Someone must have pulled the emergency chain for the train, I thought, as
it stopped so suddenly. The sudden cessation of movement caused us all to fall
forward.
Shaken, we stood up and put our heads out of the now motionless train's
windows. Most passengers crowded outside.
It wasn't long before the police arrived on the scene.
It appears that someone had been crossing the line, and had been struck
by the train. It was just one station before my intended destination:
Baharampore.
Someone remarked that the body was still lying there. I was about to have
a look for myself when someone caught my hand firmly. It was none other than
the fellow passenger with whom I had been talking throughout my four-hour
journey from Kolkata.
"There's nothing to see in that lifeless body. There is only a lot
of blood and some mutilated limbs," he said. "It would make you very
upset."
I carefully hid my curiosity.
It was half past four in the evening. My fellow traveler told me that he
was also going to Baharampore, so we hired a one-cycle-van, being the only
available transport for hire locally.
We talked ceaselessly as we traveled along. Sometimes about politics,
sometimes about the present education scenario and sometimes about the high
casualty rate in the traffic system. However, I couldn't help my mind returning
to that unseen body. Who had lost his precious life, I wondered. I was
twenty-six years old. There are so many things to see in life. Death was
something I just didn't want to think about.
It was my first trip to Baharampore. A friend had invited me to spend a
weekend at his home. I thought it would make a good escape from the clatter of
Kolkata. It would be a change from the monotonous and weekly hustle-bustle of
my everyday life.
On finally reaching my friend's house, I decided to say nothing about the
accident or my ten-minute cycle-van journey. Actually, I'd enjoyed that open
cab ride. Other than that mishap on the train, the whole journey had been most
pleasant. I didn't want to make my friend unhappy by discussing sad things.
Manoj, my long-time friend, was a good person, and his mother was anxious about
the dish she was preparing for me. I didn't want to spoil anything that
evening.
Since I was a city dweller, they were worried that I might find their
rural home, which lacked electricity, difficult to get used to, but I really
enjoyed sitting on the roof of their home on that starry night, soaking up the
atmosphere, drinking coconut milk, eating fresh vegetables and fruits, and
listening to his friends, whose native pronunciation of the very Bengali words
I used was so very different from mine.
They asked me endless questions. About my work, my family and myself,
which I was pleased to answer. I tried to respond in as much detail as I was
able. They seemed pleased to hear that I am a writer. But, before long, I was
rescued by Manoj
Then one of his friends mentioned the accident that had killed an
eighteen-year-old girl that very afternoon.
Manoj said to me, "Hey, I think you must have been there. Didn't you
see anything of it?"
I told them everything I knew, and explained the reason for my silence.
To my utter surprise, they laughed, as though it was a common happening.
Manoj said that, indeed, it was not a rare thing thereabouts. They were
quite accustomed to accidents on the railway line.
I listened to what they were saying to each other without taking any
further part in the conversation.
Manoj smiled at me, and tauntingly asked me if I was scared.
On hearing this, I became angry. I didn't see that they had any right to
accuse me of this.
Raja, one of the friends, said to me, "Well, could you go to where
it happened? Right now. Alone? If you can, we can presume that you are not
scared."
I agreed.
Accordingly, we immediately went to the place where the accident had
happened, but deliberately kept a fair distance from the exact spot. They dared
me to walk right up to the place where the young girl had been killed. It was
barely visible as it was lit only by the light from the stars and a partially
concealed moon. Only the signal glowed red.
Despite Manoj's protest, I started walking forward. It was really
difficult for someone like me, to accept this as fun. Nevertheless, I wanted to
demonstrate to them that I was really a brave man, and that I could accept
their silly dare.
Walking in the dark was difficult as stones were scattered everywhere. I
found I was sweating as I walked. But it was a challenge that I simply had to
win.
Suddenly, before me, I saw a shadowy white object quivering exactly where
I was heading. I stopped for a moment. It could be an hallucination, I
reasoned. I started walking forward again. But, now, the apparition was quite
visible. It was a person draped in white. And that wraithlike person was
doing something. Who or what was it? Was it an illusion or ... ? The
possibility that it was something paranormal sent a chill was running down my
spine. I almost died with shock as someone put a hand on my shoulder. I just
stopped breathing and closed my eyes.
In that gloomy light I found it was none other than Manoj who had been
following me. He also saw what I had been seeing.
We drew closer and found what we had seen was an old person swabbing the
place with water. There was no body, nothing of the dead girl remained.
"Eto rakto! - So much blood!" he was quietly saying to himself
over and over.
It turned out that he was the stationmaster, whose son had died in the
same way in a train accident twenty-five years previously. On one such cold
night, such as this was, he was being chased by police officers and, without
warning, a train thundered along and ran over him. After that sad incident, the
stationmaster became mentally disturbed, and always took it upon himself to
erase all evidence of such accidents.
