The Ghost Rickshaw Puller

The Grand Trunk Express reached Gwalior well passed midnight two thirty five AM to be precise. The platform was totally deserted except for a a few army men joining their unit after leave. Gwalior was a dangerous place in the eighties with stories of Phoolan Devi and other Chambal dacoits. I had been warned not to take any public transport at this late hour. The plan was to get a few hours sleep in the waiting room and then head out to the Officers Mess by day. I was travelling light thanks to my instructor at Yelahanka who had organised a training cross country flight just to drop my luggage to my new squadron. The waiting room was filthy with garbage on the floor. Men, women and children were jostling for space with stray dogs and goats. I felt nauseated and moved on. I found a vacant bench on the platform and decided to spend the remain hours there. I was cursing my luck and was just dozing off. I was woken up by a gentle tap on my shoulder and a whisper, 'Saabji rickshaw'. I opened my eyes to see dark skinny boy. He kept repeating  'Saabji rickshaw'. His face was pleasant with bright eyes. He added Residency or Pinto Park. This was too much the guy had actually guessed my destination!  I just blurted Residency. I forgot all the warnings about travel on the desolate road. This guy appeared genuine. Or was I too gullible to fall for trap skilfully laid by this charming youngster. After the customary haggling I sat comfortably on the cycle rickshaw. The lad was humming a unfamiliar tune. The pleasant night air was having a hypnotic effect on me.The road from the station to the Residency was totally desolate and pitch dark with no traffic at this unearthly hour. As we passed LNCPE the boy asked me in Hindi, 'Are you afraid of the dark.' I replied no never. The boy questioned me, 'If you are not afraid then why did you plan to stay the night in the station?' The boy stopped the rickshaw and started walking into the undergrowth. I kept my vigil on the rickshaw seat. He continued his quite hum into the distance and then total silence. I waited in the dark. That's when the sounds of the silence hit me. The distant call of a forest owl. Intermittent bark of village dogs. The ghostly howls from a pack of jackals . I was lost in these sounds.  Worry and fear crossed my heart but I quickly dismissed them as unwarranted. I never noticed the cunning boy silently return to his post. This intrusion jerked my body and a tingling fear down my spine. He resumed his hum and rhythmic pedaling. Suddenly he questioned, 'Have you ever seen a Ghost?' The direction of the dialog was getting bit out of my comfort zone but I was just a passive participant. No I haven't seen one only heard stories.The boy continued, 'Even when you see one do you think you will recognise it?' I am not sure I mumbled. He continued, a sure way is to notice the legs. The feet and toes may  point backwards. I kept silent. Once in a way I did steal a glance at his leg. Was it the dark night or the boys quite hum or my own fears. I noticed the legs again they appeared pointing back. I followed the motion of the legs keenly. Where reality and dream merge is a narrow no man's land. I was now stuck in that twilight zone. I was having difficulty in separating dream from truth. The boys voice boomed in the silent darkness. 'Sirji why are you staring at my feet they are normal only.' He started a cunning laugh. I could not reply. We had now reached the Mela grounds which is totally desolate except for some gypsy families and their dogs which howled at the disturbance. There was no escape. I did catch myself looking at his legs many times they appeared normal.
We moved slowly on the dark road neither spoke for a long time. A silent prayer crossed my heart. The boy startled me again. ' What is the use of prayer?' I had no answer. Luckily for me we were now near the famous Madhav Rao Institute of Science and Technology. so some lights near the gate. The route was uneventful and the boy continued his quite hum and I in my thoughts. Gole Ka Mandir and the a short back breaking stretch to the Residency Mess. The sight of the Air Force gate and DSC jawan brought new confidence into my system. I got down and showed my ID Card a smart salute and he waved me in. The guard explained to the rickshaw puller to return by the same route after dropping me.
I got dropped off near my room which was behind the main block next to the kitchen. I had just settled down to sleep off the few hours left when l heard a commotion outside. I stepped out to check . It was the DSC guard he had been joined in by two other guards and a few mess staff. They were talking in loud voices. Where is the rickshaw boy. I told them that I had paid him off and had seen him moving to wards the main gate. The DSC guards were disturbed. The boy is missing he has not left. I joined in and started a search. Residency mess is a vast area covered with thick forest, however, there was only one main gate and high walls. The searched continued till day break. There was no trace of either the cycle rickshaw or the boy. I didn't dare to tell my fellow searchers about my own experiences of that night. 

Robert Frost ..... Two Roads

Please meditate on the immortal words of Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 

And sorry I could not travel both 

And be one traveler, long I stood 

And looked down one as far as I could 

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair, 

And having perhaps the better claim, 

Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 

Though as for that the passing there 

Had worn them really about the same, 

And both that morning equally lay 

In leaves no step had trodden black. 

Oh, I kept the first for another day! 

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 

I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 

I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference.


It takes courage to walk towards the unknown. Sustaining this courage is what gives energy to life. Just following is safe but leads you nowhere. What is it to be alive?  

Mouni Baba of Khamakya: The Forest Dweller

On the forested hills far from the city crowds I spy a saffron flag fluttering on a bamboo pole tied high up a tree. I knew this marked a yogi's dwelling in the thick forest. I revved my Bajaj Chetak up the mountain road leading to the Khamakya Temple. I moved around the temple like a zombie. The filth and stench of dried blood mixed with smell of fresh flowers and incense didn't affect me. I meditated in the open hall way near the main altar un-disturbed by the evening crowds. When I came out of my reverie it was already pitch dark as the Sun sets early in Assam. I wandered aimlessly around the temple just following the crowd. Then a sharp tingling sensation inside my brain surely a call.
I walked swiftly to my scooter and rode further up the hill. I slowed down and stopped next to a narrow and steep footpath leading down into the forest. I stood there hesitating a bit is it ok. A chill ran down my spine and a sudden jerk. I didn't care any more, no fear touched me. I rushed down the footpath in the dark. The tree crickets had reached a feverish pitch. I walked about half an hour  in the dark forest . Just then a flicker of  light and a movement in the distance. I had reached a point of no return. The safety of my scooter was far up hill. There was only a prayer in my heart.
I had reached an alcove in front of a mountain cave. There sat a master and a few chellas in silence. They had brought flowers and fruits and incense sticks as offering. I felt ashamed as I had come empty handed.
The master beckoned me to sit, his eyes glimmering bright in the light of a hurricane lantern. I tried to gauge the age of this forest master but could not fix anything definite. He was well built and had Nepali features. I offered pranam by falling fully on the ground as was the custom in South India. That is when the deep silence of the encounter touched me.
The master gestured to me to sit and poured chai into an old tea cup. He tenderly offered me the chai with a deep love. I had felt this simple love only with my maternal grandmother. This triggered such strong emotions that I was almost in tears. I tried to speak but no words came from my lips. It was just a song from the heart.
I looked at my companions. A rich North Indian from the trading community in pant and shirt. The other four were simple village folk two men and women. The trader was the first to address me he said, 'This is Mouni Baba'. No further talks were needed just a soul communion.
Next week I returned to the same spot when it was still bright in the late afternoon. I carried fruits as an offering for the master. He welcomed like an old friend and made me sit on a stone in front of his cave. He moved his hand like a plane and pointed to me. I was dumb struck he was telling me that I was a pilot! That's when I let go all interpretations of his jesters or facial expressions only to hear the clear voice of the silence. It was a dissection of my spiritual efforts. The struggles and pitfalls that had been my life. It was a clear mirror reflecting my soul. I was ashamed and scared to face the reality. The warm presence consoled me. I had been lost in my dream when the master tapped my arm and offered me a cup of hot chai. It was already dark and my familiar group had joined in.
The master never spoke for he was the Mouni Baba of the Khamakya Hill. I did visit many more times to dance in the song of silence that never failed to touch the soul.