Tales from Beyond (continued)

Her heart pounding, she threw the clothes into her suitcase in a haphazard untidy pile. She had to go, and never return. The thought curiously enough, saddened her. She took one last look around her bedroom, picked up her suitcase and headed towards the door. The eyes in the photograph on the mantel followed her reproachfully. The loud click of the door as it shut, startled her, almost accusatory, she thought. It was at that instant that she saw her again. The lone figure of an elderly woman. There was a sadness about the gait. She looked at Sushma and the look was long and piercing or so Sushma thought for the distance between her and the woman was considerable. The woman stood on the hillock, a lost soul and then hobbled painfully away and disappeared through the tall trees.

The noise of traffic, the chatter of the passengers in the bus was strangely comforting. She guessed she wasn't such a recluse after all. She wore extra large sunglasses to hide her face. No one paid the slightest attention to her. They were engrossed in their own mundane lives, and Sushma wished she was just one among many. The hotel was a nonedescript one, not a five star hotel where she was normally booked. The clerk at the desk was seedy and looked bored. He was a short thin man in his forties, with oily hair parted in the middle and the inevitable black moustache. He eyed her sullenly. As she approached the desk, his eyes took in her expensive luggage and elegant clothes, and the expression changed to one of excessive servility. She really hated that about Indians! The mere whiff of money brought out this attitude. She had experienced it dozens of times. She had also experienced arrogance and humiliation from the same kind of people when she'd been poor. (continued in next post).

Tales from Beyond (cont'd)

The day dawned dreary and wet. Rivulets of water trickled down the window pane as Sushma sat unseeing, an open unread book on her lap. The steady drumming of the rain on the rooftop, a sound she normally associated with comfort and harmony, added to the melancholy of the afternoon. Her mind was far away as she tried desperately to piece together the puzzle of this house and it's former occupants. Where did she fit in? Was she psychic, or was she in some way connected with this house and it's people. She felt certain the raggedy old man held the key to it's past. How could she get him to talk, given that he almost certainly suffered from dementia. She got up and walked into the room with the books. Would there be any clues left by their owners in between the pages? She picked up one book, then another and another. Nothing. Some phrases underlined, a few doodles here and there with a pencil. Rather artistic doodles she thought. The quiet of the afternoon was shattered by the harsh, insistent ringing of the telephone. How she hated telephones! who could be calling? she was certain she had not given this number to anyone. She leaned over and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" she said. There was a lot of crackle and then an anguished scream "No ! please, No!" heart pounding, feeling just a bit faint she whispered "who's there?" no answer and then a click and the person hung up. Sushma stood for a moment, almost too petrified to move and then sank into the nearest chair. She sat for a while numb and motionless, then shook herself. She had to get out. She couldn't live here any more. They were right about the house. What she left behind seemed particularly attractive right now. Her fans, the lack of privacy, the endless concerts where she was just a money making machine, and music had no appeal any more, and the paparazzi. This was something sinister and alien and beyond belief. She longed to get back to civilization, distasteful though it was. She would pack right away and call the agent. she had paid the rent in advance anyway. She rose. (continued in next blog)

naino mein badra chaaye_0001.wmv

Tales from Beyond (continued)

"I hope the old man isn't bothering you?" she asked with fake concern. 'Old man'? Sushma felt a sudden surge of dislike for this beady eyed woman. She ignored the question and asked her "Who is he?" to which the woman replied "my husband's father" in a dismissive hostile tone. "can't remember anything and is more trouble than he's worth" she retorted. Sushma felt a deep anger welling up inside her. She would have gladly struck the woman across the
face if she could. "no he isn't" she answered shortly. She had a sudden urge to speak with the old man, to comfort him. "I would like to talk to him please" she said. "Talk to him? What could he possibly say that might interest you? Can't remember anything and just mumbles all day" said the beady eyed daughter in law. "I'll decide that. I would like to talk to him." Sushma repeated stubbornly. "I don't think he wants to talk to you" said the maid with a tight little smile. Sushma strode up to the entrance of the hut and called out softly "baba, are you there? I would like to speak with you. This is baby." There was no response. After a few more calls Sushma gave up and decided she'd be back. She felt certain the old man held some answers to the past and was determined to be back. (continued in next post)

Tales from Beyond (continued)

The minutes ticked by, it must have been quite late because the late afternoon sun cast dark shadows over the bare room. It was only when the clock in the hall struck the hour of five that Sushma realized with a start that she had been sitting here for close on five hours! Five splendid hours of uninterrupted browsing. She felt stiff and tired, but elated and extremely hungry! she eased up from the cramped position and stood swaying for a while. She was only thirty five but felt strangely old. And then it happened again. The room was no longer bare. There were curtains in the window. This time they were of a strange checked design. blue and gold and heavy and yes, made of silk. It was thundering outside and the room was dark except for the warm glow of a lamp with a red shade. The furniture was different too. Heavy, upholstered sofa in the same design as the curtains, with matching chairs and a white cotton rug on the floor. The picture of the hunt was gone. Instead there was a landscape of hills, and snow and a cottage nestled among some tall coniferous trees. There was an old fashioned telephone, a black one. A woman sat next to it gaunt faced, and anxious, and spoke urgently into the mouthpiece. Then as suddenly the room was bare once more, and the evening sun lingered on the warm rosewood of the cupboard of books. Sushma shook herself. What was wrong with her? was she losing her mind? She was too tired and hungry to reflect and headed towards the kitchen. As she passed the living room on her way to the kitchen, she happened to glance at the portrait over the mantelpiece. She could have sworn that the eyes in the portrait were following her. Strangely, she was not afraid. Stranger things had happened and she wasn't going to panic. Her lunch was laid out on the kitchen table, now cold and unappetizing. She'd been too busy browsing and hadn't heard the maid call out to her perhaps. She put everything away in the refrigerator, and fixed herself a sandwich. She heated some milk on the gas stove as she chewed on the tasteless sandwich thinking about the events of the afternoon. Is this what people had warned her about? Flashbacks? Is that what they were? a glimpse into the past, into the lives of people who had lived in this house and were long gone? She shivered and decided she needed to get out of the house for a while. Perhaps a long walk would do her some good. Not a gregarious person by nature, she yearned for human company right now. She desperately needed some answers, needed to be reassured that her mental faculties were in order. She gulped down the warm glass of milk and let herself out by the back door in the kitchen. She found herself in a garden of tangled weeds and tall grass. It had once been beautiful like everything else about this house, now forgotton and neglected. There were roses on some of the vines. Blood red and fragrant they stood proudly defying the decay around them. Someone must tend to them she thought. There was a statue of a little cherub and what must once have been a little fountain now dry. An old bench sat under the old mango tree where green fruit hung in clusters by their long stalks. She sat on the bench and decided it made for a cosy scene. She realized the sun was low on the horizon and the shadows were getting longer. So much for the walk! Then she heard it. someone was sobbing! It was the same sound she had heard on the night of her arrival in this house. She followed the sound her heart thumping painfully. It wasn't easy to walk among the weeds and tangled undergrowth and she almost tripped. She cursed. As she rounded the corner she almost collided into something. Holding back a cry of alarm, she saw it was an old man shriveled and small. He wore a dirty dhoti and a worn shirt over it. He was painfully thin, with bowed rickety legs. His hair was snow white, unkempt and long to his shoulders. A long white beard raggedy and unwashed flowed over his chest. He was visibly startled and looked extremely scared. His rheumy eyes surveyed her briefly, and then recognition seemed to dawn in them. His cracked lips parted in a wide toothless grin. "Baby, aap aa gayi!" he cackled in hindi which translated into English would be "Baby, you're back!" Sushma stopped in her tracks. Baby? she knew 'Baby' was the general term used by servants for the little girl of the house. Sometimes even after she had grown up she remained 'baby' to the servants as she well knew from her childhood. Huh? baby? He was obviously mistaking her for someone else. Before she could explain, his eyes had taken on a blank expression. He muttered something in hindi and retreated into the woods like a mysterious gnome. She decided to follow him without intrusion at a distance. He walked through the woods muttering, and as she followed she saw a little hut on the outskirts of the property. There was smoke billowing out of the chimney and the housemaid who worked at the house was sitting on a charpoy outside sifting grain. Oh, so this must be the servant's quarters. but who was the old man? The old man entered the hut muttering to himself and the maid said something to him in a sharp, angry tone. As she saw Sushma approach, her expression changed from anger to one of fawning servility and her shrewd black eyes took on a guarded expression. (continued in next post)

Tales from Beyond (continued)

She had been inexplicably attracted to this house, inspite of its bedraggled, forlorn appearance. The agent had tried to dissuade her from renting it, offering other bungalows nearby- modern, shiny and tasteless. She yanked open the huge cupboard built into the wall. It was made of quality rosewood, the reddish tinge of the wood radiating a soft glow in the morning sunlight. There stood before her a huge library of books. Row upon row of them. Sushma gasped in delight and surprise. Her eyes took in the works of Shakespeare and Dickens. Of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters. Of Kant and Hume, and Bertrand Russell. Science, mathematics, philosophy and the social sciences and just about every subject seemed to gaze back at her. Drama,and poetry sat at the far end of the cuboard. There was a dank, musty smell emanating from the books, but Sushma parked herself on the floor and pulled out the volumes until there was a big heap in front of her. The books sadly were in various stages of disrepair and neglect but she eagerly went through the heap hoping to find a clue to its ownership. Was it the man in the portrait? She felt a strange bond and comfort in the musty volumes. She felt she had known these books. Grown up with them. How fanciful could one get? She must have read some of them sometime in the past since reading was what she enjoyed the most. Continued in next post

Tales from Beyond (continued)

The room looked vaguely familiar. She could picture it the way it must have looked in the past. A cosy room with high ceilings, large windows with curtains of a floral print in white and blue billowing in the gentle breeze. There is a large comfortable tan colored sofa in the corner, and a couple of matching upholstered chairs. There's a painting of a hunt? a tiger hunt? A European man with a rifle sitting atop an elephant with his entourage of attendants. There's a young woman sitting in one of the chairs knitting, an expression of serene contentment on her face. A young man sits on the chair opposite, reading, puffing away at a pipe completely engrossed in the book. A picture of happy domesticity. The shrill ring of the telephone startled Sushma back to reality. As she picked up the receiver the person at the other end had hung up. Sushma was in a daze. How had she imagined this room in such vivid detail? Was it just her imagination or had she been here before? She was suddenly very excited. She had this intense urge to explore.

Tales from Beyond (continued)

The figure was that of a woman. She was short, thin and walked with a slight limp. The woman was clad in a white sari, and appeared to be quite old. Seventies? hard to tell from a distance. She climbed up the hillock and there was a grace about her movements. She stood still as if taking in the timeless beauty of the hills and the valley below. Sushma shifted uneasily in her chair. Should she go talk to her? god alone knows she needed company. There was a familiarity about that lone figure on the hillock. Sushma brushed aside the ridiculous notion that she had met, known this woman. This was her first visit to this god forsaken place. Was she losing her mind? some places had that effect on people she had heard. She stood up with a sigh and turned to enter the house when she saw from the corner of her eye that the woman was standing and looking very intently towards her. For some reason it made her uncomfortable and she quickly entered the house and shut the front door. Her heart was pounding and she could feel a warmth spread through her face and ears. What was wrong with her? (continued in next post)

Tales from Beyond (continued)

She lay in the darkness alert, every nerve strained for the slightest sound. She wondered about the young man in the portrait. Was he the owner of the house? Was he the one who was murdered? what lay behind that enigmatic smile of the man in the portrait, and why did she feel a certain closeness to this stranger. Her thoughts drifted away to nothingness as she fell into a deep exhausted sleep. The sound of the gong in the living room counting the hours of four a.m woke her up with a start. She peered in the darkness and decided she couldn't sleep any more. She fumbled for the flashlight and discovered it was gone. She felt a chill. She had left it right next to her pillow, how could it evaporate? Oh well, better just lie there and take her chances. One hour passed by agonizingly slow, and then she heard the welcome strains of the koel bird's song. Dawn had arrived! a wave of relief swept over her as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and headed for the bathroom. She surveyed herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. She saw a pair of anxious eyes with dark cirles around them. Not good. She hastily made herself a cup of tea and parked herself in the comfortable white lawn chair on the verandah outside. The sun was slowly peeking over the distant hills spreading a lovely warm pink radiance over the landscape. Normally, she would have reached for her camera, but today she was just too exhausted. She listened to the myriad sounds emanating from the trees and the bushes. The koel's song climbed octaves, and was at once urgent, and soothing. Then suddenly within seconds, the sun burst forth and the world was awash in gold. All was well. From a distance she could make out a slight figure walking with a limp and heading towards the hillock............continued in next post

Tales from Beyond (continued)

She thought she could hear it distinctly. The sound of sobbing. Perhaps a child. It was a pitiable, anguished sound such as she had never heard before. As far as she knew there were no children in the family of the domestic help that lived behind the bungalow. She decided to ask Rama the maid, the following day. A dog howled in the distance and all was quiet again. She sighed and decided to turn in before she became fanciful again. She picked up her flashlight and opened the door to the house. She was annoyed at the frequency of power cuts in this town. She was in a large living room that had seen better days. She had been told the house was more than ninety years old. It had belonged to one family throughout it's history. The family of Rai Bahadur. The large living room was roomy in the old style with a high ceiling, and big spacious windows with low sills. She could imagine someone sitting on the sill, looking out into the garden beyond or else reading a book. There were two ventilators at the top of each window. It reminded her of her school in Lucknow which had once been the hunting grounds of the Nawab of Awadh, and where owls often looked down at the students from the ventilators of the classroom. A huge mantle piece adorned the wall adjacent to the door she entered through. Over the mantle was the portrait of a young man. It was a strong face. Deep set eyes that challenged the world, but kind. The nose was aquiline, the mouth firm and the chin resolute with a little cleft that would have made a woman swoon. It was not a handsome face in the traditional sense. It had, she tried to find the word...yes, character. She suddenly had this curious sensation of having known this man. She laughed out aloud. That was ridiculous! she had better go to bed before she saw pink elephants!........................continued in next post

The woman was annoyed. 'Ganesh down the street' mumbled an excuse and refused to come to the house. She thought she saw curiosity mingled with sympathy in the eyes of those she approached. As she retraced her steps from the market back to the colony of bungalows, she noticed a movement behind the windows of one of the perpetually vacant bungalows. As she neared the bungalow a slim, attractive woman perhaps in her early twenties, stepped out. She was of medium height, and had an oval face with a pert little nose and laughing brown eyes. Her hair was a dark brown and slicked back into a high pony tail with just a wisp playing about her ears. She had that typical tanned complexion matrimonial columns would describe as 'wheatish'. Her mouth was a little wide for that oval shaped face, but judging from the laugh lines playing around the corners, used to laughing often. She was dressed in a loose pastel green salwar kurta outfit which flowed in sleek comfortable lines on her slim young body. She wore no dupatta. It seemed as if she had been waiting for somebody to pass by, for no sooner than the woman closed in on the house, the young lady stepped forward with a smile and a namaste. "Iam Anjali Bhende" she introduced herself, to which the woman replied "Iam Sushma Agarwal" hello! It's nice to see humans again. Do you live here"? "Well, yes whenever my husband and I can get away from the city" she replied with a smile. "Are you here on vacation, and where do you live"? she asked. "At Panchwati the last bungalow on this lane" replied Sushma. She thought she saw that familiar veil drop over the laughing brown eyes. Ah here it comes she thought. "Iam renting the house for a little while" said Sushma hurriedly. "Oh. I see" said Anjali with obvious relief. "though why this house"? she asked. "There are so many bungalows vacant here. You would be better off in any one of the other houses" she finished lamely. "No particular reason. I just happened to like it's personality" explained Sushma, feeling a little foolish and a little annoyed at having to explain. "I don't want to interfere but I think you should know the house has a reputation" said Anjali hesitantly. "for what"? asked Sushma remembering similiar conversations with other people and trying not to show her irritation. "I know someone was murdered there, if that's what you mean" said Sushma in a matter of fact tone. "oh, you know? then why would you choose such a place"? asked Anjali incredously. "Well, dead people don't bother me, it's the living" replied Sushma with a trace of bitterness. "I have warned you, it is an evil place." Anjali finished with conviction. "Anyway, let's talk about something pleasant". said Anjali hurriedly, afraid to sound nosy. As the crickets chirped around her, snatches of that conversation came back to Sushma. Suddenly she stiffened..... continued on next post

Tales from beyond

The night was eerily quiet, except for the incessant chirping of the crickets. Not a leaf stirred, not even the slightest whiff of air reached the solitary figure sitting hunched in a chair, on the verandah of the decrepit bungalow. It was as if the stage was set for an event, and the world waited in hushed anticipation. A slight prickle of unease went through the lone woman in the white lawn chair, and she cursed herself for her foolishness. She could never resist challenges, but this time she had gone too far. She had come to this quiet hill town with its unabashed beauty, to hide from civilization. During the day, the sun shone with intense ferocity in this quiet town, as if to dispel all doubts, and the sky was a pure cobalt blue. Cascades of bougainville in shades of red, pink and pure white, adorned the walls of cottages and bungalows, otherwise neglected by their owners. The hills stood tall and silent, watching over the green valley where cows and sheep grazed, and birds of every hue and sound twittered and quarreled amidst the dense foliage. She tried to remember all of this as she shivered involuntarily. It was that conversation she'd had with the housemaid. The housemaid was a plump, cheerful lady of uncertain age with shiny black skin, hair drawn back into a bun, a round face and black beady eyes that knew more than they would reveal. She had casually mentioned that a sahib from London had been brutally murdered in this very bungalow, and no one had lived in it since. It was done with a studied casualness, and a certain amount of relish. Then there was that conversation at the market with the plumber who asked which bungalow he should come to, to fix the leaking faucet. When told he had blanched visibly, and then quickly recovered. "Memsahib, I wouldn't stay there if I were you" he said earnestly. "Why not"? asked the woman surprised. "Well, things happen there at night" he said furitively. "What things?" asked the woman. "Things" he said under his breath and pretended to busy himself with some work. "Well do you think you could fix that faucet for me"? asked the woman irritably. "Iam busy. Ask Ganesh down the street" he muttered and then again "Memsahib, please listen to me, nothing good ever happened in that house. Leave right away, now" he pleaded. continued in next post

Land of contrasts and passionate intensity

What can I say? I am riding the pendulum from frustration and despair, to moments of peace, and a sense of belonging. India does this to most people. For detached visitors from abroad, who are here to check out the spirituality, it is a profoundly disappointing experience, nine out of ten. For those who were born and raised here, but have called the West their home most of their adult lives, India lives on in their psyche. There is always that yearning and a sense of perpetual waiting for that elusive something. A vacant spot that can't be filled. Circumstances have forced me to make India my home more months than I care to live here. The apathy, inefficiency, blatant corruption and no accountability, together with shortages of basic amenities like electricity and water, and decent roads drives me up the wall. To counteract these, we have glitzy malls and supermarkets springing up at every corner, and multinationals vying with each other for a slice of the Indian pie. There has been improvement. Anyone can see that. The poor living in the slums have moved up the ladder from the desperately poor who went hungry, to those that own mobile phones, TV sets and refrigerators. There are reports of farmer suicides, but then again there are those farmers in the affluent States who use tractors, and drive expensive cars. The parliament is a circus of buffoons and hoary intellectuals. You have on one hand the Manmohan Singhs and Chidambarams educated at Oxford and Harward, and the Neanderthals on the other, represented by Lallu Yadav and his ilk who would take India back to the stone age. Then there is Mayawati with her penchant for statues most of them in her honor. Reminds one of India under the maharajas and the nawabs. The brazen disregard for public opinion by politicians and keepers of the law ,is in stark contrast to the lively debates on current issues on Television channels where the host shouts at his guests. Well, it's a beginning anyway. A lot of things look eerily familiar to what we see in America. Not all of it good. That's India. A little mirch a little masala, a little of the west and a little of the east, and you have a sumptous spread!

Tales from Talegaon

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Reporting from Talegaon (Pune) India

Summer has arrived with a bang. The heady scent of jasmines, the frenzied call of the koel bird, and the mango trees laden with fruit- these are a few of my favourite things. Up on the hillock in this sleepy little town, one gets a bird'seye view of the valley below. The train carrying work weary passengers to Pune is a distant streak of blue as it meanders through the hills to its destination honking importantly. Lion the resident dog surveys his kingdom from atop the hillock one paw elegantly crossed over the other. An interesting blend of labrador and mongrel this gentle dog is a stray who gambols around and wins hearts. Stella his mother and Bella his sister are engaged in a mock fight that ends as usual with a loud and prolonged howl of agony from Bella. A black crow looks on with interest, cocks his head to one side and lets out a guttural caaaw. The distant tinkle of bells heralds Hanmya (short for Hanuman the monkey god, and a common name in these parts), the cowherd. Hanmya lopes along with a peculiar gait that looks like he is walking on his toes and in danger of toppling over. Leading this procession is Mangli the beautiful brown cow with her lovely curved horns and the owner of the tinkling bell. Behind her trot the lazy, slow, and slightly dim, water buffalows egged on by generous flicks from Hanmya's whip. Hanmya weilds the whip as a matter of habit rather than necessity and is the last in the procession. Now Hanmya of the loping gait is the village idiot, village gossip, and self styled guardian of the hills all rolled into one. He takes his role seriously. So does Mangli the cow who is a tad more intelligent than Hanmya and is not afraid to show it. She shepherds the buffalows to their destination and back. She waits and lows until they arrive where they are supposed to be, and gets generously whipped and stoned for the trouble. This picturepostcard scenario belies the sinister reputation of Talegaon as a town where murders routinely happen, where robberies are an everyday affair and where cobras repose snugly in a corner of your bedroom. I hope to add some pictures in my next blog. It's unbearably hot and so I must away. Ciao!