“When their first messenger reached our capital to inform his king of the betrayal, our victory was already complete. Perhaps we expected the sorcerer to concede defeat. Instead he drew his knife and lunged at our king, killing him instantly. We fought him and killed him, but not before he stabbed most of our ministers and a few soldiers. With his dying breath, he cursed our army for a thousand years.”
A black knight ambled towards them. “Why do you even try? Every night you lose. Every night you die. Your king dies like a beggar. Yet you try,” he waved his sword menacingly. A foot soldier attacked the dark knight. He pierced his spear through the knight and pushed him off his horse.
“Their warriors are weak but their king is very strong. After he died, we had peace in the kingdom but his children built this cursed chessboard. Every night we are forced to fight this battle again. Every night we beat his army but the sorcerer beats our king. Eighty years ago, on a full moon night, we beat the sorcerer once and the curse was broken. The pieces broke and our souls were released. We rested for the first time in centuries.”
The white knight pushed forward and attacked the other dark knight. The dark knight defended well, but lost in the sword fight.
“Last year, our souls were summoned again. Whoever made these pieces is clearly a descendent of the Dark Sorcerer. We will not let the sorcerer win. Yesterday we lost. Today is different. Today we’ll win.”
Suddenly, a dark foot soldier appeared out of nowhere and attacked the white knight. The knight fell and so did the horse that the children were on. They jumped and ran towards the white defensive line, hiding behind a few foot soldiers. Their kind-faced protector lay dead on the ground, his face frozen in horror.
Seeing the knight fall, the superhuman warrior who was in the place of the white queen, raced towards the black queen and engaged in a fierce one-on-one battle. The other pieces stood still and watched, chanting in a strange language that the children didn’t understand. The clanking of swords echoed through the night. The warriors were equally placed but not for long. In a swift counter-attack, the black warrior gained a position of power. The white warrior lay down in defence. The battlefield fell silent as the warriors held position.
The distant sound of thunder broke the silence and distracted the black warrior for an instant. The white warrior seized the opportunity and killed the black warrior. Victory was short-lived as the dark elephant moved in and trampled the warrior. Both queens lay bleeding.
Annoyed by their dying moans, the Dark Sorcerer shot them with his gun.
The death of the knight and the queen frustrated the white king. He commanded his army to attack with all its might. The air was filled with the smell of battle and the angry clash of metal on metal. Warriors fell and died. Their blood soiled the marble of the chess board and oozed out the sides into the gardens.
Soon it was end game.
The sorcerer’s army had one chariot and one foot soldier left. They looked tired and dreary. The white king was also left with one chariot but he had two foot soldiers. He commanded his army cleverly and decimated the black army but lost his chariot. The Dark Sorcerer shot the white foot soldiers and looked at the white king. It was just the two of them. The white king aimed his musket at the Dark Sorcerer just as the latter aimed his shotgun at the white king.
It was a stand-off. If both of them shot at the same time, they would both die. If one shot even microseconds before the other, he could live. Both kings stood still, like statues, with their guns aimed to fire, waiting and watching for a tiny error by the other.
Narayan and Shweta saw them from behind the bushes. They went over everything they had learnt. The Dark Sorcerer’s curse that the white army should die a thousand deaths could be broken if the white army won. It was in their hands, the children thought. They looked for a stone to throw at the sorcerer and distract him. All of a sudden, a loud noise broke the silence of the night.
The children looked up to see that the Dark Sorcerer was standing tall, with a smoking gun. The white king lay on the ground, in a pool of blood. The Dark Sorcerer had won again.
The children tiptoed quietly towards the exit. They jumped the gate and ran towards their hotel, as gunshots rang out behind them.
The next morning, Shweta and Narayan came across an old newspaper article that was framed in the hotel reception. The chief minister of their state had rebuilt Shatranj Kunj in honour of his ancestors. In the accompanying picture, they noticed that the chief minister had a long angular face with a sharp nose. His cheeks were pulled in and his skin was rough. His eyebrows were thick and commanding. To the children, his eyes had black magic in them.
Silence Please
- Bhavini
It was close to sunset when Mohit said goodbye to his parents. He looked at the tracks left behind by their car as he watched them drive away. When he couldn’t see the car any more, he picked up his bags and walked towards his new school. There was a plaque at the entrance which said: “Bound by Discipline and Tradition.” The school emblem was engraved above the text.
Darjeeling Residential School for Boys was so exclusive that there was no information about it on the internet nor were there any articles in the news. Mohit’s parents had heard about it from his grandfather, who had worked with the national school board.
Mohit consulted the admission letter for directions to his dormitory. He tried to make himself at home but he couldn’t help thinking how different it had been at his old school. Over there, his parents were allowed to stay with him for a day to help him settle in. Perhaps this is what they mean by growing up, he thought.
Mohit was arranging his clothes in a cupboard next to his bed when he heard footsteps. He turned around. Three boys walked in.
“Hi, my name’s Mohit. I’ll be in Class VI-D. My parents dropped me off about half an hour ago,” he said.
One of the boys cocked his head to the right and looked at Mohit like he was a strange bird. He didn’t say anything. The other two were silent as well. After a few seconds, they shrugged and went to their beds. Mohit was mortified. He turned back to the cupboard, arranging his socks very carefully. Did I say something wrong? he thought.
Soon it was time for dinner. Mohit joined a long line of students walking to the canteen. As he stepped into the large hall, he realised there was something amiss. At his previous school, the canteen was so loud during meal times that one could hardly hear above the clamour. There was laughter, chatter, argument, and discussion. It was the only place where students could speak freely.
The canteen at Darjeeling Residential School was incredibly quiet.
All the students stood in line with their plates, took their food, sat down, and ate. The clatter of plates and spoons was the only sound heard. Mohit looked at the boy beside him. He returned his gaze but didn’t say a word. Mohit realised that he was the only person in the hall who thought the silence abnormal.
He tried to eat but he had lost his appetite. Maybe it’s Silence Day or maybe someone important has passed away, he told himself.
It was the same the next morning. Mohit felt like an alien as he watched the students and teachers conduct an assembly without making a sound. Rows of students stood stock-still while the school band played the national anthem.
Classes progressed similarly. A teacher would walk in. Students would stand up obediently and not a whisper would escape them. The teacher would open a textbook, write the page number on the blackboard, and the students would either read or copy the notes from the blackboard. The students played and ran down the corridors during the interval. However, no one spoke.
This continued for three weeks.
By the end of the third week, Mohit was miserable. He rushed back to his dormitory after class. He ran to his bed, breathing heavily. Where am I? Am I going mad? What kind of a school is this? Is there nobody I can talk to? His panic gave way to tears.
None of the other students had returned. Should I call home and tell them what’s going on? He looked at the red
telephone fixed on the wall of the dormitory. There was a sign beneath it which read: TO BE USED ONLY DURING EMERGENCIES OR BIRTHDAYS. FINE FOR WRONG USAGE: RS 50
He realised that his current situation would only qualify as “wrong usage.” It wasn’t an emergency. He didn’t want to alarm his parents. He started to write them a letter instead. Dear Mamma, Babba, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your letter. Everything’s fine here, the students seem busy. I am yet to make any friends but I think that’s normal for the first week in any school. . .
Writing to his parents filled him with new resolve. Something was definitely wrong with the school. He would ask someone about it tomorrow.
During the first break at 10.20 am the next day, he waited near the bathroom till his classmate came along. Mohit went up to him. “Hi, you know me, right? I’m Mohit,” he said.
The boy looked at him with an expression that made Mohit shiver.
“Listen, maybe it’s because I’m new here and I don’t know anything, but. . . why doesn’t anybody speak? What happened?”
His classmate took a deep breath and sighed. “Please tell me. Are we stuck or something? Say something. Please!” Mohit pleaded.
The other boy turned and ran back to the class.
The bell rang. Mohit made his way back to his eerily quiet classroom. The silence was beginning to feel like an invisible monster which grew bigger and more menacing every day.
He woke up with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach the next day. It was his birthday, he realised. He bought sweets, wondering if his classmates knew it was his birthday. It seemed they did. Several boys came up to him, smiling, to shake his hand. Mohit cheered up a little.
He distributed sweets to all the teachers. He was in the reception area outside the principal’s room, waiting to give her some sweets as well. The notice boards on the walls were filled with pictures of students with the principal. She was either hugging them or standing with her arm around them.
He smiled at the photographs. She seems nice, he thought. Mohit noticed that the principal had written several long essays on the importance of discipline among students. A movement caught his eye; the office door opened.
Mohit walked in. Medals and trophies adorned one the shelves along one wall. The remaining walls were covered with racks of books. All the books were of different sizes but had the same title: Achieving School Discipline - One Student at a Time.
The principal was standing in the centre of the room. Mohit offered her the sweets. She picked one, smiled at him, and asked him to come closer. She walked around him in a circle, examining him as if he were a fossil in a museum. After a few minutes, she nodded, and removed one of the books from a shelf. She gave it to Mohit and sat down at her desk. He waited uncomfortably with the book in his hands.
“Read,” she said.
Mohit jumped out of his skin. It was the first time he had heard anyone speak in weeks. He had forgotten what it felt like to hear another voice. He opened the book and read aloud from the first page.
It begins slowly. A dull numbness creeps into your eyes and makes them heavy. You begin to lose focus. Your limbs feel gentle and free, like the receding waves of the ocean. It seems simpler to lie down, float, dream. . .
Mohit opened his eyes. He felt something itchy stuck in his throat. It left an awful burning sensation when he tried to make a sound. Rubbing his eyes, he saw that all the boys in his dormitory were standing around him, looking at him intently. My birthday. . . I’d gone to meet the principal. . . Book shelves. . . I read aloud from a book. . . Oh dear, did I faint? That would’ve been so embarrassing, he thought.
He decided to meet the principal again and apologise to her. As he turned towards the principal’s room, he noticed the telephone. Mamma will be waiting for my birthday call, he realised with a shock. Let me call her now before I forget.
He dialled his mother’s mobile number. The phone began ringing at the other end. Mohit clutched the wire excitedly.
His mother picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
Mohit opened his mouth but felt himself choking instead. Holding the phone away from his mouth, he coughed bitterly, over and over again.
“Hello, who’s speaking? Hello, who’s speaking? Please speak loudly. I can’t hear you.”
A small crowd of boys had formed around Mohit. Mohit was coughing so violently that he held on to the telephone box for support. No one stepped forward to help him. His breath was coming in ragged spasms. He was bent over when he heard an object hit the floor with a tinkling sound.
He saw it glint, though it was covered in specks of blood and mucus. Mohit realised that it was a metal wire so slender that it looked like a tendril.
He held his throat in horror, feeling his neck. His hand stroked something against his skin that he knew didn’t belong in his body. Tiny, thin, and metallic. He stretched his neck further, trying to identify what was wrong. What has happened to me?
A student stepped out from the crowd and walked towards him. He held a mirror aloft. Mohit looked into the mirror. In the beginning, he couldn’t see anything different. The boy gently pulled Mohit’s head back so that his neck was reflected in the mirror. Mohit saw thin lines stretch from his chin to his collar bone. It was as if tiny veins were pushing themselves against his skin. They stretched vertically like the bars of a prison cell, around his throat.
Someone has inserted wires into my throat! Mohit slowly touched his neck again.
He realised he was still holding the phone. He held it to his ear.
“May I know who is calling? Hello? Hello? Who is this? Please speak, I can’t hear you. Hello? Hello?”
Words dissolved on the tip of Mohit’s tongue. He took a deep breath and tried speaking again. Instantly, his throat burned and he felt a cough threatening to overtake him.
The boys around him drifted away.
His mother disconnected the call. Mohit was left alone with the sound of the dial tone echoing in his ear. He remembered the plaque at the entrance: “Bound by Discipline and Tradition.”
With a sinking feeling, he realised he was trapped.
A Dangerous Sport
- Bhavini
“No, no, no!” Rachita wailed, as she watched the tennis ball sail over the wall beyond the court.
Her friends looked at each other. None of them wanted to retrieve the ball because the bungalow beyond the wall was spooky.
Rachita gripped her racquet tighter. “I’ll get it,” she announced. She approached the bungalow from the main gate. The building had bleak, grey walls. Several windows sported broken glass. Gnarled trees lined the property. The wall bordering the tennis court was to the left of the bungalow. She scanned the grounds for the ball.
“Aha!” she said, when she spotted it.
Rachita walked towards the ball when the front door of the bungalow creaked open.
She hid behind a tree and heard something move on the far side of the compound. She peeked from her spot and saw that her English teacher, Nagaraj Sir, stood near the wall.
Her breath caught in her throat. What is he doing here? She thought.
Nagaraj Sir was Rachita’s favourite teacher. She loved how he launched into interesting discussions in the middle of a lesson. He was a jovial man but he rarely spoke about himself.
He had returned from a leave of absence only last month. Rachita’s classmates had cheered like a troop of excited monkeys when they saw him. Both Nagaraj Sir and the substitute teacher were rather embarrassed with their behaviour. Later that day, Rachita’s friend, Diyali, told her there was some speculation around Nagaraj Sir’s absence.
“Three months ago, his wife and baby girl died on the same day,” Diyali said.
“What? How do you know about this?”
“My brother told me. His friends overheard a few teachers talking about it in the staff room this morning.”
After an uncomfortable pause, Diyali continued. “It seems that they were playing a game of tenn
is. His wife was eight months pregnant. He accidentally hit her on her stomach, and. . .”
Rachita felt a wave of guilt wash over her but she realised that she wanted to hear more.
“My brother said that she fell unconscious and had to be admitted to the ICU. After a few hours, she gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. She was so heartbroken that she killed herself,” Diyali recounted.
“What? Where was Nagaraj Sir during all this?” Rachita asked, alarmed.
“They say his wife refused to meet him immediately after she was given the bad news. He was waiting to hear about the birth when the doctors told him what happened.”
Rachita felt like the weight of the world had settled on her chest. It sounds so unbelievable. Am I supposed to know all this? She thought.
When Rachita peeked out from her spot behind the tree again, Nagaraj Sir had disappeared. She exhaled in relief.
He had seemed different ever since his return to school. She remembered the story that Diyali had told her and hoped it wasn’t true. She decided to confront him.
Rachita made her way towards the old house and pushed the heavy door open. She stepped inside and gasped. Darkness enveloped her like a heavy, invisible blanket. She heard the door close behind her.
A match was struck. Nagaraj Sir’s face emerged in the darkness. She saw him light a diya and place it on a large dining table in the centre of the room.
Rachita crouched low, trying to find a place to hide, when she noticed a circular, metallic container next to the diya. Her tennis ball was inside the container.
Nagaraj Sir began to chant. However, his voice was different. He sounded scared, tortured, and helpless. A sick, ripping noise interrupted his chanting. Rachita looked at the point where the noise came from and she nearly screamed—
A dark figure came crawling, spitting, and hissing out of the tennis ball. Nagaraj Sir’s chants became frantic. The figure rose slowly.
Rachita nearly fell backwards in shock. The figure looked exactly like Nagaraj Sir. The clothes, the spectacles, the hair, the eyes, the face. . .
The Taxi Ride: and Other Spooky Stories Page 3
