Lives shattered
Rohan sat on the bed, clutching his heart. Rima was gone. And not just her, but a part of him, a part of them. They had promised to be with each other forever.
A wail ripped through him. “No…. no… Rima…NO!”
It was only two days ago that Rima had pressed his hands against her flat stomach. “We are growing into three,” she had whispered.
Rohan had lifted her, spun her around, and then kissed her. “I am the happiest man on this earth,” he had declared.
That evening, they decided to step out for Rima’s favourite ice-cream.
As they bickered over vanilla versus butterscotch, a two-wheeler dashed into her. A loud thud was all Rohan heard.
In that one, horrifying moment, the world they had so carefully built shattered.
Two lives, two souls, gone in an instant.
The Dance of Rituals and Grief
The ‘shradh’ ceremony commenced.
A frail hand touched Rohan’s shoulder. It was Pishi – his paternal aunt.
“Betu, we have to finish by 12pm. Come with me.”
She led him out towards the veranda, where a life-size photograph of Rima beamed back. A priest sat on the stage, overlooking the elaborate arrangements. Silence greeted him as he tottered forward, his eyes vacant, his limbs dead weights. He refused to sit. It was Pishi who, with a firm, puppeteer-like grip, forced him down.
The chanting began, a hollow drone in his ears. Rohan saw nothing, heard nothing. Pishi sat beside him, guiding his every movement.
The ceremony concluded at the stipulated time.
Pishi brought a clay thaali, a plate laden with food. “Betu, this plate has all the food that Rima loved. It is an offering for her spirit before it severs its earthly ties. You must carry this to the pond and leave it there. Then, turn and walk back. Do not, under any circumstances, look back. No matter what you hear.”
Rohan nodded. He had no will of his own. Pishi was his anchor, the one who had raised him after his parents’ freak accident, the one who had secured the approval of Rima’s parents for their marriage, the one who had helped Rima set up their new home. Rima had loved Pishi as much as he did.
The Call of Darkness
The old woman watched as Rohan walked toward the murky pond, his body shaking with deep sobs. He laid the clay plate down, but he did not turn. Instead, he sat there, hunched over the plate, staring into the distance as if mesmerized. Panic seized Pishi. This ritual was crucial, a final severance. The sun was setting, and the ritual had to be completed before darkness fell. She began to walk toward him.
As she drew closer, she saw it – a faint, misty figure in front of Rohan. It held him in a trance, his body completely still. Taking a deep breath, Pishi fastened her pace. Chanting her Shakti mantra, she pulled him up. He was a dead weight, unwilling to move. Meanwhile, the mist was gathering around them, thick and swirling, making it impossible to see. Using all her strength, she dragged Rohan towards the house.
Just as they were about to reach the door, a faint cry reached her ears.
‘Rohaaaan.’
The exact tone of Rima – elongated, sweet and sharp.
As if struck by lightning, Rohan seemed to wake up from the daze. He twisted his head, his eyes frantically searching for the source. “Rim?” he cried out. But Pishi was faster. She gave him a hard shove, pushing him into the house and slamming the door shut.
Rohan wailed, beating his fists against the door. “Rim…my Rim is calling me.”
Pishi held him tight and whispered. “That’s not your Rima. It’s a Pishaachini. I warned you not to look back, and now the evil has caught your eye. It is attracted to your grief, and it’s dangerous. You must take a grip over yourself!”
“But she has been calling me.” Rohan insisted.
Her words were useless. As the sky darkened, he grew violent. Finally, Pishi summoned the next-door doctor, who administered a sedative. Rohan’s body went limp, and he fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
The Final Vigil
Pishi was restless. She had seen the Pishaachini, had heard its call. She knew it would not let Rohan go. She decided to keep vigil through the night.
She must have drifted off, because a sharp knock on the door woke her up. She waved it off as a delusion, but then it came again, louder this time. It was almost 1 a.m. Who would be here at this hour? Then she heard it again, a whisper that was a perfect imitation of Rima’s voice. “Rohaaaaan…”
This was Nishi, the call of the dark, the unholy.
Pishi sat up straight and dashed to the puja altar, clutching her Rudraksha beads. Blessed by her Gurudev, she held them tight against her breast as the knocks and cries grew louder. She began to chant the Mahamrityunjay mantra.
The cries diminished.
The knocks vanished.
Pishi’s chants grew louder and louder. She did not know how long she chanted, but with the first sliver of sunlight, she paused. The dark night was over. Her Rohan was safe, for now.
But the Pishaachini would be back. With every passing hour, the evil thing would gather more strength, feeding on Rohan’s bottomless grief and sorrow. Pishi had to act fast. She had twelve hours to drive the evil away. She slipped her Rudraksha beads under Rohan’s pillow and opened the door.
She never saw the thick puddle waiting for her just outside the doorway. Pishi slipped and struck her head against a stone pillar with a sickening crack. As her eyes closed forever, she saw the puddle rise, swirling and churning, before taking the form of a woman. She saw the familiar smile on its face as it advanced toward Rohan, toward the house, toward the boy who had been her life’s purpose.
Who said, there are no ghosts or spirits in daylight?
By Sreemati Sen
Sreemati Sen holds a Masters in Social Work from Shantiniketan. A Development Professional,
she has specialized in Psychiatric Care of Differently-abled children. Years of experience in
Social and Consumer Research are also a part of her portfolio. Her stories have been featured in
various anthologies.
She can be contacted at Sreemati123p@gmail.com.
Facebook Comments