Ghosts Everywhere?
In a childhood shaped by superstition, shadowed streets, and sacred chants, a young boy must brave the haunted alleys of Shimla on what should have been a regular school day. "Ghosts Everywhere?" is a humorous, heartfelt tale about fear, faith, and the strange ways children make sense of the world—especially when ghosts might be real and holidays come from the heavens.
I don’t remember exactly when, but somehow, I knew Hanuman Chalisa by heart. Maybe my mother taught me, or maybe it was just something I’d absorbed, like the scent of her cooking or the sound of my father’s voice reciting bhajans in the morning. But Hanuman’s verses were essential, especially for a child growing up in a hill town where ghosts seemed to outnumber people—or so I believed. They were a shield, a mystical amulet, something I chanted fiercely whenever shadows stretched a little too long or a lonely wind rattled the window at night.
I can still hear that line echo im my mind:
“Bhoot pishach nikat nahi aave.”
Ghosts and demons cannot come near when Hanuman’s name fills the air.
Back then, I was certain ghosts outnumbered us children ten to one in my hometown, this “queen of hills” with crumbling old mansions, hollowed out and draped in shadows. Why wouldn’t they live there? They had nowhere else to go, no rupees to rent proper housing—what sensible landlord would take them in? These ruins, looming with cracked windows and overgrown yards, had surely played some part in scaring off the British. Surely, their "phantom hands"—if you could call those twisted things hands—had nudged the Empire to find warmer, brighter climes. They had earned the right to terrorize us at night, if not a knighthood.
Tall “cheed” trees (the Himalayan Cedars) lined the roads, their twisted limbs seemingly reaching out, beckoning to ghosts lurking in the twilight. Though Hanuman’s chants could keep them at bay, the words themselves could never drive them from my thoughts. And so, whenever I’d dash from one dimly lit lamp post to the next—a stretch that felt like a mile to my racing heart—I’d mutter the verses under my breath, my voice trembling, tripping over the lines. For a moment, I’d wonder if I’d angered Hanuman by fumbling the words, but somehow, he always forgave me, just in time.
My father’s mornings were woven with bhajans and verses from the Ramayana. He’d fill the air with devotion before the first light touched the hills, and his songs wrote themselves onto my heart without me even knowing it. Even now, though I may stray from the faith that once bound me, I still find myself clinging to those words on dark roads or in moments of solitude. Call it silly if you like, but to me, it’s anything but.
Back then, it wasn’t just the darkness that unsettled me. It was the little things—the flutter of curtains with no breeze, a sudden crash as something unseen toppled over, the eerie howls of dogs in the dead of night. My mother, a proud member of her Kirtan Mandalee ( religious group-singing devotional songs), used to write bhajans of her own. Years later, I found a little diary filled with her verses, each line carefully penned, like secrets she’d shared with the divine. It was all I could do not to cry. One day, I thought, I’d bring those songs together in a book. But dreams are like ghosts too—visible only in certain lights, and all too easy to lose in the morning.
This story happened, before Hanuman Chalisa was my armor, back when I was still defenseless against every chudail (female demon) haunting my steps. I remember the date exactly: it was February 22, 1958. I was six years old, in second standard. Strange, you might think, how I can remember. But the mind holds onto some memories, like my "mundan sanskar"-head tonsoring, my head shaving ceremony on January 12, 1957. I remember the cold, bright day as clearly as if it were yesterday. A strange skill, perhaps, to remember the ghosts of the past, even without the help of the internet to check the facts.
I was late for school again—a habit that would follow me all my life. On that day, Lady Irwin School awaited me. Though technically a girls’ school, it admitted boys up to fourth standard. Conveniently located across from my father’s office, it had a solid reputation and was closest to our home.
There were two routes to school: one long and steep, winding uphill through Kaithu Bazaar. The other—shorter and flatter—cut past a string of abandoned houses. Ghost-infested, they said. I believed it.
To the left stretched the steep, winding route: long and tiring, but, well, reliably ghost-free. To the right lay the shorter path, a dim, eerie track that sloped down past the gnarled, abandoned mansions the town’s ghosts called home. It was the path for days when you dared them, dared the silence of unlit windows, dared the stories whispered by every grown-up and child alike. But today? Today I was alone, late, and already out of breath, standing indecisive at the junction’s lone lamp post, my heart pounding like a warning in my chest.
The chill crept in as the silence around thickened, drawing my gaze back to the towering, shadowy structure that marked the beginning of the haunted path. Even if I knew Hanuman Chaleesa by heart—which I didn’t know then—I doubt I’d have the voice left to chant it.
I stood there alone. Fear rooted me to the ground. The haunted shortcut may have save me time, but what’s a few minutes saved when you risk being a ghost’s breakfast?, I reasoned.
I waited. Divine help, perhaps? Then, salvation. A figure emerged, walking briskly down the haunted path. An office-goer, I supposed. Or maybe an angel. Maybe, though my heart betrayed me with a flicker of doubt, another specter disguised.
I waited, then slipped a cautious step behind him. He seemed unfazed by the windows, as if unaware of the unseen eyes looking back from behind those broken panes. Nearing the worst of them, a dilapidated house just inches from the road, I held my breath and kept my pace, glued to my stranger-angel’s shadow. Suddenly, a voice cut through the air from a few houses down, hailing him in friendly tones. My guide stopped, looked down the slope.
We were near the most cursed of houses—walls crumbling, windows gaping. It was no time to stop. Maybe it was a game plan of the fiends and I was trapped. My mouth went dry, my tongue, leathery.
They excahnged greetings and chatted briefly.
The voice from below speaking up again: “Maulana Abul Kalam Azad has passed away,” he said solemnly. “There’s an official holiday declared.”
“Is this your child?” the other man called up?"
Which Child? The stranger whom I saw as my saviour looked down at me then, startled, noticing me, perhaps for the first time.
“Who, him? No,” my companion said.Then he turned to me: “Beta, who are you? Why are you standing here?”
“I have to go to school,” I replied.
“Jao ghar. It’s a holiday today.”
So many great leaders, and more than a few ghosts, passed on in those days—often enough that we kids could expect a holiday to arrive with the loss of another great figure.
I bolted back home like a frightened gazelle. But my ordeal wasn’t over yet. Just as I caught my breath, I spotted an old woman with wild, tangled hair hobbling up the path toward the haunted house. My heart froze. Of course—it had to happen to me. She was bent over, clutching a trembling cane, her hair sticking out like she’d just come from some sinister corner of the spirit world. I was sure of it: she was just another ghoul in disguise, here to make me her next meal.
I let out a terrified shriek. She looked up, attempted a crooked smile, but kept moving forward, her pace blessedly slow. Panic seized me; I turned and ran, heading back toward the school where I’d last seen my "savior." Only, when I reached the bend in the road, he was gone—both him and his friend, vanished as if they’d never been there. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they were ghosts, too, fiends who’d played at being my protectors.
My blood ran cold. She had to be a chudail. Her crooked smile did nothing to help. I screamed and ran.
I ducked behind a rock just beyond the bend, peeking out to watch her as she shuffled forward, step by faltering step. Her frail gait and frequent pauses gave me a sliver of hope. Could it be that she was just a real old woman after all? I watched as she finally veered off, taking the narrow path that led straight to the haunted house. Ghoul or not, I wasn’t waiting around to find out. This was my lucky day, and I wasn’t wasting it. I dashed back to the lamp post and sprinted the long stretch downhill toward home, my feet barely touching the ground.
When I reached the door, I knocked so furiously my mother nearly dropped the tray in her hands when she opened it. She looked at me in shock, demanding to know why I was back so early.
When I reached the door, I knocked so furiously my mother nearly dropped the jhadoo- the broom she used for seeping the floors she held in her hand when she opened it. She looked at me in shock, demanding to know why I was back so early.
“I can’t believe you sent me to school on the day someone so important has died!” I gasped out. I had no idea who he was, but if he was important enough to win kids a holiday, I was grateful.
She sighed, brushing my dramatics aside. “I didn’t have time to listen to the morning news,” she replied, shaking her head. I stared at her, aghast at this dereliction of parental duty.
But it turned out my mother was right: Maulana Azad, a national leader and the education minister, had indeed passed away, but he hadn’t earned us kids a full day off. It was just a half-day in respect to his memory. A part of me was relieved that my instincts about the holiday were correct; another part felt betrayed that we had to go to school at all.
Looking back now, I often wonder: why do we get holidays for the passing of our leaders?
Do people need a break to process their grief? Or is it, rather comically, that in India, both joy and sorrow must come with an official day off from work?