Capturing a Pernicious Ghost

(continued)

By Raghbir Dhillon & Doris Dhillon

"What did the ghost do on its next visit?"

"One unmarried girl in my village became pregnant — an unpardonable sin. I ordered the father of the girl to remove the black spot on our village name. The ghost learned about it and ordered me to stop the murder."

"You should have done that and helped the girl to get an abortion."

"Impossible! It was a question of our sacred traditions and family pride. The girl was asphyxiated and cremated. The ghost appeared and threatened to kill me. I begged for mercy, and it gave me three days. So here I am."

"I know the police here, and we can lock you inside a cell where the ghost can't reach you."

He shook his head. "It won't work. The ghost can turn into smoke, a snake, an ant, et cetera, and can easily enter the jail."

"Let's move," I said. "Well, I prefer using my motorcycle in your case instead of my jeep, since I'll be able to crisscross over the fields and chase the ghost. Sit on the rear seat of my motorcycle and order your driver to bring your car."

At 7:35 my motorcycle thundered through the dusty streets of Ratul, Sucha Singh's village. I dropped Sucha near his house and went to the guest rooms in the village gurdwara. After eating at the temple kitchen, I went to sleep.

Next morning, I met the priest and asked him, "Did you perform the cremation ceremony for Sucha Singh's father?"

"Yes, I recited the Scriptures."

"When did Sucha Singh place his father's young wife over the corpse?"

"Before igniting the hay in the pyre."

"Was she alive or dead?"

"Dead. Sucha Singh told me that her heart had failed."

"Look, you are telling a bunch of lies. The truth is that Sucha Singh performed sati and you helped him," I said. "Husband and wife are always cremated on separate pyres and never on one pile of wood."

"Mister, don't send me to jail. I was young and would have lost my job if I had opposed Sucha Singh," the priest moaned.

"I think Sucha Singh gave you a huge bribe. You have sinned and helped him in the murder."

He dabbed his eyes and said, "Satguru have mercy on a poor sinner."

I knew he would never confess this to the police, and no one in the village would come forward to contradict Sucha Singh, so I ended my conversation.

"Go and beg Satguru," I said and left.

The sun had taken a dive behind the distant hills. I decided to inspect the cremation grounds and question the attendant. I fixed my backpack on my shoulders, wore tennis shoes, and walked to the final resting place for the villagers. I noticed a ten-feet-long and two-feet-high brick wall erected on the corner of the cremation area. Evidently it was a Smadhi, a monument for some person cremated there. I flashed my light on the wall and tried to read the inscription, but rain had obliterated it. An earthen lamp rested on the ground in front of this wall, and its flickering wick created ghostly figures. A young man was throwing wood over the burning corpse and stirring it with a long pole, and he was unsteady on his feet.

When I reached him, he threw his sarong on a half-full whisky bottle and continued working.

I greeted him and asked, "Can you spare a few minutes?"

"No, I'm busy."

I flashed a twenty-rupee bill and said, "I'm willing to pay for your time."

He dropped the pole and said, "I'm ready."

I pointed to the wall and asked, "Whose Smadhi is that?"

"A sati."

"What's her name?"

"Taro."

"Sucha Singh's step-mother?"

He nodded.

"Well, who lights that lamp?"

"Sucha Singh's servant, who comes here every evening, sweeps the place, and ignites the lamp."

"Did the sati say any farewell words?"

"No, she was comatose."

"Do you see any ghost?"

"Yes, I always see the ghost of every person I cremate."

"Have you seen Taro's ghost?"

"Yes, many times, but it doesn't bother me. I hide in my hut and drink."

I gave him the money, and he thanked me. I examined the area and searched the bushes; no trace of the ghost. I returned to the gurdwara and slept.

To check the cause of Taro's death, I visited the Village Hakim. I saw an old Brahmin, with a freshly oiled clean-shaven dome, seated behind a battered wooden table which was covered with bottles, herbs, and animal parts.

I greeted him, and he said, "Extend your arm. I'll diagnose your sickness from your pulse."

"I'm not sick but want to ask you a few questions."

"Mister, my time is precious."

I laid three ten-rupee-bills on the table and said, "I think this can buy ten minutes of your time."

He nodded with a smile and pocketed the money.

"What was the cause of Taro's death?"

"Heart failure; I checked her," he said in a firm voice. I knew I wouldn't be able to shake him and changed the topic.

"Did Sucha Singh's father purchase any aphrodisiac medicine from you?"

"Yes, he was above eighty and his wife was sixteen, and he sought my help. I gave him my potent medicine which costs only sixty rupees per ounce. If you want to convert your lingam into a steel rod, try one ounce."

"Thanks, I don't need it."

"Did your medicine produce any results?"

"No, his lingam was a dead leach. I can make a horse run fast, but can't put life in the dead."