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I am a ghost. I was alive three years ago. Then, one day, I was burnt to death in this house, in Deoghar. The house is called Lily Villa. I was here with a friend on holiday. That morning, as I lit the stove to make a cup of tea, it burst into flames and my clothes caught fire. The flames also seared my face. That much I do remember. But I cannot recall anything else. I have been living in this house since that day. I cannot tell what I now look like, for as a ghost, even if I were to go and stand before a mirror, I could not see my reflection. I’ve tried peering into the water in a pond, but that did not work either. But I know I am not really anything much to look at.
Two years ago, a family came to Lily Villa to spend a few days. The head of that family happened to come face to face with me. I saw his eyes bulge with horror, and he promptly fainted. It was actually my own fault. A ghost can choose to remain invisible, and to be honest, it was my intention to keep myself that way. But I was a bit preoccupied that day and not really paying much attention to what I was doing. So, just for a moment, I had become visible to that gentleman. Judging by his reaction, my turning into a ghost had done nothing to alter my appearance. Obviously, I still had a badly burnt face.
After that incident, people stopped coming to this house. Lily Villa has come to be known as a haunted house. I am quite sad at this turn of events, for I liked watching and being with the living. Now I feel very lonely. There are other ghosts in the neighbourhood, but none in this house. No one except me died an unnatural death here. Besides, I don’t like many of the other ghosts in Deoghar. Some of them are really quite wicked. Naskarda, for instance. His name used to be Bheem Naskar when he was alive. I’ve never known a ghost more cunning or malicious.
A postmaster called Laxman Tripathi used to live in Deoghar. He and Kantibhai Dubey, who worked for the State Bank, could not get on at all. One evening, as Laxman Tripathi was returning home from the post office, the ghost of Bheem Naskar decided to attack him. Just as Tripathy had gone past the house of the Shahs and reached an open field, Naskar slipped down from a tamarind tree and broke Tripathy’s neck. What a ruckus that kicked up! The police came, arrests were made, cases were fought and eventually a man was hanged! Which man? None other than Tripathy’s sworn enemy, Kantibhai Dubey. He had to pay for Naskarda’s misdeed. Naskarda knew this would happen, so he had deliberately killed Tripathy. That time, I felt I had to speak to Naskarda. “What you did was wrong,” I told him. “Just because you are a ghost now does not mean that you have the right to meddle with other people’s lives and harm them. Why don’t you simply mind your own business and let the living mind theirs? Our two worlds are different, Naskarda. If one interferes with the other, there can only be disaster and calamity.”
I have never harmed anybody. Not consciously, anyway.
Ever since I learnt that my appearance was likely to frighten people, I have become extremely cautious. There is a broken-down and abandoned room at the far end of the garden in Lily Villa, behind some mango and jackfruit trees. I believe the room was once used by a mali. That is where I now spend most of my time. Not that there is anyone in the main building who might see me. Lily Villa has been lying empty for a long time. But sometimes, children from the neighbouring house of the Chowdhurys come here to play hide-and-seek. Surprisingly, they do not appear to be afraid of ghosts at all. Or perhaps they come because they expect to see one. But I take great care to remain invisible while they are here. If the sight of my face could make an adult faint, what effect would it have on children? No, I could never take any risks.
However, this does mean that I must continue to be lonely. Yes, ghosts feel lonely, too. Well, if I am alone, I have only myself to blame. It is because of my own mistake that Lily Villa is now known as a haunted house. No one wants to come and live here, and so, I cannot hear human voices anymore, see them move, or sing, or laugh. This makes me feel very depressed at times. If the living knew how much the spirit of the dead craved their company, would they be afraid of ghosts? Of course not.
One day, however, a visitor turned up at Lily Villa. I heard the horn of a cycle rickshaw one morning. So I peered out and saw that someone’s luggage was being taken out of the rickshaw. How many had arrived? Two, as it turned out. The visitor was accompanied by a servant. That was good enough for me. I did not need a large number of people. Something, I felt, was better than nothing.
Since ghosts can see clearly even from a long distance, I could catch every detail of the visitor’s appearance: he was close to fifty, short, bald, had a bristly moustache, thick eyebrows, and his eyes held a stern look. The first thing he said to his servant upon entering the house was, “Get cracking. I need a cup of tea in half an hour. Then I’ll start working.” Needless to say, I could hear every word from my own room. A ghost’s hearing is as good as his sight. His eyes and ears both work like binoculars.
The servant was most efficient. He brought his master a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in half an hour. The visitor was in the room that overlooked the garden, unpacking and putting his things away. There was a desk and a chair near the window. I noticed that he had placed a sheaf of papers, pens and an inkwell on the desk.
That meant he was a writer. Was he famous?
Yes. Within an hour of his arrival, about eight local residents turned up to meet him, and I learnt his name. He was called Narayan Sharma. I could not tell whether it was his real name or a pseudonym, but that was how everyone addressed him. The locals were very pleased to find him in their midst. After all, it was not every day that a celebrity came to Deoghar. So, they said, if Mr Sharma had no objection, they would like to hold a reception in his honour. Narayan Sharma, I could see, was not a man with a soft and gentle disposition. He said, “I left Calcutta and came here simply to work undisturbed. And you’re already making impositions on me!”
The others looked suitably abashed. That made Mr Sharma relent somewhat. “Very well,” he said, “Give me at least five days of peace and quiet. Then we’ll think about a reception, all right? But if you start putting any pressure on me, I’ll just pack my bags and go back to Calcutta.”
At this moment, Nitai Ghosh from the group suddenly asked a question that I did not like at all. “Why did you choose Lily Villa, of all places? There are so many other houses in Deoghar.”
For the first time, a smile appeared on Mr Sharma’s face. “You are saying that because this house is supposed to be haunted, isn’t that right? Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost. He could keep me company.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” said Haren Talukdar. “Once a doctor from Calcutta came to stay here for a few days with his family. He saw the ghost. It was apparently a horrific sight. He was unconscious for almost fifteen minutes. Tell you what. There’s a very good dak bungalow here. Its manager is a fan of yours. He’d be prepared to make every arrangement for your stay. It’s just a matter of telling him. Please, you must get out of Lily Villa.” In reply, Narayan Sharma said something very strange. “Perhaps you are not aware that very few people know as much as I do about spiritualism. In fact, I have come here to write on this subject. I can assure you that I will not end up like your doctor. He had taken no precautions against ghosts, had he? I will. No ghost could do me any harm. I realise you have all got my best interests at heart, but I want to stay and work in Lily Villa. You see, I have stayed in this house before, as a child. I have many fond memories of that time.”
This was the first time I’d heard anything about precautions against ghosts. I did not like it at all. And spiritualism? How could spirits and spooks be a subject for study? What was Narayan Sharma talking about?
There was no point in pondering over this now. I would have to wait until it got dark. After that, I was sure to get all the answers.
There was one thing I wanted to do, however. I felt I had to pass on whatever I had heard so far to Bheem Naskar, if only as a joke, to see his reaction. He had once broken a man’s neck. What would he say to all this?
As the day wore on, I grew increasingly restless. In the end, I could contain myself no more. I left Lily Villa, taking great care to remain invisible, and went to the derelict old house owned by the Malliks. It was said to be two hundred years old.
“Naskarda!” I called.
He came floating down from a broken, roofless room on the first floor and said irritably, “What do you want at this odd hour?”
I told him about Narayan Sharma. Naskarda’s frown deepened ominously. “Really? Is that so? Tell me, does he think he is the only one who can take adequate steps? Can’t we?”
“Take steps? What do you propose we do?” I asked a little nervously. I could see that a plan was already taking shape in his mind.
“There’s one thing I could do quite easily. When I was alive, for thirty-two years, I exercised regularly. Push-ups, heavy clubs, dumbbells, chest expanders – you name it, I had used them all. You think I haven’t got the strength to break this Narayan’s neck?”
It was true that Naskarda was once a bodybuilder. He had died by swallowing poison, which meant that his appearance had remained unchanged. Even now, when he moved, muscles rippled all over his body.
“Well, what does that mean?” I asked. If I still had a heart, I am sure it would have started thudding madly by now.
“Only this: tonight, at twelve o’clock, Narayan Sharma’s life is going to come to an end. If he thinks he can mess around with ghosts, no ghost worth his name is going to let him get away with it.”
Only I know how nervously I passed the rest of the day. Narayan Sharma spent most of his time writing in his room. Some time before the sun set, he went for a long walk along the street going north. He returned a little before the evening star appeared in the sky. It was going to be a moonless night.
I could see everything from my little den. Now I saw Narayan Sharma do something rather strange. He opened his suitcase and took out a handful of powder from a bag. Then he poured it into an incense-burner, lit it and placed it just outside the threshold to his room. Smoke began billowing from it very soon, and a southern breeze brought the smoke into my own room.
Oh my God, was this his “precaution”? If so, it was undoubtedly most effective. With the smoke had come a smell. Normally, one wouldn’t expect a ghost to be able to smell anything, but this smell was so strong that it seemed to burn not just my nose but the inside of my head as well. It was terrible. Even Naskarda would find it difficult to make his way through this powerful stuff. How would he get anywhere near this house?
My fears were confirmed a few hours later. Around midnight, I heard a hushed voice call from the other side of the garden wall: “Sudhanya! Are you there?”
Sudhanya was my name. I went out. Naskarda was sitting by the road, on the grass, clutching his nose. His voice sounded nasal when he spoke.
“I died twenty-one years ago. This is the first time that I’ve been beaten by a live man. Who knew man had learnt to use such contraptions?”
“That particular man has studied his subject thoroughly, Naskarda. He knows a lot.”
“How sad … how absolutely awful. Just think what fun I might have had, breaking his neck!’
‘Yes, but that is not going to happen. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I most certainly do. I’d better go now. This has been a totally new experience for me.”
Naskarda left, and I returned to my room. Only a minute later, I suddenly discovered that I was feeling extremely sleepy. This was incredible, completely unheard of. A ghost never feels sleepy. But tonight was obviously going to be an exception. That powder in the incense burner clearly contained something that put ghosts to sleep, even though the best time for them to move about was during the night. I could not keep my eyes open any longer. Feeling dazed, I lay down on the floor.
The sound of someone’s voice woke me. It was morning. I sat up hastily. At once, my eyes fell on the man who had entered my room. I could only stare at him in disbelief.
How did he?
It was Narayan Sharma; that much was clear. But what had happened to him?
Narayan Sharma answered my unspoken question. “My servant was still asleep when I woke. So I thought I’d make myself a cup of tea. I tried to light the stove, and it burst in my face. At this moment, I think everyone’s trying to arrange my funeral. I came here looking for somewhere to live. I like this place. Do you think there’s enough room here for a second person?”
“Of course!” I replied, feeling very pleased.
I had company at last. There was no doubt in my mind that one charred face would get on very well with another.
Excerpted with permission from ‘I am a Ghost’ in ‘Ghosts, Supernatural and Tales of the Uncanny’, written and illustrated by Satyajit Ray, translated from the Bengali by Gopa Majumdar, Puffin.
This article first appeared on Scroll.in
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