‘How could this happen?’ The priest shook his head. ‘The writing is clear, death by the very beast that attacked you. There is no doubt.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘Anybody can go wrong. It’s human to make mistakes,’ Dhabade consoled him, pompously. He had proved the astrologer wrong and that was all that mattered.
The old man looked at him and said, ‘I have failed for the first time. Maybe I am getting too old. I think it’s time to give up astrology.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Dhabade, and turned to leave.
‘No, no,’ protested Marathe. ‘You have never been wrong. Please don’t give up astrology. I will continue to visit you, just as before.’
But the priest shook his head and dismissed them.
Soon, the trophy was ready. The taxidermist had done a good job. The boar’s head was mounted in the lavish living room of Dhabade’s palatial bungalow in Mumbai, and a party was organized to celebrate the occasion. More than fifty guests had been invited. Marathe was among the invitees.
When the party picked up momentum, Dhabade walked towards the wall where the trophy was mounted. He halted right under the trophy and signalled for the music to stop. Grabbing a microphone, he began speaking. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?’
Conversation halted and everyone turned to face him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to celebrate a new lease of my life. According to an astrologer, I should have been dead by now. As you can see, I am standing before you. Doesn’t this prove that astrology is nothing but nonsense?’
There were different reactions to his statement. Some of the guests believed in astrology and protested the statement, while those who didn’t believe tittered.
Dhabade went on to narrate the story of the old priest and the wild boar. He boasted about the first encounter with the beast, and his brave confrontation wherein the boar turned back and disappeared into the forest.
Praise and congratulations were heaped on the preening contractor.
‘Friends, the wild boar that was supposed to kill me now adorns a wall in my house. There it is …’ he ended and pointed at the trophy overhead.
There was sudden stillness in the room, as all eyes settled on the trophy. The next moment, it came crashing down and struck Dhabade on the head. The contractor’s skull had split open. It was a gory sight. He was killed on the spot.
Several guests screamed. A doctor amongst the guests checked Dhabade’s pulse and declared him dead.
Marathe ran out of the hall and made a call. ‘Dhabade is no more. He has been killed by the very wild boar that attacked him. You were right. Your prediction hasn’t failed,’ he told the priest.
‘I will pray for his soul,’ was all that the old man said.’
5
THE PORTRAIT
‘That story is so incredible. I just can’t believe it,’ commented a woman seated in the corner. She had not spoken a single word till now. ‘I have heard many ghost stories but never one about an animal’s spirit.’
All eyes turned towards her. Anirudh peered in the semi-darkness, trying to get a glimpse of her face. She was sitting in a spot where hardly any light fell on her face.
‘Let me tell you my story,’ began the woman. ‘My name is Kaveri Kirloskar, and I am an artist.’
‘You are an artist?’ scoffed the contractor. ‘It’s unlikely for you to encounter spooky incidents.’
‘You will be surprised,’ she retorted. ‘Let me narrate the story and then you can decide if it’s spooky or not.’
‘Go on with your story.’ Several voices goaded her to continue with her story.
‘It had been a very dull season,’ Kaveri began. ‘The winter chill seemed to invade my very being. It had been several weeks since I had last painted. I am a sunny person by nature and the dull winter sky makes me listless. The dates for the art exhibition were drawing closer, but I was far from the completion of my work.
I must confess that I consider myself a fairly successful artist and my paintings have sold well. Critics have been kind to me, and my clientele has been steadily growing. Thanks to the reviews published in newspapers and magazines, my name now figures in the list of upcoming artists in the country. At first, I sold locally but after word spread through media and mouth, my work has found demand through the metropolitan cities as well as abroad.
There had been a continuous demand from various art galleries too, which wanted to exhibit and showcase my work. The demand for my paintings kept me fairly busy. I couldn’t afford not to paint, and this spell of listlessness was causing me a lot of anxiety.
To add to the anxiety, Manohar Sharma, the organizer of the exhibition, called that morning. ‘Madam, the response to our recently released media reports has been overwhelming. There’s a lot of interest in the theme and many people are looking forward to it.’
‘That’s very nice,’ I replied.
‘Is it possible for you to ship your paintings so that we receive them in good time? The display and other factors have to be finalized.’
‘Mr Sharma, we have a lot of time before the exhibition begins. I will not be able to despatch the paintings until a week before the event.’ I was aware that my voice had turned apologetic as I said those words.
‘There is just a month left for the exhibition!’ His voice was beginning to rise. I could sense his effort to control his anxiety. Switching his voice to a lower pitch, he continued on a gentler note. ‘Madam, we prefer the paintings to be here well in time, so there is no last-minute rush.’
He was losing patience. It was supposed to be a fairly big event and art collectors were looking forward to the display of my paintings. We had recently emerged from the long phase of lockdown imposed due to the coronavirus. As expected, the theme, Life after Pandemic, had attracted a lot of interest.
Everything had been going fine. I had worked continuously for many weeks and had eleven paintings ready, but a few more had to be completed. The trouble was that I could no longer concentrate on work. Despite all my efforts, I had not been able to finish a single painting in the past few days. Perhaps it was my mental and physical exhaustion that was preventing me from working fast enough.
‘What I need is a break from the routine,’ I told myself, and for that I had to get away from Mumbai. After much deliberation, I decided to book an air ticket to Bagdogra and then travel by road to Kalimpong. It was a distance of about seventy-six kilometres, which on a good day could be covered in less three hours.
My mood turned buoyant as I set out on the journey. Kalimpong was one of my favourite destinations and I had always wanted to spend time in Morgan House. A typical British colonial mansion dating back to 1930, the hotel was a delightful place with an excellent view of the Kanchenjunga mountain range, I had been told. All my friends had returned raving about the place.
The sprawling mansion had been built when Mr George Morgan, a jute baron, married a lady who owned an indigo plantation. Since it started in a beautiful place, their love story should have had a fairy tale ending, but it didn’t.
Unfortunately, Mrs Morgan passed away soon after their marriage and George Morgan packed his bags and left the mansion. The two of them had no heir, so the property passed to the Indian government, and it was turned into a hotel.
Anyway, I was looking forward to a pleasant and productive stay in Kalimpong. However, things didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked. First, the flight to Bagdogra was delayed and then the cab I hired for the road journey developed some snag. As a result, it was dusk by the time we reached our destination.
It was not the tourist season and I was in luck as far as Morgan House was concerned. Room number 101, which I had been told was the best one, was available. Surrounded by lush greenery, the mansion was a delightful property with a magnificent location. The setting was guaranteed to pump up my creative juices and I was confident of finishing my paintings in a short time.
Room 101, with its huge space a
nd old furniture, was a charming one. To my delight, the window provided a breath-taking view of the snow-capped mountain range. I opened the window. A cold breeze, loaded with the scent of pine and wildflowers, fanned my face. Sighing happily, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, congratulating myself for the wise decision.
Turning back to the room, I noticed a beautiful painting of a woman in the style of the Old Masters. It was hanging right across the large bed. The background light was perfect, as were the brushstrokes and colours in the portrait. As an artist, I was fascinated by the expression on the woman’s face. The painter had skilfully reproduced the hint of sadness in her eyes, even as she smiled. Was she pining for her lover?
Her eyes seemed to follow me no matter which way I turned. This eye-following effect is nothing new and was noticed long ago by the ancient Greeks and Romans. In 1824, William Hyde Wollaston demonstrated that our judgement of where a subject’s eyes are looking is linked to the direction that we believe them to be gazing. Thus we are employing our psychological expectations along with the visual cues to interpret the subject. We had studied about these three-dimensional effects in art school.
Surprisingly, the expression in them continued to change. At the moment, they seemed to be reproaching me. Laughing, I shook a finger at her. Although I laughed at the apparently changing expression in the lady’s eyes, they were having an eerie effect on me.
A painting of the Kanchenjunga occupied the centre of the opposite wall, but it was the portrait that continued to draw my eyes. I was unable to ignore the compelling image in the painting.
Tired after the journey, I had an early dinner in my room that evening. Once the waiter had cleared the dishes, I sat up in bed and began reading a book. I had barely read a few pages before my eyes grew heavy with fatigue and I dozed off.
I am a heavy sleeper and don’t wake up due to minor disturbances. That night, I was suddenly awakened by a strange tapping sound. It seemed as though a lady was walking down the corridor in a pair of high heels. I glanced at my phone. It was 1 a.m.
Who could be walking at that time of the night, I wondered. Hill stations are infamous for uneventful nights. Most people retire to bed by 10 p.m. Strange! Donning my robe, I peeped out of the door. There was no one there. Sighing, I went back to bed.
I had barely fallen asleep when I woke up to the sound of high heels tapping past my room. They paused near the end of the corridor and then I heard the creaking of the wooden staircase. Someone was going upstairs. A few minutes later, the tapping sound indicated that the person was walking past my room once more.
‘Who’s there?’ I shouted. There was no reply. Once again, I peeped out of the door and saw no one in the corridor. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a rush of footsteps on the upper floor. This was followed by a loud scream, as though someone was being murdered. The scream was followed by total silence.
My eyes fell on the painting across the bed. Shocked, I stared. The woman was missing. Only the frame remained. I must be hallucinating! The room suddenly felt very cold. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees in just a couple of minutes. Shuddering, I drew the cover over my head and closed my eyes. I was like the ostrich that burrows its head in the sand, expecting the danger to pass. To be honest, I was too terrified to do anything.
Deciding to ask the receptionist about the painting and the strange sounds, I fell into restless sleep.
The next morning, I set up my easel in the garden and began painting. It was a crisp and beautiful morning and the mountain peaks were gleaming under the watery sunlight. Despite the beautiful surroundings, grand room and serene atmosphere, there was a sense of unease that plagued my mind. Although I had booked the room for a week, I wanted to finish my work and be off as soon as possible.
Determined to finish at least one painting, I laboured over the canvas for the entire day, only taking short breaks for meals. The hard work paid off. Come evening and I stood back, admiring the day’s work. It was a beautiful landscape with Morgan House in the background. I was more than satisfied by the way it had turned out.
I was too tired to go down for dinner, but I decided not to call for room service. Dining in the restaurant would provide some much-needed conversation about the strange happenings in my room. This was not to be. The waiter who served us that night was a reticent person. As a result, I received a single-word reply to all my queries. He could not or would not tell me anything about the vanishing woman in the painting or the tapping sounds outside my room. Although I received no answers to my queries, the dinner was fairly satisfying. The caramel pudding served as dessert turned out to be out of the world.
It was the chef’s favourite, I was told. He had found the recipe among the old books in the library that had been inherited from the Morgans. I made a silent note to compliment the chef before checking out of the hotel.
Determined to visit the library and speak to the manager the next morning, I walked towards my room. A message popped up on my phone and I glanced at it. As expected, it was another reminder from the organizers of the approaching exhibition. The corridor was dimly lit and I bumped into someone. I looked up at the lady and mumbled an apology. To my surprise, she paused before the door of my room for a minute and then vanished in the darkened end of the corridor.
My stress was doing a lot of damage, I realized. My brain was on overdrive and I was hallucinating. Shaking my head, I entered the room and walked towards the easel standing near the window. The painting had turned out well. Satisfied, I stepped into the bathroom.
After a shower and a change of dress, I snuggled into bed with my unfinished book. I had barely read a few pages when I began to drowse. It must be the heavy dinner, I decided. Turning off the lights, I burrowed deeper into the bed and was soon asleep.
I emerged suddenly from the heavy slumber, and sat up on the bed. Switching on the bedside light, I looked around to locate the scurrying sound. Rats! There are two things that I detest more than anything. One is rats and the other lizards. Rats or no rats, there was not much one could do at dead of night but wait till morning. It was the whispers that disturbed me most. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a couple of people engaged in a whispering conversation in my room.
Could it all be my imagination? There was only one way to escape the disturbing noises. I plugged in my earphones and began listening to soothing music. Soon, I was asleep.
Sometime after midnight, I woke up with a start. The music had ended long ago. I unplugged the earphones and lay tossing in bed.
There was a distinct sound of tapping heels. Someone was walking down the corridor. But, this time, I didn’t go to the door to investigate. There must be a logical explanation to the sounds. Turning on my music once again, I sank into an uneasy slumber.
The first thing my eyes noticed on waking was the lady in the painting. She wore a smug expression on her face that morning. ‘I will get that painting removed,’ I decided.
And then my eyes fell on the easel. The painting on it had been destroyed. It had been slashed to strips.
Infuriated, I quickly changed into my jeans and T-shirt and ran down the corridor to the reception. My hair messy and eyes bleary, I must have presented a strange sight, for the receptionist stared in surprise. Banging my fist on the table, I demanded to see the manager.
‘He hasn’t come,’ I was informed by the frightened receptionist. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘You jolly well do something right now,’ I shouted belligerently. ‘I want you to call the police immediately.’
‘Why, madam?’ He paled. ‘Has anything been stolen?’
‘I want to know who entered my room last night.’
‘Entered your room?’ The man was shocked at my allegation. ‘Didn’t you lock the door from inside?’
‘I locked the door, but someone got into the room last night,’ I insisted. ‘Someone destroyed my painting.’
I am sure the receptionist thought that I was demented. He
looked disbelievingly at me. ‘Your painting was destroyed?’
‘Yes, it has been slashed with a knife. For the past two nights, someone has been walking down the corridor and making a lot of noise. I want the police to investigate the matter.’
I was still shouting when the manager arrived, running. Someone must have called and informed him about my complaints.
‘Please calm down, madam,’ he said, ordering the receptionist to fetch a glass of water. He led me to a sofa and insisted that I sit down.
I gulped down the water and drew deep breaths till I felt a little calmer. Burying my face in my palms, I shook my head. ‘Someone is trying to drive me out of my mind,’ I whispered.
‘Are you feeling unwell? Shall I call a doctor, madam?’ the manager asked gently.
‘No! I am alright. You will see for yourself if you follow me to my room.’ My legs shaky, I stood up and began walking down the corridor.
Inside the room, I pointed at the slashed painting and the portrait hanging on the wall. I told him about the tapping noises, the whispers and the scurrying rats. It was obvious that he thought I was crazy.
‘We will give you another room,’ he offered after hearing my experiences.
A room on the opposite side of the reception was allotted to me and my bags were carried there. Although it wasn’t as nice as the previous one, it was a comfortable and sunny room. Satisfied, I glanced around. And then my eyes fell on the portrait hanging on the wall right opposite the bed.
‘What is that portrait doing here?’ I screeched.
‘It’s always been here,’ said the manager. ‘Do you want it removed?’
‘I don’t want it here. Take it away,’ I yelled. ‘Do you have replicas of the same portrait in every room?’
‘No, madam, we have different ones. I will have it removed right away.’
They removed the painting and replaced it with a different one. This time, it was a bunch of sunflowers, a copy of the Van Gogh painting. It added brightness and cheer to the room.
‘Hope you are comfortable in this room. I will ensure that you are not disturbed. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything,’ said the manager, bowing himself out of the room.
Spooky Stories Page 5
