Nirmal Sen was, as usual, going past Anjanpara bazaar, bag in hand, a cigarette placed firmly in his mouth. He also bore that angry and tense expression that reminded the locals of him whenever they encountered him. Today was another day of hard work at office, ending with a phenomenon now common at his office – a fight between him and Adrik Mitra.
“Hey! Hey you!” someone whispered coarsely from behind.
Nirmal stopped in his tracks and looked at him inquisitively. “What do you want?” he barked.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” the other fellow asked.
This was Nirmal’s firm belief that ghosts never did exist – or even if they ever did, then they ceased to do so before he was born. So accordingly he nodded his head.
“Do you want to see one?”
“It’s not possible,” declared Nirmal.
“I’ll show you. I promise you’ll see it. Just go there,” said the man, pointing to the nearby graveyard, and subsequently to a man wandering about its perimeters, phone in hand, “and tell that fellow that you want to do this job. Say exactly as I say. Then he will tell you that alright, you go there and walk around. You do so, and then the ghost will come.”
“How do you know for so sure?”
“I’ve been there, done that.”
Nirmal saw no logic in following the stranger’s words. But somehow the idea of his challenge attracted him.
“Okay. I’ll do it. I’m going now, “Nirmal declared and was about to leave.
“Wait!”
“What?”
“Tell them after all is done – can you tell me more about Palash Datta? He instructed me to come here. He is waiting for you.”
“So your name is Palash Datta?”
“Yes. Go Quick! They’re waiting.”
Nirmal approached the wandering man at the graveyard gates.
“Hey! I want to do this job,” said Nirmal.
“Sure?” said the man, putting down his phone.
“Absolutely,” declared Nirmal.
The man called out to another man, an old man, by the name Chandrasekhar, who came stealthily. He whispered something in his ears.
“Alright! Go there and walk around,” declared Chandrasekhar.
Nirmal entered the graveyard and started strolling around in a rather carefree manner.
Then there was a noise. This was followed by a low creak and a hooting owl. Suddenly the paraphernalia of horror moves became a fragment of reality. But the main cause of fright generally associated with horror movies was nowhere to be seen – at least not in front of Nirmal.
Lo! There arose behind him the stuff of horror dreams – a lady with a candle, in a white flowing gown, her tress dirty with neglect yet hanging menacingly from her creased forehead. Her lips were extremely black; her eyes bore the tenor of one without life. She howled in a frighteningly disarming tone, “Hello!”
Nirmal stood stone still, and for a moment it seemed that any momentary passerby would fail to recognise which was the ghost and which the real victim. Both were white – one white by nature, and the other by circumstance.
“All right! Cut!” came a shout from behind the bushes.
Then came the director and his crew – how smartly they were nestled behind a bush, creeping and filming a gullible passerby who had been lulled in to act in a scene from a film – obviously a horror movie - of theirs by the very Palash Datta.
Nirmal went to the director and complained about the fright he received.
“Of course!” roared the director in laughter. “When you are into your role, you need to be completely in it. I don’t blame you for the scare.”
“Well, still you could have informed me,” complained Nirmal.
“Very well. Here is your 5000 rupees for this scene. And I say again – I’m sincerely sorry. By the way, you are a fine actor,” said the director handing him the money.
“Not more?” asked Nirmal.
“No.”
At this point of time Nirmal had started counting his money. Chandrasekhar had come in by this time.
“Say, I was never really acting you know. I really thought that she was a ghost,” murmured Nirmal.
“What do you mean? You did not read the advertisement properly, did you?” asked the director.
“What advertisement?”
Chandrasekhar and the director seemed surprised. “Why? The Ghost House ad in the bazaar, from where you came!” they told in unison.
“No! This man, Palash Datta told me about this. He is still standing by the closed paan shop.”
The director and Chandrasekhar looked at each other, visibly puzzled.
“Is there a problem?” Nirmal asked.
“No problem really, unless you fix your head, young man. Palash Datta has been dead for 2 weeks now – his grave is just beside that big banyan tree where you got your scare. What the hell are you talking, huh?” asked Chandrasekhar.
Nirmal failed to hear the last part of Chandrasekhar’s question, for he was running to the tree.
And there it lay.
“Palash Datta
1978-2012
Died while acting in the film ‘Ghost House’
R.I.P”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 27.10.2012

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