Himal Limbu
On the harrowed cliff of a rugged piece of land replete with rocks, pebbles and stony soil, a building stands like pie in the sky. The building looks like a replica of the Narayanhiti Palace at the outskirt of the valley. Three storied. Forty eerie rooms. To the north and east of the building, the cold back of a low hill stretches along the narrow lane ushering to the school blocks. The unoccupied hill bears the shrubs, bushes and thickets. Some trees loom towards the building entitled ‘Everest House’. A large simal tree, Bombax ceiba, reflects its dark shadow to the Everest House. The tree inscribes its tale for the tattletale. The underlying tale is that a scary ghost dwells in the hollow of the simal tree. The hostel boys have named it ‘The Ghost Tree’. The tender minds of young boys easily get caught by the fear of the ghost tree. They have been passing down the horror tale from generation to generation of new students.
A member of the Everest House was roly-poly boy studying in grade five. He looked like Laughing Buddha with pot-bellied figure and haughty beguiled grin. He had incredible chubby cheeks; red blush natural gloss. His name was Kushal, a civilian boy in the Military School. His father was in Korea working for his future and his mother in Israel earning money for his dream. His father demanded him to be an engineer and his mother dreamed on him being a doctor. For their cravings, he was happy to be the self-captivated boarder of the Everest House.
It was an intuitive night for me; an epiphany not from my own experience but from Kushal’s nightmare. It was cold dark night of January. The gusty icy wind blew away all the pangs of my weariness. I was on my warm bed for the night dream. At the beginning of the lullaby, I was swinging to fall into the sweet lap of dream. I heard the tapping in my napping.
The husky voice called, “Excuse me, Mam.”
Again, a thud on the door slammed. Knock, knock on the door of ply board.
“Mam, please Mam, I…,” The sound repeated along with the tip tap on the door. The door visitor did not know my wife was not in the quarter. I was a lone wolf in my room to be servile TOD (Teacher of the Day) for all the calling hostel boys.
“Who is there tapping at the door?” I spoke aloud.
The boy said, “Sir, I didn’t find my bed cover. I did not find in my dormitory.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I am Kushal,” said the boy.
“Why didn’t you get it back from the laundry?”
“Washer Uncle don’t return, it Sir.”
“Are you sure, Kushal?” I asked from the bedroom. Kushal was mute. Again, I asked suspiciously: “Tell me what you want. What’s your problem?”
The boy did not reply my queries. The door was bolted hard from inside. I was wrapped in the quilt in the chilling cold of winter night. There was pin dropped silent. I felt something strange. I pushed away the quilt and blanket from my body. I went to the door. I slowly opened the door after switching on the passage light. I was standing at the passage of the huge house. I looked frantically around the nook and cranny of the house. I did not notice any sign of the boy, who was present a couple of minutes ago. I looked at the wall clock hooked at the corridor ceiling. The shortest hand of the clock was at the number 12. At once, I entered my bedroom. I slipped through the blanket on the bed shutting both eyes and ears.
The dark night has its beauty in darkness. It seems more beautiful when a darkness lover views the boundless expansion of darkness in the moonless night. To see the dark beauty, one needs a brave heart. A darkness lover must dare to creep through the pitch darkness without carrying any spark of light. The longer an onlooker observes darkness, deeper does the beauty of darkness flow into the inner sight. The onlooker can penetrate into the darkness removing the fear of incorporeal ghost of mind. For this, one requires constant practice and a little effort. The regular practice to face the darkness takes a form of meditative trench.
The rising moon over the hill of Everest House appeared two hours later than it peeped at the top of the hillock to the east. The night slowly crept into the shady house. The load shedding had made the dark night much scarier. After dinner at 8 PM on that day, the house slipped into the darkness. It was late night as I heard uproar in the west block of the hostel. Some boys were speaking in loud voice, some were running, some of them crying and some of them might be shouting for help. I abruptly got up from my bed. I switched on the penlight under the pillow. I rushed to the side where boys were making noise. I nearly bumped on two boys across the second staircase. They quickly moved the light focus away from my face and burst, “Sir, Sir…gho…gh ghost.” They said simultaneously overlapping their speech. “What?” I asked louder than their scream. One said controlling himself, “There is a ghost. Kushal is crying, Sir.”
“Let’s go there. Let me see where the ghost is.”
The boys followed me. I reached the dormitory where I found Kushal was crying sitting on his bed. Aman Thakur, a new hostel boy of class four was on the floor in his room. He was trembling and muttering sound in unclear way. I caught his hands, made him sit on the bed first. All the twenty boys of the room gathered around Aman Thakur. I consoled Kushal not to cry anymore. I started inquiry about that recent development of scary story.
“How was the ghost, Aman?”
When I interrogated him, he softly spoke, “Very small like a baby but pumpkin headed ghost.” I quickly kept my lips locked to stop burst of laughter. The pumpkin headed ghost was very popular among the hostel kids. They passed down the tale of the pumpkin headed ghost to every new batch students of the school. They believe their notorious ghost lived in the hollow cabin at the bottom of the simal tree. The tree behind the hostel building was the abode of their fanciful character, ‘Pumpkin-headed Ghost’. I asked some questions to the terrified boys. They told the same story which I had heard over three years from the year I was appointed the House Master of the House.
“Sir, my pillow fell outside the window.” Kushal said to me in dozy dizzy way. The net door squeaked; the wooden door banged as Kushal made request duly.
“Oops, did you ask Ayah Sister?” I asked. “Why do you bother in this pitch dark night? What about tomorrow?’’
“Ok sir let’s do it tomorrow. Goodnight, Sir.” he said in carefree way and set off dragging his slippers on the floor.
Fast sleep took me into the abyss of La la land….
The next day early in the morning, Raju, the bed partner of Kushal reported me about an incident that took place in the midnight. Kushal walked straightly to the footpath that led to dining hall to school blocks. To the right side of the path, a concrete pillar of about ten feet height and twelve feet wide stood upright for army training. He left the footpath, and moved to the pillar and collided with it like a tempo on the night bus and somersaulted back down to the ground. He screamed with pain regaining consciousness being blind with those brilliant eyes below his forehead. Ayah Sister heard his yelp and came to take him back to his dormitory.
“Why are you here, Kushal? Where are you going?” she asked desperately. Kushal did not say anything. He followed her like a blind in the fog. He came to his bed and laid into the blanket like a baby in a napkin of cradle.
The sun rose at 9 AM on the rooftop of Everest House. It delayed more sometimes in misty winter. The hillock to the east shadowed the House round the year, unstintingly a cool shade in the scorching summer. Kushal got up early in the morning. He readied to go for PT and martial art class Taekwondo. From the students’ assembly, I called him in front of me. He came scratching his head. I asked his problem, which he had appealed me the previous night.
“What about your pillow, bedcover…”
He looked dumbfounded for a second.
“Oh, yes, it was a dream, Sir. No problem at all.” He said timidly. “Ayah Sister brought me in my dormitory at that night.”
“No, I didn’t bring him, sir.” Ayah Sister said innocently, “It sounds like a dream.”
He smiled and scratched his hair just above the forehead. I saw a minor dry scar onto his head near bristling hair. I noticed a little quest of innocence into his eyes. I also realized I had a dream that night. I was supervising the boys in dream on my duty. I sharply looked at Kushal and Ayah Sister. They seemed void in their dream reminiscence. The pumpkin headed ghost, the horrifying hollow in the simal tree, panic-stricken faces of the young boys and all the ghost tales flash in my mind as the reel of Edison’s motion pictures. I said in low voice.
“Oh Kushal, you are a dream walker? Actually, we all are dream walkers without destination.”
[Mr. Limbu is a GT ‘A’ teacher at Sainik Awasiya Mahavidyalaya, Dharan.]