She grabbed the warm shawl from the foot of the massive oak bed, wrapping it around her shoulders. She lit the candle on her bedside table and glanced at her son who was in deep slumber oblivious to her predicament. The small steady flame cast long and flickering shadows on the walls. The clock struck 12 midnight. "Jai Hanumanji," she mumbled and began to walk out towards the kitchen. All the stories she had heard about this bungalow being haunted flooded her mind.
Earlier that Friday night, Vicky sat with his father trying to concentrate on his holiday homework. His mother was busy cooking his favourite meal and there was an aroma of delectable spices lingering all over the Dooteriah bungalow. This was an ancient colonial bungalow and Vicky loved spending the three months of winter vacation away from the boarding school of Sikkim.
His favourite pastime was listening to the stories told by maali bhaiyas and ayah didis under the huge tree every afternoon. Sometimes, the stories were about friendly ghosts and other times sinister, but his mother had admonished him saying, "do not believe everything you hear."
Mrs Kumari Rao knew that she had to put up a brave front for the sake of her son. When they had first moved in here in 1992 she had heard many rumours about their bungalow. The bungalow sat upon a hillock amongst the verdant tea bushes. During the evenings, a veil of fog hung around the pathway shadowed by a canopy of arching branches and whitewashed tree trunks. Inside the compound, a huge tree bent in all directions greeted an unusual welcome. Her husband told her that the estate manager had been kind to get the bungalow renovated so they could begin to settle.
That Friday night, while serving dinner to her family, she heard someone calling out, “doctor saab…doctor saab,” through the kitchen window. The chowkidaar of the estate hospital had come to inform them that there was an emergency and the patient needed immediate attention. Dr Rao rushed to the hospital, barely finishing his dinner.
“Vicky, finish your dinner quickly," Kumari said. It’s going to be nine and soon the engine will be turned off.” After dinner she tucked her son in bed and lay next to him, humming a lullaby. She watched the wax of the candle melt away and soon darkness engulfed the room. She waited for her husband to return wondering if the patient was better.
Suddenly she was awakened by a loud bang and then the night was silent again. Wide awake now she lay still rationalizing that the sound she heard might have been a broken branch or her husband returning. She called out, "yamandi?" (Do you hear me?) But there was no reply. "Vechora leda?" (Are you back?) She asked but still nothing.
Though her belief in paranormal activities was almost non-existent, she was apprehensive of the night. She heard some whispers and a muffled cry of a woman. Was it a figment of her imagination? She recalled one of the stories that the bungalow staff had narrated about a couple. The assistant had been knocked off by the mob and upon hearing this, the grief-stricken widow had hung herself in the faltu-kamra (spare room) of this very bungalow.
Kumari walked towards the kitchen gripping the candle-stand tight, her knuckles white. "Chowkidaar," she called out trying to modulate her voice to be deep and formidable but it sounded like a yelp. She felt the gust of the chilly winter breeze that blew off the candle flame. The old wooden floor creaked under her feet and the doors and windows rattled in their frames.
Groping for the matchbox, she lit the candle again placing it on the centre table of the living room and sat there, waiting for her husband. The flame of the candle cast long and warped shadows. She chanted, "Jai Hanuman ji," gazing at the mist through the window. Just then, she saw a face outside the window illuminated by the flicker of the candle. The curtains swayed. Gathering her wits she walked towards the window and peered through the pane into the darkness. Feeling as though she was being watched, she yanked the curtains closed. She sensed some movement in the next room.
Her heart started racing and despite the December chill, she was sweating. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned the doorknob. She raised the candle in her palms to scan the room and noticed the door of the bathroom as it slowly swung open.
Had she experienced her first ghost? She stood there startled when she heard a faraway voice, “memsaab, bulaya kya?” asked the chowkidaar - torch light in hand, stating that he had gone to relieve himself. Regaining her composure she ordered, “go outside and check if the falling branches of the tree have caused any damage.”
“Today is Amavasya, memsaab,” he said under his breath, “the bhoot always visits the bungalow during the Amavasya in December,” and refused to go out for the time being. The memsaab reprimanded him saying that these were all make-believe and returned to her room. But she could not help but wonder if the silhouette she had seen outside the window was the chowkidaar smoking a beedi or indeed the Amavasya White Lady.
Mrs and Dr NK Rao - Then & Now
Glossary:
Jai Hanuman ji: Hail Hanuman (a Hindu God)
Maali bhaiya: Gardener
Saab: Sir
Memsaab: Ma'am
Chowkidaar: Night guard
"Memsaab, bulaya kya?": "Did you call me, ma'am?"
Amavasya: New Moon
Bhoot: Ghost