Like the previous day, I set up the easel and tried to work on a painting. But, I couldn’t concentrate, no matter how much I tried. My mind kept going back to the slashed painting and the nocturnal noises. It was futile to continue, I realized.
Placing the easel back in the room, I began loitering around the hotel. As I walked from one end to another, I came across a small room with several bookracks. The racks held a sizeable collection of books and magazines, some new and some old. The old books appeared as old as the mansion. They must have come with the house. Many of them were leatherbound and had embossed golden lettering. Their pages had become brittle with age. There were books on the history and flora and fauna of the area. There were some old novels and a few illustrated coffee-table books. I leafed through a few of them.
All of a sudden my eyes fell on a picture in one of the books. It was a photograph of a couple. Surprised, I studied the photograph till I was certain. Yes, it was the same woman. There was no doubt that the lady in it was the one in the portrait. So, the portrait was of Mrs Morgan.
I rushed to the manager’s office with the book and pointed at the photograph.
‘Isn’t this the same woman as the one in the painting?’ I asked.
He stared at it for a few minutes. It was obvious that he had not seen the book earlier. ‘I think it is the same lady,’ he said, nodding his head in confirmation.
‘Have you heard of any eerie happenings in the hotel?’ I asked.
The manager hesitated for a few moments. Finally, with a deep sigh, he said, ‘I didn’t want to disturb you with the stories. A few guests have reported incidents of the spooky kind, but most of them have turned out to be untrue.’
Enraged by his comments, I snapped, ‘It’s evident that you don’t value the reports. Do you think that the guests are stupid? Why would anyone report eerie happenings if there were none?’
‘It’s not …’
‘I am sure you think I am imagining things, and that I am a silly woman given to hallucinating. Let me assure you, I am a respectable artist. The things that have happened in my room are not a product of my imagination. Something strange is taking place in the hotel and you should be investigating instead of casting doubts on these reports.’
Having given the manager a piece of my mind, I went back to my room. The first thing that my eyes noticed was the portrait hanging on the wall. How and when had it returned to the room? And then I saw that the painting on my easel had been ripped to shreds. Devastated, I ran back to the manager.
‘It’s come back …’ I shouted and collapsed on the floor.
I found myself lying on the sofa in the manager’s room when I regained consciousness. The manager was hovering anxiously around me when I opened my eyes. ‘You fainted, madam,’ he explained.
‘Did you check my room?’ I asked.
‘No, madam!’ He handed me a glass of water and asked, ‘Are you feeling better? Should I call the doctor?’
I had a severe headache and my throat felt parched. ‘The portrait is hanging on the wall and my painting has been shredded,’ I said after drinking some water. ‘I want you to book a cab to take me to Bagdogra. I have to check out of the hotel.’
‘But, madam …’
‘No buts, I want to get out of this place. Immediately!’
I had no air ticket. I had no idea about the next flight out of Bagdogra, nor a hotel booking there. Nothing mattered. All that mattered was that I had to get out of this place.
A few hours later, having bought an air ticket for the next day, I had checked into a hotel near the Bagdogra airport. There, lying on the comfortable bed in my room, I ruminated over the events of the last few days. I had read up about the Morgan House and learnt that the place attracted the rich and famous of the country. It had been the favourite hotel of several film stars, singers and directors. None of them had experienced bizarre happenings.
Why, then, had the lady in the portrait chosen to single me out for harassment? Did I resemble someone who had hurt her in the past?
There were no answers or explanations. It was just one of those eerie things that happen to some people, at some point in life.’
6
THE GHOST IN RED
‘Your story has a ring of truth,’ said the architect who had narrated the first story. ‘However, I am surprised that the lady in the portrait wasn’t kinder towards one of her own gender.’ He chuckled.
‘You mean a woman’s spirit should not harass a woman?’ Anirudh was amused at the thought. It was all so incredible. Here he was, sitting in a ramshackle room, listening to such unbelievable stories.
‘That’s not true,’ said someone from the back of the room. ‘My story will prove that spirits don’t discriminate.’
‘That’s an interesting statement. Unlike humans, spirits don’t discriminate,’ said Anirudh.
‘The story that I am narrating has nothing to do with me,’ continued the man sitting at the far end. ‘You may not believe this, but the story was told to me by a woman who died just a week ago.’
Stunned silence greeted his declaration. ‘We happened to meet a couple of days back,’ he clarified.
Clearing his throat, he continued his spiel. ‘Kallu did not know what was happening. There was a commotion around the tiny shack where he lived with his parents. He had been fast asleep when his father shook him awake. There seemed to be a melee outside. Kallu could hear their neighbours shouting. His father, Kanshi Ram, prodded him again. ‘Get up and move. We have to leave immediately.’
‘Where are we going?’ he asked sleepily. It was still dark and he wondered why they had to wake up so early.
‘Just do what you are told,’ his mother scolded him, continuing to put their belongings together. ‘Put your clothes in this bundle, but don’t carry too much,’ she warned. ‘We will have to walk a long distance.’
‘Are we going away for long?’
‘We don’t know anything. We may be gone for a while or we may not come back at all.’
For a few moments, he stood undecided. He didn’t have too many clothes. They could be easily tied into a small bundle, but there were so many other things that he didn’t wish to leave behind. Surreptitiously, he slipped the red toy car with two wheels into the bundle. Kallu had found the broken toy car lying near the wall of a housing colony. A little dented and scraped, its front wheels missing, it stood on its rear wheels like a horse raring to run. For days, he had slept with it under his pillow, afraid of losing it.
‘Hurry up!’ his mother hissed, as he secreted a torn picture of Salman Khan, his favourite star, and a frayed cricket ball. He debated whether he should smuggle the stuffed monkey that a kind lady had gifted him on his 7th birthday. It was scruffy, but he loved it. Another shove from his mother reminded him to hurry. He wanted to ask if he could take the stuffed toy, but she had already moved towards the door.
There was no time for conversation as the family quickly tied up some essentials in a few bundles. Casting one last look at the room, which had been their home for the last two years, Kallu stepped out.
Two years back, the seven-year-old boy had arrived in Delhi with his parents. It had been a struggle to rent the tiny shack where they spent their nights. During the day, his parents worked as daily wagers on a large construction project. Kallu played in the neighbourhood with other children, occasionally attending the classes run by an NGO.
Carrying the bundles on top of their heads, they joined their neighbours. There was a sense of unease as more and more families spilled out of their shanties and joined the crowd. Men discussed the issue among themselves. Holding the hands of their sleepy children, the women spoke in low tones. What was common was the worried look etched on all faces. Soon, hundreds of labourers were walking towards the main road.
‘Where are we going?’ Kallu repeated the question. It was only after they had walked a distance that his mother replied, ‘We are going back to Bihar.’
‘Why?’ asked Kallu. He
liked living in Delhi.
‘You ask too many questions,’ snapped his mother, her forehead lined with worry.
It was an exodus. Hundreds of migrant workers were moving along the road, carrying their possessions on their heads. They streamed out of the various shanties and slums, their numbers swelling with each passing minute. Heads lowered, shoulders stooping, their minds burdened with anxiety, silent and lethargic, they walked like ghosts in the dark. By now, worries of the impending doom had taken possession of all minds.
Kallu and his parents, flanked by their neighbours, continued to trudge with the others.
Dawn was yet to break.
‘Why is everyone leaving? Will they go to Bihar with us?’ Kallu wanted to know.
‘We have to reach the bus stand by 5 a.m., so stop talking and walk faster,’ said Kallu’s mother.
Stern-faced, his father walked ahead. Something in the atmosphere conveyed the seriousness of the situation and Kallu held his tongue.
Dawn was beginning to break as they reached the bus stand. There was a sea of people jostling and shouting at each other. Kallu’s mother strengthened her hold on his hand and hurried to catch up with her husband.
‘Stick together. Don’t get separated,’ he shouted above the din, as they were pushed from all sides.
It was a big struggle to get into one of the buses lined up on one side. Kallu panicked as he was separated from his mother. He shouted and screamed. His voice was drowned by the noise of several children screaming for their parents.
Suddenly, he felt himself being pushed from the back. Someone lifted him up and he was hauled into the bus. He found his mother crying and screaming for him. She hugged him fiercely as he stumbled towards her.
The bus, which was packed with people, finally set off. There were people sitting in the aisles and every inch of the floor was covered with their belongings that also served as seats for the owners. Some were seated on the roof and some hanging by the bars outside. Kallu and his family had been fortunate enough to catch the bus that would take them to the Delhi border.
The bus raced nonstop till it reached its destination. As they disembarked from the bus, Kallu was shocked to see a multitude of people waiting at the border. Men were running around and shouting, while the ladies and children sat guarding their bundles.
There were thousands of people waiting for buses to take them home. Some of them wanted to go to Bengal, some to Chhattisgarh and other states. There was chaos and confusion as people rushed from one end to the other. The government was providing buses to go back to the village, people said, but there were only a few buses and too many people.
Kanshi Ram joined the melee, trying to find the bus that would take them to Bihar.
It was there that Kallu learnt what had happened, and that worried him. He heard a woman telling his mother about some deadly virus.
‘I heard it on the news. Coronavirus is the name of the disease. It is spreading very fast. The victims are sure to die,’ she said.
‘I also watched the news on the television,’ said another woman sitting near Kallu’s mother. ‘They were saying that this deadly virus can spread by just one touch, and is spreading like wildfire. It has claimed thousands of lives all over the world. All construction and factories have closed down and everyone has lost their jobs.’
‘My husband has not been paid by the contractor,’ wailed the woman. ‘We have no money.’
‘No one has been paid,’ agreed Kallu’s mother. ‘Even we have not been paid this month’s wages, but who could we ask for money? The contractor did not show up at the site.’
Finally, Kallu learnt the reason why everyone wanted to go back to their homes. With no job and no money, no one could survive in a city. It was frightening news. He had noticed the worried look on his father’s face. The same look was visible on the faces around them.
What would they do without money? It was eleven in the morning and his stomach rumbled with hunger. The sun was getting brighter and the temperature was rising. He looked around and licked his parched lips. It had been many hours since they had eaten. There were a few food vendors on the roadside. Hesitantly, he tugged at his mother’s hand. ‘I am hungry,’ he said.
Kallu’s words intensified the worried look on his mother’s face. Her reply was lost in the din. Everyone was rushing towards a water tanker that had arrived. Asking him to stay with the bundles, she joined the crowd near the water tanker. They were lucky to have spotted the tanker. Filling up the plastic water bottle, Kallu’s mother brought it over to him.
‘Drink as much water as you can. We may not be able to get food for a long time,’ she said. He emptied the bottle and asked, ‘Where is baba?’
‘He’s gone to locate the bus that will take us to Patna,’ she said, walking toward the tanker to fill the bottle.
It didn’t take long for Kanshi Ram to return. ‘Get up!’ he shouted. ‘We have to leave.’
Food was forgotten as they quickly gathered the bundles and followed Kanshi Ram towards a row of buses parked in a clearing. There was confusion as no one knew where the buses were going. Kallu’s father ran from one bus to another, trying to find one that would take them to Patna.
‘Kanshi Ram. Get into this bus,’ someone called out. It was their neighbour, Ramlal. The man, a mason from a village in Bihar, was on his way back home. His family had seven members including a set of ageing parents. The younger son, Lakhan, was Kallu’s friend.
Ramlal and his family were already seated on the bus. ‘Get in quickly, Kanshi Ram,’ he yelled. ‘The bus is about to start.’
Kanshi Ram waved at him and herded his family towards the bus. They jostled the dozens of people trying to climb into the bus leaving for Patna. Luckily, they managed to find one seat. Kallu’s mother sat down on it and placed him on the lap. It took a couple of minutes for the bus to fill up beyond its capacity.
The bus started with a deep groan, as the engine seemed to struggle with hauling the load of the passengers and their bags. The conductor announced that the bus would halt at Meerut for a lunch break. It was stifling inside the bus. Hungry and exhausted, Kallu dozed off on his mother’s shoulder.
It was 2 p.m. when the bus reached Meerut, and Kallu’s mother was grateful for the opportunity to stretch her cramped legs.
‘You have to wait at the same place. A bigger bus will arrive after some time,’ announced the conductor. ‘It will take you to your destination.’
The news brought some cheer to the crowd of exhausted people. A bigger bus would mean a little more space and a more comfortable journey. There was a collective sigh of relief as people began to get down with their bags. Once everyone had disembarked, the bus turned and headed back to Delhi.
They had been dropped at a huge ground on the periphery of Meerut cantonment. It was a secluded area. A few enterprising vendors had set up food carts near a cluster of trees at one corner of the ground. The hungry passengers made a beeline for the carts. Kallu looked at them longingly.
‘Shall we have some food?’ Kallu’s mother asked her husband. ‘Kallu has been hungry for a long time.’
‘Ramlal and I have been trying to find some more people from our villages, so we can have company,’ said her husband. ‘It’s safer that way. But that can wait. Let’s have food first.’
They bought three plates of puri and chhole from a vendor, and joined Ramlal’s family. Together they sat under a tree, sharing their food.
‘Bhai, do you have any idea when the bus will arrive?’ Kanshi Ram asked a man sitting near him.
‘We have been waiting since early morning,’ replied the man. ‘We were told that a big bus will take us to our town, but it hasn’t arrived.’
Desperate for information, Kanshi Ram went from one group to another, but everyone was clueless about the bus to Patna. Two hours passed by, and then three, but there was no trace of the bus, nor any news of it.
Sapped and listless, they lay under the shade of the tree. Time dragged as th
e day passed, and then darkness fell. Soon, the vendors began packing up to leave the grounds.
‘Is there any hope of the bus arriving tonight?’ asked Kallu’s mother.
‘How do you expect me to answer that question?’ Kanshi Ram snapped at her. ‘I have been trying to find an answer but no one knows anything.’
‘Why don’t you ask one of the vendors? They are here every day, so they may be able to say something,’ she suggested.
Kanshi Ram nodded and approached a vendor. He bought some samosas from the man, and asked, ‘Bhai, you are here every day. What time does the bus to Patna arrive?’
‘I have not seen any bus leaving with passengers from this place,’ replied the vendor. ‘The buses arriving from Delhi have been dropping their passengers at this spot since yesterday night. The conductors tell everyone that a bus will soon arrive, but there has not been a single bus leaving for Patna.’
Upset with the information, Kanshi Ram went back to the group of people seated at one corner. He repeated what the vendor had said. There was a murmur of protest. ‘How is that possible? Did the conductor give them the wrong information? But, why would he do that?’
‘We must confront the conductor of the next bus that arrives here to drop its passengers,’ said someone and many voices agreed with the suggestion.
‘I have been waiting here for the past twelve hours,’ said an old man. ‘We were told to wait here for a bus. There is no bus.’
After hearing his statement, a few people concluded that they had been duped by the conductor and that they had been left to fend for themselves. There was hardly any traffic on the road. A few vehicles that passed did not halt.
‘We have been fooled. There are no buses from here to Patna,’ Kanshi Ram told his wife. ‘We will have to find a way to reach Patna. Let’s find some place to sleep. We can think about the next step in the morning.’
Groups of people all over the ground were discussing the same thing.
Spooky Stories Page 6
