Every night, Shabana guessed what it will be–a tick or a cross. Every morning, she ran out with her uncle to check whether she had guessed correctly. It was fun for her. However, from this small guessing game of hers, did Rehman finally figure it out one day
“Why do ticks appear on some names and crosses on others?” Rehman did not know the answer. In his Friday evening prayers, he prayed for the souls of the dead to rest in peace. He was not afraid; just puzzled. This was very, very weird.
One month passed by. Now, the entire cemetery was full of ticks and crosses. All tombstones had either a tick or a cross, exactly identical, across the buried person’s name. All except one. Many months passed but no marking ever appeared on this grave. This was the grave of
That’s how they solved the mystery or so the claim goes. A dig into the history books of Cawnpore (present-day Kanpur) revealed the names of English officers who served in the 1st Battalion—The Loyal Regiment. Those who died while on duty in India were buried in and around Cawnpore.
Corporal Warner Gareth Strefford sure knew his cavalry well.
~~~
The rain poured heavily. It was the maiden rain of this monsoon season and it came down with virgin ferocity. Rehman looked at the blurred borders of the crosses and ticks. In no time, they would be washed out.
“Would the marks reappear?” he thought. “Anyway, this time I know who gets the tick and who gets the cross,” he chuckled. For a moment, he paused at the Corporal’s grave, looked at the name etched on the headstone, and smiled.
The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma
29 April 1998
7:30 AM, Pune
It is with a heavy heart that I begin to write the most extraordinary affairs of my friend Tejas Sharma. I am not a great writer but I shall assay my best to capture the incredulous and mysterious happenings of the past few months which have left me completely shaken. That it involves such a dear old friend makes the matter particularly disturbing. That the circumstances are intriguing makes my bones go cold. I am writing this because I fear for myself. If I were to disappear too, there must remain a document of true happenings as witnessed by me. Res ipsa loquitur!
Let me begin with Tejas Sharma. I first met this lad of 18 in the boy’s hostel of my college during the summer of 1991. He was tall, fair and well-built. Born and brought up in a small town called Satara near Pune, he was a devout Brahmin and therefore vegetarian who seemingly enjoyed his vantage in the social ethos. It had appeared to me that this middle-class boy was intelligent; at least he looked so from behind his frameless glasses. Over the years, I realized that my first impressions had been incorrect as Tejas turned out to be a man of average intellect. If a bell curve of people of his age was drawn, he would have been the exact midpoint. He had a small, limited social circle. He knew a few people out of which fewer knew him and still fewer called him a friend. Truly, there was nothing stately about the bloke but what made us good friends was his interest in ornithology. Many of our idyllic afternoons were spent with necks craned, earnest eyes browsing the skies for a glimpse of rara avis. The enthusiasm of this common avocation often spilled over to heated arguments, and I must admit, he was always right! The boy was particularly fond of sparrows and crows. I never understood what attracted him to crows! But he was a living repository on everything corvine. He once astonished me by estimating the average acidity of crow droppings, based on randomly collected samples. Such was the persona of Tejas Sharma, my friend, whose mysterious disappearance I shall describe shortly.
It all began with his professional deputation to Pune some months ago. I was glad to have him in Pune since I hadn’t seen him in sometime. He hadn’t changed a bit in appearance; just a little rotund in the middle. We met over a coffee and croissant at Barista on Junglee Maharaj Road. As with all reunions, this one too was about boisterous mirth. To my amazement, his love for birds appeared to have waned. I found him more interested in the carnal dwellings of men than the ethereal pleasures of bird watching. He spoke of his job, his profile, his ambitions, his hairstyle, his guitar but not of birds. Nonetheless, I was glad to have him back in town.
The rains had arrived in Pune by then, sloshing, dripping and drizzling the city wet. The soggy weather kept me confined to the mundane routine of office and home. Whatever was left of a productive day was consumed by a domestic vegetation of life that characterizes a typical Maharashtrian middle-class household. Pressing issues like the neighbor’s typhoid, my mother’s sister’s distant relative’s newborn son’s gift, the housemaid’s demands and her analysis of the Patankars’ divorce kept me occupied. It was amidst such a routine rut that my friend called upon me. It was just the kicker I could have asked for. I gladly agreed to convene at a nearby restaurant. Tejas had found a place to stay and had quickly moved in. He had bargained for the monthly rent of only Rs 5,000 in an area like Koregaon Park. He appeared quite happy with the deal.
“Yes my friend, it’s a ten-minute walk from my office. I was not required to provide any security money also. Uninterrupted power & water supply, 24 hours battery back up. He he…what do you say?” He beamed at me. I returned a smile.
“But, I wanted to confide something in you, actually,” he was blushing. A blush which, more often than not, harbingers despondence.
“And what might that be?” I kept the smile going.
“I am in love. There is this girl called Rashmi. She has these lovely hazel eyes which make me stare into their depths. Her hair, what can I tell you about her hair? It is silky black. I have even written a poem for her. See see,” he thrust a paper forward.
I had almost choked on my coffee when this unexpected revelation was cast upon me. I still have that piece of romantic ode which my commoner-turned-bard friend had etched from his heart and shall copy it below for you. He had most willingly volunteered to read it aloud that day, lest the heartless listener in me should miss the poignant nuances of a Romeo in his cloud cuckoo land. He recited:
Hazel eyes
Today foolish morrow wise
A craze for footwear
Falleth her silky hair
A smile so cute
Cupid goes shoot, shoot
Romanticism of Mills & Boons
Of salsa dances, dark knights and full moons
Trying to find Mr. Right
To kiss her future so bright
May God Bless her
Now and forever
I had never known my friend to be socially comfortable with the opposite sex, least of all getting attracted. But he had transgressed all perceived thresholds of reason with such a brazen, blatant proclamation of his intentions and its recital in such an exalted dithyramb. The next hour had been devoted to the attributes and character sketch of the young lady. For my part, I offered mechanical conversation feeders as “Oh is it?”, “Great!”, “That’s nice” and the odd “Wow! She’s fantastic.” The glow in his eyes, the intensity of his speech and my inexperience with the subject matter convinced me that I should be happy for my friend. I would only live to regret it later.
The rains were being very nasty this year. Gutters were overflowing exuding a miasma which rendered a morning walk conveniently avoidable. They had brought in their wake a most habitable climate for viruses and bacteria and my poor neighbor’s typhoid had him in a terrible state. Here, I must mention a few things about the rains which bear significance to my narrative which is to follow. Now, most of the old houses in Pune are not rain-proof and rain water seeps in forming damp patches on the wall. Still worse, the ceiling might start dripping. The rains had breached the fortifications which my house’s brick and mortar provided and I saw those damp patches developing slowly. There is nothing more dreadful than coming home after a hard day’s work and being greeted by this lugubrious dampness around you. Those patches on the wall are so depressing. They have a debilitating effect on my otherwise wholesome sense of well being.
In the coming days I heard very little of Tejas. Whatever communications reac
hed me had an element of ‘Rashmi’ in them. Once I was hurriedly informed that he could not make the annual alumni meet because Rashmi wanted to go for a movie. Some days later, she had caught a nasty cold and needed care and affection. A little later I saw him hurriedly carrying Nandu Kaka Halwai jalebis and samosas, enough for two. It was only a matter of time before I was sufficiently ‘rashmi-ized’; my eagerness led me to ask him, “so when can I meet her?” And the very next day I had found myself in his house, graciously invited towards the fulfillment of my rendezvous request.
Now as I approach the end of my narrative, I shall try to describe the events here carefully and as precisely as my troubled mind would permit me. For whoever is reading this, please set aside your coffee mug for a while.
“Hi, you are late! We have been expecting you,” I was greeted with these exact words when I knocked on his door the next day. I could see that my friend was in an ebullient mood. He was wearing a white kurta and blue jeans. The house was small, as I had expected and contained items enough for a bachelor’s sustenance. He entered his bedroom and exclaimed, “Reshu, look who has come to meet you; my dear old friend from college. You know him, right?” I was just at the entrance of the room when these words were being spoken. I never entered that room because what I saw sent a chill down my spine. On the wall facing me, was a gigantic damp patch, as the ones I’ve described above. Only, this was eerie as it had morphed into an incredibly beautiful girl’s face. The patches had evolved systematically, some more dense than the other bringing out the contrast in her face. The rain water had etched out her silky hair. The dampness had made the plaster dissolve into a shade of hazel, exactly at the iris. The lips were wet, as if they had been kissed a while ago. This was surreal. This was Rashmi.
After I returned to my senses, my attention fell on my friend. He was speaking to that face on the wall and pointing towards me but I never registered his words. I just looked at him from head to toe and then back up. And I was very scared at that moment. I hurriedly bade farewell and ran back to my house. Indeed, I locked myself in.
I did not sleep that night. The whole episode since our first chat zinged through my sub-conscience. How could that face have formed on that wall? A face so mesmerizing. I was fearful for Tejas and resolved to shake him out of his reverie. That face was a siren who had transfixed him in an imaginary world into which he was sinking deeper with every passing day. I had to save him.
The next morning, a hand-written note was delivered to me by a small boy. He mentioned it was from my friend Tejas. And with this note, I come to the end of my narrative. I am very disturbed and psyched. I shall now leave you to read the note which Tejas sent me.
My dear friend
It is under the gravest of exigencies that I am writing this letter. Nothing about this should be recounted to anyone, not even to my parents. Hope I have your trust on that.
Rashmi has asked me to join her; she is very lonely. I am eloping with her. She is flailing and might fade away any moment. I cannot elaborate the circumstances in such a short time. If I stop to explain and make people understand, it will be too late. Trust me, I shall return one day. I am not carrying anything with me, except my soul.
Your good friend
Tejas
~~~
29 April 2013
1:20 PM, Pune
It was exactly 15 years ago that Tejas disappeared. He was never traced. What had happened to him? Did he just run away? Did he kill himself? Or did he really vanish into that wall along with that face?
I might never know these answers. I miss him, my buddy he was; a good, simple man. I am under his requested obligation of silence as long as I live. Who knows, maybe one day, he will return. And if he doesn’t, I shall certainly take to my pyre the unexplained circumstances behind the disappearance of Tejas Sharma.
Lost
It was only when he reached a fork in the road that he stopped the engine and got out. Having lost his way in the hilly, sylvan countryside for over an hour, it finally dawned on him to seek directions; only there was none that would come his way. In the name of human imprints or vestiges, the only thing he saw was an abandoned check post; it looked sullen remembering its functional years whence it harbingered the prized entry to the right hand road beyond the fork. Its ballast had disintegrated into smaller, humbler shapes and the alternating yellow-black striations on the bent pole were all but struggling to correctly convey their original hues. Still, with its archaic glory, it beckoned to him. Exasperation and impulse both found anchor in his faculties so he heeded to the defunct checkpoint’s insinuations and took the right hand road.
In no time, he was in a tunnel and speeding. The subterranean conduit went on and on, it seemed to him, for eternity. Its unnerving silence, engulfing darkness and insalubrious dankness would have brought out the furrows on the most adventurous and feral foreheads; his was only a domestic, uneventful one. However, the sun did shine, literally, first as a small circle at the apogee of his vision and then grew into that wondrous vista of verdant undulating landscape silhouetted by the tunnel’s dark walls. The exits of tunnels are always more exciting than their entrances, especially if it’s a long one; he felt relieved.
A signboard appeared. When such a writing proclaiming 2 kms ahead–Fantasy Land Amusement Park presented itself rather opportunely to the old man, one can only imagine the degree of happiness in his sigh. Even though the park was not his intended destination, its appearance in his hour of distress was more than welcome. It meant human dwellings, parking lots, hawkers, food and people! Gladly, he stepped on the accelerator.
An amusement park without throngs of people is like the opera without its audience; probably the most demoralizing insult to its existence. Secondly, an amusement park which does not amuse is doomed to the ‘also ran’ category in the illustrious history of amusement parks. On both counts, Fantasy Land lived up to the regaling promise its appellation would have suggested. It was well past noon and there were still long snaking queues of eager youngsters alongside their restrained adult guardians. An eclectic mix of water rides, marine world, hot air balloon, raging river, ferris wheel, flying swing and the roller coaster meant a probable exclusion from the ignominious category of also-rans. The old man smiled as he presented his ticket to the security officer, an expression he was happy to carry for a while.
It is rightly said about men, especially the older variety, that lack of food does so much damage to their senses that a famished man would not care to consider the order of things around him. Three hours of driving had made him hungry and only when this debilitating desire had been satisfyingly quelled, did the old man begin to soak in his surroundings. His glance first fell on the banner of the deceitfully smiling face of the region’s elected parliamentarian invited to inaugurate the latest attraction at the park. “That’s strange,” the old man thought, “When did we elect a new MP!?”
The need to establish the identity of the legislator was quickly forgotten as someone in the melee caught his eye. “Why, isn’t that Mehta?” the old man exclaimed getting up hastily and heading in that direction to corroborate his vision. It was Mehta indeed, the young clerk from his office.
“Good Afternoon, Mehta,” he said. “Having a good time with your family eh?” Mehta turned around, surprised at being called by his last name, “Oh hello, Mr –.”
“Kapoor, Gagan Kapoor!” said the old man, annoyed at this need for clarification. “Why, what’s happened to your face, Mehta, you look so old,” exclaimed Kapoor.
Before Mehta could react to such allegations of senescence, he was swamped by two toddlers who felt it appropriate to illustrate to their parents what they had felt on the swing. The father held together his excited brood listening to their chatter. The mirth of the family, however, did not infect Gagan Kapoor as he registered yet another startling thought. “These are his kids? Just a month back this young man had taken paternity leave!”
“I will get going, it’s getting late for me now,
” the old man said. “See you at work.” Mehta nodded to his wife who took the squealing boys away. “Hey, Mr Kapoor, are you feeling alright? I don’t work at the bank any longer. It’s been years since I moved on. Can I help you to your car?”
Grumbling something about old age bringing memory loss, Gagan Kapoor rolled down the glass of his car window and let the cool evening breeze rush through his hair as he set out again. In a while he would be at his sister’s farm where the smell of fresh eggs & honey and the clatter of the farm animals would unfetter his mind from the day’s occupation; he turned on the radio to catch his loved show. He had taken directions from the security guy in the parking lot and was glad to pursue the original objective of his trip.
It is also rightly said of men, especially the older variety, that they forget the petty things which make up the whirligig of life. Gagan Kapoor had completely forgotten about the amusement park but for the vexatious indignation from his sister’s grandchildren which made him think of the park again. They could be a tough lot to manage, these kids, more so when they were under the obnoxious influence of summer holidays. The gang was bored and clamored for some fun in the sun. So, it was a month later that the old man was back on the country roads, this time in a van full of yelping lads and lassies, searching his way to Fantasy Land Amusement Park.
He finally hit familiar terrain and the declivity brought him again to the fork. His progress was, however, impeded by the sight of two uniformed guards, one standing by the yellow and black metallic pole which lay horizontal blocking the road and the other, sitting near the lever which operated the pole. The one who was standing, peeked into the window and remarked “Sir, can I check your pass please?”
“What for?” exclaimed Kapoor.
“Sir, only authorized personnel allowed beyond this point,” the guard said.
Gagan Kapoor did not hear the explanation. His eyes were fixed on a lofty hoarding, some distance up on the hill. It read,
The Disappearance of Tejas Sharma... and Other Hauntings Page 5
