Mystery and magic can blow off firmly ingrained beliefs, shocking us into a new awareness of the universe.
This baffling event took place decades back when my dad was a teenager. There were no proper roads connecting villages to towns. My father’s family lived in one such village. It was seven kilometres away, across the river from the closest town. Once across the newly constructed bridge there was just a narrow dirt road passing through fields. Thick branches of trees and brambled shrubs hit and scratch the villagers as they passed by in their bullock-carts or tongas. Going through these fields at night was not everyone’s cup of tea. Blood-curdling stories of ghosts, witches and robbers always floated around in conspiratorial whispers as families sat huddled in the shadows thrown by flickering, dim kerosene lamps. Enough to deter the bravest of them.
One late evening dad and Uncle Cyrus were sitting on the veranda, surrounded by neighbours. As usual their conversation revolved around crops, weather, cattle etc.
“Ah, thank God, here comes brother from the town. Why is he so late today?” my dad wondered aloud as they heard the clip-clop of their thoroughbred Sultan and the rattle of wheels. Panting, he stopped short of the house. Simultaneously someone ran calling out to dad and uncle.
“Sultan has come alone with the tonga. Your brother has not returned.”
Mysterious! Both of them panicked and ran towards the horse-carriage. No brother in it! The news spread like summer fires in dry fields. Men came out holding lit flares, on the alert to form a search party. Women shouted across to one another, their somersaulting imaginations running amok.
“The ghost from that barren piece of land has taken him away”. Someone else quipped, “Do you think he has run away or perhaps been kidnapped?” Uncle, tall and broad-shouldered, was just out of his teens. He had set up a shop in town and it being Diwali holidays, his family knew it was a busy time.
Dad shouted down their haywire conjectures. Along with his brother and a few trusted friends they hastened off in their Chevrolet. Some climbed up on the footboards, hanging on for dear life. They used the car sparingly, but today it had become a necessity.
Closer to their own fields the beam of the lights caught something lying near the road. They stopped and were aghast to find their brother sprawled unconscious. Numbed with shock all they could think of was rushing him to the hospital in town. The friends who had hitched the ride on footboards, searched around and finding no signs returned home on foot. Back in the village, they found it still buzzing with conversation and surmises. As people began to crowd around them they told them the little they knew. Sighs, and whispered gossip continued to do their rounds.
Someone asked if the horse and the carriage revealed anything. No. The horse seemed a little restless but showed no other signs. He had been fed, watered and returned to the stable to rest. And uncle’s things, including the day’s earnings, were all intact. The mystery deepened. Slowly the crowd dispersed and only a few friends and field hands waited for news from town.
Almost at dawn they heard the distant muffle of the engine and saw the headlights as the car and its occupants returned. Everyone looked with increasing bafflement at Eric, who was fully conscious now. He got out of the car badly shaken but not too worse for his experience. Expectedly questions poured like a torrent. They took Eric in and settled him comfortably. Someone soon brought him a cup of refreshing hot tea.
Then Cyrus began to unfold the story. Trusting his faithful Sultan, Eric relaxed and didn’t realise he had dozed off. Suddenly he was jolted out of his seat. Sultan, was up on his hind feet, neighing loudly. Eric found himself on the ground. He could make out three figures in dark robes and turbans around him. One of them held a glowing incense burner, another had pinned him down and the third was mumbling something in his ear. Sadhus! Not easily scared, Eric struggled unsuccessfully to free himself and called out for help hoping his pathans were nearby. They weren’t. Vague stories of sadhus roaming around the villages using black magic on people surfaced in his mind. Now he began to fear that his end had come.
Waking up in the hospital he was relieved and perplexed. His first query was about his horse. Assured that Sultan was fine he groggily recounted the above story dumbfounding his brothers and the doctor. Nothing was taken from his person either. His gold rings were on his fingers and so was everything else in place. Except for the Pathans who guarded their fields at night! Faithful and brave, they were also superstitious and so it was presumed they must have run away. Next morning they were found totally drunk in another village.
Questions and speculations continue to thrive. Why didn’t the sadhus use their black magic on uncle? Why had they made him unconscious and then just left him behind? Was he no good for their inexplicable sacrificial rites? Did some passerby scare off the sadhus? Were they aware that the Pathans would be absconding that night? What and who saved him? His prayers? Miracle, magic or luck?
It has forever remained an unresolved enigma.
Bio
Shernaz Wadia (Pune, India), reading and writing poems is one of the means to embark on an inward journey. She hopes her words will bring peace, hope and light into dark corners.
Her poems have been published in many Indian and international e-journals and anthologies. She has published her own book of poems "Whispers of the Soul" and two volumes of "Tapestry Poetry - A Fusion of Two Minds". It is an innovative form of collaborative poetry writing that she developed and co-authored together with her poetry partner Avril Meallem from Israel.