followed by a clap of the hand. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes and he dismissed it as a figment of his hyperactive mind.
When he met Kamla later, he related to her what had transpired in the room. “Kamla, if my hunch is right, we would never hear the ghost music again. Let us wait for the next Sunday.”
~~~
“Can you please bring the car?” Vishambhar called out to the servant. Three months had passed quickly and it was time to head home. He was taking a bus to Jabalpur from Maihar’s bus stand. The family had gathered in the porch to bid him goodbye. Soon, he was on his way. His sister came along to see him off.
“Brother, I want to thank you for coming over. Among other things, particularly for sorting out the music business,” she said slowly. “May I know how you solved the mystery?”
Vishambhar smiled and put a reassuring hand on her back. “I always knew there was something which all of us were missing. One morning, while listening to the music, one thing I found particularly puzzling, were the breaks in the music. If it were a ghost wanting to play ghoulish music, why would he play it with exact, timed intermissions? My curiosity drove me to find the family of the deceased teacher. Their house is some 5 kms ahead of Aatmaja Chowk. Are you aware, dear Kamla, how Vedprakash Tripathi died?”
Kamla was surprised at the question. “I don’t know the exact details but he died of some nasty accident, didn’t he?” she remarked.
“Yes. That is true. But what is important for you to know is that he had that nasty accident while on his way to your house on that fateful Sunday morning. When I met his still-grieving family, they told me how dedicated he was to his profession. His only burning passion had been to teach Vipin how to play Raag Bhimpalasi on the flute. Hearing this, I just connected the dots. At the instant of his death, he must have been thinking of Vipin and the class ahead. Even after his death, his spirit had one unfulfilled desire, of teaching Vipin to play Bhimpalasi. By taking Vipin inside the room and making him prove to his dead teacher that he had mastered the raag, I sent a message to the spirit that it need not linger. Its last wish had been fulfilled.”
The driver climbed into his seat and blew the horn. Vishambhar hugged his sister and bade her goodbye.
Strefford’s Roll Call
Bowditch, Gerard-Tick
Pulford, Charles–Tick
Mrs. Satchwell, Ragna–Cross
Corderoy, Alan–Tick
Hilling, Peter [child]–Cross
Hilling, Horace–Cross
Rehman frowned. He read aloud what he had scribbled with Shabana’s pencil. He paused at Corderoy and looked up at the headstone of the grave beside which he was standing. In the diminishing light of dusk, he clearly saw a tick marked in fresh black color across the etched name of “Corderoy, Alan.”
“Shabana has become really mischievous. She needs a thrashing now,” Rehman muttered under his breath as he pocketed the piece of paper. A sudden waft of wind ruffled his neatly combed white hair. Leaning on his wooden stick, he drudged through the array of graves and tombstones towards the outhouse.
“Chacha, look what I made. A paper boat,” squeeled Shabana as she saw him enter. But her uncle was not in a good mood. “Shabana, how many times have I told you not to play on the graves,” he said angrily. “Who gave you that black paint?”
His 12-year-old grandniece stopped playing and indignantly refuted this arraignment, “I did not do anything, Chacha. And I wish so much that I had paint to play with,” she smiled mischievously.
Rehman was irritated. Since the past many years he had watched over the cemetery; no one ever dared to enter it without his knowledge. He growled at her, “Don’t you talk to me like that. Come with me.” He pinched her ear as a punishment for that disrespectful rebuttal and dragged a screaming Shabana outside. He took her to all the six graves and finally stood with folded arms, his face puckered.
Shabana was scared. She pleaded her innocence. “Chacha, promise I did not do this. Allah ki kasam.”
“Don’t lie, Shabu. Haven’t I warned you, Allah does not like children who lie. You have been sneaking out at night when I am asleep and making those ticks and crosses. Every morning I find a new mark.”
The little girl was in tears now. She was very scared of Allah. “No, I did not do it,” she sobbed. They were standing by Hilling’s headstone and Rehman bent his frame to take a closer look at the cross across the name ‘Hilling, Horace’.
“And Chacha, all the ticks and crosses are exactly identical in size and shape.. I am bad at drawing.” She sat down on the ground, covered her face in her hands and started sobbing.
Rehman was silent. He stared at her; then he turned his stare to the cross mark. A child’s observation could be far more profound than an adult’s wisdom. Rehman had not noticed this. “If it’s not Shabu, then who could it be?” thought Rehman gravely. He said with a grim voice, “We shall find out tonight!”
That night, Rehman kept vigil. He made Shabana sleep on his bed, where he could keep an eye on her. He switched on the floodlight and the entire graveyard was filled with white light. He then sat in a plastic chair, under the filament bulb just outside the door of the outhouse. From his post, the entire cemetery was visible. The shadows of the tombstones fell on graves beside them. Rehman was used to keeping awake all night. That was his job. The night passed peacefully.
At dawn
, he got up and stretched himself. He prepared himself a cup of tea as he heard Shabana wake up and yawn. When he saw her, she inquired with bewildered amusement, “Did you find any new markings today?” her eyes were glowing with excitement. “We will soon find out,” came the gruff reply. “You wear that sweater and come let’s go and inspect all graves.” After last night’s remark of identical ticks and crosses, he thought it better to take the smart girl along.
The old man and the young girl began scouting the graveyard which had been their home for years. Both knew it very well. There were 47 graves to be covered. Shabana skipped along ahead, chasing a butterfly. Walking slowly with that limp, Rehman passed the graves, glancing nervously at each name. Blakeley’s – nothing, Mitchell’s – nothing, Jefferies’ – nothing, Denton’s – nothing. Suddenly, he heard a shriek of delight from Shabana. Rehman quickened his pace and was beside her. He looked at the cross on “Jennings, William”. It was exactly identical to the ones on the others. Shabana touched the cross mark and exclaimed, “It’s wet!” She started jumping with joy. Rehman silently stared at the sun rays streaming through the crevices of the mango canopy.
A week passed. Seven new markings appeared. Every night he kept vigil. Lately, he had started taking rounds at every hour during the night. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. But the marks appeared without fail, every dawn. A very disturbed Rehman looked at the new additions on his list.
Jennings, William–Cross
Baines, Debra–Cross
Clews, Charles–Tick
Greathed, Hervey Harris–Cross
Ifould, Patrick–Tick
Turnbull, Montagu–Cross
Denton, Richard–Tick
Shabana had told all her friends and she proudly displayed the markings to the scared children. They told their parents. They told their neighbors. So, the story spread.
The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma... and Other Hauntings Page 4
