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The dilapidated villa was crouched between the dark gorge and the sloping hillock. Its windows were like vacant eyes. Beyond the hillock, tea gardens stretched away, like a patchwork of shadow and the fading green, under the encroaching dusk. My car had stalled on the single, empty road, leaving me stranded. I decided to walk, hoping to find help in the nearest village, not expecting the crumbling double-story structure to materialise from the gloom.
Rain began to fall, a cold drizzle that quickly soaked my clothes. The darkness deepened, pressing in. That’s when the villa caught my eye, a flicker of warm light in the front room, a beacon of desperate hope. Relief washed over me; shelter, and perhaps a mechanic in the morning.
Approaching, I noticed the name etched above the door: ‘Poropkar Villa’. The path to it was flanked by tea shrubs that released a damp, aromatic scent. I hesitated on the road; the villa’s other windows were swallowed by blackness. Only that single light flickered. Finally, chilled and weary, I decided to knock on the door.
My first knock was tentative, met only by the drumming rain. I waited, then knocked harder. Footsteps shuffled inside. Relief surged again. A male voice, thin and reedy, called out, “Who’s there?”
‘I’m Ajoy. My car broke down nearby. Could I trouble you for shelter for the night?’
The door creaked open. An old man stood silhouetted against the light. ‘Please, come in, Ajoy. Call me Dibyajyoti.’
His voice snagged at a memory. Familiar, yet altered by age. Voices didn’t usually jar like that.
On the wall, an ornate clock ticked. Its hands pointed at 7:30 pm. My watch read 8:00 pm. ‘Your clock seems to have stopped,’ I said.
He smiled faintly. ‘I prefer it slow. The world rushes enough. Let my time crawl.’
The lagging clock echoed another memory: Pranjal, a colleague years ago, who always kept his watch half an hour behind. We’d worked together briefly before losing touch. Pranjal, the one who disappeared after that awful business with a girl…
A jolt went through me. ‘Dibyajyoti… are you by any chance Pranjal?’ His eyes, deep-set and shadowed, fixed on me. ‘Who are you?’
‘Ajoy. We worked together. Pranjal, where is that girl you were seeing? And why here? Why change your name?’
He sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering. ‘A long story. After we lost contact, the affair continued. One night, after a movie, I dropped her off near her home. But she never arrived. They found her… in the river days later. Raped and murdered. The police came for me. No alibi, no defence. They sentenced me. Job gone, family gone. Years in prison. I screamed my innocence, but her family… they wouldn’t listen. Later, after I was locked away, friends found evidence – she was taken by goons that night. But it was too late for me. When I came out, I couldn’t face anyone. I came here, to the hills. Did some charity, saved some money, bought this place and changed my name. Pranjal is dead. Call me Dibyajyoti.’
A chill deeper than the rain settled in my bones. Hunger gnawed, but the villa was bare except for water. Dibyajyoti suggested we check the car. Maybe it would start now. ‘Nothing to eat here,’ he said. ‘The distant village might have something.’
We walked back. To my surprise, the car started on the first crank. I thanked him profusely, promising to visit again soon.
An hour’s drive brought me to a cluster of lights, a village. A roadside dhaba glowed invitingly. It was well past midnight. I ordered a meal, shivering despite the warmth inside. An old man nursing a chai looked up.
‘Sir, you’re far from home. Where are you coming from?’
‘From the Poropkar Villa. Met an old friend there, Dibyajyoti.’
The old man’s face hardened. ‘Dibyajyoti? He died five years ago. No one lives in that cursed house. He murdered a girl, served his sentence and came back here to rot.’
‘What nonsense!’ I protested. ‘I spent hours with him just now! We were colleagues! He told me he was framed for a murder that he didn’t commit! His real name is Pranjal!’
The dhaba owner leaned forward, his voice low and grave. ‘Framed? Perhaps. And the girl’s family knew that he was framed. He confessed this on his deathbed, they say. He changed his name to Dibyajyoti to avoid embarrassment—to escape his own ghost.’
The hot food turned to ash in my mouth. Hours spent with a ghost? His plea for understanding? His desperate need to tell me the truth before he parted?
The old man’s words hung in the smoky air. ‘Dibyajyoti came to see you, then. He needed to tell someone whom he knew from before. Someone who might understand him. You were the right person. He told you that he was innocent. Now, maybe, his soul will finally rest.’
Outside, the rain had stopped. The silence felt heavy, filled with the weight of a terrible secret finally spoken, and a spirit, perhaps, finally set free. I recollected suddenly. Dibyajyoti never shook hands nor served any food. Well, ghosts don’t do that, but they have a heart. The Poropkar Villa that night crumbled under heavy rains.
Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi
Author, Poet, & Columnist
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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com
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