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Tarok and the Ghost
(© Biswapriya Purkayastha)

Page 2

Now, Gobardhan was a careful and compassionate man. Of course, since it was already getting dark, he couldn’t order one of his men to see Tarok home – but he would have ordered them to see to it that he remained in the market. But then there was a big rush of customers, and he forgot. I don’t blame him – we all make mistakes, and it really wasn’t his responsibility in the first place. But, in any case, he forgot.

Meanwhile, with everyone busy at their trade, and nothing to keep him longer at the market, Uncle Tarok began to weave his way home. It was a new moon night – the very night, of course, when ghosts are most active – and he had nothing but starlight to illuminate his way. But he’d walked that path so many times before, boy and man, that he had no real problem keeping to the path, drunk as he was. It would probably have been much better if he’d lost his way.

Now, as you’ll have realised, the ghosts in the banyan tree were boiling with indignation at Tarok’s challenge, which one of their roving spies had reported to them. So they gathered together and decided to teach Tarok a lesson.

So when Uncle Tarok reached the tree, the ghosts were waiting and ready for him. The first he knew of this, though, was when one of them jumped right out of the tree and into his path.

It was a fisher ghost, very tall and thin with long arms and legs, eyes big as oranges and red as blood, teeth like radishes and ears like winnowing baskets. It stood across the path, arms akimbo, and glared down at Tarok.

"Who are you," it said nasally, because, you know, ghosts can only speak through their noses, poor things. If you ever meet a ghost, even if it’s disguised itself perfectly as a human, you’ll know it by its nasal speech. "Who are you, that dares to come this way after the fall of night?"

Unfortunately, though, old Tarok was so drunk that the ghost’s nasal speech made no more impression on him than its enormous eyes and stick-thin limbs. "A cold?" he enquired. "You have a cold? What you need is a good strong shot of mohua and it’s gone. Look at me," he yelled, so loudly that the ghost flinched, and thumped his chest. "I never have colds."

"I’m..." began the ghost, trying to recover its poise. "I’m..."

"I know," Tarok bawled. "You have a cold, and that’s what’s making you look so miserable. Look at you," he yelled, and took hold of one of the ghost’s hands. "All skin and bone. You need feeding up before you fade completely away."

By this time, the ghost wished it could fade completely away. It tried, but the grip Tarok had on its arm was too potent. "Come with me back to the market," he shouted, "and I’ll fill you with mohua. You’ll never regret it."

Oh, but the ghost already regretted it. It regretted a lot of things, but most especially it regretted not wringing Uncle Tarok’s neck immediately, as it had intended. Why, oh why, it lamented to itself, had it chosen to grandstand by challenging the drunkard face to face?

As though on cue, Uncle Tarok released a cloud of alcohol-laden breath at the ghost, so potent that it would have sent it reeling but for the death-grip the old man had on its arm. "Come along," the horrible reprobate insisted, tugging. "I’m sure there’s still a lot of mohua around."

Now it so happened that the fisher ghost was rather unpopular with the other spirits in the tree, dating from a recent incident where it had tried to dictate to them how they should spend the rest of forever like it, fishing in the scummy village ponds, instead of as they wished, according to their various ghostly wishes. Also, it had insisted on jumping down to confront the man, ignoring advice to merely drag him up into the tree and finish him off at leisure. So, though normally they’d have been furious at a mere human challenging one of their number, they were delighted at this ghost’s plight. "Go on, go on," some of them shrilled, hanging from the branches like strange fruit. "Go to the market, and get drunk. It’s going to be such fun."

The fisher ghost would have blanched if its features had been capable of blanching. "No, no," it began protesting.

[ Continue to page 3 ]

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Genre:General Horror
Type:Short story
Rating:6.57 / 10
Rated By:10 users
Comments: 0 users
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