A Season of Ghosts Read online

  Someone said, ‘Roast pig—I’ve been looking forward to this!’ and stuck a knife and fork into Rahul’s thigh.

  He cried out, or tried to, but no one heard; he could not hear his own voice. He found he could raise his head and look down the length of his body, and he saw he had pig’s trotters instead of his own feet.

  Someone turned him over and sliced a bit off his rump.

  ‘A most tender leg of pork,’ remarked a woman on his left.

  A fork jabbed him in the buttocks. Then a giant of a man, top-hatted, with a carving knife in his hand, leant over him. He wore a broad white apron, and on it was written in large letters CHAIRMAN OF THE JURY. The carving knife glistened in the lamplight.

  Rahul screamed and leapt off the table. He fell against the piano, recovered his balance, dashed past the revellers, and out of the vast dining room.

  He ran down the silent hotel corridor, banging on all the doors. But none opened to him. Finally, at Room No. 12A—hotels do not like using the number 13—the door gave way. Out of breath, shaking all over, our hero stumbled into the room and bolted the door behind him.

  It was a single room with a single bed. The bedclothes appeared to be in some disarray but Rahul hardly noticed. All he wanted was to end the nightmare he had been having and get some sleep. Kicking off his shoes, he climbed into the bed fully dressed.

  He had been lying there for at least five minutes before he realized that he wasn’t alone in the bed. There was someone lying beside him, covered by a sheet. Rahul switched on the bedside lamp. Nothing moved, the body lay still. On the sheet, in large letters, were the words: BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.

  He pulled the sheet back and stared down at his own dead self.

  Night of the Millennium

  JACKALS HOWLED DISMALLY, foraging for bones and offal down in the khud below the butcher’s shop. Pasand was unperturbed by the sound. A robust young computer whiz-kid and patriotic multinational, he prided himself on being above and beyond all superstitious fears of the unknown. In his lexicon, the unknown was just something that was waiting to be discovered. Hence this walk past the old cemetery late at night.

  Midnight would see the new millennium in. The year 2000 beckoned, full of bright prospects for well-heeled young men like Pasand. True, there were millions—soon to be over a billion—sweating it out in the heat and dust of the plains below, scraping together a meagre living for themselves and their sprawling families. Not for them the advantages of a public school education, three cars in the garage, and a bank account in Bermuda. Ah well, mused Pasand, not everyone could have the brains and good luck, as well as inherited family wealth of course, that had made life so pleasant and promising for him. This was going to be the century in which the smart-asses would get to the top and all other varieties of asses would sink to the bottom. It was important to have a ruling elite, according to his philosophy; only then could slaves prosper!

  He looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. He had eaten well, and he was enjoying his little walk along the lonely winding road which took him past the houses of the rich and famous, the Lals, the Banerjees, the Kapoors, the Ramchandanis—he was as good as any of them! Better, in fact. He was approaching his own personal Everest, while they had reached theirs and were on the downward slope, or so he presumed.

  Here was the cemetery with its broken old tombstones, some of them dating from a hundred and fifty years ago: pathetic reminders of a oncepowerful empire, now reduced to dust and crumbling monuments. Here lay colonels and magistrates, merchants and memsahibs, and many small children; fragile lives which had been snuffed out in more turbulent times. To Pasand, they were losers, all of them. He had nothing but contempt for those who hadn’t been able to hang on to their power and glory. No lost empires for him!

  The road here was very dark, for the trees grew thick on the northern slopes. Pasand felt a twinge of nervousness, but he was reassured by the feel of the cellphone in his pocket—he could always summon his driver or his armed bodyguard to come and pick him up.

  The moon had risen over Nag Tibba, and the graves stood out in serried rows, as though forming a guard of honour for this modern knight in T-shirt and designer jeans. Through the deodars he saw a faint light on the perimeter of the cemetery. Here, he had learnt from one of his chamchas, lived a widow with a brood of small children. Although in poor health, she was still young and comely, and known to be lavish with her favours to those who were generous with their purses; for she needed the money for her hungry family.

  She was also a little mad, they said, and preferred to sleep in one of the old domed tombs rather than in the quarters provided for her late husband, who had been the caretaker.

  This did not bother Pasand. He was in search of sensual pleasure, not romance. And right now he felt an urgent need to exert his dominance over someone, preferably a woman, for he had to prove his manhood in some way. So far, most young women had shied away from his vainglorious and clumsy approach.

  This woman wasn’t young. She was in her late thirties, and poverty, malnutrition and ill-use had made her look much older. But there were vestiges of beauty in her smouldering eyes and sinewy limbs. Her gypsy blood must have had something to do with it. Her teeth gleamed in the darkness as she smiled at Pasand and invited him into her boudoir—the spacious tomb that she favoured most.

  Pasand had no time for tender love-play. Clumsily he clawed at her breasts but found they were not much larger than his own. He tore at her already tattered clothes, pressed his mouth hungrily to her dry lips. She made no attempt to resist. He had his way. Then, while he lay supine across the cold damp slab of a grave that covered the remains of some long-dead warrior, she leaned over him and bit him on the cheek and neck.

  He cried out in pain and astonishment, and tried to sit up. But a number of hands, small but strong, thrust him back against the tombstone. Small mouths, sharp teeth, pressed against his flesh. Muddy fingers tore at his clothes. Those young teeth bit—and bit again. His screams mingled with the cries of the jackals.

  ‘Patience, my children, patience,’ crooned the woman. ‘There is more than enough for all of you.’

  They feasted.

  Down in the ravine, the jackals started howling again, awaiting their turn. The bones would be theirs. Only the cellphone would be rejected.

  The Rakshasas

  HERE, THEN, IS a tale of the mountain kingdoms. I heard it from Bibiji, my neighbour, as she sat smoking her hookah on the veranda. Bibi came from a village in the foothills, where ghosts and sprites and rakshasas—forty-yard-long demons able to change their shape at will—were still known to exist. She heard this story from her grandfather, whose reputation for veracity was impeccable.

  In a village in the foothills there lived seven goldsmiths, well-known for their excellent workmanship. One day a powerful nobleman from a neighbouring kingdom sent them a message, asking them to come to his kingdom and make some ornaments for his wife. The seven goldsmiths, good friends, started out for the palace of this chief, which they reached after an arduous journey over seven hills. The chief was a sullen unsociable man, with a harelip that showed the pink gums above his teeth. The goldsmiths were uneasy in his presence; but as they had been promised a handsome reward for their work, they decided to do the job.

  The chief conducted them into a large room where everything was ready for them to begin work. ‘This is where you will work,’ he said. After they examined the furnace, blowpipes and charcoal, he led them to another room. This room was bare, overlooking barren crags, with a long bedstead and a she-goat. The goldsmiths looked askance at one another, but the chief said, ‘This is your sleeping room. You will retire into this room after work every night. Your supper will be the milk of this generous goat, and you will sleep on that bed which is large enough to accomodate all of you. Though you will have no food other than the milk, you will find it as nourishing as the most richly cooked dishes. Her milk strengthens the body and sharpens the intellect, and she will yield sufficient for all of you. But remember, you must finish your work within seven days.’

  The goldsmiths did not relish the situation nor were they impressed by the arrangements that had been made. Nevertheless they set to work, and completed a good portion of it by the end of the first day. After changing their clothes, they milked the goat and began their supper. They found that their employer had not exaggerated the virtues of the goat, for her milk was very sweet and delicious. They had never tasted anything quite like it. As soon as they had drunk their fill, they were overcome by a strange exhileration. This was succeeded by drowsiness and they soon fell asleep. The bed was a little too small for all seven of them, but it was big enough to accomodate six. One of the goldsmiths agreed to sleep on the ground.

  It was almost midnight when the goat began to lick the soles of the goldsmith who lay asleep on the floor. Slowly and with great relish, the goat sucked up the entire lifeblood of the unfortunate artisan, and the man died in his sleep.

  Gradually a strange blue light filled the room, and the chief entered and said, ‘Sister, are you happy? Sister, have you had enough?’

  The goat replied, ‘Brother rakshasa, you know I am happy as long as you can satisfy my hunger with human blood.’ And then there was a clap of thunder, and both the chief and the goldsmith’s corpse disappeared.

  When the goldsmiths awoke the next morning and found one of their comrades missing, they were filled with grave misgivings. But they worked all the harder to complete that day’s quota of work. And at night, after they dined again on the milk of the goat, they found the bed had contracted in breadth, and now only five persons could lie on it. The sixth had to stretch himself out on the ground. They fell once more into a deep sleep.

  Once again, at midnight, the go
at drank deeply of the blood of the sleeping goldsmith. The chief appeared, the same conversation took place between him and the goat, and then he and the corpse disappeared.

  The remaining goldsmiths were quite alarmed when they awoke. But they were afraid to offend the chief and they were unwilling to lose the reward that had been promised them. And there were now fewer to share it. But when, after spending three more nights in the palace, only two of the seven goldsmiths were left, one of them told the other, ‘Friend, let us sleep with our chotis, tied together’— for like all good goldsmiths they retained these tufts of hair in the middle of their shaven pates—‘so that one may not vanish without awakening the other.’

  That night the bed could only accommodate one person, so the second slept on the ground, but with his choti tied to that of his friend on the bed. At midnight, after the goat feasted on the blood of the sleeping man, the chief appeared promptly and asked, ‘Sister, are you happy? Is your hunger appeased?’

  ‘I am happy, brother rakshasa,’ said the goat. ‘Their blood is of an excellent flavour and vintage.’

  The other goldsmith had been aroused from his sleep, for he had felt a tug at his choti. He heard and saw all that took place that night, and trembled with horror at the discovery that the palace belonged to the terrible rakshasas, people whose natural food was the flesh and blood of man. He got up in a hurry, and on the excuse of making his morning ablutions, left the palace and ran for his life.

  The goat learned at once of his flight, and changing herself into a beautiful woman, set off after the goldsmith, crying out plaintively, ‘Husband dear, where are you going? Do not leave me behind, I beg of you. Take me with you.’ But the goldsmith had caught sight of her feet which were crooked and faced backwards, and he knew that she was the rakshasa woman. He fled as fast as possible, until he reached a great oak tree sacred to the god Shiva. He climbed into its highest branches, and invoked the protection of the god, ‘Protect me, O Shiva, lord of spirits and ghosts! Protect me from this terrible rakshasi!’

  His prayers must have been heard, because when the rakshasa woman reached the tree, she was unable to climb up after him—it may have been because of her crooked feet—and she sat down beneath it and set up a wail.

  ‘Oh, cruel man,’ she complained loudly, ‘why have you abandoned me? Do descend, O lord of my life and ravisher of my heart!’ She wept and beat her breasts, and the sound of her lamentation rang through the forest.

  It so happened that a raja was passing by on a hunting expedition. Seeing a beautiful woman in apparent distress, he went up to console her. And on learning from her the cause of her sorrow, he looked up at the quaking goldsmith and said, ‘Fellow, why do you treat your good wife so badly? Come down at once and take her home.’

  The goldsmith, who had no intention of descending, replied, ‘Your majesty, you are most welcome to my wife. I renounce all claims on her. She is nothing to me.’

  Now this raja made a hobby of collecting wives, and he was delighted at the chance of obtaining a beautiful prize so easily. But honour still had to be satisfied.

  ‘We do not accept wives from our subjects, we have to purchase them,’ he said. ‘Here’s five thousand rupees for her. Come down and collect the money.’

  ‘Leave it beneath the tree,’ said the prudent goldsmith. ‘I have made a vow not to come down so long as she is within sight.’

  The raja accordingly left a purse under the tree and, placing the woman in his handsome carriage, took her to his kingdom. And he married her with great pomp and ceremony.

  The raja had a favourite horse, a favourite dog, and a favourite son, all of whom he loved very much— but in that order. The first thing the rakshasa queen did was to eat the horse, and throw its bones into the palaces of the other queens.

  When the raja discovered that his horse had disappeared, he consulted his new queen, on whom he doted. The wily rakshasa queen said, ‘Why don’t you look for it in the palaces of the other queens?’ The raja instantly set off to visit the other queens— there were seven of them at the time—and found the bones of his favourite horse scattered about their courtyards. In spite of their strong—and for once united—protestations of innocence, the queens were severely rebuked by the raja. He would have had the lot executed had he not been rather vain about having so many wives.

  Next day the dog was missing, and the day after, his favourite son. The seven queens were again blamed for their disappearance. The raja was infuriated and decreed that they should all be beheaded. But at the prime minister’s intercession, he agreed to spare their lives. Instead he decided to imprison them in a dark cave in the hills for ever. The path to this cave was arduous and labyrinthine, and known only to the raja. The seven queens wailed as one when he blocked the entrance to the cave with a huge boulder and left them in the darkness without any food.

  The unfortunate queens would have been forced to eat one another to allay their hunger had not the eldest queen, very fortunately, given birth to a son just when their hunger was becoming unbearable. The ladies unanimously cut the child into seven portions and ate it. A few days later, when another queen gave birth to a child, it suffered the same fate. In this way, six of the queens gave birth to children, all of whom were devoured by the famished queens. But when the seventh and youngest rani gave birth to a son, she refused to do away with it, saying, ‘Sisters, I will not kill and eat my son. Here are the six pieces of flesh which you gave me, but which I did not touch. Appease your hunger on them, but let my son live.’ And she divided the six pieces amongst the other queens.

  When the Lord Shiva, creator and destroyer, saw the young queen’s action from his perch on Mount Kailash, he was pleased with her. Descending into the cave in the shape of her father, he said, ‘I had heard of your misfortunes, daughter, but could not find any way of communicating with you until now. But henceforth I will see that you receive eight dishes of good food every day, one each for you and your sisters and your child.’ Lord Shiva left the cave, and invisible hands supplied the queens with food every day. The virtue of this food was such that within a year, the child grew as tall and strong and intelligent as a youth of twenty—despite always being with seven wailing women. One day he asked his mother, ‘Have I no father or uncle or grandfather? And if I do, where are they?’

  His mother said, ‘You have no father, my son, but your grandfather lives somewhere in the hills. He is a carpenter and supplies us with food.’

  ‘Then bless me and permit me to leave you,’ said the prince. ‘I will search for my grandfather and see whether we can get you out of this terrible cave.’ And that very evening he managed with great difficulty to move the boulder that blocked the mouth of the cave a few inches so that he could squeeze out.

  After wandering around in the labyrinthine mazes of the hills for several days, he managed finally to find his grandfather. His grandfather, who had apparently forgiven the raja for imprisoning his daughter in a dark cave with no food, set him on the road to the palace. The prince soon found employment in the palace as a captain of the guard, and he was sent to keep watch over the palace of the rakshasa queen. When the queen looked out of the window to see what the new watchman was like, she recognized the lineaments of the raja in the face of the youth and knew him to be the prince born in the cave. She was angered but also thrilled, for life in the palace had been boring since the departure of her seven rival queens.

  That night the rakshasa queen took off her rich clothes and jewels, and artfully dishevelling her hair, retired to the Hall of Anger. Hearing of the queen’s fit of depression, the raja followed her into the hall and found her wailing and rolling about on the ground. When the raja entreated her to tell him the cause of her grief, she replied, ‘Do you think I have no heart? I have had no news of my father for a year. Send me to my father’s palace or send someone to bring me news of his health. Bring me also the singing water and vanaspati rice which grows, fully-cooked, to a height of forty feet. Have these things brought to me soon, or I must leave you. If you love me, send this young guard to fetch them immediately.’