Ghost Stories

Forget logic, investigation, and scientific temperament for a moment. We belonged to that glorious civilization where King Vikramaditya still carried the corpse-like Betal dangling from his shoulders across the pages of Chandamama. Ghosts, spirits, wandering souls—these things floated through our childhoods as naturally as mosquitoes around a kerosene lamp. Fear was not an emotion then; it was a cultural syllabus. I was at that dangerous age when youth first begins sharpening its claws inside the chest. One afternoon, bright enough to deceive innocent boys into catastrophe, my uncle casually announced:

“Come, let’s visit some people.”

Now, village visits were risky affairs. They inevitably led to agricultural conversations.

“How much paddy did your field yield this year?” “What variety of rice do you sow?”

Questions designed specifically to humiliate boys like me. My father ploughed fields with buffaloes, true—but he had thoughtfully ensured his sons remained academically useless in matters of actual farming. Father used to say:

“We ploughed fields and studied. You fellows sleep under blankets and still reap seven harvests.” As a result, whenever elderly villagers discussed rice cultivation, I stood there like a goat accidentally invited to a mathematics conference. Perhaps sensing my reluctance, my uncle deployed the final weapon from the ancient arsenal of human manipulation:

“I hear the girls there are very beautiful.” Outwardly I maintained dignity. “Well, if they’re beautiful, they’re beautiful. What’s that to me?” Inwardly, however, my soul somersaulted into the future. Before self-respect could object, I had already climbed onto the back of the motorcycle like a moth volunteering for cremation.

My uncle himself was still in the springtime of youth, and perhaps because of this, the motorcycle moved toward his in-laws’ village with suspicious enthusiasm. The roads of Ghilamara in those days were not roads in the conventional sense. They were philosophical arguments against civilization. There were potholes inside roads and roads inside potholes. The bridge over the Puthikhaiti River swayed with such devotion that one suspected it prayed daily for liberation from earthly suffering.

The motorcycle leapt and bucked like a horse possessed by revolutionary ideals. My spine gradually detached itself from faith in human engineering.

After a while, we left the main road and entered a narrower one. Then narrower still. Eventually the motorcycle veered onto something resembling a cow’s private walking trail. Bushes thickened. Sunlight dimmed. The romantic thoughts that had bloomed earlier scattered from my mind like pigeons fleeing a gunshot.

Still, one consoles oneself.

Lotuses bloom in mud. Roses bloom among thorns. Perhaps somewhere in this jungle wilderness waited some luminous maiden destined to alter the course of history.

But as the motorcycle crawled deeper into the overgrown path, another thought slowly rose within me:

What if my uncle had actually lost his mind?

Then suddenly—

THUD!

The motorcycle jolted violently. My thoughts, my bones, and my future shifted position simultaneously. Had we been moving slightly faster, my uncle would have ended up on the fuel tank and I in direct conversation with Yama himself.

I was already irritated when my uncle calmly began rummaging through a bag like a magician preparing a ritual sacrifice.

“Scared? Take a betel leaf. Chew it. Freshen yourself.”

Only then did I notice the bag.

Inside it were sweets, rasgullas…

…and a bottle of milk.

Milk?

At once my imagination split into multiple directions, none respectable.

“What are all these for?” I asked cautiously.

“You’ll understand. First chew the betel leaf.”

At that moment, every ghost story I had ever heard gathered inside my head and began holding committee meetings.

“Tell me honestly,” I demanded, “where exactly are we going?”

Like a cricket umpire refusing to explain an LBW decision, my uncle silently pointed toward the driver’s seat.

We continued.

The wilderness thickened.

Then, suddenly—a house emerged.

Not a hut. Not some collapsing bamboo structure. A proper house. Large compound. Bamboo fencing. Silent surroundings. On one side, a man with a gamocha tied around his head trimmed bamboo with measured movements. Hearing the motorcycle, he glanced toward us briefly.

And smiled.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a smile.

Some expressions belong neither to humans nor spirits, but to that unsettling middle territory where both occasionally shake hands.

I immediately disliked him.

“Wash your feet,” my uncle instructed, pointing toward a tubewell.

Courtesy compelled obedience, though inwardly I was preparing legal arguments against everyone involved in this expedition.

“Sit there. I’ll make inquiries.”

She vanished into the inner rooms with the familiarity of someone who had visited before. Two men emerged carrying bags, glanced at me briefly, and left on motorcycles. Their faces carried the exhausted seriousness of people returning from negotiations with invisible powers. Then came a girl and a young boy. Behind them stood an enormous elderly man. The girl touched the old man’s feet before leaving.

“Don’t forget what was instructed,” he said solemnly. “Everything will be fine.” At once my sixth sense awoke and whispered: Run. Immediately. But before instinct could complete its speech—

DHARAM!

Something slammed onto the tin roof. The entire house shook.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The roof trembled violently as though invisible giants were dancing upon it. My blood froze. My ancestors collectively reconsidered the family lineage. Then silence. Something rolled behind a black curtain. Then— A voice.

“I… have… come…”

If this had happened at night, I would have died on the spot and become part of the local ghost population myself. My uncle, meanwhile, clutched some bone-like object with terrifying calmness. “We have brought offerings for you. Please accept them.”

Then came the sound:

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

Something was drinking the milk. Dear God. The hooves-like sound resumed. The old man gestured for questions. My uncle spoke carefully.

“What is causing unrest in the house?” A screeching voice answered from beyond the curtain:

“There is a kordoi tree before the house. Beneath it… something evil is buried…”

Now the terrifying part was this: My uncle actually did have a kordoi tree before his house. At once the atmosphere thickened into something almost theatrical. The ghost—or whatever employee handled communications on behalf of the afterlife—continued speaking. A sacrifice would be necessary. A higher spirit must be summoned. A goat would have to die. Saturday was the appointed day. Again the roof shook violently. Again the invisible presence departed with a rushing sound. Silence returned like exhausted rain. The old man opened his eyes slowly and explained with scholarly gravity:

“This work is beyond the smaller spirits. A greater entity is involved.”

Wonderful. There was apparently a ghost hierarchy too. Junior ghosts. Senior ghosts. Management-level ghosts. By then I no longer desired beautiful girls, romance, or earthly happiness. I wanted only one thing: Escape. As we prepared to leave, I glanced once more toward the strange house. The western sky burned red with sunset, but I possessed no poetic appreciation for beauty then. Terror leaves little room for aesthetics. I stepped forward to open the bamboo gate.

THUD!

Something fell behind the hedge. My entire body shivered again. Then suddenly something rushed past through the wilderness with impossible speed—as though the jungle itself had exhaled.

I turned back one final time toward the house. At the kitchen window stood a pair of eyes.

Young eyes. Bright eyes. They met mine for only a second before vanishing. In them was something strange. Not fear. Not satisfaction. Perhaps pity. Perhaps a warning.

Perhaps the old man’s young wife had wanted to say something all along.

Or perhaps, in that haunted wilderness, she himself was the loneliest ghost of all.