“Spirits are not evil. They are just restless. They do not give you time to negotiate. They just want to be listened to and acted on immediately.”
I did not fully understand the gravity of the statement when my Grandpa was saying it to his friends during his routine evening verandah talk.
Grandpa, Pir Baba and the Dr. Uncle had recently been through a lot. Pir Baba did not remember what hit him the other day. Being paralysed on one side and not being able to speak properly had been depressing and no intervention had been helping him.
“…the answer lies in the banyan tree. The sooner he accepts it, the better it is for him,” my Grandpa concluded before he started walking towards the cow shed.
I jumped up from my chair and got ready to accompany my Grandpa. My favourite calf, Gangoo, had just started playing with me and I would not miss it for the world. I desperately wanted to ask many questions, but I knew my Grandpa or my Granny would not talk about this topic with a ten year old. My only chance was to get the stories from Nagulu who knew everything in the world, but alas, he too was missing in action since the electrical pole incident.
There was certain development happening in the farms adjoining the village. The farm labourers from a neighbouring village had settled in small temporary camps. Their job was to guard the mango plantations. They would make temporary settlements, stay there for six months, ensure the orchard was taken care of and leave the village once the mangoes were sold.
Typically their settlements were near a large step well, where they would draw water for their daily use.
They were well aware of the drill. No messing around with the Banyan tree, no gossiping around, no invoking spirits and most importantly not to pray to powers that were not liked by the spirits. It was common folklore that there were certain deities the spirits considered villains and praying to them triggered those spirits.
As a customary ritual, my Grandpa, Pir Baba and Dr. Uncle would call them all for a counselling session at the beginning of their settlement. They would meet them regularly to check in on what was happening.
Because of the issues around Pir Baba’s health, they could not conduct the customary warning session that year.
The faint smoke coming out of the huts at midnight hardly raised any eyebrows initially. The water levels in the step well reducing drastically were attributed to the devastating summer. The mangoes not germinating fast enough and the plants drying up were thought to be the result of excessive chemicals sprayed.
Until one day, the villagers found a mandala drawing on the side of the step well. Drawn with rangoli powder, decorated with vermilion, turmeric and a lemon & chilly garland. The dry coconut shells used for the ritual were burnt from the inside, indicating there had been some kind of a fire, possibly camphor being lit in those shells.
It appeared as if the ritual had been abandoned midway and the people conducting it ran away leaving behind their footwear.
When something like this happened and it came to the notice of my Grandpa, he would immediately summon a village meeting. He would enquire first, threaten next and employ his charismatic carrots and sticks method to get to the root of it.
The migrant labourers were obviously the first culprits to be questioned. They pleaded innocent. Despite the strongest efforts from the village heads, the mystery remained unsolved.
Villagers started worrying as their mango orchards started getting pale. It was a stable income for many households and if the crop failed, the village would face a severe financial crisis. The step well was drying up. The colour changed dramatically from blue to green to pale yellow. The water was no longer drinkable. The steps on the side of the well became so slippery that the usually nimble labourers also started avoiding climbing down those steps.
Villagers started seeing something even stranger. The branches of the banyan tree were twisting in strange ways, beating conventional wisdom, physics and biology. It was as if the branches were plaiting themselves like a small girl would do.
The villagers would hear a baby girl voice when walking past the Banyan tree as if the baby was asking people to come sit with her. Any young kid cycling past the tree would feel a strong pull towards it. Parents carrying young kids in their arms would have to hold them twice as firmly.
Slowly, the little girl voice started becoming restless. One would hear little giggles and suddenly loud cries and then giggles again.
The water in the well would come to the brink in the morning and suddenly disappear by the afternoon. The farms would get wet with the overnight swelling of the well, as if it had rained.
My Granny would silently observe all the happenings, quietly praying for the well being of my Grandpa and all the family members. She would perform a special ritual every day, prepare specially made vermilion laced armbands and change them every time she observed a colour change.
She called upon her close friend from the neighbouring village and detailed the happenings to her. I would silently hear them talk under the pretext of doing some homework. They also knew I was curiously eavesdropping, but never encouraged a direct conversation.
It was almost time for me to return back to my town as the summer vacations were coming to a close. I would miss eating those unripe mangoes (laced with salt and chilli powder) and playing with my favourite friend Gangoo in the evenings.
The next morning, there was a loud thud at the door. The entire village was running towards the step well. Apparently, it had swelled up so much in the morning that it swallowed a young man who was addressing the nature’s call in the open in the nearby field.
Experts were called in to dive into the well to fish him out! He was no where to be seen! The ones who witnessed this were very sure that he was screaming all the way while he was dragged into the well. As if someone had tied his legs and pulling him down.
In spite of the well swelling up and receding, the mandala that someone had drawn still remained fresh. The lemons and chillies, that people avoided touching, never decomposed. Despite many people addressing nature calls during that morning, no body else got pulled in.
The search continued till the evening. Nothing was found except a strongly plaited thick hard jute rope that are typically used to pull heavy items from the well. It would have accidentally fallen into the well in the past!
It was time for me to return back to the town the next day! As I was packing, I could not ignore the murmurs in the house. My Granny noticed that all our vermilion armbands had turn black.
Villagers were murmuring about how the cries and giggles of the young girl completely stopped as if she was in the comfort of a loving father! The branches of the Banyan tree had mysteriously unwoven themselves. The mango orchard suddenly started blooming by the evening. The Pir Baba’s voice returned and he could move his paralysed arm, but with slight bruises on both the palms.
I wanted to give a tight hug to Gangoo that evening before leaving, but my Grannies stopped me from stepping out.
I couldn’t get sleep all night. More than anyone else, I was now restless to head back to the town and back to my school where I could tell all these stories to my friends!
As I was getting comfortable after storing my bags, I was reflecting the on the events that unfurled that week! Most mysteriously, why would the branches of the Banyan tree that got un-plaited were wet from top to bottom! Why would Pir Baba’s paralysis vanish overnight and most importantly, why would his palms get so bruised as if he was pricked by cactus plants – or may be, it was a thick hard jute rope!
*** Thanks for reading. This is a fictional concoction of some childhood incidents. You can read the first part here, the second part and the third part. Would be eagerly awaiting your comments 🙂 ***
