They say memories die hard. Desires and
dreams live on. The bones, like brittle shards of broken pottery, crumble
but the spirits of those who have loved, hated and lusted in life haunt
the places where the scenes of their triumphs and tragedies have been
played out. Should we call them ghosts? No. For they are denizens who have
not left. And Delhi has quite a few guests who linger on.
Delhi has seen the comings and goings of many
rulers. Each created his court here and the court grew into a city. Each
new city has been built on the bones of those who have gone before. There
were seven cities of Delhi each built by a conqueror and his dynasty. We
are the eight court. Legend says the invader who creates a new city in
Delhi will not last his rule. Not so long ago, I delved into the secrets
of places which people call 'evil' or 'haunted' and discovered strange
phenomena. I found Delhi ideal for my research because this city has
fascinating, if rather macabre, history. Dark forces lurk beneath her
seductive exterior. Down the centuries, she has prompted a passion for
power and gory betrayals. Blood has seeped into the land. Isn't it ironic
that the grandest fort in Delhi, is made of red stone?
My research took me to
Lutyens Delhi, greened, guarded and
painted with restful coats of white. But what of those who have not found
their peace in spite of the whitewash? What about those who lie beneath?
Many of the city's present official residences stand where erstwhile
residents have been laid to sleep. In making way for the new, graveyards
or kabaristans have been disturbed. Such disturbances release dark,
psychic waves from the earth that rise with the heat and dust of Delhi's
tortuous summers and the cold mists of winter.
The late Mr. G, former Solicitor General of
India, was a man of vast learning and worldly wisdom. He had little time
for flights of fancy but once told me of his strange experiences during
his stay at 8, Krishna Menon Marg. He said he would often be awakened
during the early hours of the morning by an indefinable chill and a
feeling there was someone else in the room. One morning, he suddenly woke
up at 4 am; the room was in semi-darkness and a strange mist was gathering
at the foot of his bed. Then the misty figure of an old, bearded man in
white robes came into view. The figure merely stood and observed Mr. G
with glazed eyes. Then it crossed the room towards the window and
disappeared. Mr. G did not mention the incident to his wife, who slept on
beside him. However, a few nights later, she shook him awake saying she
had had a strange dream. She had seen a man in a white robe; and old
Muslim holy man. Mr. G saw this entity a few more times before political
changes took place and he moved.
Who is this disturbed entity? I am sure it
has not manifested to all. Perhaps Mr. G and his family were happy enough
while they lived there, but circumstances did not allow him to remain
there long. There is a bungalow on Moti Lal Nehru Marg, whose entrance is
at an odd 30 degrees to the main road. A certain MP had been allotted it
some years ago, and he and his wife invited me for dinner. They had made
it comfortable enough within, but there was a certain tension in the
air-as if eerie eyes watched. There is a huge lawn adjoining the bungalow
and lovely old trees. But the earth forces there are sinister: sooner or
later, they seem to affect the heart and fortunes of the man of the house.
Former Congress heavyweight Arun Nehru lived thee at one time. He suffered
a massive heart attack; his fortunes declined. Some years later, another
Union minister took it over. His health was always a cause of worry while
he was in residence. His heart problems came later. The house started
acquiring a bizarre reputation. Some said the minister kept camels on the
ground, which were served up on the dining table when fancy struck him.
The bungalow, some said was haunted. The MP who had invited me to dinner
suffered severe cardiac problems a few years later. He also lost an
election, which took a severe toll on his fortunes. He chose to leave
Delhi.
I personally experienced the rather unearthly
goings on at Block E, Sector 13, of R K Puram. For sometime I occupied
this lovely, spacious, freshly painted ground floor flat. It looked onto a
stretch of flowering garden on one side and a kitchen shrubbery on the
other. I had not been told the history of the land on which the block of
flats had been constructed. The trouble started when I started hearing
loud thumps practically every evening outside the study window, which
overlooked the garden. It was as if a heavy body had come crashing down.
And, without fail, at about 4.30 am, there would be scraping sounds of
furniture being dragged from the floor above. This continued even when the
flat above fell vacant. Taps on closed doors were regular.
Then something happened. An IAS officer and
his wife moved into a flat on sixth floor. Within a month, they fled in
panic. Rumours went that the lady, a practical and cheerful woman, was
unable to tolerate the inexplicable gloom and haunting presence in that
flat. They chose to put up with the discomfort of transit accommodation
rather than spend another night in Block E. I asked some older residents
about the background of that site. Many said they heard strange sounds at
night. An elderly maid who worked there told me in hushed tones that five
years ago, a woman on the sixth floor had plunged to her death. An
accident? The maid pressed her lips together and muttered, "Who can tell?
The land here is cursed. These curses never die. They make people do bad
things."
What makes the land cursed? I feel the area
is on some old kabaristan, dating back to one of the seven courts of
Delhi. Incidentally, the house diagonally opposite Block E is also dogged
by misfortune. A certain erstwhile ruler from a princely state, and a
senior politician, build a mansion for his daughters there. It was huge,
made of marble and impressive, but with few windows, almost like a
mausoleum. The house took a long while to complete. Soon, the politician
retired from public. His daughters moved into the mansion with their
husbands. But tragedy dogged them. One of the sons-in-law started
suffering from depression. He ended it by shooting himself. In fact, in my
opinion, the stretch of land extending from the marble mansion to Block E,
and crossing over to where a well known five star hotel glimmers at night
from a hillock, rather disturbed. A few years ago, the daughter in law of
a prominent public figure ended her life by flinging herself down from the
roof of that hotel. It was said that she was depressed.
Of course, one can argue that all tall
buildings have seen their share of accidents and suicides. However, there
is such a thing as atmosphere. And I feel the 'atmosphere' in this area
leaves much to be desired. Walk carefully, that's all. In Kaka Nagar, very
near the old walls of Purana Qila, nestles an unobtrusive, whitewashed,
respectable guesthouse fronting various bureaucratic quarters. It faces a
mazaar. Old survey maps say at one time, kabaristans extended right from
where Sujan Singh Park stands today, right up to Purana Qila. But to return
to the guest house, there are no 'ghosts' here, but those who have spent
nights here complain of peculiar shifts in personality: the worst and
weakest in them are magnified. "Thoughts which I would never entertain at
other times, or at all, seemed to overtake me," said someone who does no
wish to be named. I spent a few nights there in one of the ground floor
suites.
It was in early April, and the garden in
front was wilting but still pretty with late blooming marigold and
petunias. My bedroom was well appointed and comfortable. I had taken along
some books to read and I made myself easy. There was nothing amiss, but
though the AC was switched off, the room always felt chilly. Little swirls
of cold air seemed to greet one from unexpected places. But I did not take
much notice of that. Normally, I'm a sound sleeper, but at about 3 am
something would disturb me; I would wander into the small sitting room.
This happened on all four nights of my stay here. In the sitting room, the
air would be heavy with unspoken thoughts. As I sat down and waited and
watched, I was aware of resentful, almost hostile, currents crossing the
room.
One night, I heard voices arguing in the
adjoining room. There was nobody there. I also noticed that the staff,
normally attentive and polite, were not keen to stay too late. As evening
approached they would serve a hurried dinner, and wishing me goodnight,
scurry off to their outhouses in the compound. They did not volunteer any
information and I did not question. Once I did ask one of the bearers if
my suite was one of the less frequented ones. He looked startled. He
stuttered that all the rooms were always 'busy'. I realized he had a job
to hold onto. But the staff knows. They have seen and felt things; the
dead do not like to be disturbed. If we move towards lovely, sprawling
Sujan Singh Park, we come face to face with one of the oldest, most
gracious hotels in the city. It stands within the compound of Sujan Singh.
I have often stayed there, just for a
relaxing weekend and have enjoyed the charming restaurants on the ground
floor. Some years ago, during a sojourn there, I started talking to one of
the managers. I asked him if he ever had any experiences in the hotel. He
was reluctant to talk at first, then he said he had once looked up the old
history of Delhi, and that construction workers digging on nearby Humayun
Road had discovered human bones and bits of crumbling stone, which could
have been ancient gravestones. "This land is haunted", he admitted.
Regarding phenomena within the hotel, he said
there was one room he found 'spooky'. A woman had drowned in the bathtub.
There had been a bit of shooting in another room. Bearers still heard
phantom shots on rainy nights. As for myself, I had a strange experience
there. One May, I was occupying a suite on the second floor. I ordered
some ice-cream from room service and it cam all spruced up with cherries
in a lovely glass goblet. I remember, I went into the adjoining room to
turn off the television, when I heard a loud 'crack' from where I had left
my desert. I rushed back and the goblet lay on the floor, broken into
smithereens. The room was apparently empty.
Published in Xplore, 30th July 2005
