Ghost Story
Howrah, West Bengal
“I won’t be able to write a ghost story this year, just letting you know,” said Mr. Samir over the phone. His voice sounded somewhat hoarse, as if he had a cold.
Mr. Abani, surprised, asked, “You won’t be able to, but why? Are you unwell?”
“No, I just can’t bring myself to write those bogus stories anymore.”
“What do you mean by bogus? For the past ten years, you have been writing ghost stories for our magazine every year, and readers of all ages devour them eagerly. And now you’re saying you won’t write anymore?” Abani Mohan Chatujje, the editor of the *Bhutolok* magazine, became a bit restless. Almost all the writings for the Durga Puja edition had come in, except for Mr. Samir's piece. And Mr. Samir's writing was their star item for the Puja edition. Many emails and phone calls came in just to inquire whether Samir Bandyopadhyay's ghost story would be included this time. Mr. Samir's stories meant that the Puja edition would sell out immediately. And now, Mr. Samir is calling at this hour to say he won't write this year. Abani Babu felt like he was about to lose his mind.
“Why won’t you write, sir?”
In a gentle voice, Mr. Samir said, “I don’t know, but it feels like I’ve wasted my whole life writing nonsense, and now I regret it.”
Abani Babu, persistent, asked, “Why would you regret it, sir? Everyone loves to read your work, and you call it nonsense?”
Samir Bandyopadhyay replied, “That’s the truth, sir. I will not write ghost stories anymore. Once I say I won’t, there’s no changing that.”
Abani Babu got angry this time. “What do you mean you won’t write? Of course, you will write. Many people line up to write for my magazine, and here you are saying you won’t write. Are you joking?” With that, he abruptly ended the call. Abani Babu turned on the bedside lamp and saw that it was 12:10 a.m. Strange! Is the gentleman crazy? A sane person wouldn’t call at midnight to say he won’t submit his work! Abani Mohan Chatujje is the editor of a very popular magazine called *Bhutolok* (Ghost World). His business revolves around ghosts. Thin, fat, tall—all kinds of ghosts are featured in big, medium, and small stories and poems, making his magazine a hit. It’s quite a renowned magazine with good sales. Samir Bandyopadhyay is the esteemed writer of *Bhutolok* magazine. When it comes to ghost stories, no one can match Samir Babu. He is a reclusive, unbiased, modest man with no ego like other famous writers and no particular demands. Like a free bird, he carefully delivers his handwritten manuscripts to the editor’s office each time. Even if payment is delayed, he doesn’t mind; his only passion is food! Before visiting the office, he calls and says, “I’ll come on such and such date,” which is a kind of signal. This means hot kochuri (fried bread filled with lentils), crispy fish fry, and juicy jilipi (sweets) should be ready. Mr. Samir is quite delighted. With a mischievous laugh, he would say, “You see, people eat to live, but I live to eat. There are so many delicious foods in this world, not just eaten with the mouth but with the heart.” Abani Babu sat up. Outside the window, it was silent and still. The moonlight softly touched the table beside his bed. He picked up the mobile phone from the table and saw it was switched off. Strange! Was he dreaming all this time? Can dreams be so vivid? Who knows? His health hasn’t been good for a while, and the closer the Puja gets, the more an editor worries. It’s true that Mr. Samir has always been very punctual. Even when he had to remind others, he always submitted his writing on time. And what great stories! Countless stories like “Night Creatures of the Night,” “The Phantom of the Darkness,” “The Wailing of the Haunted House,” and “The Bloodsucker of Chandpur” have filled his magazine. What happened then? The monsoon clouds reached Kolkata, yet Mr. Samir’s writing did not reach their office. No, tomorrow he must inquire about the gentleman. Just calling won’t do. He will visit his home tomorrow evening.
The entire day was extremely busy for Abani Babu. He didn’t have a moment to lift his head. At 5:30 in the evening, he left the office and told the driver, “Let’s go to Bagbazar.” He had to stop once in the middle of the road to buy some big, juicy ras kadam and hot singara from the newspaper stand. Mr. Samir's ancestral home was in a quiet area. An old, aristocratic neighborhood with large two-story houses, Samir Bandyopadhyay’s home was at the end of the alley. The garden in front of the house was so overgrown that it cast a shadow over the entire house. As Abani Babu entered through the iron gate into the garden, darkness seemed to pounce on his eyes. The dense shadows of the mango, jamun, and neem trees trapped the yellow light of the street lamp outside the gate. He thought to himself, “My goodness, what a state the garden is in! Overgrown weeds everywhere; it wouldn’t be surprising if snakes are lurking.” He had visited this house once before, a long time ago. At that time, Mr. Samir was quite ill, and they hadn’t heard from him for a month. Since then, he hadn’t returned. As far as he knew, Mr. Samir didn’t have any close relatives except for a nephew named Ananta and the cook-cum-all-in-one servant, Nitai. Nitai’s culinary skills could rival those of chefs at large hotels. Passing through the garden, he placed his hand on the large wooden door of the main house, and it opened. The door was unlocked. Inside, a soft blue bulb lit up the large drawing room. In that spacious room, light and darkness seemed to be playing hide and seek. The last time he had come during the day, he remembered sitting in this room and enjoying hot, puffed luchi with potato curry and eggplant fritters, cooked by Nitai. The meal had ended with a dense, cardamom-scented milk pudding. What luck awaited him this time, who knows? In the soft blue light, Abani Babu saw that the room was the same as before. A large, comfortable sofa, a heavy wooden table, and a wooden rocking chair. As soon as he placed the packets of sweets and singara on the table, he heard a familiar voice saying, “Why did you bring these?” Startled, Abani Babu turned to see the voice coming from the armchair. The armchair was placed in a corner of the room, partially in shadow. It seemed like someone was sitting there, though he couldn’t see clearly in the darkness. The voice was unmistakably Mr. Samir’s.
“No, I mean, is your health very bad?”
“Nonsense, those things don’t concern me, but I feel like crying, and I can’t.”
“Why is that?” He thought to himself, maybe he’s losing his mind. Writers tend to be imaginative by nature.
Mr. Samir replied, “You see, Ananta has been bedridden for twenty days, initially doing fine, but now he’s started misbehaving.”
“What is he doing?”
“Biriyani, mutton chops, fish fry, kochuri, alur dom, cardamom-flavored kalojam, khasta gaja, kabiraji—he’s eating everything. And I can’t eat anything. Doesn’t he realize that his own uncle can’t eat! Such selfishness.”
Hearing the list of foods made Abani Babu’s mouth water, and for someone like Mr. Samir, who loved food, seeing all this food without being able to eat it would indeed be sad. After thinking for a moment, Abani Babu said, “Alright, if you write the ghost story and come to our office, I’ll treat you to all those dishes.”
“That’s not within your means, sir. Last night I told you I won’t write false stories anymore. What nonsense tales—ghosts supposedly suck blood and chew on heads. Bogus! Those who can’t suck the syrup from a rasgulla or chew on a fish head will chew on human heads? Meaningless.”
Abani Babu didn’t know what to reply. The man had clearly lost his mind. Otherwise, he would have at least offered tea or even a seat.
With a cough, he said, “Well then, if you can, please come by the office once with the story.”
Mr. Samir Bandyopadhyay smiled slightly and said, “You see, before you leave, could you change the garland for me? That Ananta has been so rude he didn’t even change the garland.”
“Where?”
“Right there on the wall in front.”
In the soft blue light, Abani Babu looked up at the front wall and saw a large photo frame of Mr. Samir, smiling. Below it was written “Late Samir Bandyopadhyay.
Born-1967, died-2020.” Abani Babu couldn’t read any further. Somehow, he managed to slip on his shoes and ran towards the gate. Behind him, Mr. Samir, or perhaps his ghost, called out in a soft voice, “Oh sir, why are you running? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Don’t you understand? Ananta also ran out this afternoon, didn’t even close the door. Oh sir, please take the sweet singaras, or they’ll spoil.” But who was listening to whom! Pushing open the iron gate, Abani Chatujje jumped into the car and told the driver, “Drive!” Phew! Anyway, Abani Babu’s desire for ghost stories vanished for good.