Tales of horror, p.17
Tales of Horror, page 17
Tarak placed both his hands on Raju’s shoulders.
“Please. I am a father who has lost his only son. I beg you. Help me find him. I just want to walk through the ruins, calling out his name. If we don’t hear from him in a few hours, we will go to the authorities immediately. Please,” Tarak begged.
Raju looked around in discomfort.
“I will give you more money,” Tarak pleaded.
“Okay,” Raju said.
C h a p t e r
9
At the entrance, a board installed by the Archaeological Society of India screamed warnings about entering the ruins after sunset in multiple languages. The sounds of animals baying and moaning in the hills filled the night air, and the cloying scent of floral shrubs assailed their nostrils as Tarak and Raju stepped through the front gates, which were wide open.
Beyond the first wall were the mostly intact temples, which evoked the beauty of Naga architecture. Ponds and other structures that facilitated worship flanked these beautiful structures.
Malevolent intent radiated out of the weathered stone facades as a low hum. It rocked Tarak’s confidence.
He convinced his mind that any deserted building would seem ominous during the night. He illuminated their worn surfaces with his torch and rescued them from the shroud of darkness. He asked his mind to guard itself against unwanted suggestions of spectral machinations as he continued on.
“Vipul, Vipul,” Tarak called out his son’s name. And Raju joined in.
They walked on in this manner, shouting the young man’s name while they illuminated the overgrown remains with their torches.
There was no response, but occasionally they would halt in fear as creatures hidden in the hills that surrounded Bhangarh answered their calls.
They walked through another open gate that led to the second set of fortifications, which housed what was once the business and residential precincts.
The structures in this section were worse-off compared to the ones in the temple district. Roofs were missing, and entire walls had crumbled into vertical piles of shattered slabs that resembled cairns dedicated to some maleficent pagan deity.
People would have once dwelled and conducted business on these streets, Tarak thought.
In the darkness, the boughs of the squat trees seemed to host thin taloned arms ready to come alive at the slightest provocation. Occasionally, the light from the torches revealed what looked like blue satanic eyes that peered from the murky innards of the ruined market complex. Tarak dismissed these visual aberrations as tricks played by light and shadows.
Raju had grown increasingly fearful and jumped at rustling noises made by scared lizards scampering away into the bushes.
Tarak did not blame Raju. On a couple of occasions, the sound of stones being pelted at walls startled him. Distant whispers raised his hackles. On close consideration, Tarak conceded that these may have been the doings of the nocturnal animals that roamed the ruins.
An ominous single storied haveli leered at them from the distance. Its arched windows formed shadowy mouths, and the dilapidated brickwork radiated an aura of sadness.
Once it was a grand monument, several stories high, but age had reduced the stunning rooftop garden and the royal chambers to a pile of rubble.
“That is the last place to check, Sir,” Raju said.
Tarak nodded. “Thank you. Keep calling Vipul’s name.”
Tarak and Raju had only taken a few steps when they were stunned by a shocking sight. They both spotted the phenomenon at the same time.
A flame appeared at one window of the haveli and then disappeared.
Tarak’s heart skipped a beat.
“You saw that, didn’t you?” Tarak asked.
“Yes. Yes,” Raju said in a wavering voice.
“Come on, let’s get up there,” Tarak said enthusiastically. He stormed ahead of Raju, who jogged behind him, whispering a prayer.
“Vipul, Vipul,” Tarak shouted.
“Sir, are you sure?” Raju said. There was no bravado left in the man.
“Just follow me and keep calling out to my son,” Tarak said.
They entered the open gates of the barbican and jogged up the sloping cobbled pathway that wound around a few times before linking up to the darkened haveli.
The baying sounds from the hills intensified, as if the very act of entering the building pained whatever souls lamented on those green slopes.
“Are you ready?” Tarak said to Raju. “I will need you to guide me from here.”
Raju gulped and nodded. Beads of sweat bathed his forehead. He was licking his lips like a man who hadn’t seen water for days.
Together, the two men entered the Haveli bearing torches.
C h a p t e r
10
The light of the half moon and the sweeping beams of the torches reported the sad state of the haveli that was once a glorious abode of the mighty rulers of Bhangarh. Royal family members dined, boozed, watched performances, and rested in these ornate halls. But now it was the domain of eerie night-time whispers and the blackest of shadows.
Tarak and Raju called out to Vipul and trained their lights on every surface and into the interior of every dilapidated room. They searched in this manner for nearly an hour.
The eeriness that leeched out of the place contrasted against the rude chalk drawings of daytime visitors. Neha loves Adan—read one hastily crafted graffiti.
The gloom hissed like a restless beach as they wandered deeper into the abandoned mansion.
There was no sign of Vipul anywhere.
Tears welled up in the translator’s eyes as he began accepting the fact that the set of events that had conspired to bring him to the ruins was a cruel joke.
They had reached the rear of the manor house, which featured a long balcony with a damaged balustrade. The missing chunks of stonework opened up into a steep drop to the rocks below.
“Please be here. Please be here,” Tarak prayed.
“Vipul, Vipul, I got your postcard. Beta, are you here?” Tarak shouted.
The baying of the night beasts in the hills intensified, almost reaching a crescendo, before dying down abruptly. The sudden hush was so painful, it felt like Tarak’s insides were being squeezed by unseen hands.
There was a shift in reality. Something had crossed over into the mortal plane, bringing with it a psychic maleficence that instantly saturated the creepy halls of the haveli. A gnawing sense of dread crept into the vulnerable corners of Tarak’s mind.
Raju, who was behind Tarak, let out a short, barking laugh. Then he switched off his torch.
“I know Sir. You don’t respect me. Respect the social class I come from. My simple personality. I know. I know. You are bada aadmi. . . learned, successful. Poor Raju, what does he know? With his simple jokes and his simple dreams. Raju is at the bottom of the ladder. Amongst the nobodies,” Raju said.
“What nonsense are you talking, Raju? Switch your light back on before you step onto the balcony. It’s dangerous.” Tarak said.
“There is another order, Sir. The real order of life. He is at the top of that ladder. And puny humans with their little ambitions and sorrows are like Raju. You are like Raju,” Raju cackled like a maniac.
“Raju!” Tarak shouted angrily.
“He is here. He is here,” Raju said. It sounded like his teeth were chattering from hypothermia.
There was a splash, as if a body had fallen into water. Violent thrashing followed it, like someone was drowning.
“It is wet, Sir. I feel cold,” Raju’s wavering voice said. It sounded like he was speaking from underwater.
Tarak lit up the room where Raju had once stood.
The guide had vanished. His torch rocked on the cracked floor where it fell, its protective glass shattered.
“Raju, where are you?” Tarak enquired urgently.
Tarak imagined he heard a mocking laugh from an adjacent room.
“Stop playing games with me, you fool. What are you getting at? If you try to rob me, I will smash your head in with my torch,” Tarak said, unable to contain his anger.
Tarak shook like a leaf. Fear made his hands clammy and his skin crawl.
He took some deep breaths to calm himself.
“Papa, you came,” someone uttered.
“Vipul, Vipul,” Tarak said, turning towards the voice.
“Papa, it is so good to see you,” the voice said.
‘That was Vipul’s voice,’ Tarak thought.
“Son, where are you?” Tarak enquired, scanning the balcony with his torch.
“I am here, Papa,” Vipul said.
Tarak saw him. Vipul was naked and standing close to the edge of one of the damaged sections of the balcony, which yawned open onto a long drop filled with deadly clusters of sharp rocks.
“Vipul, beta,” Tarak called out as he rushed forwards to greet his son.
“Don’t come any closer, Papa. I am sorry to put you through this. They made me. . .” Vipul broke into an uncontrollable sob. “Don’t look at me Papa.”
But Tarak did, and he moaned in despair at what he saw.
The light beam exposed the nude, bloodied form of his son. Raw wounds shaped like the sign he had seen around Dausa and at the entrance to the nightmarish hall were carved into his flesh. His face, his arms, his belly, his legs, and even his genitalia featured what Tarak had now come to accept as the yellow sign.
“Who. . . Who did this to you, son?” Tarak said tearfully.
Vipul did not respond. He started wailing in mournful tones.
“Come back from the edge, son; you will fall. Tell me, who did this to you? We will go to the hospital first and then the police,” Tarak said, taking a few hesitant steps towards his injured son.
“I am no longer a part of this world, Papa. You must accept this and you must listen to what he says. You must accept his supremacy. There is no other option,” Vipul said.
“Stand still, Vipul, you will fall,” Tarak said, facing the savage form of his son.
Vipul stopped sobbing and lifted his face up to his father. The torchlight illuminated the bloodied presence of the yellow sign on Vipul’s eyeballs.
Tarak reeled back in horror and said, “What monster did this to you?”
Vipul pointed behind Tarak and said, “They did this.”
“What?” Tarak uttered. He watched on in horror as Vipul stepped backwards and fell off the balcony.
“No!” Tarak screamed and ran towards the rim. He looked down just in time to see Vipul’s body bounce off the jagged peaks of the stony outcrops below. The torchlight revealed his battered and twisted form sprawled across the rocks like a sacrificial animal.
Tarak now spun around to confront his son’s killers.
A mob of spectral figures. Some wearing ancient clothes, some wearing modern outfits, reached for him with their skeletal fingers. Their forms were mutilated with sharp instruments to create a tapestry of bloody symbols, all of them paying homage to the yellow sign.
Their yawning mouths were full of rotting fangs and their cheeks had been slashed open with jagged blades. They croaked and groaned as they tried to grab onto Tarak. The translator smashed his steel torch into their limbs, breaking them. The bulbous end of the device found purchase in the skulls of the baying monstrosities. Ichor and pus sprayed everywhere as Tarak landed a flurry of strikes on the teeming ghouls that smelled of death and decay.
But there were so many of them to punish, and as he grew tired, his fightback became weaker. He fell to his knees and cried for the loss he had suffered moments ago. Tarak gave up on the spirited rebuttal and let the filthy claws grab onto his head and body.
“Vipul, Vipul beta. . . Vipul,” he cried.
From within the nest of hands, a pustulant visage emerged. It was Ashish. Tarak barely recognised him, given that his visage was a celebration of crude lacerations, a face butchered by a rusty machete.
Ashish opened his mangled mouth, which featured broken teeth and torn gums, and said, “We have seen the yellow sign, and now, so will you.”
The frenzied hands now focussed their attention on Tarak’s mouth and they forced it open as Ashish looked on. Foul tasting fingers entered his mouth and pulled out his tongue.
A lunatic’s laughter emerged from Ashish’s ruined mouth.
“There it is, carved onto your tongue,” Ashish said. “The yellow sign. The yellow sign.”
The horde moaned in pleasure as they relished the discovery.
Tarak bit and choked and dry-retched as the hands travelled deeper into his throat, desirous of his innards.
The moans of his oppressors were replaced by vicious snarls. Tarak’s mind and body could not suffer the cruel examination any longer. He lost consciousness and fell face first onto the ancient floor of the haveli.
C h a p t e r
11
There were flashes of consciousness as Tarak lay in the back seat of the autorickshaw, journeying into the unknown.
Awareness bursts forth like an exploding star.
His head was on Raju’s lap, but flashes of illumination from street lamps revealed a pallid mask where the young man’s enthusiastic face should have been.
The scream lay suppressed in his throat.
He blacked out again.
Another flash of wakefulness.
This time, the driver, who was mute and shrouded in shadows, turned around to reveal his visage. He, too, bore the pallid mask. And he spoke, “The most precious and holy of duties.”
Tarak fell unconscious again.
He dreamt of Vipul’s hellish form—his body covered in gore, bloody signs carved into his flesh, and then the final glimpse of his son, dead on a bed of serrated rocks. One of the jagged peaks had thrust in through the back of his head, and it rose from inside Vipul’s mouth like a miniature mountain weeping blood.
“Vipul, Vipul. . .” Tarak muttered sadly.
C h a p t e r
12
It was later in the afternoon when Tarak woke up, to find himself sprawled on the steps of the restaurant, below his temporary lodge.
His mouth was dry and his lips were parched. His body ached from lying in an awkward position for hours.
“Wakey, wakey,” the restaurant owner, who was opening up the joint for food prep, said.
He was a wizened gentleman dressed in a vest and dhoti, and he wore thin reading glasses on a hooked nose. He said, “Looks like you’ve had a night of drinks and drugs. Maybe girls too. That’s what tourists come here for these days. Nobody cares about our ‘cultural’ offerings.”
Tarak sat up and coughed.
Painful memories from Bhangarh flooded his body with sickening sensations. Grief gnawed at the inside of his brain.
“No, I am not drunk. I went to the fort with my guide Raju last night,” Tarak said.
The restaurant owner froze. “You went to Bhangarh at night?”
“Yes, I did, to look for my son, and I saw. . .” Tarak began saying.
“You will not speak one more word about what you saw. You fool,” the man said.
“But I. . .” Tarak protested.
“It follows you. That place. You’re cursed forever now,” the elderly man said.
“My guide Raju. He should be able to. . .” Tarak said.
“I know all the guides in this town. There is no one named Raju operating tours to Bhangarh. None of the guides here would dare take people to the fort after 6 p.m.,” the old man said. But something in the restauranteur’s voice told Tarak that he was not being truthful.
“My son’s body is still there,” Tarak said, scrambling up to his feet, realising there was no point talking to the aged man.
“I am going to the police to recover my son’s body and pop handcuffs on that cowardly tour guide who abandoned me,” Tarak said angrily.
“The station is on the main street, 20 minutes from here,” the restaurant owner said, pointing to the east.
Tarak climbed the stairs to his room gingerly to collect his belongings.
He could feel the old man’s eyes bore into the back of his head.
“Do what you have to do and get out of here as quickly as you can. We don’t want you spreading the curse around our town,” he heard the old man say.
C h a p t e r
13
The ruins looked equally menacing during the daytime.
The blazing sunlight offered no answers to the police search party that combed every nook and cranny of the sprawling estate.
Not only did the three policemen and Tarak not discover any evidence of foul play on the sprawl of rocks behind the haveli, but there was also nothing to indicate people had camped at the fort for extended periods of time. There was no trace of Vipul or Ashish.
At the end of the search, the Inspector pointed to the Archaeological Society of India warning sign at the entrance to the site, which barred entry into the area after sundown, and handed Tarak a hefty fine.
“I can’t believe educated people like you do things like this, Sir,” the Inspector, a stern man in his 40s, said to Tarak. “And next time you get on drugs, please don’t waste our time.”
When Tarak registered his strongly worded opposition, the Inspector grabbed onto his collar and said, “You city dogs bring poison into our communities—your drugs, your alcohol, and your wicked habits. Most of your brethren at least have the decency to do their dirty deeds and leave us alone. But some pests, like you, stay behind and give us trouble. Get the fuck out of this town before sunset!”
“I am sorry. I am so sorry. . . I haven’t been myself since my son’s disappearance,” Tarak said, eager to escape the officer’s wrath.
The Inspector let go of him and stepped back.
“What about the guide Raju?” Tarak asked. “And the rickshaw driver?”
The Inspector rang the station on his mobile phone and enquired about the research task he had assigned to one of the constables.
“Ha Bhuwan. Did you find any records of a Raju who is registered as a guide?” he asked, as he poked a finger in his ear and explored his dirty ear canal.
