There are times that change you and your life. There are situations and circumstances that change the world and your perception of it. There are people who keep you updated that how above or how beneath you are compared to their status, knowledge or power. And lately I have had the privilege or misfortune; I am still trying to figure out, to come across some of the strangest yet powerful folks who challenged not only my knowledge and understanding but also my experience and my secret strengths. One such strength I considered was to recognise a person and making an approximately appropriate image of him with his verbal and non-verbal attributes, even when not coming in contact directly with him. A few days back, while I was in the loo, my most favourite thinking place, I was wondering about a similar situation where deceptive looks and fraudulent behaviour of some had proven me wrong and sent me to a state of misery, despair and hopelessness. Suddenly, a long lost memory crossed my mind. A recollection that was soothing as well as hurtful at the same time. It was something that reminded me that something like this has not happened to me for the first time. I had witnessed worse. I had suddenly remembered Deepak. Deepak, the Bastard.
I remember the day I had seen Deepak for the first time. A new boy with scary grey but curious eyes entered the class of standard fifth students. He was tall, broad, thin and extraordinarily fair with untidy hair. His disgusting pink, over-sized, protruding lips however destroyed most of his charm that was being brought out by his shining white shirt and fair lean physique. He looked rather normal however there was something uncannily strange and mysterious about him that drew attention and curiosity. Time passed and the boy mingled with everyone. Soon all came to know that he belonged to a very rich family from the town of Kantabanji, a purely Marwari establishment and a huge business hub, forty kilometres away from my native, Tiltilagarh.
I have been to Kantabanji once or twice, hence let me give my perception of the place. It is a small and clean town with big Kothis and bungalows. A car draped with cover stands still in front of every house and looks more like it lies there more for exhibition than use. There is a small market along the main road that divides the town into two. However the real business takes place at the homes and not the shops. The drawing room of every house is a business counter. As soon as you enter a house, you will see a fat Marwari dressed in all white cotton lying on a mattress flanked with bolsters. He is assisted by his servants and sons who are either pursuing basic education or have left going to school long back as their ultimate goal in life was to lie on that mattress serving customers. In the vicinity, you will find models or showpieces of a commodity that has been stockpiled inside the house. Ninety-nine percent of the residents are filthy rich, foul-mouthed wholesalers.
Deepak however was different. He neither had the ambition of taking over his father’s business nor his legacy. He was jolly and a spendthrift. Sometimes he was selfish and cunning but a good team player as well. He was a man of art. I clearly remember when once our art teacher had asked us to draw a mango and I had completely messed it up. When investigated, the mangoes we had drawn looked like a pear, an apple or some god forsaken fruit; it was only Deepak’s which looked ripe and fresh, ready for the picking. His handwriting was lucid, cursive and beautiful. He never tried anything too hard and always took things easy. He was a brilliant student but he never aspired to be numero uno. He would write what he liked, as much as he liked. He never fought for that extra mark with the teacher unlike us. On the other hand, I always had to be the number one. The first rank was the only solace that I could offer to my parents for the hardships they endured for bringing me up in spite of financial, physical and mental disturbances. Hence I always feared Deepak because if he had tried, he could have easily done it. I was scared the most when he beat me in the language subject of oriya even when he was a Marwari. Thank God, his sciences were not that good.
If for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, what were the actions that led to Deepak’s reactions? It was finally revealed during one of those horrifying story telling sessions. It is a common and the most trilling Indian pastime of narrating ghost encounters. Hence once when we had gathered, for the first time with Deepak, to discuss ghosts and witches, Deepak’s story was the one which not only scared us the most but also changed our relation with him.
He waited patiently for his turn, first uninterested but later very attentively, to tell the story of his life. With original expressions in his face, he informed that he had heard ghosts talking, crying, shouting and moving around. He had not only felt them but lived with them. When inquired where, we were stunned by the reply. It was not a Peepal tree or an obnoxious pond; it was his mansion in Kantabanji and the ghosts were of his relatives. This part was spine chilling. With a mixed bunch of emotions of fear, sadness and adventure, he continued narrating that story. For some unknown reason, all his family members were obsessed with committing suicide. Almost everyone in his family had killed himself or herself and only Deepak and his father were left alive. It was like, everyone had been either subjects of acute illnesses or depression or sadness or discontent or hate and suicide had been the only way out to put a stop to all misery and pain. However the most genuine theory which was quite believable was that the ghosts present in the house made it difficult for the residents to thrive and always called the latter towards them for freedom. With vivid description he explained how his uncle’s wife had lied on railway tracks, how his uncle hanged himself to the ceiling, how his mother jumped into the blind well and finally succeeded after a lot many attempts, etc. He continued on and on and answered all the questions that were popped onto him occasionally. That very day we were confused to believe him or not until one day he attempted it himself.
After that day of storytelling, we noticed changes in Deepak which were basically gradual. He started remaining more silent. He used to pick up fights and quarrels now and then and his behaviour was erratic. His performance started degrading and so were his social interactions. Later we came to know that the event had triggered his emotions that lied dormant. All we knew about Deepak till date was just a mirage, a person he was faking to be but he was not. In better words he was trying to be a normal person. He had undergone huge stress in his early days and may be the presence of ghosts had worsened the circumstances. His father had thought that shifting Deepak to a different environment would work and it had worked but that day changed everything.
Few days later, we received news of transporting him back to his father after his futile attempt to kill himself by drinking lots of floor cleaner in the hostel. He was criticised for his deed and then he was forgotten.
Years passed. Again one day we received the information of Deepak’s comeback. Nobody actually wanted him back but we heard that his Dad had persuaded the authorities hard and assured that he had changed for good. When Deepak re-entered the class after a long time, I realised that there was a stark resemblance with his very first entry, however he looked a bit older and paler and the shirt on him had lost it's shine.
His second return was not at all social. He remained more to himself. He talked very less and useless. He was no more brilliant though his handwriting had remained beautiful. In the name of fun, he only cracked filthy jokes and made fun of others. Passing lewd remarks and sharp comments had became his trade-mark. He no more stayed in the hostel, rented a separate room and lived alone. At that tender age of fourteen, it was unbelievable. Then information came from a classmate, who was able to peek into his room thru the bedroom of her window, that he had taken up alcohol. Now that was news and we became all curious. Some friends and I approached him to validate if it was true. He honestly admitted it and said that he was proud of it. Then he invited us to his room. After a short discussion, we agreed and that evening after tuition, we went to his place. It was small, dark and creepy. There was an obnoxious smell in the place which was remotely familiar but incomprehensible. One interesting thing however was the paintings on the wall. I was happy that he had not abandoned his art. After a few minutes of stay, we left him alone again with his old monk.
I had inquired the source of the smell but he had avoided to answer. Next day only he told me that the drawings I was too full of praises of were actually painted by semen. There was a cunning smile on his lips which later got converted into a brutal laugh whereas I was on the verge of puking. Additionally he told me that the semen was never collected prior to the act, so I was asked to visualize how they were done. I had only managed to wonder.
When his body stopped supporting his drinking habits, he was again sent back to his home. I remember his father had come to take him. He looked sad and scary too but he also looked like a survivor. That was the last time I had seen both of them.
Few days later, we got the news that Deepak finally succeeded in killing himself by lying on the railway tracks and getting rammed by a speeding train. That otherwise conspicuous boy finally held up his family tradition. The deceiving bastard might have freed himself but I have been unable to do so from my mind. Every time I’ll be hit by deception, I’ll find that bastard floating in my head. Happy haunting buddy.
