My Grandparent's House - A Ghost Story

(This is purely a work of fiction - any resemblance to any story, place or person is maybe intentional, maybe not!)

This incident happened to my father’s friend, Chandu Da. He had been to our ancestral home at Puri, a popular destination for Bengalis. Father had suggested he stay at our empty place during his trip there. The house had been occupied by my uncle (father’s cousin) until his death, recently. My father, his four brothers and their family always went there on holidays and special occasions like Rath-Yatra.

Let me just describe the house. Its on the outskirts of Puri. Having been built some centuries ago, it stood, a grand house amidst a huge coconut grove . It must have been the only property of its kind in the locality not having fallen prey to real-estate developers. The caretaker stayed with his family in a small out-house. The house itself was built traditionally with rooms around a central courtyard and an encircling verandah. My uncle’s room was the one occupying the central place. It had a huge bed, a rickety ancient easy-chair, an old fashioned bookcase. There was a faded portrait of my uncle’s when he was young (it was painted after his graduation, as was the norm in those days). Over the bookcase were his specs, which no one had the heart to remove, and an old wall clock, the kind which had a pendulum. There was a closed window facing the adjacent room and another opening outside into the grove.

This was Chandu Da’s story…

He returned home late, after work, dinner and some time on the beach. It was quite a distance from the gate to the house. Chandu da was immersed in his own thoughts when suddenly he became aware of the silence of the night. There was very little moon. The coconut trees swayed and there was the faint smell of the gangaseuli, a local flower. Feeling rattled by the eerie silence, he hurried into the house. He fumbled with the lights, then switched them on. By that time, after his walk through the empty grove, he was already uneasy with little idea what was in store for him that night. He thought of waking Raghu, the caretaker, but could not think of a reason, since he had already had his dinner and had asked the man not to wait up for him.

After washing up, Chandu da settled down to read in bed. He had retrieved some book from my uncle's bookcase. My uncle was a war aficionado and there were literally hundreds of books on World War 2, 1971 Bangladesh war and more. Chandu da stayed awake for some time aware of the squeaking of rats, rustling of coconut leaves and maybe an odd creaking noise. The uneasy feeling, which had assailed him since he came in, became overwhelming. He got up and closed the window. The only noise was the old Grandfather clock ticking and the pendulum swaying like in movies. Suddenly the portrait of Uncle seemed to take on a lifelike aspect. Not being able to tolerate it any more and feeling exceedingly foolish for feeling so terrified, Chandu da switched off the lights and tried to go to sleep.

The noise of the rats wouldn’t let him sleep. He could distinctly see one huge member of the species go up the clock. It happened such that after some time he became conscious only of the rats. They refused to go away. He felt their whisperings in his ears, their squeaks, their scurrying, all with increasing clarity. He must have dozed off then, for he dreamt of huge rats, my uncle, father, the coconut grove all in a kaleidoscopic medley. When he woke up next, he felt a tugging at his trousers and the first thing he thought he saw, was my uncle sitting on the easy chair at the foot of the bed. He shouted. Then he realized, it was just a rat, a huge one, on the easy chair. The one, which must have tugged at his trousers. The rat refused to budge. Chandu da must have dozed off again, for he again dreamt of my uncle gazing at him from the easy chair. He woke up. The rat was still there at his feet. He chanced to look up at the portrait. He saw the stern face of uncle there. He then looked back at the rat and started. There was the same stern face. Looking back and forth from the portrait to the rat he kept seeing the uncanny resemblance, then gradually before his eyes, there was my uncle sitting directly in front of him on the easy chair – appraising him. Chandu da fainted. That was how the housekeeper found him when he let himself into the house early the next morning...

Well, we couldn’t make much of this incident. It was our house and our uncle. He was a kind man, when alive. Maybe, that was his way of keeping an eye on the house and strangers? Anyways, guests these days always sleep in the guest room, only the family go into Uncle’s room and they have no problem other than a feeling of warmth and happiness and being home…