डरावना भारत

Shera

Well, I never believed in ghosts, you know. To me, they were part some weird imagination of scared people that had taken shape.  If it was not that evening, my belief would have remained the same but it was not supposed to be so. 

I had completed washing dishes in my uncle's dhabha and was keen to take my dog, Shera for a walk. My uncle readily agreed and I was allowed to go out. It was 9:30 in the evening and I was advised to return early.  Shera was a stray dog but it showcased aristocratic mannerisms. I had seen the dogs of rich people and I believed that Shera looked better and was more gentlemanly (or gentledogly).  I continued walking with Shera by my side until we reached a peculiar place.  ROSEWELL BRITISH GRAVEYARD  These letters were inscribed on a stone.   What the hell did graveyard mean? I had never gone to school and English was an alien language to me.   The place looked old and queer to me.  The air around was cold enough to run a chill through my spine. I stepped on dry leaves and the sound echoed.  Shera too, was looking around suspiciously.  "Do you think there is something wrong with this place, Shera?" I was stupid enough to ask.  Shera tilted his head and started wagging his tail.   "I never said that I am going to give you ParleG, Shera."  Shera looked disappointed and started sniffing the ground.  "A-Ahem!"  I jumped in horror. Somebody had cleared his throat. I looked around and saw a short old man advancing towards me from the gate of the so called graveyard.  I rummaged through my pocket and found a broken fork, which was enough to defend me.  Shera too barked at the man and started to back away.  "You shouldn't have come here," the old man said in a dry unclear voice.  By now, his face was visible. It was wrinkled and a scar ran across his nose.   Maybe, he had messed up with a wild cat.  "Sorry, Sahab," I said, trying to be as respectful as I could.  "Sahab?" the old man whispered, "Ha! I am not a Sahab. I am just a poor sweeper who cleans this Kabristan everyday."  Kabristan. The place where dead people are buried. I should have known it better.  "People say that you should never roam about this place after 9," the old man continued," An Indian soldier, who was killed brutally by the British was burried here and even today, he contiues to march with pride ,singing patriotic songs. Those who go near his grave are never seen again. "  My brow twitched. I wanted to know more.  "Can you tell me a little more about this soldier?"  The old man grinned. He did not have teeth.   "Alright. But promise me that what I am going to tell you will be kept a secret."  "Sure."  The old man sat down on the ground and signalled me to do so. He kept his broom, which looked very old, in his lap. His hands were dirty and scarred.  "The soldier, whose true name remains a mystery, was a part of the British army although he was an Indian. The British payed him well and used him as a tool to extract relevant  information from the revolutionaries. This soldier worked with the revolutionaries during the day and leaked information to the British during night. In this process, the soldier foiled the plans of the revolutionaries, who had to suffer."  The old man stopped.   "What happened next?" I asked curiously.  The man's face turned grave.  "The soldier was caught red handed and the revolutionaries decided to punish him. He escaped them and seeked help from the British, who disowned him and left him alone.   The poor soldier felt betrayed and wanted to repent for his misdeeds."  "But the soldier had betrayed the revolutionaries and he deserved the same treatment," I argued.  The old man laughed hollowly as if I had cracked a Rajinikanth joke.  "No, my son. What he did was enough to pay for all his sins."  "What did he do?" I asked.  The man's eyes widened.  "He planned to destroy the British. Alone."  "How could he do it all alone?"  "The soldier did not care what people said. He stole some weapons from the British godowns, which was possible as he had vast knowledge of the administration and could easily break into any building. For months, the soldier collected ammunition and secretly planned his attack.  A few days later, there was a fire in the public library which resulted in the death of many Whites. Following this event, a Colonel was shot dead and a grenade was thrown at the Commander's car. All this was done by the soldier alone...."  "And nobody recognised him?"  "He wore a black  scarf and a turban and called himself Kaaliyaa. The Britisher suspected Kaaliyaa to be the same soldier they had deserted but no one dared to undertake any action. Soon Kaaliyaa's activities were noticed by the queen of Britain and he became one of the most wanted man in India.  One day, Kaaliyaa was caught trying to break into the Governor General's house.  He was imprisoned and sentenced to death."  "Then?"  "A night before he was about to be hanged, a British officer ordered him to be skinned alive. Kaaliyaa was killed and buried here. No action was taken against the officer, who had ordered Kaaliyaa to be skinned alive.   They say Kaaliyaa was not dead when he was buried. He had crawled out of his grave, only to be beaten by a broom that a Britisher had. From that day onwards, Kaaliyaa is said to have roamed here with the same broom with which he was killed , searching for people to whom he could narrate his experience..."  I was thunderstruck. The man had disappeared.  I held Shera by his leash and rushed back home.