It was, Ramlal told me that January morning, the metal rod that saved Chandan. "If he hadn't held on to it he would have been dead by now," Ramlal said. "He must thank God he still has some breath left in him." Chandan, meanwhile, was sitting in a corner with his head resting between his bone-thin knees, looking the look of someone severed from reality. I could barely make out his gaunt features. I asked him how he was, but he choked on his own words and I decided to leave it at that, concentrating, instead, on what his friend had to say. For me it had been one of those Mumbai nights when sleep just wouldn't oblige. For want of anything better to do, I decided to put on my shoes and go for a jog. It was 2am. I reached Ramada Hotel near the Juhu seafront at around 3am. That is where I saw the two, standing at the same place where I had met them many times on my way back from office, peddling coffee and cigarettes, for Mumbai, in spite of its insanity, affords you the luxury of having coffee on the road at 3 in the morning. Between sips, as he went back in time and narrated the events of that night, I asked Ramlal if he could take me to the site of the misfortune so that I could see for myself and try and reconstruct the events. He was willing, but Chandan was not. After a little coaxing, however, he agreed, because he wanted to show proof of the fact that he really was touched by something intangible that night. "I have told him many times not to go to the beach at unearthly hours, no matter what the temptation," Ramlal said. "That part of land is known for such events. The best thing to do is to mind your business and keep away from trouble. He is my responsibility and if something happens to him it is my neck..." Chandan interjected for the first time: "But all that the man wanted was some coffee. So what if I went to the beach? I never suspected it was going to be like this!" As we walked past the closed shops, the sound of the sea could be heard in the dark, though it was difficult to figure out how far the water had receded. The beach was awash with litter, a natural havoc of the revelry that usually goes on till nearly midnight when there are hundreds there. From what I could gather, it had started off like any other night for Chandan. He had spent the early part of the night on the beach, hawking his wares from the cycle, the carrier of which had a container in which milk, hot water and sugar were premixed. It was well past midnight when he was preparing to leave for the spot he would spend the night -- a good 200 metres ahead, in front of the hotel -- that the drama played out. There was, Chandan said, a man standing on the beach who wanted coffee. He called out to Chandan, who, on any other day, would not have bothered to oblige, for he was standing alone in the darkness and, as mentioned earlier, had been told not to venture into the beach at corrupt hours. "I don't know why I went there in the first place, perhaps because he was a customer..." Chandan said. He walked towards the waters. The man passed a 100-rupee note to him without looking back. "Where am I supposed to get change at this time?" an irritated Chandan asked. And the man turned. At first Chandan thought there was something odd about the guy. "His eyes were completely blank," he told me as we reached the spot. It was only when Chandan looked at his hands and feet that the winds from the sea brought home the realisation that it was not a man, but some kind of an apparition. "His fingers were connected to the wrist and the two palms were facing outwards. It was the same with the feet. The heel was facing outwards and somehow the legs were connected to the toes. Also, there was something airy about him, as if he could pass through anything," he told me. To buttress his point he pointed to some footprints, which I could not really make out, mixed as they were with the thousands that men, women and children had left in the evening. For a moment Chandan felt his insides turning to water, and the only thing that he could do, which Ramlal said saved his life, was to hold on to the metal rod which ran between the neck and the seat of the bicycle - ghosts, it is said, cannot harm you if you have the good luck of having metal in the vicinity. "He began to laugh at me. After what seemed like an eternity I turned the cumbersome cycle -- even as the coffee-container was threatening to fall down -- and began to run as fast as I could," he said. I asked him what the man was wearing, but by then Chandan was in no condition to reply. He spoke furtively, but did not make any sense. Hanging between reason and disbelief and the 'proof' of unreality, I walked back, leaving them to talk about their good fortune. I went there the next night, and did see a few people walking in the same area at that time, but didn't doubt the reality of their existence. The only conclusion I could come to was that the apparition may have been the invention of a drunk mind... But then, as far as I could make it, Chandan wasn't drunk. Since then, Salil Kumar always carries a piece of iron on his person. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture!   Write a Diary!
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