Ghosts From My Village

My village never had a shortage of ghosts. They were found at every corner although with a special preference to water bodies. There was hardly a well or a pond without a ghost ambling around it. Surprisingly the villagers and the ghosts shared a rather cordial relationship.

Our ghosts were very different from what you saw in Hollywood/Bollywood movies. To begin with, they were not relegated to the realm of dark nights. They preferred afternoons. Three hours after noon were considered ‘hours of the ghosts’.  Around those hours you were expected to avoid desolate wells and lonely ponds, lest you encounter a ghost basking in the afternoon sun, soaking its feet in the water. It was a bit inconvenient for children, as those were the best hours to steal mangoes from the orchards or to take a dip in the cool waters. As a child, I always suspected some conspiracy between the living and the dead in this matter.

Contrary to general perception, our ghosts never resorted to violence. They maintained a certain decorum while interfering in our lives. Once in a couple of months, someone from the village would start shaking involuntarily and weep profusely or laugh uncontrollably. Breaths would become short and the body above waist would move in circles. The news would spread quickly and the entire village would gather around the person. A few people in the village, were considered experts in communicating and negotiating with the ghosts. Being an expert did not require any training; a loud and confident voice was good enough. Anyhow, the expert will ask someone to burn incense sticks, put some holy ash on the possessed person’s forehead, and begin questioning the ghost who had taken charge of the 'body'.
‘Who are you?’ was the foremost question. For some reason, ghosts enjoyed prolonging suspense over that one. Enquiries about their identity would be met with laughs, cries or stony silences. While the experts would be busy establishing the identity of the ghost, there would be a lot of guesswork among the onlookers. 'Would this be Hari Buwa from the Banyan tree or Vatsala from the orchard well? or Antu from the village pond?' Each ghost had a different personality and a tragic story of neglect and harassment. Hari Buwa was a bhajan singer who decided to hang himself to a Banyan tree because his only son did not take care of him in his old age. Antu consumed poison because he was not able to repay his loans. Vatsala killed herself because her husband neglected her. There were countless young women who had thrown themselves in different wells due to harassment at the hands of their in-laws; in some cases they were pushed. The ghosts were wronged, whose plight was ignored by the villagers while they were alive and hence they lurked around the village like a collective sense of guilt. “I am so sad” they would often say in between sobs and the villagers would try to console them. During this consoling the line between the ghost and the possessed often blurred. A ghost story from the past often applied balm to the tragic story in making.

Eventually after a lot of reluctance the ghost would reveal its identity. The next logical question was why was it here and what did it want? They had all sorts of demands. Antu always asked for alcohol, some asked for onion pakoras, some asked for bangles. The most heart-wrenching demand was that of Vatsala, she would ask for candies and buiscuits; she had young children when she killed herself. A promise was extracted that ghost would leave the body once its demand was met. The demanded item was placed at the place indicated by the ghost and the possessed person collapsed out of exhaustion which meant that the ghost has left. It was a matter of couple of hours, but provided enough material for discussion over next few days.

Things have changed in the village these days. Children are busy attending coaching classes in the afternoon and grown-ups are glued to the tele serials. Tankers are constantly drawing water from the wells for the construction work in the nearby town. Most orchards are bought over by the rich people from Mumbai who have put towering walls around them. The new generation of daughters- in-law are educated and know their rights. Old houses have made way to the newer and modern ones with unbreachable doors and windows. Suicides do happen once in a while, but people try to cover them up legally and also get rid of them from their conscience. Ghosts have not possessed anyone for a long time. The older people say the ghosts have become rather shy, some say they have left the village altogether.

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Girl by the window

The concert hall was filled with old, retired people. From the last row, I could see different shades of gray. There was a smattering of young lustrous scalps, since some from the audience needed assistance to reach the concert. A wheelchair stood in the corner and many four-legged walking sticks lined the aisles. The singer was an old man too, who sang old songs from an old notebook with yellowing pages.

In this geriatric ambiance, the only thing that was young and supple was the rich voice of the singer. Every note fathomed depth of the melody, indicating a lifetime of training and dedicated practice. ‘He has been suffering from cancer’, someone whispered to me.

The singer began singing a song by Tagore describing a young woman sitting by the window, her head resting on her palm, with flowers and an incomplete garland in her lap. The imagery was vivid and the melody hauntingly pleasant. Graying heads moved gently, while some remained dreamily still as if transported to some place in their own personal history.

It was time for the last song. Notes of the raag Bhairavi, created the sense of sweet agony one feels at the end of a beautiful concert.

The song was over. People shuffled back to their feet as if waking up from a dream. Cotton sarees rustled, walking sticks rattled. Familiar faces were spotted, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and news of grand-children and faraway offsprings were shared.

I sat looking at the crowd. A woman was hobbling down the aisle. She had curly hair with generous amount of kumkum in the parting, loudly declaring existence of a living husband. One part of her body was paralyzed and fingers of her hand were upturned awkwardly. A side of her lips was drooping down, making it difficult to gauge her mood. For a moment, I remembered the girl from the song, sitting by the window with flowers in her lap. Could this woman have had a moment like that song in her life? Would she have waited for her beloved looking at the Bakul flowers strewn in her backyard? What songs would have been hummed by those drooping lips? What ecstatic bliss would have been experienced by her now paralyzed body?

Cars started arriving at the porch. People were helped into their cars. Steel watchstraps and golden bangles glinted in the dark while they waved and reminded each other of the next concert.

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