This supernatural episode began in
Mumbai. Since my birth, I have lived here
with my family- mom, dad, younger sister, and younger brother.
My entire family unloved me, excluding my
mother. I hated them, too, excluding my mother. It was not precisely hatred. It
was dissatisfaction! The reason for their
dissatisfaction was my profession. My reason for
dissatisfaction was their attitude towards my career.
They disliked me for being an
interior consultant. They could not accept that their merit holder son chose to
be an Interior Consultant. They felt I could have easily been a doctor or an
engineer. They could not digest my career choice. But I wanted to be what I
settled on for my career. So, after finishing my studies, I started working as an Interior Consultant for a realty company. I worked there for six years. My profession paid me less. Soon, my
younger sister started earning more than me. My family’s loathing grew with it.
But I was happy in my life. I knew being in a creative profession was different
from a regular job. You got to struggle until
you create goodwill. While I struggled to build a name, my brother bought
himself a house and a car. This made my
father very happy. Unlike typical parent behavior, he was not satisfied with my
younger brother. But he was pleased for an earned opportunity to taunt me. He teased
me for being a failure. But I ignored him. His disgust increased when he searched for a girl to get me married. Even the girl he
intended to bring home as his daughter-in-law was earning more than me. This made my father hate me more than ever. He
criticized me at every juncture. It became difficult for me to live with my
family. However, I knew I couldn’t afford a rented flat in Mumbai on my salary.
So, I continued living with them. But I had to do something to prove my profession’s
worth.
I decided to quit my job and start
my interior consultancy business. I
borrowed money from my mother. She gave me money without telling my father.
With my mother’s blessings and support, I started my business. I bought a
rented office and hired a few employees. I hired inexperienced people so I could
pay them less. But getting a client on board was not an easy task. Soon my mother’s
money was finished- paying rent, paying employees, and miscellaneous stuff.
Finally, after six months of misfortune, I managed to get my first client.
My first client was Mr. Sharma, a
banker. He was a chaste miser. He offered me to barter. If I agree to revamp
his house for free, he will get wealthy clients in exchange for me.
I had to agree. I had no choice. Offending
a wealthy client was indeed not working in my favor. But, to my surprise, Mr. Sharma turned out to be a man of
his words. Or maybe it was my good luck.
Soon after revamp, he hosted a party at his
house and introduced me to every guest
(my potential, would-be clients). I managed to get just one client and made very
little money, not enough to pay bills and salaries. So, I upgraded my website that
exaggerates my works.
I felt my career too needed a
revamp like my clients’ nest. I needed a big break in my career. I needed a
launch stage. Soon, I was bestowed with
one more opportunity via my beloved Mr. Sharma. This opportunity became a priority in
my life because of many reasons. First, this opportunity provided me with the
desired launch stage. It involved working with a big name. Second, it was a
high-paying project. It was perfect, as I needed money to maintain my
consultancy business. Third, I needed money to give back to my mother before
the borrowed money story reached my father’s knowledge. Finally, the most
important reason was that I intended to make it evidence
of my profession’s value.
With my eyes set on my goal to
deliver my best. I simultaneously numbered my priorities while driving my
rented car — things I wanted to do first and subsequently after completing my
launch stage project. As a successful Interior Consultant, I imagined making
lots of money. I got a bigger house than my brother; my family (especially my
father) accepted their defeat. I smiled, thinking about my luxurious future as
I turned my car (rented car) inside the lane. I spotted my friends waiting for
me outside the nightclub. I parked my
rented car and enthusiastically ran to meet them. I hugged them, Mohit and
Sahil. Today we were meeting after a long time.
“How are you, Nikhil?” Sahil asked
me.
“I am doing well,” I answered.
“It is so obvious you must be doing
well. After all, you got such a terrific project. Soon you will be one among
India’s top Interior Consultants,” said Mohit.
“I hope so,” I replied.
It was an occasion to celebrate.
Sahil and Mohit were in a mood to party. So, we entered the nightclub. It was a weekend, so the lounge was jam-packed.
We managed to get a side table. Mohit looked
around for girls. The girl in a short green dress smiled at me. I looked at her
and smiled back. I hurriedly shifted my eyes to the menu card kept on the table before my smiling act reached Mohit’s
knowledge. But I failed to save this brief smiling act from Mohit’s eyes.
“Let’s dance, Nikhil. That green
skirt girl seems to be interested in you. So we will dance around her group,”
said Mohit.
“Not now. Let’s eat something. I
am hungry,” I answered, scanning the menu card in my hand.
“Come on, Nikhil. Nightclubs are not meant for eating. They are meant for alcohol,” said Sahil disagreeing.
Mohit, too, was in Sahil’s favor.
“But you guys know I don’t drink
alcohol.”
“At least today you can drink for
us. As this celebration is for your achievement,” said Mohit.
“That I understand, but you know, I
don’t drink, and I don’t smoke,” I
replied.
Sahil came to my rescue and said, “We
have known Nikhil since school days. Have you ever seen him consuming alcohol?”
“No, never,” replied Mohit.
“Then let’s not waste time forcing
him. Let’s have a beer. What say?” Asked Sahil.
“You guys drink instead of me,” I
said. Mohit and Sahil laughed, and our
revelry truly started. We danced. We laughed. We chatted, and then we moved out of the nightclub to the beach. It was a full
moon night. The moon looked beautiful at the backdrop of the beach. Mohit and
Sahil shared a beer bottle, and I drank
bottled orange juice. We talked about general things.
“The green dress girl we met was amicable
and sensible too,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you were analyzing
her character. I was reading through her profile,” said amused Mohit.
“Yes, I agree she was good-looking,”
said Sahil.
“I too agree, and she was a decent girl,” I said.
“Nikhil, she was trying to impress
you, and you too looked impressed; why don’t
you propose to her?” Asked Sahil.
Even after drinking so many beer
bottles, Sahil was still conscious. But
Mohit was high.
“No, she is mine!” Said drunken
Mohit.
To calm him down, I said, “Yes,
she is yours.”
“Yes, buddy,” shouted Mohit and
fell unconscious on the beach as he fumbled his last few words.
Sahil laughed and said, “Mohit is
inebriated. Anyways, Nikhil, so when are you getting married?”
“You guys are too much! I am just
30 years old. At least for the next two years,
I don’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want a wife either. I want to work. My new
project is the most important goal of my life. Once I finish this one, I will
have lots of money and other assignments. So, I want to work very hard on this
project.”
“Great. This sounds good for the three of us. You work hard, earn good money,
and give us parties like this,” said Sahil.
I agreed.
Then alcohol caught Sahil too, and
he went into a philosophical mind.
“But one doesn’t plan love. It
just happens. You know love comes unannounced,” he said.
“This won’t happen to me as there
is no space for love in my life at the moment,” I said, looking at the full
moon. There was no response from Sahil for a while. That was quite awkward. So,
I turned back to see him. He, too, had fallen unconscious on the beach. I
laughed and clicked their photographs as reminiscence.
********
I was waiting for Mr. Hemant
Saxena in his office cabin. Hemant Saxena, a reputed name in the Hotel and Construction industry. Hemant and Mr.
Sharma were good friends. Hemant appreciated Mr. Sharma’s house interior. On
the reference of Mr. Sharma, I was hired as an Interior Consultant for several
of Hemant’s projects. Today I will be meeting him for the third time. He would
give me details of my first project under his company. I was very excited.
After a few minutes, he entered his
cabin.
“Sorry,
you had to wait. I was in a meeting,” said Hemant.
Hemant was a 65-year-old self-made
businessman. However, considering his dressing style and mannerism, he could
easily be mistaken for a retired army
officer.
“It is okay, Sir,” I replied.
“I want to give details of your
first project, and I hope you give your
best,” he said.
“Yes, I won’t let you down.”
“I trust you. But this project is
different,” Hemant said.
I was expecting this line. Every
client of mine considered their project different. But for me, they all were the same. But I was wrong, and
this project was very different. I realized this much later. I was not aware of
what was coming to me then.
Then Hemant asked me a question that
was utterly off-track of our discussion.
“What do you know about me?”
“Sir, you are one of the leading
entrepreneurs of India,” I replied, simultaneously thinking about the relevance
of the question. Then, further straining my memory and copying the words from
his website, I continued, “You are a self-made
man, and you struggled a lot to build
this empire.”
Hemant didn’t look impressed, and he dismissed my answer, “Everyone says this about me. Now, I will tell you a few things no one knows. No newspaper will ever
tell you these things about me.”
I wondered what his biography had
got to do with this project.
“And all these things very well
relate to your project,” said Hemant as if he had just read my thought.
I felt at ease on hearing this, “Yes, sure.”
He said that he belonged to a very
low-income family. His parents died when
he was very young. He completed his education on his own. After schooling, he got his first job in Nasik, where he met his wife, Shanipriya. They liked each other, became friends, and then
married. They bought a small house in Nasik. He started his business, which was
well-received. They shifted to Mumbai. Occasionally they used to visit their
Nasik house. Two years ago, his wife died. His wife loved that house. Now he
wanted to renovate that house. He gave me the responsibility. This was my first project with him.
“Do you plan to live there?” I
asked.
“This year-end, I shall retire from my business. I want to spend the rest
of my life in that house.”
“I think we should renovate that
house according to your wife’s likes and dislikes,” I suggested to him.
“Good.”
“Colors, patterns, furniture, the interiors
should be as per her taste. Her presence should be
felt in every corner of the house.”
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted,” he
beamed, “but I didn’t know how to describe it, name it.”
“Something like a memory house.”
“Yes,” said Hemant, and his
happiness knew no limits. He looked relieved. I would see my joy in his joy:
money, fame, and victory.
I wanted to check the property.
Hemant invited me to live in his Nasik house until I was satisfied with my
designs. We decided to go to Nasik the following day.
I was happy and relieved to work
in the direction of my goal.
********
We started our road travel to
Nasik in Hemant’s car the next day.
He was working on his laptop. So, I began to pretend
to read a book on interior art. Typically, I hated reading during travel. But
with a reputed client like Hemant, you got to elevate your standards. So, a day
before the trip, I deliberately selected a book with lots of photos and less
text.
“When you see Singh’s roadside restaurant, then please stop the car,” said Hemant to his
driver.
The driver replied to him very respectfully.
Then, after a while, he stopped the car
and said, “Sir, we reached Singh’s roadside
restaurant.”
“Nikhil, let’s eat,” said Hemant.
I was not in favor of eating from a roadside
restaurant. So, considering hygienic factors, I suggested to Hemant that we should eat elsewhere. But he refused to
listen, and I had to concur.
The eatery owner Mr. Singh
welcomed Hemant affectionately. They met like long-lost brothers. Mr. Singh was
a muscular, typical Punjabi man. He hugged Hemant tightly.
“How is everyone in your family?”
Mr. Singh asked Hemant.
“All are doing well. How are you
doing?”
“As usual, I am good.”
Punjabi people are full of life, and so was Mr. Singh. Mr. Singh’s gaze fell on
me. Before he inquired, Hemant answered for me.
“This is Nikhil. He works with me,”
said Hemant turning to me, “Nikhil. This
is Mr. Singh.”
We exchanged pleasantries. We
occupied a table.
“Get us Chicken Biriyani, chicken tandoori, chicken tikka masala. What’s special on today’s menu?” Asked
Hemant.
“Chicken Sahi masala,” replied Mr. Singh.
“Okay. Get us two plates of each,”
said Hemant eagerly.
“Who is going to eat so much? Is
Mr. Singh joining us too?” I asked.
Hemant laughed and said that this
food was only for the two of us.
“Sir, I won’t be able to eat,” I
said.
“Why? Are you a vegetarian?”
“No, Sir. I have a habit of eating
in portions.”
“Once you eat food here. You will
forget about eating in portions. You will come here again and again,” said Mr.
Singh in total confidence. Hemant, too agreed with his words.
“What would you like for drinks?” Asked
Mr. Singh.
“For me, get my regular,” said
Hemant. Mr. Singh smiled at him in accord.
“What would you like to drink?”
Hemant asked me.
“I don’t drink.”
Hemant asked me with surprise, “What
you don’t drink?”
I repeated my answer that I don’t drink
alcohol.
Hemant clarified that they were
not talking about alcohol. They were talking about Lassi. Hemant and Mr.
Singh laughed loudly. They looked pretty amused by
the conversation. I, too, had to look amused, so I grinned and joined them. But
frankly, I was annoyed.
“Get us our order,” said Hemant. “And
get me my regular drink and buttermilk for Nikhil.”
“And please get food in clean
plates,” I said, cleaning glass with tissue paper.
Hemant and Mr. Singh giggled at
full volume.
********
Post lunch, we recommenced our
road trip.
I thanked God for it. Hemant and Mr. Singh’s
so-called funny stories were not at all hilarious. They were torturous.
I was delighted when we left. I learned from the driver that the journey ahead
was only for a few hours. The panorama outside was breathtaking: green
mountains, long empty roads, reddish sky. It was picture-perfect. The landscape
and the quiet climate outside strained out my saintly side. Suddenly I felt
very spiritual.
Then we reached the end part of
the road journey. Hemant’s house was only twenty minutes away. But the road was
very creepy. It was very dark. The only
area around the car’s lights was visible. I was not able to see the path beyond
the car’s lights. I guessed there was a forest around as I could hear loud
sounds of trees swinging along with harsh winds. That made a very frightening
sound. The silence of the night and its typical noise further added to my fear.
Abruptly a black cat crossed our path. I
saw a dead body being taken to the funeral. I saw a funeral home.
I prayed to God that we soon reach Hemant’s
house. Hemant looked quite comfortable. He
was habitual of these spine-chilling surroundings.
We finally reached his bungalow, and our journey ended. It was a small, tranquil,
and attractive bungalow.
“Sir, your bungalow is quite
attractive,” I said, looking at the bungalow.
“Bungalow? This is not my bungalow. This
is my home. Bungalows, I have in Mumbai and other cities,” said Hemant. I
understood how deeply associated he was with this house. I felt I had smacked a
jackpot. If I gave my best to this project, I clearly would; all my problems
would get solved automatically.
********
We entered the bungalow. Hemant’s
secretary Murli Sharma and house help Ramu were there in the living room.
“Good evening, Sir,” said Murli,
and then he looked at me and said, “Welcome, Nikhil.”
I, too, greeted him. Hemant asked
Murli if he had arranged for my stay. Murli replied positively. Ramu touched
Hemant’s feet. Ramu seemed to be a dutiful servant. He was full of respect for
his master. He was a short, fat man. He appeared to be in his forties, I assumed.
Hemant asked Ramu to take me to my room. Hemant said he would see me at dinner
time. He said post-dinner; he would give
me the house’s tour. He left the room, and Murli followed him.
“Let me take you to your room,”
said Ramu.
I followed him. We entered a room
at the far end of the gallery. The room was quite big. It had a giant-sized
bed. It had a sofa in one corner of the room. It had an attached bathroom. It had a study table. It had a small balcony. I
liked the place instantly.
“Would you like tea before dinner?”
Asked Ramu. I badly needed one and happily agreed.
Ramu left, and I threw my bag on the floor and sat on the bed. I was tried. I badly wanted to sleep.
Ramu’s tea and good shower took
away my day’s tiredness. After some time, I met Hemant and Murli at the dining
table. Ramu was serving soup.
“We have seven rooms here,” said
Hemant as he sipped a spoon of soup, “post-dinner,
I will show you around.”
“Yes, sure,” I replied, “interiors
would touch your heart, and you will feel
your wife’s presence around.”
As I completed my statement, the
bowl of curry slipped from Ramu’s hand, and
he started trembling. Hemant looked at him angrily and left without finishing his food. Murli followed him. I found
this incident very awkward. Murli came back.
“Sir is calling you in the library,”
he said.
I went to the library. Hemant was
flipping pages of a photo album. He asked me to sit.
“These are old photos of my wife, Shanipriya. Blue color was her favorite. She
liked staying in this house as she appreciated peaceful
surroundings.”
I saw her photograph. She was lovely.
The blue color was indeed her favorite. I noticed in most of her pictures she
had put on blue-colored clothes.
As promised, then Hemant took me for a house
tour. He spoke about Shanipriya’s interest. I saw a romantic twinkle in his
eyes when he talked about her.
Hemant truly loved his wife. After seeing the
entire house, we entered my room. I mean the place in which I was staying.
“This room was our lounge because
of the view from the balcony. It is
simply beautiful,” said Hemant.
I ultimately approved his words as
the view from the balcony was indeed beautiful, with a stunning mountain at the
backdrop.
“This room was Shanipriya’s
favorite. She liked staying here.”
After spending some time in the room, Hemant left, and I decided to go to the garden.
In the garden, I met Bhima, the watchman.
He was hefty, and he had enormous
muscles.
“Sir, what are you doing here at
this hour?” Asked Bhima.
“I am not able to sleep. So, I am
here to pass the time,” I replied.
“Sir, you are here to renovate
this house, right?”
“Yes. How do you know about this?”
“Sir, I stay here. So, I know what’s
happening around. Sir, Shanipriya madam, was a very nice lady.”
“So, tell me something about her.”
“Sir, she was a very kind lady.
Unfortunately, I was not here on the day she died.”
“Oh, I am sorry.”
I heard a noise of loud howling.
“Who is this crying at this hour?”
I asked.
“That’s a witch.”
“What?” I asked.
“Sir, in our area, there is a
small funeral home, and the whole night
the witch cries there.”
I could not control my laughter,
hearing Bhima’s comments.
“Why are you laughing, Sir? Even
in the room you are staying in, there is a ghost.”
“What?”
“Yes, Shanipriya madam’s ghost stays in that room. We all have seen her.”
I could not believe what Bhima had just said.
Also, I had no desire to believe him.
********
I entered my room, and I went to sleep. After a few hours, I woke up abruptly. I felt a strange
uneasiness. This made me nervous. Bhima’s
words came to mind, and I dismissed his
thoughts. I opened the door and decided to sleep with the door open. Then I
heard footsteps sound coming from the far end of the corridor. I followed the
footsteps sound to the living room. There I saw a lady in a blue-colored dress
facing towards the other side of the room. I went near her, and she turned, revealing her face. I got the terrible
shock of my life.
Initially, I struggled for words, and then I gathered my courage, and I shouted, “Shanipriya!”
I lost my breath because of fear. She came closer. I shouted in full force, “Help
me!”
I fainted in fear.
Chapter
- 2 Shanipriya
I felt a splash of water on my
face. I was coming back to life. After a while,
I could sense my breath, which ran properly. I saw Ramu, Bhima and Murli had
encircled me.
“Are you okay?” Asked Murli.
For once, I felt I had lost my
voice. But it was very much there.
“Sir, I saw Shanipriya madam,” my
words fumbled.
“She was not Shanipriya, madam.
She was Samara, madam’s daughter,” said Murli assuring me. I looked at him with
reservations.
“Yes,
Nikhil. Samara looks exactly like Shanipriya madam,” said Ramu.
Bhima seemed to have enjoyed my
terror.
“What happened, Nikhil, Sir? I
think you got scared seeing Samara madam,” said amused Bhima. He looked visibly
happy.
I felt terrible and went back to
my room. After a while, there was a knock
at the door of my room. I opened the door. It was Samara.
“Hi. I am Samara.”
“Hey! I am Nikhil.”
