Many days and nights went by. Bhargavi was always on my mind — her mother, father, brothers, sisters — whose stories I did not yet know. Most nights I wrote. And when I grew tired of writing, I played my records. Before each record I would announce the name of the singer and explain the meaning of the song, “Listen. This, by the great Bengali singer, Pankaj Mullick. It is a sad song about old times. Listen carefully.”

Guzar gayaa woh zamaanaa, kaise, kaise.

Or, “This is Bing Crossby’s In the moonlight which means… Oh, forgive me, I forgot you have a BA degree.”

And so I would carry on this conversation, all by myself.

Two months and a half went by. During this time, I had completed a short novel. I had even laid out a garden and announced that when the flowers come, they would all be Bhargavikutty’s. My friends visited me, and sometimes they even spent the night at my house. On such occasions, before going to bed I would quietly slip downstairs and speak into the darkness.

“Listen, Bhargavikutty. My friends are here tonight. Don’t strangle them. If something like that happens, the police will come and take me away. So take care. Good night!”

Whenever I went out, I would tell her, “Bhargavikutty, look after the house. If a thief breaks in, feel free to strangle him. Only don’t leave the body here. Carry it off and throw it three miles away. Otherwise we’ll be in trouble.” If I returned home late after a night show. I would always call out from the front door, “It’s only me, Bhargavikutty!”

All this, let me admit, came out of the initial excitement and novelty of living in a haunted house. As the days wore on, however, Bhargavi faded from memory. There were no more long monologues. Only an occasional mental glance in her direction.

Let me explain why this happened. From the beginning of the human race, countless men and women have died on this earth, have they not? All of them have dissolved in the waters or gone up in smoke or turned to dust — to rejoin the earth in one form or another. We all know that. In my mind, Bhargavi too had entered that category of beings. She had lapsed into memory.

That’s when it happened.

I had been working on a story, a very powerful, emotional one, from nine o’clock in the night. I was writing furiously, when I noticed the light was getting dim. I picked up the lantern and shook it gently. No oil. I was too deeply involved with the story to stop now. I thought that I would write another page at least. I had done it before, writing in the fading light. So I raised the wick and continued. The light faded again. Up went the wick second time, and a third, all four inches of it, until it turned into a mere glow. I switched on the torch, turned the wick of the lantern all the way down and needless to say, the light went out. What could I do now? I had to have some oil for the lantern. It was after ten o' clock. Where could I get kerosene oil at this time of night? Ah yes! My bank friends used a kerosene stove. I could borrow some from them.

... To be continued
Excerpted from Ghost Stories
Publisher: Katha