Dr. Kirti Swaroop Rawat
“You were always destined to be late. When the curtain was about to lift, I once again looked towards the gate. Since lights in the hall were getting dimmer, the silhouettes coming from the gate were not quite clear, but when my eyes fell upon a young man all of a sudden, I was taken by surprise. His collar buttons were all closed, and around his neck hung many lockets. He had a robust body and long hands, and his very sight brought me the idea that the man walking it should belong to an ancient regal lineage.
“I turned back and saw that the entire hall had been occupied. The number on the ticket of the man showed, he had his seat next to yours. When he came to sit down, I saw that he was strange not only in dress, but also in personality that was quite impressive. He displayed great curiosities on his face. Soon the dance started, and everyone was enraptured by the melody of the music and the tinkling of the anklets. In the meantime, you walked in. As soon as you sat, I saw a feeling of disgust appear on the face of the young man. Perhaps, the disturbance your arrival generated was the reason for his disgust,” said Mani, as she related the entire story to me.
“Your observations are turning keener, Mani” I said in compliment. But this did not flatter Mani; she went on speaking, “Please listen! When the charm of the dance was at its climax, I turned to look at him. I was surprised to see that he was not only absorbed and had turned still like a statue, but his eyes had turned wet. I was even more surprised a little later, before the dance completely ended, I had a look on him and found he had left his seat, and was gone.
“After the dance and dinner, as we sat on the lawn chatting, Sundar said, ‘I don’t know why I have so much fascination for dance, as though there were nothing in life, besides dance that I cherish. Some melodies are such that even if I hear them for far, my feet become restless. Here, in the apartment where I live, there lives a man in one corner; he has a rich collection of records. Many of them are those melodies whose very sound makes me stirred. Often, he plays those records late in the night, and many times, I have danced to them in my own room.’
“Really; who is that lucky fellow?” I asked, smiling.
“I don’t know. I have never seen him. During the day, he always keeps his door closed.”
We had decided that we would wait on the door and discover who lived in the room, no matter how late we might have to wait for, in the night. Until midnight, the door was closed. We also sat chatting. Then, Sundar served us coffee, whose effect did not last even an hour. We waited on, but no music would flow out of the room.
At around quarter-past twelve, we heard the steps of someone walking down the stair. We were startled by the sound. We sensed that the walker, that was passing through the stairs, stopped for a while, and then continued. We also felt that the sound was growing louder each moment. Perhaps, the walker was coming towards our room. Our eyes got fixed on the doors of the room. Though it was two o’clock, I was still miserable for fear. Sundar did not say anything, but her eyes suggested a deep fear. The ever-approaching steps made us feel that the walker was now quite near to our room. With fear and curiosity, we stood still like statues, and with eyes wide open, started looking towards the door. As we did so, we felt, our breaths had stopped for a moment.
Five seconds passed…and then ten seconds…half a minute….one minute….and again, fifteen minutes; complete silence ruled the air. We could not ascertain whether the walker was standing outside our door, or all this was a mere illusion. Whatever it was, during the entire period, we could exchange not a single word between ourselves. Both or us shrieked simultaneously again, for the sound had become audible again. But this time, the audibility grew fainter each second, and ultimately dissolved into silence.
After some time, we heard someone unlatch a door, a little farther away. It was followed by the sound of window being opened. Sundar pressed herself against and door and beckoned me to go near. I also saw, the doors and windows of the room at the corner of the apartment had been opened. But, from our room, we could not see who the person entering that room was. In fact, we did not have enough courage, at that point, to confirm who had entered, even if we had seen. That night, after the incident, we could hardly manage any sleep.
The next day, quite early, I got a telegram that mother was ill at home, and I had to go to Bikaner. After a month, when I went back to Sundar’s, I was astonished to see a large picture placed on her table. The picture was of the same youth whom I had seen at the hall of the Rabindra Theatre. The picture showed him very handsome. In the picture too, he had the Jodhpuri coat with closed collar, and around his neck hung garlands of pearl. I instantly asked Sundar, “How come you have the picture of this young guy?”
Sundar shuddered, and said, “O, how do you know him? It’s impossible.”
“Why impossible? I had seen him that day when you were performing.”
“True?”
“Absolutely true. But, why are you asking this in such surprise?”
“No, this is not possible,” she reiterated, as though she were telling to herself all this could not happen. Then she added, “It’s possible you saw someone else with an identical face. Come; leave the topic. Tell me first how your mother is. What had happened to her all of a sudden?”
“Hypertension. Her blood pressure had shot up suddenly. Now, it’s okay.”
After some stillness, I asked, “You did not tell me how this picture came to you.”
“Fine; let’s first sit somewhere comfortably and eat something. Then I will tell you everything. It’s a long story.”
Seated at a corner at Nataraj, Sundar bagan, “The apartment where I lived belonged to one Thakur Sahab. He had built this small apartment, especially for this young Kumar Sahab, whose picture you just saw, so that he could stay there and continue his study. You know how comfortable study becomes when you have a permanent place to live in.”
“O, then that’s the matter. The room at the corner is then that of Kumar Sahab. Music there and dance here; o, what an interesting film story is taking form. Interesting.”
“Please be quiet, and listen ahead. These days, something strange is happening at your back.”
“That’s possible, but how did the photograph come in your room…?”
“I won’t tell you anything further. If you want to listen, be quiet.”
“Sorry. I will be silent; you go on.”
“It’s the story of a few days later after you went home. One day, as I was practicing dance in my room, I suddenly happened to look towards the window. I sensed that someone had been watching my dance, standing there. The very next moment, Kuwar Sahab – the young man– came to the door and entered my room.
“Who? Was that Kuwar Sahab?”
“Lo, you spoke again.”
“Sorry; please tell further.”
“I thought, he was the same man who lived in the room at the corner. You know how debasing it is to ask something from someone; yet, after a few days, I ultimately told him, ‘Can you lend me your music records for a few days?’ A strange smile appeared on his face, and quickly receded.
The next day, I got the records, and simultaneously the secret of that his smile unfolded. With it, I came to know something, which I cannot imagine even in dreams. The next day, Thakur Sabeb turned up; he had to settle a case related to his ancestral property. He stayed for some hours. It was he who told me all these things.”
Sundar paused for some time and resumed, “It’s a story some twenty-five year old. The eldest son of Thakur Sahab had died in an air-crash. He was a student in Jaipur those days. Thakur Sahab told me, he had great interests in music and painting. At times, he would keep painting for the whole day, and until late at night, his room would resound with music. The room, towards which Thakur Sahab pointed, as he told the story, was the one at the corner. I was startled, and asked, “Who stays in the room these days?”
“No one,” said Thakur Sahab, and added, “The room contains some of his paintings, books, gramophones and records.”
“A strange curiosity besieged me; I wanted to have a look of the room and the records and other things inside by some means. But I was hesitant to tell it to Thakur Sahab.
“After some time, Thakur Sahab himself revealed, ‘He had some high-quality records of dancing numbers. Would you love to listen?’ He had perhaps asked, keeping in view my interest in dance.
“It was time for him to go. He handed over the key of the room to me. As soon as he had left, I rushed towards the room. I saw, the room was quite spacious inside. In one side, against the wall was a bench, and by its side were two or three chairs. An easel stood on one corner, where a huge painting was hung. Many a painting hung on the walls, all over the room. Two huge wardrobes too were there in the room; one had books and the other statues, brushes, color tubes and records. On a table were gramophones. Thick layers of dust had gathered upon every object. It seemed, the room had not been opened for months.
“Since a thin layer of dust had covered the picture on the easel as well, it was not quite conspicuous. As soon as I entered the room, my eyes fell on the same painting for unknown reasons, and I could experience a strange attraction towards it. When my curiosity reached its limit, I wiped its surface with the fringe of my sari, and observed…”
Sundar stopped; her eyes stuck upon an invisible object in front.
I asked her, “What was so special about that painting?”
“Do not ask me that, Mani. Just do not ask me.”
“Why?”
“You will not be able to believe.”
“Do you know, I don’t normally dismiss ghost-related accounts out of disbelief? I beseech you to tell…”
“It was nude.”
“Nude?” I wanted to confirm.
“Yes,” was her faint reply.
She remained quiet for some time, and whispered, “And, the nude picture was mine.”
“How is that possible? I am sure; you are mistaken.”
“No, Mani. The picture was mine.”
When we returned to the apartment after clearing the bills, it was half-past seven, and darkness had thickened. On reaching the room, I asked Mani, “Come on; show me the picture.”
I went to Sundar’s room with her. I stood staring at the nude picture on the easel. It was very much her picture in dancing position, but nude. The face, neck, waist, one each of hands and thighs were quite picturesque.
“How can you claim this picture is yours? It shows just a small portion of the face, and there can be many people with such countenance.”
I saw that at the bottom of the picture, it was written: “Jay Singh, 1945.” I was disturbed considering how could a picture, drawn some twenty-five years ago, belong to Sundar.
“The glory of the face alone is not important. Look at the fingers on the left hand…and…” Sundar was stuck. I saw the left hand of dancer in the picture; it had had six fingers, like Sundar.
“Fine. What else were you showing me?” I asked.
“Leave it…” she shied.
“Tell!”
Sundar pointed towards the right breast of the dancer with her finger. It bore a big, black mole.
After telling all the story, Mani says, “Can’t it be a case of previous life? It’s possible Sundar was the same dancer in her previous birth.”
I could not disagree with Mani, because we have with us many such cases of alleged reincarnation, where body marks and interests have reappeared.
Translated from Hindi by Mahesh Paudyal
[Dr. Rawat is an Indian poet and storywriter. His area of interest is incarnation and afterlife.]