A Dark Tale - A story - Part I
This
time I am back to wearing the judge’s hat for the Indifiction Workshop once
again with Leo and Jaish. And we decided: why not use our power to make people
write some spooky stories? After all it’s also the season’s preference, isn’t
it? Who doesn’t like a good ghost story on a rainy evening, stretching on a
couch or a comfy floor mat and munching hot pakodas? The kind of stories that
makes your hairs stand straight on the back of your neck?
Source: Web
The ideal situation for such
storytelling, as preached by the many authors I grew up reading, always
involved an elderly person as the storyteller. He narrated his stories, his
life experiences in most cases, to a group of scared children. Invariably the
power would be out due to the heavy rain and storm that raged on.
There were so many storyteller dada,
dadu, uncles in the Bengali literature I grew up loving that I could easily
compensate the lack of one such elder in my life with them. My childhood was so
influenced by them, that I could easily hear a child’s cry in the crack of a
lightning and see a veiled woman in the wet shadow of a banana tree.
In
this post however, I am going to play the role of, say an elderly dadi, a
grandma that is, the storyteller. And in my jhuli tonight, I have a tale which
is, yes, you guessed it right, from my own experience. Make sure: you have your
pakodas and steaming cup of tea ready, you wouldn’t need to use the bathroom in
next five minutes and most importantly the lights of your room are turned off.
And
now, here comes the story:
In
the year of 2004, the summer was particularly hot in the campus of the engineering
college of Kolapur. The black fumes that rose from the ever burning six
chimneys of the neighbourhood power plant looked a little more menacing – pitch
black against the clear blue sky. The beautiful half circular lake that kept the
huge campus separated from the mainland was drying up. The greens of the Kadam
flower trees and the Eucalyptus trees that surrounded the campus looked dull as
a thick film of carbon particles from the power plant coated them evenly.
The
students were pretty much toasted that week as the heat wave barred them inside
the hostels. By the time it was Saturday almost all the students had gone home
for the weekend. Only few from far off places scattered the hostels in a room
or two.
Three
such first years, roommates actually, a little adventurous, ventured out early
afternoon just after the lunch was served. They strolled amidst the Eucalyptus
trees, scorched by the sun, past the white fence, by the bank of the lake. They
were alone for everyone was either gone home or taking a nap after lunch. Only
a cuckoo cuckooed on in a monotonous tone. The placid water, its fearsome depth
gone, looked safer, almost inviting to take a dip. Indeed, few villagers from
villages on the other side were dipping their heads in the water. They looked
tiny for the width of the lake was vast but yet they were there as a reassuring
presence to these three strollers.
One
look at each other and they knew, all of them, that they wanted to take a
plunge. A conforming nod at each other and they all stripped off their clothes
and jumped into the water. The water felt so cold, so soothing against their
hot skin. They laughed loudly exclaiming why they hadn’t tried this before!
After all, rules were meant to be broken, weren’t they? They swam, lapping up
the water happily.
They
didn’t remember how long they had been in the water, because the water was
hypnotizing against their burning skins. They noticed only when the bird’s
cuckooing grew louder and urgent. They laughed at the bird and screamed back
mocking its voice. The bird’s call grew more persistent. It was only then they noticed
that one of their friends was drowning – rather he seemed caught in a whirlpool
that pulled him down. The one closest to him lunged forward in an impulse to
grab his friend, to pull him out. The drowning boy too reached for his friend
and all his desperate hands could find was his janau – the sacred Brahmin
thread that went across his chest. He pulled it hard, as hard as he could,
without noticing that in his effort to survive he had already killed his friend
as the thread had cut deep in his throat. The third friend in his helplessness
was torn between saving himself and his friends. After few seconds of desperate
pondering he chose the latter while screaming as loudly for help as he could.
This
attracted the villagers’ notice. They too started screaming. All these,
combined with the cuckoo’s frantic calling may have alerted the guards for they
reached just as the boy reached the shore. He was holding the drowned boy’s
hand tightly who in turn still held the janau in his iron grip.
When
they were rushed to the hospital, two of them were unconscious and one was
dead. All the doctors in the power plant’s hospital tried their best but they
couldn’t save the second boy as well – he had drank too much water. The
third boy survived but he developed a far gone stare, he didn’t speak, he just
looked at people. Sometimes he laughed – probably happy about his survival,
while some other times he cried, howled hysterically – probably remembering his
dead friends. That’s what the doctors said anyway. His nearest relatives came
and took him away, to keep him safe under their care till his parents arrived.
But
the others students were blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was taking
place. Most of them were cocooned at that time in the comfort of their homes.
Those few who were in the campus knew but they didn’t feel like telling others
about it. Not yet anyway. They spared them another day of ignorance. It was
probably the first time in the college history the news didn’t spread through
like fire in the dry wood.
Nevertheless
the news did spread. As the dark of Sunday evening fell, as the flock of
students started coming back to the campus, they all knew. But it was such a
hard truth to take in! Some of the first years, the deceased’s friends, ran to
their room to cross check if this was a huge practical joke! But nobody could
touch the bolted unlocked door. It was as if an invisible force threw them
back.
Then,
around midnight, the storm started.
To
be continued…
Love
Riot of Random
time I am back to wearing the judge’s hat for the Indifiction Workshop once
again with Leo and Jaish. And we decided: why not use our power to make people
write some spooky stories? After all it’s also the season’s preference, isn’t
it? Who doesn’t like a good ghost story on a rainy evening, stretching on a
couch or a comfy floor mat and munching hot pakodas? The kind of stories that
makes your hairs stand straight on the back of your neck?
Source: Web
The ideal situation for such
storytelling, as preached by the many authors I grew up reading, always
involved an elderly person as the storyteller. He narrated his stories, his
life experiences in most cases, to a group of scared children. Invariably the
power would be out due to the heavy rain and storm that raged on.
There were so many storyteller dada,
dadu, uncles in the Bengali literature I grew up loving that I could easily
compensate the lack of one such elder in my life with them. My childhood was so
influenced by them, that I could easily hear a child’s cry in the crack of a
lightning and see a veiled woman in the wet shadow of a banana tree.
In
this post however, I am going to play the role of, say an elderly dadi, a
grandma that is, the storyteller. And in my jhuli tonight, I have a tale which
is, yes, you guessed it right, from my own experience. Make sure: you have your
pakodas and steaming cup of tea ready, you wouldn’t need to use the bathroom in
next five minutes and most importantly the lights of your room are turned off.
And
now, here comes the story:
In
the year of 2004, the summer was particularly hot in the campus of the engineering
college of Kolapur. The black fumes that rose from the ever burning six
chimneys of the neighbourhood power plant looked a little more menacing – pitch
black against the clear blue sky. The beautiful half circular lake that kept the
huge campus separated from the mainland was drying up. The greens of the Kadam
flower trees and the Eucalyptus trees that surrounded the campus looked dull as
a thick film of carbon particles from the power plant coated them evenly.
The
students were pretty much toasted that week as the heat wave barred them inside
the hostels. By the time it was Saturday almost all the students had gone home
for the weekend. Only few from far off places scattered the hostels in a room
or two.
Three
such first years, roommates actually, a little adventurous, ventured out early
afternoon just after the lunch was served. They strolled amidst the Eucalyptus
trees, scorched by the sun, past the white fence, by the bank of the lake. They
were alone for everyone was either gone home or taking a nap after lunch. Only
a cuckoo cuckooed on in a monotonous tone. The placid water, its fearsome depth
gone, looked safer, almost inviting to take a dip. Indeed, few villagers from
villages on the other side were dipping their heads in the water. They looked
tiny for the width of the lake was vast but yet they were there as a reassuring
presence to these three strollers.
One
look at each other and they knew, all of them, that they wanted to take a
plunge. A conforming nod at each other and they all stripped off their clothes
and jumped into the water. The water felt so cold, so soothing against their
hot skin. They laughed loudly exclaiming why they hadn’t tried this before!
After all, rules were meant to be broken, weren’t they? They swam, lapping up
the water happily.
They
didn’t remember how long they had been in the water, because the water was
hypnotizing against their burning skins. They noticed only when the bird’s
cuckooing grew louder and urgent. They laughed at the bird and screamed back
mocking its voice. The bird’s call grew more persistent. It was only then they noticed
that one of their friends was drowning – rather he seemed caught in a whirlpool
that pulled him down. The one closest to him lunged forward in an impulse to
grab his friend, to pull him out. The drowning boy too reached for his friend
and all his desperate hands could find was his janau – the sacred Brahmin
thread that went across his chest. He pulled it hard, as hard as he could,
without noticing that in his effort to survive he had already killed his friend
as the thread had cut deep in his throat. The third friend in his helplessness
was torn between saving himself and his friends. After few seconds of desperate
pondering he chose the latter while screaming as loudly for help as he could.
This
attracted the villagers’ notice. They too started screaming. All these,
combined with the cuckoo’s frantic calling may have alerted the guards for they
reached just as the boy reached the shore. He was holding the drowned boy’s
hand tightly who in turn still held the janau in his iron grip.
When
they were rushed to the hospital, two of them were unconscious and one was
dead. All the doctors in the power plant’s hospital tried their best but they
couldn’t save the second boy as well – he had drank too much water. The
third boy survived but he developed a far gone stare, he didn’t speak, he just
looked at people. Sometimes he laughed – probably happy about his survival,
while some other times he cried, howled hysterically – probably remembering his
dead friends. That’s what the doctors said anyway. His nearest relatives came
and took him away, to keep him safe under their care till his parents arrived.
But
the others students were blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was taking
place. Most of them were cocooned at that time in the comfort of their homes.
Those few who were in the campus knew but they didn’t feel like telling others
about it. Not yet anyway. They spared them another day of ignorance. It was
probably the first time in the college history the news didn’t spread through
like fire in the dry wood.
Nevertheless
the news did spread. As the dark of Sunday evening fell, as the flock of
students started coming back to the campus, they all knew. But it was such a
hard truth to take in! Some of the first years, the deceased’s friends, ran to
their room to cross check if this was a huge practical joke! But nobody could
touch the bolted unlocked door. It was as if an invisible force threw them
back.
Then,
around midnight, the storm started.
To
be continued…
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
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