Author: RA

Though engrossed in work, I thought I heard rain go pitter-patter. From my desk I look to my right, the terrace is dry. A few minutes later the same sound again, albeit this time it was as if the raindrops were hitting a hollow, inverted metal utensil creating that terrible echo. Along came the haunting notes of a Hindi song ‘मेरा दिल ये पुकारे आ जा’, currently the only connect between two neighbours, two warring nations and half the whole world dancing to the number 

I perk up my ears, focusing and wanting to catch the notes clearly – this time looking to my left, across the door from my work table. I hear footsteps in that part of the lobby which is hidden from my gaze. A faint shadow runs across the wall and dissolves into the painting hung there. For a second it seemed the water nymphs in the painting were the ones singing a group version of  ‘दूर तुझ से मैं रह के बता क्या करूँ, क्या करूँ’ and ending with a gurgling sound as if they took a collective dive. The water-nymphs (Naiads, as they are called) bob up & down but the water in the picture is still. Try as hard, I can’t find a ripple or a wave. 

A head surface, its blank, featureless face has no eyes, nose, cheeks or lips. The ears, if they have them, are hidden behind wet hair. Another one comes, same stretched skin – no face. Another and two more. Soft singing begins again ‘सूना सूना है जहाँ, अब जाऊँ मैं कहाँ, बस इतना मुझे समझा जा…’ the chorus fades and they disappear back into the water. I am scared rooted like a stone to my chair, the computer monitor is glowing over my face. I press the button on the bezel to switch it off, a faint blue light lingers for a bit, the LED takes a long time to go dark. A face-like contour appears on the monitor too and a ping sound startles me. I push back the chair and get up. 

The faceless women have resurfaced, this time with weird tiaras made of moss and seaweed on their heads. The light on the canvas is changing. The notes start again – this time the apparitions pick up the song from the middle somewhere ‘भीगा भीगा है समा, ऐसे में है तू कहाँ, मेरा दिल ये….’ I shake my head in a big No. Moving my neck from left to right and back to left telling them to spare me, no, I am not the one. I move back two steps into the room holding on to the door handle, ready to run into the bathroom and bolt the door in a flash. 

Light filtering through the metal mesh of the terrace door creates a foot-like impression on the dusty floor. The impressions multiply as I focus on them. The pair in the middle moves, steps forward. I look above – there is no physical body moving but the steps are. That part of the floor where the steps have crossed is clean and shining. The impression of heels are stronger than the toes. In fact there are no toes, it is just one blob of the front portion of a foot, no fingers no thumb. A fine plume of dust floats and it goes ‘तू नहीं तो ये रुत, ये हवा क्या करूँ, क्या करूँ’ 

I look up at the painting again. The position of their faceless heads has changed. I am sure the heads are closer together. They are bending to where the ears should be. I can hear them whisper. It is distinct, they are talking… for sure. Anyone else would have vouched for it, would have heard them. I am petrified, scared shit. There is a distinct sound of anklet bells, ghostly echo, soft, tingling sound of छन्न …  छन्न …  छन्न and then the notes come again ‘…आँधियाँ वो चलीं, आशियां लुट गया, लुट गया… एक छोटी सी झलक, मेरे मिटने तलक, ओ चाँद … ओ चाँद मेरे दिखला जा…’ A crescent-moon-like male face appears on the top left corner of the canvas and disappears, as if hiding from someone

The canvas swells and warps at exactly the point where their feet should be under water.. a dark loop-like zig-zag streak runs through from one end of the frame to the other like a snake. “Nagin” I ask myself, ‘wasn’t that the name of the film?’ I feel choked. Taking my eyes off the painting I look at the floor near my feet. I am barefoot and cold. I run for the slippers. For some strange reason the slippers are wet. I look at the floor which is completely dry. I lift one foot and look under it, then the other touching the rubber sole which is also dry. I realize I am sweating under my feet. ‘भीगा भीगा है समा, ऐसे में है ‘

Something moves on the painting again. This time I can see the heads rushing up from underwater like sharks or expert swimmers do. As they surface the last gust of breath escapes their chest and scatters as hundreds of big and small bubbles running up chasing the music and bursting in a crescendo, “…मुँह छुपा के मेरी ज़िंदगी रो रही, रो रही; दिन ढला भी नहीं, शाम क्यों हो रही, हो रही; तेरी दुनिया से हम, ले के चले तेरा ग़म, दम भर के लिये तो तू आ जा’ 

My hands are shaking and the body is trembling. I can barely hold on to the freezing door handle. The empty glass in my right hand slips and falls making a loud noise. I hear someone run towards my room. I escape to the bathroom and bolt myself in switching on all the lights and the exhaust fan and push the flush button. Someone is beating at the door, I pick up the water mug in self defense and shout ‘go away’. Other than the beard trimming scissors I can’t find a weapon. I don’t know why but I run the wash basin tap. I can barely hear who is calling for me. Then someone plonks a metal bucket full of water outside the door and I hear the familiar sound of a wiper mop sliding and falling on the floor. Parvati, our help, is shouting, ‘साहब क्या हुआ? आप ठीक तो हैं?” “हाँ हाँ ..” I shout back from behind the door and switch on the other taps humming ”भीगा भीगा है समा, ऐसे में अब होगा क्या?” 

Getting a hold over my nerves I step out confidently, look at Parvati and the painting, at Parvati and painting again and make a face asking “क्या हुआ पार्वती? गिलास फिसल गया था हाथ से, बस! ऐसा घबराने की क्या बात है ? और देखो, वो पेंटिंग है ना, वो टेढ़ी दिख रही है है उसे सीधा कर दो। The water-nymphs are steady, there is no music or song being sung. Disappointed, I get back to my desk and search for the video of the girl from Pakistan dancing to the number and watch it in loop for the next one hour practicing her steps. Allah, why can’t I dance!