A Ghost in a bowl..!

Ever since childhood, my curiosity about ghosts has never been satiated. As I grew, my search also grew and I devoured ghost stories and mystery TV serials.

I never had known that I would have a personal experience of a ghost until I reached a small hamlet in the Yavatmal district in Maharashtra, for my Summer placement.

My story will not do justice to my friend if I do not offer him the credit for all the experience I had!

Two of us, the aspiring Rural Development professionals reached Wardha and from there, to this hamlet. We mingled with the community and instantly struck a rapport with the staff at a training centre in the village.

One day, one of the staff, whom I will refer to as Didi, in the rest of this note, narrated to me her experience of Planchet, or inviting the spirit of a deceased person. I was immediately interested and my friend had glow in his eyes, thinking of the experience we would have.

So one sunny, sleepy afternoon, after we had finished the day’s work, we found a quiet room and a corner for the needful. We shut the door and except for a small opening (the ventilator), we shut all other openings.

In the now dark room, Didi wrote the alphabets A to Z and the numbers 1 to 10, on a small low wooden rectangular stool. Then in the centre, she placed a small steel bowl and asked us to put our index fingers on it. Having done that, she asked us whom we would like to invite. Our minds wandered from grandparents to National heroes to filmy personalities and at the end, she decided about a local lady, who, Didi said, was a very good person, which meant, that she would not be aggressive during the planchet!

So, she started inviting her, speaking in Marathi but even after a few minutes, nothing happened.

I could already feel a cold finger down my spine and was completely frozen but when nothing happened, I joked, “The lady must have been a fat person and therefore, her spirit is unable to enter through that small ventilator”, to which, Didi took huge offense and ordered me to shut up.

It took so much time that I almost lost my interest and was no more afraid.

And then, suddenly, the bowl moved!

Three of us were aghast, surprised and for the first few seconds, could not speak anything. My throat was parched by then, with fear. Didi asked a few questions and my friend followed. Then it was my turn.

The first question I asked was which year would I get a job and the bowl moved from 2to 1 to 4 to 5 which meant 2145. Now considering that this was happening in 1995, I was very upset about my job prospects as foretold by the noble soul! Then I asked, “What will be my life partner’s name?” And the bowl moved from y to x to z and I do not remember anything after that.

By then our fear had vanished and after thanking the spirit, we ended the planchet.

The story does not end here, dear friends!

Long after Didi had left, a doubt kept lingering in my mind. I asked my friend, how it all happened! He said, he knew and understood it. I asked him several times, “Bolna, kaise huaa, kya huaa” but he refused to let the cat out!

The bowl was placed at one side of a long stool in the room and seeing it, my fear returned. Looking apprehensively at the ‘possessed’ bowl, I continued pleading for knowing the secret. I kept sitting at one edge of a cot with my eyes stuck on the bowl.

In between, our friendly Kakkaji, the caretaker of the training centre came with the evening snacks, poha. Looking at the bowl lying there, he went to pick it up when I shrieked at the top of my voice, crying, “Kakkaji, mat uthhayiye kotare ko...!”

And he left, surprised. I continued pleading. “Bolna..”. My friend assured that after we had the poha, he would let out the secret. Poha was finished and I started requesting again. Now my patience was wearing out!

One more time, he said he would not tell and I picked up some of his survey schedules and threw them out, out of rage!

Till this day, he makes fun saying he just loved the way his survey schedules were made into roses, by me!

At last, with much pleading, requesting, threatening, he let out the secret, telling me, how the bowl had moved.

And dear readers, you will kill me for this... . . . . . ..
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My friend, with a little extra pressure had moved the bowl while Didi and I kept our fingers lightly on the bowl, thus, manipulating the entire act!

I must admit that I was, at the end, relieved that there was no spirit at all!

Our Didi at Yavatmal still does not know the secret!

A twilight song....

As I sail away,
With the sun setting behind me
I wonder, whether every bird
Could find its nest
Back on the branches,
where they had left it

I wonder,
Tomorrow, will the lost song
Of the shephard’s flute
Find a melody once again

Will tomorrow, once again, the sun
Wipe away the cloud of doubt

Will the shore
Again call for me

Will the morning tide
In its silence
Again wait for me


Tomorrow, as the sun rises again
Will I return home
To sing my song once more
To sing my song once more......

Nigahebaan

Apne jazbaat mein nagmaat rachaane ke liye
Maine dhadkan kee tarah dil mein basaayaa hai tujhe
Main tasavoor bhi judaai ka bhala kaise karoo
Maine kismat kee lakiron se churaayaa hai tujhe


How could he let Nausheen go! Fighting a terminal illness, Afroz would have already been a dead man, had it not been for Nausheen! Nausheen kept him smiling, Nausheen showed him the blossom of spring, Nausheen saw to it that he never failed to pray. Nausheen fed him, cleaned him and Nausheen nursed him.

Saint Anne’s Nursing Home, Gul Marg. Anybody, in the small town, knew, what it meant being admitted to this hospital. It had two implications, one, that the patient had to be a very rich person and two, the patient would not live for long to return home. The Hospital was specialised for treatment and care for most of the dreaded terminal illnesses.

Afroz was not the only patient in the department. He was not the only one Nausheen nursed, either. But Nausheen was the only one Afroz laid his hope on.
Nausheen, a very able and skilled nurse, worked through the hours, tireless and never missing a smile and never missing a schedule. In the chart she held in her hand, she had all the information about all the patients she attended to. She cared for all of them equally, in a very affectionate and a very professional manner, at that.

But Afroz was no professional! He was a poet, a SHAYAR with a melting heart. And confined to the campus of the Nursing Home since six long months, Afroz took comfort in weaving little and big dreams and painting them with imagination and putting them in words.

Nausheen entered his life when the rest of the world walked away. Nausheen received him when others gave him away. It was Nausheen who held his hand tight when the Doctor announced the seriousness of his illness. The time had stopped for Afroz. In utter depression, he confined himself inside his room, leading himself to darkness.

One sunny morning, Nausheen, brought in the light! To the dying Afroz, she said, “You are fortunate enough to know how your life will end. Do you know, each one of us, including that doctor, those attendants, often wonder, how our life will end. We do not know what we have for store, but you know. End will come to all of us, that is the reality but today, God has let you wake up; today you are alive, as I am, and as those little flowers and the bees are. Come, we will go out and have a stroll and thank God for the wonderful life and pray for the ones who did not see the light today’.

From the little life he was left with, Afroz continued stealing the moments with Nausheen and arranging them neatly in his memory.

But Nausheen had to go. She had to lead a team to the tremor struck towns far away. Hundreds of suffering people needed Nausheen. Afroz had never, in the worst of nightmares, imagined a life without Nausheen. He was so used to her that he had almost missed the passing time.

“Go after I die, Nausheen” Afroz pleaded. Nausheen had no answer for that. Her duty was beckoning her.

And so one day Nausheen left. Afroz’s life was not enough for all the love he had for Nausheen, so he bid her goodbye, with a smile and stole another moment for his treasure. “God bless and goodbye, dear”, that is all he said and the poet rested quietly in his heart.

Tu mila hai toh yeh ehsaas hua hai mujhko
Yeh meri zindagi mohabbat ke liye thodi hai
Ek zara sa gham-e-dauraan ka bhi haq hai jis par
Maine woh saaans bhi tere liye rakh chhori hai

Nausheen’s departure got delayed by a day. From mid-way, she returned, to offer her flowers, prayers and tears on Afroz’s still body.



Lyrics: From Qateel Shifai's ghazal
Photo: From internet

There was my Mom..

When dad left for the heavenly abode, Mom said one thing, ‘Sonia, just because someone is not around, it does not mean that the person has left you. Your dad is here, with us, though his body is no more. Your dad lives in your and my heart, lit like a candle’. And that is how Mom kept Dad alive all her life.

I was a seven year school going girl and my younger sister, a toddler. From whatever understanding I had, about death, I asked her, ‘Has Daddy gone away into the skies, to God?’ Mom replied, ‘God is here, within us, which also means, Dad is here, along with us’.

With this belief, we gathered the pieces of our life once again and continued with life. Dad’s long illness had left us with little resource but then Mom said, the best resource she had was three of us: Mom and her two daughters.

I know, life has never been easy for her. She continued her job as the secondary school teacher in the little town of Karma, where we lived. A part of the house was rented out and we shifted all our belongings to the two room-kitchen space. But, in spite of all the hardships she had, we never found her losing the Faith.


She was there, always, all through our little steps and bigger marches in life. She was there, when I held my sister in my hands and hurt her unknowingly; she was there when I fought with the neighbourhood kids and broke my toys; she was there when I fell from the stairs and lost a tooth.

She was there when I learnt to tie a knot in the hair. After my initial experiment with my dolls, I insisted on trying it out on her. She agreed. I could see how it pained. When she cried in pain, I was upset, so she bore the pain and clutching her fist tight, she went through the ordeal only to show her excitement on my achievement.

As I grew older, I questioned her sometimes, why God had to give us more challenges than we could face. She said, it is ‘Raising the Bar’. God is raising the bar of resilience and making us stronger, she said.

When I reached college and met my first love, Mom was my confidant and a vigilant guide as well. She insisted on meeting him and knowing what he thought about the relation. Through my failed relationships, Mom was there. I cried into her lap each time; but one day decided to leave home since she disapproved of the relation I was then having.

Mom was there when I returned, hurt and failed.

A little frail, a little older and a little weaker, I saw her waiting at the door. Had I failed her? Were the years of her hardship gone a waste? I asked her, kneeling before her.

Mom, standing at the door, picked me up, hugged me and said, ‘Sonia, just because someone is not around, it does not mean that the person has left you. You were here, with me, in my heart, lit like a candle’.

And I once again cried into her lap.





Photograph: From the internet

अब की बार जब

घर आऊं, मैं माई,

अब की बार

जो हो गोद भराई

देना शगुन के चंद पैसे

भरकर मेरी झोली में

आशीष देना मन भरकर तुम

कि आये बहार इस गली में

गुलाब, चन्दन, कमल, पवन

आसमान भरे मेरे दामन में

अब कि बार, माई, इक बिटिया

आये मेरे आँगन में

Breakfast with God

Farida Khala’s house was beaming with some ten-twelve happy children, enjoying a lavish breakfast in her sunny lawn. These children lived in the slum, across the residential colony where Khala lived. Every Friday, Khala organized little breakfast rendezvous for these children. Gudiya, also from the same slum would lead her friends to Khala’s big house, religiously, every Friday.

To an onlooker, Khala would seem to be a benevolent, charity loving rich old woman. Only few knew that only a year ago Khala was a very different person. It was a day during the previous monsoon that Gudiya’s and Khala’s destinies were coupled in a strange manner to bring forth a renewed understanding before Khala, about God’s works in everyone’s life.

Farida Khala was 85. Time had painted brown strokes of age on her face. Her hair had turned rough and orange from the cheap henna she used. Baby, her full time caregiver would randomly run the henna brush through Khala’s hair, which made the white and orange dry strands look as if they were yearning for some water and oil.
Her wrinkled hands trembled since she suffered from the Parkinson’s.

Farida Khala was a mother of four children, who were all settled across the length and breadth of the globe. Farida Khala stayed in her large mansion in older part of Lucknow. She could not walk very far but took small walks in the garden. Companion, she had only one; her 50 year old, full time nurse, Baby, a plump, curly haired lady who loved spending her time watching all the cookery shows on TV but hated the kitchen. Farida Khala did not bother much, as long as she had someone in the house; someone who would provide her some insipid food and water and call the doctor, if needed.

With time, Farida Khala had grown to be more and more irritable. She was irritated at almost everything. She was irritated at the cricket ball which would land into her garden from nowhere; she was irritated at the kids who came to the rescue of the ball and said, “Sorry daadi” with naughty smiles. She was irritated at the cacophony of sparrows near her window pane; she was irritated when it was too sunny or too clouded.

She, however seemed to be at utmost comfort with Baby and her ways. She did not seem to mind the sound of the television endlessly shouting at the furniture of the house nor did she mind the deafening silence Baby maintained. If Baby communicated, it was a one way communication, which was, television to Baby, that’s all. Baby’s auditory faculty was extremely well trained and verbal faculty was not used most of the time. She never missed any call from Khala but seldom said anything.

Farida Khala was so used to her loneliness that she was blatantly irritated whenever some neighbor dropped in. She only excused Philip, Baby’s middle aged nephew who visited them once in 3-4 months and slipped some cash into Baby’s palm and supplied them with sufficient stock of oats and pickled fish. The fish, Baby consumed in no time and Oats remained the staple diet of Farida Khala; who did not seem to mind even that.

Farida Khala was an ardent believer in the presence of God, which she justified by questioning Allah for the loneliness bestowed on her, for the big mansion and the silence she guarded and the youth of many of her neighbours she envied. She, like most of us, did not know what God looked like. Her God was framed within a wooden photo frame, inside which a matte cloth was decorated with the words, “Allah, meherbaan” done with a cross stitch with wool. Khala herself had made this decorative piece when three of her children went to the school and she was pregnant with her fourth. She knew, Allah was meherbaan.

But now she was not sure. So the grudging Khala spent her days in solitude while the city of Lucknow hustled and bustled outside her mansion.

It was a typical July morning, that particular day. It had rained during most of the previous night. Khala was supposed to catch the bus to Rae Bareilly, for attending her nephew’s nikaah. The bus would leave at exactly nine and Khala wanted to leave early. She would rather wait at the bus-stop than face a last minute rush.

Khala had her early morning bath and was ready to leave. She looked pretty and happy. Baby had coloured her hair quite carefully, this time.

Baby was ready too. She finished the chores and shut the windows. The wind was stronger than usual and Baby anticipated a storm. Grey clouds gathered in the sky. Baby decided that they should leave early, so she telephoned their regular taxidriver, informing that they would leave early.

Khala and Baby locked the door and were about to sit inside the taxi, when Khala’s eyes fell on a small girl, shivering and leaning on the gate. Her eyes said that she was very hungry. Her tattered clothes revealed her bony body. The sand coloured hair showed that they had not been washed since long. At the first instance, Khala’s instinct was to shoo her away but then she stopped and asked her why she was standing there, “Kya hai? Yaha kyun khadi hai?” Khala’s voice was very harsh. The girl only said, “Bhookh lagee hai” and her eyes were almost wet. “Arey, hamaare paas kaha khaanaa milega, hum baahar jaa rahe hain” Khala said in return. But it was Baby who spoke now, “Koi baat nahi, saamne waale chai kee dukaan se bread-chaai khilaa dijiye, Khala”. Farida Khala wondered why the otherwise silent Baby had to open her mouth now. But the taxidriver also agreed with Baby and nodding his red-turbaned head, he added, “Haan haan, khilaayiye, bachchi bhookhi hai, Uparwaalaa dua dega”.

It was purely out of her want to save her face that Khala bought a loaf and some tea for the girl. Along with the little girl, Khala and Baby also had some tea and offered some to the taxiwallah who thanked them happily and finished the tea in two sips from a saucer and was again ready on the steering.

Khala waited and watched the little girl, instead of rushing to the bus stand. She watched the little girl, dipping her bread into the steaming hot tea and quickly putting it ito her mouth to prevent the bread pieces from falling into the tea cup. Khala could not help but remember her youngest son who, similarly, relished his bread dipped in tea, when he was a little boy and was always clung to his Ammi.

“Kya naam hai tera?” this time Khala’s voice was soft and wet.

“Gudiya. Chai peene dijiye pehle!” the girl said sternly.

Khala let out an affectionate laugh.

Having finished the bread, Gudiya wiped her lips with her tongue making a ‘Ptchh’ sound, clearly indicating how much she had enjoyed the breakfast.

“Arey, chai kitna kam diya hai” she accused the tea-stall owner, looking at the tea-cup which was now only half full.

“Arey nahi, tere bread ne sok liya hai..” Khala explained.

They had not noticed the rain fast approaching them. Sudden sharp showers fell on them and the wind caught speed.

“Kaha rahti hai? Baarish aa gayee aur hamein bhi jaanaa hai”

“Aage jhopar-patti mein. Meri ma inta bhatti gayee hai. Main ghar jaatee hoo, daur kar chali jaayoongee” and the little girl, now satisfied, ran across the road.

Khala and Baby did not waste any time to proceed towards the bus stop. The rain made it a bit difficult for the driver to make up for the lost time.

By the time they reached the bus stand, the bus had already left.

A disheartened Khala now was very very angry. The gloom lingered throughout the day and the two ladies did not speak to each other. They seldom, anyway, spoke to each other but this time Khala’s silence disturbed Baby. No television cookery shows entered the living room that day and so the house was, all the more drowned in gloomy silence.

The next morning, as Khala sat by the window with her cup of tea, she wondered why she was so unfortunate. Why she had missed so many buses in her life.

Just then Baby entered the room and handed over the newspaper, folded near one particular news item. Baby indicated at the news-item, urging her to read it immediately.

Khala, curious, read the news, aloud. “…..The bus carrying forty passengers from Lucknow to Rae Bareilly, met with a severe road accident near Sultanpur in which 30 of the passengers lost their lives and ten others are fighting for life in the Government hospital…..”

Khala did not have the courage to read any further. Like a lightning, a frightening thought crossed her mind; what if she had not offered that unknown little girl the breakfast, what if she had reached the bus stand on time and boarded the bus!

The wooden frame on her wall seemed to look at Khala while Khala also looked at it with tears blurring her view.

Allah is truly meherbaan!

The heart knows it all……

Dear Ann, these flowers are for you. Every day, in the past two years, I have placed two extra roses in the bunch that you have bought from me. Those two flowers were, everyday, meant for you.


In the past two years, you have, every day, visited my little shop to buy those fully bloomed crimson roses. You preferred full blooms, you had said and after that, I have tended to my rose garden with utmost care and have delicately arranged the flowers every morning. Like the refreshing morning dew, you arrived every day. Like a breeze, you always opened the glass door of my shop and swirled yourself and walked right up to the roses.

Without fail, everyday, my heart was set on a spin when you entered the shop.

A late riser once, I had started waking up early and grooming myself well, without knowing if you even noticed me.

As days passed, the morning hour turned out to be the only meaningful time of the entire day. Before you arrived, my heart yearned for one sight of yours and after you left, the time came to a halt and the world revolved very slowly, around your thoughts until a new dawn arrived.

Dad knew, before I realised, that I was in love. Mum was always a hardcore rational. She said I could not possibly love someone just by looking at her and not knowing a thing about her. She said I was infatuated. Dad said I was in love. For my own comfort, I chose to agree with my dad.

Days went on and with the grace from the Heaven above, the moment arrived every day. I did not even know where those flowers went. They adorned your house, possibly. I did not want to know. Sometimes a remote fear would paralise my heart; what if all those roses went to someone you loved? What if, your roses and my unnoticed and unpaid- for roses were generously and lovingly being handed over to someone you loved? The thought was so cruel that I would soon brush it away. Ignorance is bliss!

And one day, I gathered enough courage to secretly follow you and find out what happened to the roses.

Indeed, those went to someone you loved!


Every morning, before visiting the little chapel, you would stop at your mum’s tomb and place the bunch of flowers on it, with utmost gratitude. You would then kiss the cold stone structure and say a little prayer before proceeding towards the chapel.

So, that is where my roses went to, everyday! Oblivion to it, you, on my behalf continued dedicating my flowers to your mum. And I continued receiving her blessings, that is what my faith tells me!

And that is why she showed me the way. I saw, written on her epitaph, were these lines:
"Forget not, what you dream,
Fear not your thoughts;
Have faith, have hope, have trust..
Through your life’s eves and odds.”

So began my journey, anew. My mum said if ever I wanted to be your life mate, I will have to prove myself to be an ‘able’ partner. My dad said, “In the journey, never lose the dream. Let love be your guiding star”.

So, armed with mum’s discipline and dad’s passion, I concentrated in organising the bits of my little life. The ritual of hiding my two roses, however, never stopped.

You would not even have noticed me or my shy and silent thoughts if Dad had not started his ritual of humming “…..every morning you greet me…” whenever you arrived. Despite Mum’s continuous warning, Dad continued; despite my tearing embarrassment, Dad went on.

And you knew it. You were not as shy a person as I was but you did not ever talk about it. You came, you went and in between, you bought the bunch of crimson gratitude in which I hid my crimson dreams.

Today, my mum says I am an ‘able’ person and ready to tell you what I have always wanted to. I deserve it, she says. I have passed her test, she says. I am a grown up, she says. But I know, deep within, I am the same shy person whose heart goes for a spin at your sight.

Dressed in my dad’s best suit, I am ready to knock at your door. With the crimson blooms in my hands, with an untold tale on my lips and a hope, a fear, a shiver, in my cruelly beating heart, I am here standing at the threshold of my dreams.

I may not be able to utter one word when you look at me. I may fail to tell you what I want to. Here I am, unaware of your feelings; I do not know what your answer would be, neither do I have a clue to what you think about me..

I leave it to my eyes. If my words fail, my eyes will tell you. If my eyes fail, your heart will tell you. Your heart will tell the tale of the two roses for you.

For, I know, the heart knows it all……..