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The Curse of Kuldhara

Read the winning story from ‘The Curse of Kuldhara’ story writing contest!

Read the winning story from ‘The Curse of Kuldhara’ paranormal story writing contest!

The Neighbours

Ram Singh Parmar

 

After Bombay, Jaipur looked like a sleepy village.

Well, I had wanted to move and I couldn’t blame anyone for that. I had already been promoted twice in Mumbai and was ready for the next promotion. So I applied for the post of Deputy General Manager in the Jaipur office of Transco and had been selected. I should have been overjoyed, but somehow, I was not. To some extent, it was because I would be leaving behind my friends of seven years, but frankly, I knew what it was that was tripping me up: Sanket. Despite our rocky relationship, I felt a tinge of sadness at the thought of moving away from him. But it was the best thing to do for me… and for him, I figured.

I had been promoted and the salary was good. I would get to see all those amazing forts and heritage Havelis one had heard so much about and would make new friends and hopefully no enemies. Always positive, I smiled as I stepped into the airport.

Om Gan Ganpati Namaha“ I whispered, remembering how Ma would insist on chanting the Ganesh mantra at the launch of a new project or while commencing a journey.

After a long wait at the luggage carousel at Jaipur, I was finally out of the airport and headed towards the other end of town in an Uber that had taken forever to arrive. I was so used to the tall buildings in Mumbai, that the openness of Jaipur felt unreal but welcome. A new life awaited me and I was excited.

I had already rented a two-bedroom flat, on the recommendation of Swati, whose parents were staying near the same residential complex. I had fallen in love with the flat immediately on seeing the pictures – beautifully furnished with two balconies overlooking vast tracts of farmland. And the rent was the best part: only Rs.12,000! You could not get a chawl accommodation in Mumbai for that much!

The residential society, The Haven, had come up only recently and the occupants were sparse. I loved the spacious setting of the flats and that they were open on three sides, allowing cross-ventilation. Much to my delight, there was a large swimming pool and a   lovely central park. Not to mention a well-laid-out gym! This was certainly way better than the limited infrastructure in the old society in Mumbai where I had shared a flat.

I settled down quickly, revelling in the peace and quiet. I certainly had no regrets about shifting to this little town. It was good to be independent and to do your own thing. Ma too was happy that I had moved closer to her, although she was literally thousands of miles away in Dehradun.

“Hope you have got good neighbours,” she said one day, over the phone, “it makes such a difference!“

“Ma, I just haven’t had time to meet them, what with the busy routine out here. But I’ll look them up soon,” I had told her.

I had not even met Swati’s parents for that matter, but I planned to, over the weekend. In Bombay, neighbours hardly ever saw each other and if they did, they were unlikely to recognize the other.

Looking at the closed doors of the flats on my floor, I guessed that things weren’t much different here either. But it was weird how none of the flats had nameplates.

“Most people who bought flats stay somewhere else in the city but will eventually shift in years later. Others have just bought the flats as an investment. Aage kabhi bechenge. Nobody wants to live so far away from the city, you know madamji,” my broker explained.

“But I hope some maids are available?” The thought of cooking, jaroo poncho, etc. was daunting to say the least.

“Not to worry, madamji. A new maid, Kalawati, has just started working in C block. I will send her to you. Thoda seekhana padega , but she’ll be fine,” he had reassured me.

I could see the flat opposite mine had an AC installed, and a clothes rack in the balcony, but all the windows were shut and the curtains drawn. It looked like my neighbours were staying elsewhere. Too bad for them. But, lucky me, I thought. I would just sit back and enjoy my cuppa on the balcony and take in the fresh morning air! Everything was green and beautiful. Everything was just right and I was supremely happy with my small-town life.

I was watching Netflix that night when the doorbell rang. It was almost 9 p.m. Who could it be? I wondered. I peeped through the eyehole and saw two women looking expectantly at the door. They smiled in greeting when they saw me and handed me an invite.

“Our society Mandir is being inaugurated tomorrow. Zaroor Aayega.” One of them beamed at me.

“Sure , I will,” I beamed back.

I wanted to invite them in but they left in a hurry as they had to visit other flats too.

As I returned to my bedroom, I saw a light in the opposite flat. Well at least someone has finally arrived, I thought happily. It was a good feeling that I wasn’t the only one on this floor. They must be the owners, I figured. They would have shifted in very recently, although I had not seen any such activity. Perhaps they had come during the week while I was in the office.

The next morning, as I waited for the lift, I scanned the flat for any sign of occupancy but there was none. Even after a week, I didn’t see anyone go in or come out of the flat.  Sometimes there was a sliver of light from under the front door, but nothing else. Perhaps they had just come to check on the flat and had left the very next day. But I was wrong – or so I thought, for a few days later I again saw a light in one of the rooms. Maybe I could look them up one day, I planned. But my life had become very busy and I soon forgot about my intentions of calling on them.

But one Saturday when I was feeling particularly lonely after having binge-watched a couple of series, I felt the need for human company. What the hell, let me go and look up the neighbours, I thought. They might turn out to be friendly and who knows, I could even hit it off with them.

I patted my curls and changed into a kurta palazzo outfit. As I rang the door I noticed there was neither a nameplate nor a doormat in front of the flat.

The door opened slowly and much to my surprise a strikingly beautiful woman stood there. She was probably in her early 30s and had sad but magnificent limpid black eyes that seemed to ask why I was here. She wore a mustard sari thrown carelessly around her frail form that seemed to add a gossamer shine to her pale complexion.

“Hello, I am Parul, your neighbour in flat 8013,” I said by way of introduction.

She smiled uncertainly as if she didn’t know what to do.

“Hello, I am Surili – – – “ she trailed off.

“May I come in?” I hoped I was not disturbing her. She seemed uncomfortable, standoffish.

“Sure. Please take a seat” She pointed to the couch.

“You have come here recently, I think? Have you bought this flat or are you renting it? “ I started the conversation, on noticing that Surili needed to be prompted to speak.

“Yes, quite recently. This is our flat”’ Her dainty hands appeared to twitch. Was she nervous – but why? Maybe she was shy, reclusive and not used to company.

I intended to put her at ease by telling her more about myself and what I did, hoping that she too would reciprocate. She listened politely, one delicate hand over the other but didn’t say a word.

So I asked her, “Tell me about yourself, what do you do, where are you from? “ I refrained from asking her what her husband did. She was obviously married; the vermilion in her hair parting shone brightly.

“I am from Kota. I used to teach earlier but left when I got married.”Her voice was soft, almost faint and her eyes hesitant. She volunteered no further information.

“And where does your husband work, Surili?” I prodded hoping to keep the conversation going. Her reaction to this simple question was rather unexpected. Her eyes grew large and then fluttered. The tremor in her hands increased notably.

“He works in the city in a financial firm,”she replied laconically, her eyes avoiding mine.

Why was this simple, beautiful girl so afraid? What and who was she afraid of? She got up suddenly.

“I have to make the dinner, please excuse me,” she looked apologetic.

“No issues, at all. Please do drop in some day. Maybe we could go out together for shopping!” I said cheerfully.

Surili quickly nodded and held the door open for me. I got the feeling she wanted me to leave before her husband arrived. Was he some kind of monster I wondered? Why was she so scared of him, or so it appeared? Maybe he was just very demanding. After all, she had to leave her job after marrying him. He must have forced her.

I came back to my flat with a feeling of unease, and disappointment. Unease at Surili’s predicament and disappointment at the prospect of a silent and troubled neighbour. Surili was a simple girl who would have been taught by her mother early in life that her husband was her God and she could never say no to him. She had never been told that men could be unfair, unreasonable and myopic. Even if she had unearthed these facts in her marriage, she was expected to keep them buried.

One didn’t need to be married to know what men were like.  You just had to live them for a few weeks or just a few days to realize how self-centred and self-righteous they were. They expected you to understand their point of view and their needs but scarcely understood what you wanted from them. They were unable to accommodate your expectations because they had gotten used to getting things their way and could never comprehend why women needed answers for their lack of feelings. Any tender talk would immediately make them uncomfortable and brushed aside as being foolish and unnecessary. Sanket had never been able to appreciate why I wanted some demonstration of love aside from the physical, falling silent whenever I asked him about his feelings for me.

“Of course I love you. Why would we be together otherwise?” he had said.

But when I had told him about my plans on shifting from Mumbai, he had been incredulous.

“I thought you loved me! You prefer a promotion to me?” he asked angrily.

“It’s not that, and you know it. We will always be in touch and you could come over to Jaipur and me to Mumbai now and then. What’s the problem?“ I tried to placate him.

But Sanket had looked askance at me, “I don’t believe in long-distance stuff. It just doesn’t work! “

That’s when I realized that it could not work because he didn’t want it to work. He wasn’t ready to make it work. He wanted me to put all his needs before mine, all his wishes before mine. I had been devastated at the discovery as I realized that our journey was over.

I felt sorry for Surili. Her husband was sure to be a bully. Otherwise, why should she be so nervous?  She seemed to be in a loveless marriage and resigned to it. Better to be free than to be in such bondage I thought.

I never saw Surili step out of the house nor did I ever see her husband come or go. I wondered what she did the whole day in her flat; she didn’t have any children to keep her busy. I thought it best not to disturb the couple and leave them to their devices and fortunes.

Weeks flew by. I got really busy in the office and would often come home late at night. There seemed to be no time for anything or anyone.

One night just before I dozed off, I heard a peculiar whooshing sound followed by loud banging as if somebody was hammering a wall. The noise seemed to come from Surili’s flat. Why would they be hammering the wall at this time of the night, I wondered. The banging went on for a good five minutes and then suddenly stopped. I looked out of the window that faced Surili’s balcony and saw a light flickering in their bedroom. A shadow passed across the curtains as the lights suddenly went out. I shivered. Things didn’t seem to be okay. Should I ask Surili in the morning whether she was alright, I wondered.

But the next morning no one opened the door when I rang the bell. Images of Surili lying in a pool of blood swirled around in my head. I rang the bell again, hoping like hell that her husband wouldn’t open the door. But there was no response. I debated on what I should do but felt it was better to be circumspect. Perhaps Surili was in the bathroom and couldn’t attend to the bell. I left for office without any more ado.

I forgot about the incident till a few days later when I awoke at about two in the morning to the same eerie whooshing and banging sounds. First I thought it was a bad dream but then I realised that they originated from the neighbouring flat. This time I was alarmed and was about to pick up my phone to dial Security when the noise stopped. I looked out of the window but  Surili‘s apartment was in darkness. I was irritated to find myself drenched in sweat, but I had to admit that I was nervous. I hoped that it was just a bad dream and tried to go back to sleep but sleep eluded me. The chilling sounds reverberated in my head till early morning when I finally dozed off.

I was determined to find out what was going on in Surili’s flat – whatever it was, it was not normal.  And I was not going to let any abnormal happening keep me awake during the night. I had to admit that I was beginning to feel rather apprehensive at these strange episodes in the middle of the night. If I had to call in the police, I would happily do it. I would not tolerate any wife-beating, especially when it was happening right under my nose. But the funny thing was that I had never heard Surili crying or yelling for help nor ever heard the husband yelling. In fact, I had never met or seen him at all. Quite a strange couple!

Since I was getting late for work, I decided I would have to put off my investigations for later. But that night I was uneasy as I prepared to sleep. Would there be another episode like last night’s? Luckily, I was so tired from the hectic office routine during the day that I fell off to sleep without any trouble. But not for long. There it was again: the same creepy sounds – bang! bang! whoosh, whoosh! This time I was sure I could hear someone sobbing piteously. Frightened out of my wits, I quickly switched on the lights of the bedroom and glanced at the clock – 2:30 AM! This was getting too much to bear. This matter must be brought before the RWA, I decided.

I dragged myself out of bed and peeped through the curtains, my heart thumping so loud I could hear it. The balcony door of the neighbouring flat was open with the curtains ballooning out as if a breeze was blowing from inside the house. A corner lamp shone in the sitting room, but no one was visible. The banging suddenly stopped as if on cue. There was absolute silence – no whisper, no whimper, no thump. It was as if nothing had happened.

I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to tolerate this any longer. I had to get to the bottom of this. I couldn’t afford to stay awake during the night because someone had a nocturnal habit!

I waited for a decent hour after sunrise and went downstairs to the flat just below Surili’s.  If anybody had heard the noises it would be the people in this flat, I surmised. But it appeared to be vacant-there was a lock on the door and dust was gathering on the jalis. But the adjacent flat seemed to be occupied with a nameplate that read The Rathores.

As I rang the bell a woman in her forties appeared at the door.

“Hello I am Parul from 8013. I hope I’m not disturbing you at this early hour, but it is an important matter. May I come in please?”

Mrs Rathore smiled.

“Oh please come in,” she showed me into her flat.

“Tell me, what’s the matter?”

“I shifted into this flat very recently. Have you been in these apartments for some time?” I asked.

“Yes, we shifted in as soon as the construction was completed,” she looked a bit surprised at my question.

“Then you must know Surili, the owner of 8012…” I was going to ask whether she had heard any noises from above when I saw the horrified look on her face, and stopped.

“What is the matter – it’s her husband, isn’t it? He seems to be a brute!” I said, unable to hold back.

Mrs Rathore let out a horrified cry.

“What are you talking about? There is nobody in that flat anymore. The husband murdered her by hitting her head again and again against the wall! And then he threw himself down from the balcony! It was horrible!”

The Curse Of Kuldhara
About the Book - The Curse Of Kuldhara

What can possibly go wrong when fame and fortune come knocking? Plenty! We return to the charming and colourful lanes of Gwaltoli to revisit Prachand Tripathi, our favourite desi detective and owner of Kanpur Khoofiya Pvt Ltd. While he has…

About the Author - Richa S Mukherjee

To read more, order your copy of The Curse Of Kuldhara, by Richa S Mukherjee today!

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