I was still having trouble believing what I had just heard from the mouth of a local villager called Hanumat. He had cordially invited us to the brick laying ceremony of The Temple of Goddess Durga, soon to be constructed in the honour of Meenakshi, the brave girl who had sacrificed her life for the good of the villagers. It was because of her efforts that the police were now actively involved in the investigation of the missing villagers as their family members, finally emerging from the shadows of fear that had held them captive for many years, were now telling their pathetic stories. It was not so much the invitation that confounded me but the location where the temple was set to be constructed. The place was none other than ‘Jiyashree’s Garden’, the alleged haunted strip of floodplain that until a week ago was as abandoned as The Great Angkor Vat of Cambodia, one fine morning. Believe me, it’s true. One day, the great net of temples were the prime centre of activity and on the very next day, all that was left behind were the great buildings, ready to face ruin for centuries to come. What I am striving to arrive at is that the isolated area was no longer isolated now. It took a tragedy and a number of deaths to restore life there.
We were making rapid strides towards the ground. Chaudhary Manendra Singh, one other VIP, and Bhrigu were the luminaries asked to set the first stone. We could not afford to get late. It was a comfortable journey as the sky was overcast with clouds obliterating any effort on the part of the sun to catch a hole in their defence. It was a pleasant, sun-free day and I am proud to proclaim that I was keeping up fairly well with the jaunty gait of my friend.
Soon, the place loomed closer and I waited for the sign post that read ‘Jiyashree’s Garden’ to appear any minute but instead I found a new one thrust into the ground a little farther from where the original one stood that read ‘Site for Construction: Maa Durga Mandir,’ I was fairly confused at the contrast that the two sign posts offered. One was an open declaration that you were now standing on haunted premises and the other proudly proclaimed that your feet had just touched sacred ground. The surge of feelings that had accompanied the two signs was also vastly different now. When my friend and I had first stood here, we had been aware of a sinking feeling that gnaws at your insides and leaves you perspiring with fear in its wake. It is a wonder that the ground on which we now stood was the very same but the feeling that I now experienced had undergone a remarkable shift. I no longer felt frightened or depressed but a feeling of joy and tranquility assailed my senses. I was at peace here and the thought perplexed me no less. Our own thoughts had given life to the witch and created an atmosphere of horror but now the weight of truth had forced them to accept the presence of a divine being, creating an aura of devotion and peace. In a nutshell, it was not the ground that had changed but out mindset and how.
A throng of villagers was present to witness the auspicious moment when the first stone for the foundation was to be laid. The atmosphere was surcharged with the thick fragrance of lilies from the incense sticks as two voices, a mellifluous one and a hoarse one form an old and a middle-aged Pundit respectively took turns singing hymns in the praise of the Goddess Durga. After the Puja was over, Bhrigu, Manendra Singh, and one other dignitary from the neighbouring village laid the first stone amid much cheering and clapping from the crowd and one other Pundit cracked open a coconut over it, marking the event as propitious.
All throughout the ceremony, Bhrigu kept looking at Jayanti Devi, who had also come to pay her respects to Meenakshi. Her face hinted at a sorrow but the desperation; the anguish that we had witnessed in her was now gone. It was easy to notice that she wasn’t struggling to breathe anymore. My friend was happy to see that he had found the troubled, old lady a peaceful place where she could begin the process of nursing her bruises.
We returned home after partaking of the Prasad.
I had noticed a certain change descent over my friend as we made our way home. As soon as we reached the house, he did the unthinkable. Marching straight towards Nirja Masi’s room, he knocked at it boldly and tapping his foot impatiently waited for a response. Nirja Masi opened the door after the fifth knock and stood staring at him groggily. It was evident that she had been roused from a deep sleep.
‘What is it Bhrigu?’ she said in a heavy voice. ‘I was sleeping. What was so urgent that could not wait?’
‘I have come to tell you that. . . that I won’t marry ever,’ Bhrigu replied with grit. ‘Burn the photos of those girls, for all I care, but I won’t have anything to do with them.’
She stared at him with shock and confusion, struggling to understand what force had taken possession of her nephew.
‘What did you just say? I think I did not understand.’
‘When did you ever understand me that you will now? I just wanted to say that I am not afraid of you anymore. That’s all.’
He turned on his heel and left, leaving a lightening stuck Nirja Masi behind. He later revealed to me the change that had wrought in him. ‘Today’s incident made me realise that we make our own demons. The haunted ground transformed easily into a holy place as soon as the villagers were ready to let go of their fear. I knew then that only I had the power to let go of the fear that had been crippling me. I confess, Sutte that I have a knack for understanding human behaviour, but it was only today that I got to understand and accept mine.’
My dear friend looked a lot younger that day. No longer could I see the marks of tension creasing his eyes and burdening his existence. He was well on his way of conquering his demons. I knew from his abrupt, bizarre expostulations in the course of our long talks that he had suffered during his childhood and his sensitive nature had prevented him from getting past the hurt and torment. I was thankful to God that he was on the path to recovery as the biggest torment that had plagued him, his aunt, was no more a painful memory now but a valuable lesson. . . A first among many that my friend was yet to learn and. . . record.