In the summer of 1970, after the hot wind, Loo had stopped blowing and a pleasant evening enveloped the Jama Masjid area, with flower-sellers offering gajras for the hairdo of women coming to Karim’s, a group of men settled down in the balcony of the elders at a hotel opposite the Masjid for their daily intercourse. They talked of various things and about the leaders of the locality. Of how Mir Mushtaq Ahmed had developed a great affinity to the tongawallahs who lived just across the road from his house, the flight of Afzal’s seventh wife, Azmat’s friendship with a nurse, Shanta Rani’s peacock dance, of the Communist leader, M. Farooqi’s opposition to Chaudhri Abdul Sattar’s rehabilitation plan for Machchliwalan, Mustehasan Faruqi’s supervision of the dargah of Hazrat Kalimullah. Barrister Nuruddin’s donation to Bacchon-ka-Ghar and Imdad Sabri’s plea for poet Zauq’s memorial.
Just then the dinner arrived for the hotel proprietor, Hazi Jahoor in two big tiffin carriers. It was enough for more than six people who, however, sent the bearer Nazir for some more tandoori rotis so that late-comers to the mehfil could also join in the repast. By the time dinner was over, it was 11 O’clock though the Matia Mahal market was still abuzz with activity, unlike Chandni Chowk, where the Nepali chowkidars were already out with their cry of “Hoshiar rehana” as they patrolled the shops that had pulled down their shutters. It was then that Ustad Jahoor, a burly ex-wrestler sitting towards the end of the balcony, related the mystery of a locked house in Suiwalan.
“Sawan came and brought with it welcome showers to replenish the earth. Latif had just returned from the house of the Thakur. His wife was pregnant-after the honeymoon that had lasted over six months. As Latif watched the eucalyptus trees swaying like mad in the monsoon breeze, his thoughts turned gloomy and he hit the bottle with a vengeance. The clouds were gathering in the sky, spurred on by a strong breeze which sometimes brought the smell of the jasmine to his nostrils. An owl sat brooding on the ledge of the opposite house. He had seen the bird of ill-omen some months earlier too. Did it portend further trouble? His house was deserted now. Shima was lost. All his friends and acquaintances were scattered here and there, so were his relatives. He felt alone with only the bottle for company. Just then he saw a veiled woman in the room. She wore a petticoat with blood stains on it and in her hand she held three chillies which she passed on to Latif with an obscene gesture and disappeared just as suddenly as she had appeared.
Sound of the ghost
“Who was she?” Latif asked aloud. “I have never known this house to be haunted. It’s a comparatively new flat without any murky history behind it. But then what was the meaning of this apparition and the green chillies? It certainly couldn’t have been a hallucination. There was a sound of “chham, chham, chham” preceding the visitation, as though an indication of hidden wealth. But for that one has to sacrifice one’s first-born, and I’m not even married!” He talked to himself like this. He had never seen a ghost before. But Thomas Hardy, the novelist, had seen one in his native Dorset. Hardy died nine years later. “Am I also going to die after nine years?” Latif asked himself. There was a clap of thunder and with it the apparition reappeared. And he noticed the blood stains again and heard the sound of several people passing wind. “Who are you?” he managed to ask.
“I am Salma, Salma Yusuf. Exactly 20 years ago I was raped and murdered in this very place by my husband’s best friend. Yusuf had gone out of town on business and I had been left alone with the maid, Hasina. It was she who had let Masoud into the house. I screamed but there was no help forthcoming. After he had worked his will on a helpless young woman, he thought it wise to strangle me. Since then I visit this room sometimes. But today you have seen me. It’s many years since I spoke to a human being, and now with your permission may I relax on this bed?” Latif was terrified, sweat pouring out from every pore of his body, but his courage did not desert him. He nodded acceptance. Salma lay sprawlsed on the dewan as he downed one more peg of rum, his brain quite numb now.
Spurning advances
“I am all that you have stood for in your life, honest, hard working, romantic, vain at times but hard as nails in the face of difficulty. If the physical intimacy pleases you, I’m not the one to say no,” she said with a “come-hither” look. “Sorry, said Latif, of late I have become what I was not. A few years earlier I would have shuddered at the thought of going to a prostitute. I would have recoiled from incest and not sinned in word, thought and deed against any woman.
But all that is behind me and it makes no difference whom I make love to now, but not to a ghost certainly.” He then closed his eyes and when he opened them again he found himself lying naked on the dewan and an empty bottle staring at him. The house has been locked since then,” concluded Ustad Jahoor, and the elders dispersed shaking their heads in disbelief.
The author is a veteran chronicler of Delhi
