Tunnel vission

The tunnel smelled like death.

That was the first thought that went through Pratap Kulkarni’s mind as he stood in front of it. The tunnel gaped in front of him like the maw of an ancient monster. The inner walls, once yellow, were now a dark, rusty brown. The ceiling was lined with cobwebs, and the cool night breeze brought its scent to Pratap’s nose. The smell of old rubber tires and the sickly-sweet scent of dead leaves.

The tunnel had been closed down for a year now. It had been a disaster. The lighting had been poor from the start. Half the bulbs that had been installed went defunct in a month.  The rest had flickered dimly, causing a spate of violent accidents. Finally, with the death of a businessman last year, the tunnel had been out of commission.

The route of the cars had been changed, so the cars had to go around the mountain to get into the city. It took 40 minutes. The tunnel would have taken 5. But nobody objected to the tunnel being closed off. Everyone agreed that the thing was plain spooky.

Pratap gazed at the mouth of the tunnel. His legs were shivering, but not from the cold. He had heard enough ghost stories about this tunnel to last him a lifetime. Rumours about the ghosts of the accident victims ran wild and he wasn’t very anxious to see if they were true. But he had no choice.

He sighed and looked at the parcel in his hand. A toy car, gift wrapped in yellow paper for his son. It was Christmas Eve. His wife would be staying up to see him. They always prayed at midnight on Christmas. It was more of a necessity than a tradition. He looked at his watch. 11.30pm. He had to get home soon. The normal way into the city took an hour to go by. The tunnel would be much faster. He could get home before Christmas.

The solitary lamppost next to him flickered, the dancing beams casting frightening shadows at the foot of the tunnel, not helping the gnawing fear in his chest. He glanced at the post, noticing a piece of paper stuck at the bottom, like a pamphlet of some sort. It looked new.

He took a deep breath. “There are no such things as ghosts,” He said to himself. The tunnel seemed to be laughing at him, the shadows beckoning him forward. He took his phone out of his pocket to call his wife, and cursed softly.

The display was shattered. He had forgotten that he’d broken it earlier in the day. It had fallen to the floor from the second floor office window, all smashed up. He threw the pieces into the bushes nearby and looked at the tunnel again; his face contorted in a grimace, and started to walk.

He stood a couple of feet from the tunnel now, and peered inside. It was completely dark. Not a single source of light was visible anywhere. He couldn’t even see the lights at the other end. His heart beat quickened. “Stupid,” He told himself, setting foot inside the tunnel. He wasn’t claustrophobic. There was nothing to be scared of.

That was precisely when an old story about the tunnel came to his mind. This was the one that had given him nightmares for weeks. He heard it from the people who worked with him. A year ago, on Christmas Eve, a pizza delivery boy had tried to walk through the tunnel, but he was killed in an accident. A truck had run over him, crushing every bone in his body, and decapitating him. They said the head was never found, and the ghost of the pizza boy was the one most people had reported seeing, searching for its missing head.

“Old wives tales,” He thought. He had to get home. Tonight was special. Very special. He stepped inside the tunnel.

He walked slowly, his feet echoing with every step. His eyes darted left and right, trying to get accustomed to the darkness. A single line of sweat was running down his back, tracing a perfect line down his spine. His breathing was getting shallow and ragged by the second, his heart still thumping in his chest.

The darkness of the tunnel seemed to press down on his face. He seemed to be suffocating under the absence of light, his breath coming out in wheezes. He turned around, looking for the way he had come, but there was no light there as well. He seemed to have been trapped in a vortex of darkness.

His hands were trembling as he patted his pockets for his cell phone. Too late, he remembered how he had thrown the pieces away. It was broken anyway, there was no way he could have used it. He blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the sweat creeping down his forehead and into his eyes. His ears strained for some noise- the chirping of insects or the rumble of cars from the outside- but he could hear none, save for his own heart, which was sprinting in his chest, the sound as though magnified ten times.

He was close to tears now, the numerous accounts of ghost stories coming back to him, as he imagined one ghostly form to another, passing before his eyes, his feet staggering wildly, trying to find the exit. There seemed to be no way out. He moved slowly, his hand desperately searching for some kind of hold on the tunnel wall, but only finding empty air.

Then suddenly, he heard a noise. He stopped, his senses sharper. His ears strained to recognise what the sound was. Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap. Someone was coming!

He went perfectly rigid, not moving a muscle. He wasn’t even breathing, his heart rate now doubled. His nose took in the musty scent of the tunnel, now with a small scent of something else. Something like… was that pizza?

His eyes went wide. He was the faintest outline of a man, coming towards him. Only a rippling shape, just about decipherable in the inky darkness. The man was shorter than Pratap, approaching slowly. Pratap looked at him fearfully, as the man’s hand went to his pocket, and took something out.

A faint light appeared in the man’s hand. It was a cell phone, and the time showed 11.50 pm. The man was dressed in a red shirt and blue jeans, holding a pizza delivery bag. The hands were wheatish in complexion, with short fingers.

“Just a pizza delivery boy. Probably making a late night delivery,” Thought Pratap, relief filling his heart. That was when he looked up to the Pizza boy’s face.

He had no head.

Where there should have been a head, there was nothing. A portion of empty, black space, under which the neck and body hovered, lit by the faint blue light of the cellphone.

Pratap stiffened. His whole body shook as he backed away, a finger pointed at the ghost. He was trembling violently, trying to scream. But no sound came out. It was as if the sight had frozen his vocal cords, rendering him unable to speak. The headless man stood calmly, phone in one hand. And he reached out with the other, going for Pratap’s face.

Pratap ran. He turned the other way and ran for his life. The headless man watched him run until he became part of the shadows of the cave, and was not visible anymore.

The headless man stood there for another moment, trying to hear the footsteps of the man who had just ran. He heard nothing. And then he started to laugh. He laughed hard, doubling over and clutching his stomach. He straightened up and took off the pitch-black towel which was covering his face and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf.

“Wish the guys from work had seen that!” he thought to himself.

He walked slowly, holding the mobile phone in front of him, grinning to himself. He had planned to dress up like the headless pizza boy and scare someone for ages. He had finally tried it out today, and the result had been fantastic! He chuckled again, as he came out of the tunnel, breathing in the cool night air.

He stretched his arms, and ran his fingers through his air, thinking about the dude who had run away.

“Nice,” He thought. “Maybe I’ll do this some other time,” He looked at his surroundings, and saw the old lamppost, the old bulb inside it flickering away. It was time for him to go home. He walked a couple of paces and looked down, cursing. His shoe had come undone.

He looked around and went across to the lamppost and put his foot on it, tying the laces. His eyes wandered over the rusty post, and fell upon a piece of paper stuck to the bottom. It looked new. He bent down and read it. The text was small, but not hard to make out. It was like an obituary, the kind you see in newspapers. It said:

“First death anniversary. Died inside the tunnel on Christmas Eve last year, hit by a car. Mourned by his wife and son. You will live on in our hearts.”

It sounded cheesy, like the people who had printed it hadn’t wanted to spend a lot of money on it. He glanced at the name under the black and white photograph of the dead guy which was under the text.

“Pratap Kulkarni.”

The picture of the man seemed vaguely familiar. Like someone you once knew but now forgotten. He gazed at the picture intently, hoping for some flash of recognition. None came.

He sighed and got up again, dusting his knees.

“Ghosts,” he said to himself and smiled. Ghosts didn’t exist.

He started to walk slowly, away from the tunnel, towards home, the solitary lamppost winking behind him; like they shared some dark secret.

Cycle of my life

That day, old man was leaving us, forever!!!

I heard my mother calling relatives and friends, one-by-one, on phone and telling the news in sobbing voice, “They will take out ventilator today at around 3 PM. You may come to see him before that.”
 

A week before that day, when he was taken to hospital, my father was helping grandpa to lie on back seat of our car. I could not forget grandpa’s last unanswered reply when I, while trying to control my tears, asked my mother whether he would be all right. Grandpa called me by weak gesture and softly caressed my hair as he generally used to do. But, very soon, his hand slipped away from my head, holding left part of his chest to unsuccessfully stop the rising pain. He was struggling to breathe normally. He was the same man who once almost ran to market in heavy rain to buy inhaler for me, when I lost the one in school and was little breathless because of asthma I had. But when it came to him that day I could not do much but just cried. My mother embraced me saying grandpa would come back soon.

A night before that day, at hospital’s reception my mother was consoling my distressed looking father to accept the destiny, “it has to happen one day.” I did not understand what it meant but simply closed my eyes and prayed God to let my grandpa be well soon. My grandpa once told me that prayers from children are pure and they surely reach God. But it did not happen, perhaps.

That day, we reached hospital at 1 PM. We went inside. Security at reception did not stop me that day. I was following my mother trying to meet her pace, climbing stairs, to ICU where grandpa was admitted. A nurse guided us to a room. After a long week gap I saw my grandpa — my best friend. Grandpa was sleeping peacefully on hospital bed. There were many small TV and radio alike boxes with tiny lights. Few boxes were making “beep-beep” sound in rhythm. I knew that the sound was fading heart beats of my best friend — my grandpa. Then I saw my father, with red and swollen eyes, sitting closure to grandpa’s bed. My mother could not control herself. She started sobbing loudly kneeling at my father shoulder. My father gently stood up and took my crying mother out of the room.

I was left alone with the most adorable man of my life. I went closure to him, where my father was sitting just few seconds back. I watched the face of my dear grandpa. There was no pain — it was calm and composed. Even with few plastic tubes in his nose and mouth and a white foggy gas mask on it, I found his face quite charming and graceful. I started caressing grandpa’s hair. I wished that he utter my name… just once… It was the same mouth that told me so many stories, every day, until I slept. I was waiting for his eyes to be opened… to see me last time… but he continued sleeping… these were the old eyes that never got tired enjoying watching my toys, my drawing, my homework, my mark sheets… Then I looked at his hand. It was same hand that used to caress my hair. I held his palm in my both hand. I tried measuring my palm with his. Nothing had changed. His palm was still larger than mine. I touched his index finger… I held it last time… holding it always assured me safe feeling in busy markets and crowded places…

I took out my inhaler from my pocket and kept it on a nearby table where already many medicines were kept scattered. I remembered once my grandpa told me that the inhaler was my life saviour… I murmured in grandpa’s ear, “Don’t worry Grandpa, you would get well soon. I kept here inhaler to save you.”…

“It’s a boy” exhilarated voice of my father brought me back in my present. Today, after eighteen years later, on the same floor of the same hospital I found my father rushing towards a nurse who was carrying a just born baby. “What are you doing there… come… look at him… he resembles ‘ditto’ your grandpa”, almost shouted my father in excessive excitement, carefully holding the baby in his arms.

But I saw my grandpa in my father more than in my just born son. A new cycle of life has started… to repeat itself once again

Photo credit: faustfoundation
          Your story club

Luv u 2 <3

  I knew that you knew I love you a lot, more than anything else in this mortal world. I love you so much that I could not ever think of anything except you: you are my imagination, my inspiration, my breaths, my heartbeats…

Whenever I see sky in night, I remember, only one thing, Nisha, you, my love. You liked rain. I often saw you, from balcony of my apartment at eighth floor, a hand with green color bracelet coming out from balcony of third floor, trying to feel and collect the rain drops, as much as possible. Nisha, many times I took out my face and tried kissing the droplets, just for you, just to see that my feeling reaches you.

Once I met you in the elevator. You looked very happy. I could not believe my luck, Just you and me in that small lift. Door closed. A tiny gold bell rang in my ears and broke the dream I was dreaming from my very awaken eyes, “which floor?” I could not answer. I stumbled badly. Third floor came quicker than return of my consciousness. I still did not answered, “eighth floor”. Door opened and you left. I was awaiting you to look back at me. Door was closing… before I became disappointed, through slit of closing doors, I could see your lovely face turned back to trigger life again in just dying heart. My left foot was folded and resting on elevator’s wall. I do not know how long I was standing in the standstill elevator with close door imagining you standing beside me…

I met you again on same day in super market. You smiled when you found me staring at you, continuously, unable to take away my sight from you. I even forgot common etiquette. But your smile brought my conscious back. I felt quite embarrassing, caught staring a young girl in a crowded super market. I took away my eyes keeping your smile as static frame for them. While returning we came together and you started the conversation

“Hello, I am Nisha”

“…”

“Hello???”

“nnn…nice… tttt… to meet you”

“We already met many times. Do you have name?”

“yyyyy…yeah, oh sss…sorry, aaa.. I am Vvvv… Vishal”

“Nice name, what do you do?”

[live for you, wait for you, try to feel your presence] “aaa…I rrr… write…”

“wow… a writer… what do you write?”

[about you, about my love, about my eternal love] “… sssss… story…”

“Great”

That’s it. We talked little more about which floor I stay, about family, hobbies… We reached our apartment. There was an elderly pair waiting for elevator. No further talk, just a “bye” while you getting out at third floor.

I was still on seventh sky when I reached on eighth floor. I was feeling that you were with me. I could feel freshness of your presence … … …

[Ting Tong ... ... I was writing this page in my diary and was still writing when this door bell interrupted it..., ... ...after 10 minutes, I was breathing heavily. I tried to save this page from reaching you. The page was almost torn but finally it rested in your hands. You came to my house to know more about my stories and found me writing and simply snatched the page away... I tried stopping you but could not. You started reading it closing yourself in balcony and leaving me alone in living hall. I was feeling helpless and unable to follow you without my artificial leg. I tried, as a last attempt, pursuing you not to ruin me, "PPPP... please dddd... do not rrr... read it." But mercilessly you denied my request. I watched you through glass door... your expression was changing very fast. I was afraid. I was afraid to lose you... Then you looked at me and asked firmly, "Pen"... ... ... "I said PEN". I gave that to you... my only potent weapon. You wrote something on the page, opened the glass door, kept the page on the table and ran away. It took me few seconds to reach at table...]

… … … luv u 2