Rediscovery (standard:drama, 8400 words)
Author: Bobby Zaman	Added: Apr 08 2002	Views/Reads: 3476/2268	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two couples go on a trip to the tea gardens of Sylhet and encounter a secret at the bungalow where they stay.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

I was glad that Amanda was there, that the trip had happened. She was
the first person I got involved with seriously after a nasty break-up a 
year before we met. We talked about marriage, but nothing would 
materialize anytime in the near future. She wasn’t the type of person 
that got influenced easily. She was the second of three sisters, and 
both her siblings were married. Most of her childhood friends had also 
taken their holy vows. None of it affected her. She didn’t feel her 
“clock” ticking, and never relayed any discontent about the pace of our 
relationship. On the practical side of things she still had one year of 
graduate school left, and I was on commission to write a play for a 
prominent theater company in San Francisco. We were comfortable and in 
no hurry. 

“Was it fun coming here?” Shaila asked me. 

“We’d usually come in a group of at least ten to fifteen people. It’d be
a good time.” 

“You don’t miss it?” Amanda asked. 

“Sometimes. But I was young, so I got used to my life as I know it now
early enough to not be totally devastated.” 

“And you met me,” my girlfriend added and placed a kiss on my cheek. 

My family moved to Chicago when I was sixteen, and it was the first time
we were back in ten years. Everything was different, but my memories 
were still fresh. When I saw Nil it felt as if no more than a year had 
passed since my last visit. The tea factory across the street, which 
had only one floor, had grown to a three-story building. What remained 
unchanged, and thankfully so, was the ambiance. Despite all the 
equilibrium around it, the bungalow never faltered in staying true to 
its own character. No renovation work had been done on it, and it never 
gave my father reason to alter its façade inside or out. It stood, 
proud of its undaunted foundation, witness to the dynamics of the world 
around it, the keeper of the stories of all of my families gatherings 
there. 

Arif’s and my parents were friends of old. They moved to the windy city
before Arif was born, but returned to Dhaka each year during summer 
vacations. Arif was an only child and Shaila had been the love of his 
life ever since they met in the eighth grade. Mr. And Mrs. Khan, had 
yet to say “no” to one of their only child’s wishes. Still, such 
indulgences did nothing to stunt the level of humility in Arif’s 
nature. 

“So what’s this story about your aunt seeing a ghost?” Shaila asked. 

“Nabeel, please put my wife out of her anguish,” said Arif, “make
something up if you must.” 

“I’m curious. I love ghost stories,” Shaila said. 

“Yeah, I want to hear it too,” added Amanda. 

“And then, for dessert, we can yell chants into the night and raise the
spirits of the dead,” said Arif. 

“Well, if you’re not interested, you don’t have to listen,” said Shaila.


“No, seeing as how I can’t indulge myself in ESPN, I’ll go in for a
laugh.” 

I didn’t exactly know what they wanted to hear. They story to which they
were alluding did happen. It was more than just a “ghost story.” The 
incident had had a profound affect on my aunt (my maternal uncle’s 
wife.) I wasn’t sure I wanted to use it as an after dinner mode of 
entertainment. To them it was a big deal, given that we were less then 
ten feet away from where the said event took place. It was also the 
bedroom assigned to the newlyweds. 

Night settled in around us. The crisp December hair hung over our heads
like a dewy canopy. Crickets chirped in the bushes. Sounds of urban 
life existed nowhere in the vicinity. Nil was around, somewhere, 
perhaps curled up in his bed with a book. No matter where he was, he 
seemed to appear like a genie every time we needed him. 

It felt as if we were the only humans for miles around. That, I
recalled, was the single mystic quality of the bungalow: no matter how 
many people were within its walls, or how high the decibels of voices 
would reach, when night arrived the world around the bungalow fell into 
the grip of total silence. 

The tea factory lurked behind the trees like a massive ocean-liner, the
undulating hills looked like endless curves and troughs of bedding, and 
lights from far off dwellings flickered against the pitch of night like 
fireflies. 

It was in the winter of 1988 that my aunt had her visitation. That year
we had a busy holiday schedule. The first leg started at the bungalow 
in Sylhet. Along with us came my Aunt Nina and my cousin Samar, three 
years older than me. At the bungalow, Mom, Dad, and my sister Farina 
took one room; Samar, my aunt, and I took the other. After a safe 
journey, and a delicious home-cooked meal, courtesy of Nil, our tired 
bodies yearned for sleep. We retired to our respected rooms and shortly 
thereafter entered blissful slumber. The night passed without incident. 


At dawn I woke to voices next to me. Samar was fast asleep at the far
edge of the bed. I was elated at the thought of being on vacation, and 
not having to get out of bed anytime soon. No school, no worries. It 
was a lovely morning. With sleep- laden eyes I saw a brilliant orange 
glow in the eastern sky. A silhouette appeared against the window. 

“Nabeel, are you awake?” the silhouette asked. It was my mother. I
turned and faced her. 

Evidently, my aunt was mumbling in her sleep, which eventually grew into
audible utterances. My mother is the lightest sleeper I know, so it was 
no surprise that she was the first to respond. 

Aunt Nina was shook up to the point of trembling. Someone had come to
her shortly before the sun first peeked its head over the horizon. He, 
for my aunt swore it was an old man, had walked right through the brick 
wall and taken a seat next to her side of the bed. The apparition then 
took her hand and began mumbling prophecies into her ears. Advice and 
warnings to our family, more importantly to her family. Cautionary 
words for my uncle, do’s and don’ts, and through it all he kept looking 
over his shoulder for the sun. He insisted that my aunt keep her eyes 
shut, and vehemently repeated his absolute need to go before break of 
day. He sounded as though he had waited many decades for this 
opportunity. Aunt Nina defied him and opened her eyes to see something 
that she cannot, to this day, fully define in detail beyond: a tall 
figure, clad in white, with pits of fire in place of eyes. 

Mother was equally taken by Aunt Nina’s account. 

“As I’ve said already,” I went on, “women in my family have a strange
attraction to the unnatural. Any emissary from the world of the, well, 
not living, is a portent. My grandmother was a very religious and 
spiritual woman. The words of the Koran were the be all and end all of 
all things. And the Koran mentions the existence of Jinns, good ones 
and bad. She even believed there was a good Jinn protecting her home 
for many years.” 

I fell silent for a few moments. Shaila was huddled up against Arif and
Amanda’s head was on my shoulder. 

“So what exactly were these so-called prophecies?” asked Arif. 

“I don’t know,” I said, “Aunt Nina never really explained any of them.
The gist of it was that she should get more involved in my uncle’s 
business affairs, be sort of like his chief advisor whether he liked it 
or not.” 

“Do you believe her?” asked Shaila. 

“You know, I don’t necessarily care for such things,” I said, “but my
aunt is the one person I know that doesn’t go in for hocus pocus 
garbage. She’s very practical. I have to say when I heard her and saw 
how she looked I had no choice but to believe her.” 

“No one else saw- um – this – thing?” said Amanda. 

“Not that I know of,” I said. 

“So that’s the great legend of the haunted bungalow?” said Arif. 

“That’s as much as I can remember,” I replied. 

“You feel better now?” said Arif to his wife. 

“You’re the biggest party-pooper,” said Shaila. 

“Well, if happy hour’s over I’m ready to call it a night.” 

“Up by seven, remember,” said Shaila. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

Arif bid goodnight and left. 

“His father’s the same way,” said Shaila, “nicest man you’ll ever meet,
but you bring up anything that’s the slightest bit unreal, and he’ll 
rip it to shreds.” 

“He’s an engineer. He’s supposed to be practical.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a scare once in a while.” 

“Then you should ask my mother someday. She can tell you tales you’d
think were thought up by none other than Edgar Allan Poe himself.” 

A sudden shriek shattered the silence of the night. It came from inside
the bungalow, from Arif. We rushed inside. He stood at the threshold of 
their room, backed up against the door, his face as white as snow, 
looking directly at the bed. 

“What happened?” said Shaila. 

Arif stood motionless and speechless, shuddering lightly, more with
disbelief than anything else. 

“Honey,” Shaila implored, “what happened?” 

“There was someone sitting there,” said Arif and pointed at the bed. 

“Who?” I asked. 

“I don’t know. But there was someone there.” 

I called for Nil. He showed up moments later wrapped in a shawl. 

“Did anyone come in to the bungalow?” I asked. 

“No, sir. Who would come at this hour?” amazement sat on Nil as he
spoke. 

“No one came?” I asked again. “Are all the doors locked?” 

“Yes, sir. I lock them myself every night. It’s been my job for fifteen
years.” 

“There’s no one else here?” I asked again. 

I could tell that Nil resented my questioning of his integrity. He
maintained his stoic stance and was ready to face any level of 
inquisition. I felt bad, but could think of nothing else to do. 

“Arif?” I said, “You’re sure you saw someone?” 

“Yes.” 

“We’ve all had a long day, and you’re tired-“ 

“I’m not making this up. It was a woman. She was sitting with her back
turned and she was right there. You all may go in for all that ghost 
story garbage, I don’t. Ask him again who else is here.” 

All eyes turned once more to our host. Nil reached under his shawl and
brought out a set of keys. 

“Sir, I have my set of keys, same ones I’ve had for fifteen years. Your
grandfather gave them to me when I first started. And you have the 
other set. No other set exists. No one can get in the premises without 
waking me first. I swear upon my children’s lives.” 

“It’s alright,” I said, “Go to sleep.” 

Nil turned and walked away. 

“That guy’s a liar!” said Arif. 

“He’s been here ever since I can remember,” I said, “He won’t lie about
something like that.” 

“Then I’m a liar?” 

“No.” 

“Why don’t we just sit down for a minute,” said Amanda. 

Shaila escorted Arif to a couch and sat down by him. We were all in a
daze. Arif would never make up something in which he didn’t subscribe 
in the first place. He hated practical jokes. In truth, I had never 
seen him in such a state of shock in all the years we’d known each 
other. What he saw roused fear in him, yet another sentiment that was a 
stranger to his demeanor. 

“Now, what exactly did you see?” asked Amanda. 

“I told you already,” said Arif irritably. “What’re you guys deaf all of
a sudden?” 

“No, we’re just trying to understand,” said Shaila and kissed Arif’s
forehead. 

“I’m not a goddamn child! Quit treating me like I am!” 

This outburst yielded some moments of silence. We all looked into the
room. Arif and Shaila’s luggage was in a heap near the head of the bed. 
At the far end, along a wall of windows, a curtain was fluttering 
lightly from a breeze entering through an open shutter. They all had 
crisscross bars of solid steel. It would take hours for someone to saw 
through them, not to mention the racket the act would produce. Only air 
itself, or any such matter with the ability to penetrate without 
hindrance, sans the impediment of solid foundation, would be able to 
enter with total ease. 

Given the story I had related not but half an hour ago, the wheels had
begun to turn in our heads, but everyone feared ridicule and kept their 
mouth shut. 

“Well, we’re not going to accomplish anything just sitting here like a
bunch of idiots,” said Amanda. “I say we call it a night and take it 
easy tomorrow.” 

Agreeing that that was the best solution so far we parted company. Arif
looked unsure. Shaila appeared to be disturbed as well. 

“Do you want to switch and take our room?” I asked. 

“No,” said Arif, “I’m not five years old. We’ll be fine. Good night.” 

Arif composed himself, marched into their room, and picked up the
luggage from the floor. Shaila followed him and shut the door behind 
her. 

“That was bizarre,” said Amanda. 

“I’ve never seen him so frazzled,” I said. 

“I wonder what – or whom it was he saw?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“It is a little creepy around here at night, you have to admit.” 

“Well, we are kind of in the middle of nowhere.” 

“So tell me,” said Amanda and wrapped her arms around my waist, “Do you
believe you aunt’s story?” 

“I don’t know. I’d rather forget about it tonight.” 

“It’s too bad they have the room where it happened.” 

“Nothing happened. You guys’re making it sound like it was some life
altering experience. Let’s get some sleep.” 

Amanda is a deep sleeper. She crashed as soon as her head touched the
pillow. I lay awake for almost an hour listening to the sound of 
footsteps that were circling our bed. I wanted to wake Amanda but 
didn’t want to be the author of another fiasco within the same hour. 
Every time Amanda or I moved the footsteps stopped. When they resumed 
the picked up exactly at the same pace. They were relaxed yet steady 
steps. They were in no hurry to get anywhere; it was more like they 
were in expectation of an arrival, pacing, waiting with unfaltering 
patience. 

I fell asleep for some time, I’m not sure exactly how long. I woke again
to the sound of breathing, not to Amanda’s, surely not my own, but to 
that of another presence. As I came out of my stupor and my senses 
cleared, the breathing grew more intense. It escalated until it sounded 
as though the room itself had come to life. 

I knew I was awake. I kept my hands under the blanket and reached
towards Amanda. My palm stopped against her bare back and I felt the 
steady rise and fall of her rib cage. I shook her gently. She didn’t 
stir. I shook her again, a little harder. She moaned and stayed asleep. 


“Amanda,” I whispered and shook her by the shoulders. She brushed off my
hands. I turned her around and whispered again into her face, “Amanda!” 


Her brows came together in a frown and her eyes opened. 

“What,” she said. 

“You hear that?” 

“What?” 

“That. That breathing noise?” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

I motioned to her to stay quiet. We both listened for several moments;
but there was only silence. 

“Are you alright?” asked Amanda. 

“Yeah. This trip’s getting stranger by the seconds. 

I was awake for the most part of the night. Amanda fell asleep within
minutes. As a toast to the events of the night I began reading a copy 
of Macbeth, and fell asleep sometime after the beginning of the second 
act, this time with a light on. 

We were scheduled for a tour of the area early in the morning. I’d been
around the place many times and decided to stay back and work on the 
play. At breakfast Arif seemed relaxed and rested. Nil had prepared a 
ravishing array of dishes from omelets to homemade wheat and rice 
cakes, to an assortment of breads and jams; not to mention a pitcher of 
fresh milk and another of squeezed orange juice. We dug in like wolves. 


“Anything we should know about?” said Arif. 

“What do you mean?” I said. 

“You know, any other surprises we should know of before going on this
tour?” 

“No. Mr. Das is an old friend of my father’s. He’s a good guy.” 

“Alright, if you say so.” 

“I really wish you’d come with,” said Amanda. 

“I really want to get some work done,” I said. “We’ll go for a drive at
night. Nil knows the area real good. It’s really cool driving around at 
night.” 

We were drinking tea in the veranda when Mr. Das arrived half an hour
later. He’d been driving the same white Toyota ever since I first met 
him. the vehicle was in great shape as was its owner. Mr. Das was a few 
years older than my father and took great care of his health. Not a 
strand of his hair had grayed, whereas my father had a fully blanche 
helmet of curly locks. Mr. Das was the supervisor-in-charge of a string 
of ten bungalows in the district. This designation kept him busy 
year-round, and helped him maintain the high level of energy he brought 
to all situations. 

“Hello everybody” said Mr. Das as he literally leapt out of his car and
landed on the veranda. Mine was the first hand he shook, as my 
companions were strangers to him yet. He always greeted me with the 
same phrase: “You’ve grown so much since the last time.” Amanda found 
this hilarious and took an immediate liking to Mr. Das. 

“I’m Krishna Das. Nabeel’s father is a very good friend of mine. We come
from the same hometown. Did you kids find everything alright?” 

I assured him that all was well and I would not join them in their
excursion. 

“He knows it so well,” said Mr. Das, “he could probably make a living
being a tour guide of this place someday.” 

Arif, Shaila, and Amanda went inside to gather their necessaries for the
road. 

“How are your parents?” asked Mr. Das. 

“They’re well. Are there any Pooja’s going on any time soon?” 

“Not really. They’ve all passed.” 

“I wanted my girlfriend to see some local festivities.” 

“Well, there is a wedding tomorrow night. About five miles from here.
One of the employees at another bungalow is getting married. You think 
that might interest her?” 

“Yes, absolutely. Will it be alright if we go?” 

“I’ve been invited. In fact both families would be thrilled if they knew
you were coming. They know your father and your grandfather.” 

“I don’t want to intrude, that’s all.” 

“Oh, Nabeel,” said Mr. Das with a smile, “You’ve become too American.
This is your home. You’re always welcome everywhere.” 

The threesome returned, equipped to seize the day, and the entire party
packed into Mr. Das’s trusty mobile. 

After they left I finished the rest of my cup of tea and dozed off. Nil
woke me some time later and asked if I wanted anything to eat. 

“No,” I said, “but I want to talk to you about something.” 

Nil sat down. Whether he was interested in what I had to say I couldn’t
tell, but I was certain he was not eager to discuss the previous 
night’s happenings, which was the very thing I wished to address. 

“My friend doesn’t lie about things like that,” I told Nil. 

“Sir, I have sworn on my children’s lives. I don’t know what else to
tell you.” 

“Have you ever had any strange experiences in this place?” 

Nil shifted uncomfortably and looked away. 

“Sir,” he said, “these bungalows are very old. Many people have come and
gone. These walls are not strangers to anything. If they could speak 
they could tell us many things that would never make us want to come 
back.” 

“Then why do you stay here?” 

“Because your family is good to me and my kids. Their mother died when
they were babies.” 

This was the first time I’d spoken to Nil on a personal level; to be
honest, on any level. He didn’t really leave much room for anyone to 
say more than was needed to him. As far as his duties were concerned, 
he was always on or hours ahead of schedule. His work and his routine 
were cut out for him, and he followed those paths with the unabated 
devotion. 

“Nil, I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you last night.” 

“Sir, please don’t embarrass a poor servant.” 

“No, no. I want you to know, I’m very sorry for doubting your word.” 

“Sir...” but instead of speaking his mind, Nil let his status of
caretaker take precedence over sentiments, a task that must have 
strengthened with much involuntary repetition. 

“Sir, would you like some more tea or snacks?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Then I will return to work. Just call for me if you need anything.” 

I set to work on the play, which was scattered in pen and pencil over
three different legal pads. It was the perfect day, not too warm, and 
enough vigor from the sun to rid the air of frost. I’d go so far as to 
say it was a writer’s ideal of a good place for working; at least in my 
opinion it was. The bungalow, the rural setting, minimal noise, the 
hills, the trees, a sort of Walden all my own, a custom-made Key West 
with the exception of a large body of water. 

I worked steadily for two hours. It was the most I’d written in over a
month. For lack any other reason I could pinpoint, I attributed this 
gush of creativity to the change of locale. The perpetual silence that 
surrounded the bungalow helped immensely. I was far from the constant 
hiss of cars, blasting horns, and the never-ending battalion of 
ambulances and police cars whining their sirens at all hours. I was 
miles away from Chicago. 

Then exhaustion, from lack of sleep the night before, perched itself on
my eyelids. I knew the day would pass by if I fell asleep. I called for 
Nil and asked him to join me for a walk. 

We went across the street to the tea factory. The aroma from the
processed leaves was overwhelming. It being a Friday, the offices were 
closed and only the main floor was in operation. I took a peak inside 
to discover not much had changed, save the addition of brand new 
equipment, which, Nil informed me, had been installed very recently. I 
asked him to remind me to stock up on bags of tea before I left. 

This was my first visit to the tea gardens as an adult. Perspective is a
magnificent privilege. How it redefines all that we take for granted 
and know to be absolutely true. That very truth which in itself varies 
from person to person, until one makes the effort, or is thrust upon by 
circumstances, whatever they may be, to take another look at what they 
thought they knew so well. Not to say that the tea gardens were as 
familiar to me as the streets of Chicago, or as it was to my father, 
but growing up, I’d seen enough of the place to find a place for it in 
my impressionable mind. It was where we went anytime my family craved a 
road trip. For all I knew, the place didn’t exist when we weren’t 
physically there. 

At twenty-six it was an entirely different arena for me. My parents
weren’t there, I’d paid a visit on my own accord, and had already found 
a quality about the place which struck my individual fondness; its 
contribution to my needs as a writer. My father came here when domestic 
disputes would drive him to a corner and he needed to distance himself. 
He’d sit in the veranda for hours sipping tea and staring at the hills. 
The place was perfect for such impromptu sabbaticals. 

Nil and I walked along the path, which curved around the back of the
bungalow and weaved through the dense growth of tea plants. 
Leaf-pickers were scattered up and down the hills, with wicker baskets 
mounted on their heads. The swiftness with which they plucked the 
leaves was fascinating. I remembered seeing it as a kid, but it was 
still a rediscovery. Their precision was beyond apprehension, because 
not every single leaf was productive. In fact, an entire shrub could 
have only a handful of leaves out of which would come the best tea one 
could possibly taste. 

We watched them for some time, while they remained completely unaware of
our presence, so absorbed were they in their task. I wish my 
concentration could have such unwavering determination all the time. 

“Sir, how long do you intend to stay,” asked Nil. 

“A few days.” 

“That is very good. I think sir will understand many things now.” 

It was the most curious remark. I wanted to ask him what he meant, but
he’d walked ahead of me. 

Some of the scenery was beginning to ring a bell in my head, most of
which I remembered from all the driving expeditions we took. My father, 
to give us the creeps, liked to go on these voyages after dinner, in 
the dark. That way he could make up stories of lurking wildcats, which 
Mother fell for every time, that preyed the tea gardens much the like 
the man-eating Bengal tigers did the labyrinthine forests of the 
Sundarbans. For all its ludicrousness, it would make for a fun time, 
and sure as heck beat a regular old bedtime story. One of my earliest 
stories was about a hunt for a killer tiger. 

After hiking for an hour Nil asked me if I was hungry. I was famished. 

“If sir is willing to walk to the top of this hill then my sister will
cook us lunch.” 

I couldn’t say no to such an offer. 

At the top of the hill were two huts. I learned from Nil that one
belonged to his younger sister, and only sibling, Padma, and a midwife 
occupied the other. 

A feast was already being prepared when we arrived. Nil brought me a
pitcher of cold water and a stool. It was one of the most relaxing 
moments I ever experienced. The sun hung over the hills throwing its 
light and warmth directly at the huts and me. For miles there was 
nothing but the uninterrupted sight of rolling hills and tea plants, 
flecked here and there with leaf-pickers. City life lingered in my 
imagination like a dream. 

And a feast it was. Padma served an exquisite meal: a course of mixed
vegetables and lentils, followed by catfish and chicken curry, and 
interminable servings of rice. 

“Why didn’t sir go with your friends?” asked Nil. 

“I wanted to work.” 

“Sir is a writer?” 

“Yes.” 

“May I ask what you write?” 

“Mostly plays.” 

His eyes lit up with excitement. “I love drama,” he said, “I watch drama
on television every Monday. Now they have a series going on. It’s about 
a small town family. It’s really good. What kind do you write, sir?” 

“Mostly drama also. I write about families also.” 

“I wish I could read in English to read your drama some time.” 

Padma came out and asked if I wanted anything more. She was a
good-looking girl of about twenty. Her husband worked at the tea 
factory. He was one heck of a lucky man, I thought, to come home to 
such cuisine every night. I offered her money for her pains, which she 
refused to take, further reinforced by Nil as being absolutely 
ludicrous. 

On the way back Nil was more contemplative. 

“If sir will permit me, I will take the liberty to show you something,”
said Nil. 

“What is it?” 

He asked me to follow him and we’d take a different route back to the
bungalow. 

About a mile from the bungalow we veered to the left and the path sloped
down. During rainy season this descent would be virtually impossible 
without cleats or falling with every step, for me at least. The ground 
was dry and made a steadily gradual drop. 

After going down for about ten minutes Nil asked me to look behind me.
The tea hills loomed all around us like skyscrapers. The sight was 
almost breathtaking. Nil pointed in another direction and I saw the 
bungalow. “A little more, sir,” he said and continued to lead. 

We made a short semi-circle around a clump of three and began going up
again, moving closer to the bungalow, quite obviously from the rear. 
Nil stopped halfway between where we had made the turn and the back 
entrance of the bungalow. He began vigorously to clear an area that was 
thickly covered with leaves and branches. After being at this task for 
several moments he ushered me to go where he stood. He directed my 
attention to the ground. 

The remnant of a broken gravestone jutted out of the dirt. They were at
least a century old, and all of what may have been inscribed on it as 
to its subjects had been taken away by the severed half. 

“Whose is it?” I asked. 

“Nobody knows, sir.” 

“Why are you showing it to me?” 

“Sir, there are many stories that go around on the lips of people in
this area. You will think we’re lunatics if I told you.” 

“No not at all. I want to know this.” 

“I will beg sir to forgive me if any of it offends you.” 

We sat down on the ground next to the grave. Nil covered up the site
just as we had found it, till none of it would be visible to the 
uninformed eye. 

“Last night what your friend saw, he was not entirely mistaken,” said
Nil. 

“Why didn’t you say anything when I asked you?” 

“Because, sir, I was very embarrassed. I didn’t know what madam and your
friends would think about me. But I knew I could try to talk to you 
about it. Your father is very good to me and my sister and he listens 
to all our problems and concerns. That’s why I thought I could talk to 
you.” 

Nil’s take unfolded like a dream. 

“I myself have seen what your friend saw last night,” he continued, “It
was a woman, right? Yes, I saw her too. And I had a fever for week 
after I saw her the first time when I started taking care of the place. 
I saw her in the same room. It’s the only room she likes. I’m sorry 
sir, I sound so foolish to an intelligent man like you. After I got 
well, I came back to work. When I’m alone I still hear sounds from that 
room, and sometimes from the other rooms too, but mostly from that 
room. 

The locals told me about a fable. That this young woman actually lived
many years ago, when the English were still here. And the bungalow 
belonged to a rich family and they had a son, and the girl was the 
daughter of the man who looked after the place. The English son and the 
daughter fell in love, and she conceived a child with him. Then 
suddenly the family left, never to return again. The caretaker’s 
daughter killed herself. People say she hung herself in that same room 
where your friends sleep, because that was the room where she was 
intimate with the English son. This is all I know, and I wanted to be 
honest and tell you before it caused more trouble between you and your 
friends.” 

I looked at the leaf-covered grave. Nil read my mind. 

“Yes sir, it is believed that that is the grave of the girl. Her father
was found dead in the kitchen a few days later. It was a tragedy. It 
was shameful.” 

That explained the mystery of Arif’s encounter, somewhat. Mine was still
unsolved. What had happened in the room we had? Who circled the bed all 
night? Whose perturbed spirit kept vigil, and me sleepless, the night 
before? 

“There was something strange about our room too,” I said. 

“What?” 

“It sounded like someone was walking in there all night. And then there
were breathing sounds.” 

Nil didn’t have an immediate answer. He lit a cigarette and looked
around. 

“All the bungalows have stories, sir. After a while it becomes a way of
life, just like working, and you learn to either ignore it or live with 
it. I’ve never felt uneasy or threatened.” 

We returned to the bungalow and found the touring party gathered in the
veranda. Nil went off to prepare refreshments. Amanda was excited about 
everything she saw, and it made me happy that it had such a strong 
effect on her. Mr. Das couldn’t stop talking to her. 

“You have to come and stay with us in the States,” said Amanda. 

“I think I will take you up on it,” said Mr. Das, “especially if you
promise me conversation like we’ve had today. We’ll give Nabeel his 
peace to create literature. So, young man, what did you do all day?” 

“I worked and went for a walk,” I said. 

“Anything interesting?” 

“There’s always something interesting about the tea gardens, Mr. Das.
You know that better than I do.” 

“Yes, but once it becomes second nature it’s not so interesting
anymore.” 

“I think if I lived here I’d never run out of story ideas.” 

“If we lived here we wouldn’t have a life,” said Amanda, “You’d never
out your notepad down.” 

“Ah, Miss Amanda, that’s when I’d come by to provide entertainment.” 

Mr. Das was the sort of person that never showed a sour disposition. No
words left his mouth without first being followed by a laugh or a 
smile. He was also the kind that kept his personal life where it 
belonged: to himself. I’d never heard him speak of a family and, since 
there was enough spirit in him to share with three people, he didn’t 
need his personality to be enhanced by the presence of anyone else. 
Amanda tried a few times to touch on the wife and kids topic. Mr. Das 
courteously replied, “Miss Amanda, I must always be there to take care 
of your family first when you come to visit. And that is a task of 
great responsibility.” Indeed, I was a first-hand witness to this 
undivided hospitality. 

Nil came in with a tray-full of snacks, which were quickly devoured. Mr.
Das rose to take his leave. 

“If you’re still interested in going tomorrow,” he said to me, “call me
in the morning.” 

“Where’re you going tomorrow?” Amanda asked after Mr. Das drove off. 

“It’s a surprise,” I said. 

Arif and Shaila were quiet the whole time. Part of me wanted to tell
them the story I’d heard from Nil, but just the same, they’d had a good 
day and I didn’t want to erase the memories right away. 

“So, did your man say anything to you while we were gone?” said Arif. 

“What do you mean?” I said. 

“I mean, maybe he said something to you that he wouldn’t in front of
us.” 

“Why would you think that?” 

“Because he has a different liking for you.” 

Evidently my friend was still disturbed and hadn’t found closure. 

“I’m not impressed, Nabeel. Not one bit,” said Arif and stood up. “You
may get away with this spook crap with others but you don’t scare me 
with it.” 

“Arif, calm down,” said Shaila. 

“No. I felt like an idiot last night, and if you guys think I’ll just
forget about, I won’t. I know what I saw. You all might get caught up 
in Freddy movies, I don’t. I’m a little more practical than that. I saw 
a woman sitting on our bed, and that’s all there is to it. Go to hell 
if you don’t believe me.” He left. 

Few moments passed in silence. 

“It’s his pride,” said Shaila. “That’s what’s eating him up. He was like
a child last night, held on to me and wouldn’t let go. Please don’t 
tell him I told you this. He just can’t accept that he got scared by 
what he saw, especially not since he doesn’t believe in that stuff.” 

I swore the women to secrecy, at least for the time being, and told them
everything. Shaila’s response was neutral, Amanda found it romantic, 
and Arif would probably blast it to Kingdom Come. 

With a sudden and piercing wail Nil bolted out to the veranda, pursued
by Arif. Tears streaming down his face and a hand pressed against his 
cheek, Nil came and stood next to me. 

“You sonofabitch!” yelled Arif and started again. Shaila stopped him. 

“What the hell’s going on?” I said. 

“I asked him and he told me to go to hell!” said Arif at the top of his
voice. 

“Shut up!” I said. 

“Don’t tell me to shut up. Teach your servants some manners.” 

“What’s the matter with you?” said Shaila. 

“For god’s sake, nothing! I asked him a simple question and he told me
to get lost.” 

I asked Nil if it was true. 

“Sir, please forgive a poor, helpless, servant. I never said anything
disrespectful.” 

“Now he’s lying!” Arif made another attempt to lunge at Nil. 

“Enough!” Shaila cried out in anger. “Everybody, that’s it! Now stop
this madness and settle down. Arif, you’ve been acting strange since 
last night, and I couldn’t say a word to you all day. Now sit down, and 
get over it. What’s happened has happened.” 

“Why did you hit Nil?” I asked. 

“Because he deserved it,” said Arif. 

“I’ve never heard you talk like this,” said Shaila, “What in the world
is the matter with you?” 

“I want you to apologize,” I said. 

“I refuse to,” said Arif. 

“Alright, suit yourself,” I said and pursued the matter no further. I
tried to make amends with Nil, which made him break down. 

“Sir, I will always be indebted to your father,” said Nil, “and never
harm you or your friends. My life should end before that happens.” 

Amanda tried to comfort him as well. I felt embarrassed and hoped none
of it would reach Mr. Das or my father. There arose a strong level of 
disgust between Arif and myself. He sat staring at me, unable to accept 
that I had not taken his side in the matter. I said nothing. I had no 
intention of giving in to his ego, to this sudden sense of false 
superiority that had come over him. 

After several moments of unease Amanda broke the monotony. 

“We could fry an egg on the tension in this place. I’m through with it.
I’m going to take a bath.” 

“I can’t believe what just happened,” said Shaila, “I don’t care what
you say, honey, we have to talk about this.” Arif didn’t respond to any 
of it. Amanda went inside. I apologized to Shaila and followed Amanda. 
None of us saw each other for the rest of the night. 

I got into bed and tried to read. Amanda brought up the matter once, but
I didn’t show any interest in discussing it. Some time later she fell 
asleep, and I heard the faint sound of voices from Arif and Shaila’s 
room. They got loud for a few seconds then went down again. Shaila was 
justifiably shocked at her husband’s behavior and was not as lenient as 
my girlfriend. I left the lights on, drew Amanda close to me, and fell 
asleep. 

When I woke up again the room was dark. I figured Amanda turned off the
lights, but we were unchanged in our positions. My arm had fallen 
asleep and I tried to turn the other way. A cold hand pressed against 
my shoulder and stopped me. My heart leapt to my throat. I tried to 
resist but the hand had more strength than my entire body. I couldn’t 
tell if someone was next to me on the bed. There were no movements 
besides the hand on my back. 

Then a slow, steady exhale of breaths came near my ear. The hand moved
from my shoulder up to my head, all the time being nothing but gentle 
in its movements. It held my head down so I wouldn’t be able to turn 
around. 

“I don’t want you to look at me,” said a voice in a whisper, very close
to my ear. “You won’t like what you see, and I don’t want you to wake 
that sweet and lovely girl.” 

I could see Amanda’s body rise and fall as she continued to sleep
unaware of anything. I wanted to yell and pull her even closer to me, 
wake everyone, and run out of there right away. My physical prowess and 
my will had separated. I couldn’t move a muscle. It was like being in a 
dream where we’re screaming with all our might and not getting 
anywhere, or trying to fend off an attacker with blows that are totally 
devoid of the power to cause damage. 

“Don’t turn around, don’t look at me,” the voice repeated, “I can’t stay
long. Why did you leave the lights on? Anyway, don’t turn around. I 
know you all are very far away now. I remember another visitation, long 
time ago. Don’t turn this way. It was your aunt, I remember, and I told 
her many things. I don’t think she listened to me. Never mind it now. 
It’s unfortunate, all the things that have happened so far. Don’t turn, 
I can’t stay much longer. Be careful, and love that sweet girl forever. 
Go back home, that’s where you’ll always be safe. Look, the sun’s 
coming up. I have to go.” 

I felt the weight of the hand lessen a little and moved my head. 

“Don’t turn around,” the voice said and immediately stopped me. “Keep
your eyes shut. I have to go, I have to go.” Then my head was free. I 
turned. The sight was beyond words, defied all sense of recognition. At 
the edge of my bed stood a figure about eight feet in height. There 
were no distinctions to indicate the presence of arms or legs. It was 
white all over. In its face were two large cavities, where the eyes 
would be, and inside them identical sets of raging flames, as if they 
were miniature reflections of a bonfire far away. 

The figure darted for the window as soon as I turned, resentful to my
defiance of its wishes. I couldn’t feel myself, yet Amanda’s presence 
next to me suddenly became very strong. She was fast asleep and I 
wanted to wake her. My phantom visitor looked back at me one more time 
then turned and flinched at the breaking dawn. Then there was nothing. 

Like a brilliantly edited Roman Polanski film the next instance I
remember is my girlfriend shaking me by my shoulders. 

“Baby, wake up. Wake up!” 

It was like being woken from that rejuvenating sleep that finally comes
after a whole night of tossing and turning. 

“Nabeel, baby, wake up. Are you alright?” 

I opened my eyes to find Amanda’s face directly over mine. The sun
poured in through the east window and bathed her face in a golden tint. 
Her eyes were still bleary with sleep. She was running her fingers 
through my hair. 

“You were talking in your sleep, baby,” said Amanda and turned on the
lights. 

“I didn’t think I was asleep,” I said. 

“I’ve been trying to wake you for a while.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. You weren’t even making any sense. You were just mumbling and
muttering. Did you have a dream?” 

I didn’t know what to tell her. I looked at the spot through which the
figure had disappeared. There were no indications of anyone having just 
made an exit. I had no idea how much time had passed. I though it was 
less than a minute, but the brightness of the day outside made it feel 
more like hours. This was the same episode my aunt told us of twelve 
years ago. We experienced the same visitation. 

Some hours later we gathered for breakfast in the veranda. Nil was in
better spirits as he served us yet another array of mouth-watering 
dishes. Shaila’s demeanor still had a semblance of anxiety, and Arif 
was quiet. Amanda made a few attempts to break the heavy silence, but 
her efforts were futile. It was a clear sign that the trip had run its 
course. I proposed that we leave right after breakfast. It was 
wholeheartedly supported. 

While Nil cleared the table and served tea, Amanda and Shaila went
inside to pack their bags. I sipped my tea and kept my eyes away from 
Arif. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” said Arif, his speech extremely slow in
pace, as if he were calculating each phrase that came out of his mouth. 
“You’ll forget it, right?” 

“I’m not the one you offended,” I said. 

Nil walked in. Arif looked at him. 

“Here,” said Arif and brought out a hundred taka bill and held it out
for Nil. Nil hesitated and Arif insisted. I gestured to Nil to accept. 

“What the hell was that all about?” I said when Nil cleared the table. 

“You wanted me to make amends, right?” 

“Yeah, but not by insulting the guy even more.” 

“What do you mean? It was a peace offering. Listen Nabeel, not all of us
can be as pure as you, as righteous as you are all the time, ok? I try 
to be good, alright? I try all the time. What else do you guys want 
from me?” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

Arif exhaled heavily and said, “You and your goddamn haunted tea garden
trip. I’ll never forgive you if it costs me my marriage.” He left. 

The drive back to Dhaka redefined the phrase “pin-drop-silence.” For six
hours we sat in the car in catatonia; not even the radio was turned on. 
Back at Arif’s parents’ place we unloaded their luggage and said our 
goodbyes. Our flight to Chicago was scheduled for that coming Saturday, 
which was three days away. I wanted to have nothing to do with them 
till then. They felt the same way. It was an unspoken agreement. 

On the way to my parents’ home Amanda asked me about the night before. 

“I wish I could sleep like you, baby,” I said, “I’d be so much better
off.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Amanda. 

“I mean I wouldn’t have to stay awake through anything I wasn’t supposed
to know.” 


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