Subratoo and I were engaged in that debate again.
"That's not possible, dude." said I.
"But I saw her. She was here yesterday night."
"She has been dead for a month now," said I defending my point. "You loved her and you're obsessed with her even after she's gone and that's the cause of your delusion. It isn't her spirit; it's your mind."
I have always been a rationalist; my mind wasn't prepared to accept even a tiny bit of what he related of her return.
Julia died last year, on the night before her and Subratoo's wedding, in a car accident. Although Subratoo was in the same car, he survived that fierce crash; Julia wasn't that lucky though. In reality she was luckier than him. His survival was the cause of his constant torment. He wished he could die instead of her.
Subratoo had been my best friend since we were four. We played together, we fought over small things, we backed each other in times of need. Then, my father was transferred to a different city, I went to college and got a job. In years, we only exchanged a few phone calls and text messages. Then he told me that he was going to get married soon. Unfortunately, the Command had sent me to the North-East with my company to eliminate the armed rebels there. So I told him that I couldn't be there on his marriage day--which unfortunately never arrived. On the day which was supposed to be his wedding day, I called him. It was then when he told me of the unfortunate accident that had taken place the previous night. I could feel the pain in his voice, which had gone hoarse of weeping, I believed.
When the rebels in the North-East were under control, I could arrange a two month vacation to my grandmother’s place.
"You don't know how real it was. I'm sure my senses didn't deceive me. She was here...She was here." Subratoo said, resting on the boundary wall of the terrace, looking into the dark infinity and gazing the night sky when he'd finished.
I knew that he wasn't going to get contented with my pure reasoning and so I gave up trying. Then a breeze of wind came...
"I feel her presence, Subash. Please, go. She won't show up unless you're gone."
I somewhat got offended by this, but I didn't resist and left.
Next morning I went to his house and found the door locked up. I called him and he said he was in his office and would be home by nine in night.
I returned in the night around ten. We talked--about his life and mine--till the midnight and then he asked me to leave, for she'd come again. He said that she visited her at the midnight daily.
It all had become a routine from then on--I visited his place around ten, we hung around till midnight and then I'd leave.
Then, there was a Sunday. I thought I could go to his place even in the daylight but when I reached his home, I found it locked again. I called him to inquire and he said that he was at the cemetery, at Julia's tomb. I thought for a moment that I should go there too, but then decided to give him the moment of privacy.
Subratoo was my best friend, but he was troubled. He had been thinking about Julia and her spirit too much. In these years working for the army, I had killed and seen so many getting killed, but no one's spirit ever returned.
It was September 19th—Subratoo’s birthday. I knew he remained busy in the day, so I waited for the night. He needed some refreshment, so I bought a cake and some soft drink bottles for him.
In the night, my grandmother saw me leaving with the cake.
“Going somewhere, Subash?” she said.
“Yes, Grandma. To my friend’s place. It’s his birthday.” replied I.
“What’s your friend’s name, Subash?” inquired she.
“Subratoo, Grandma. Don’t you remember the boy I used to play with when I was a kid? You called him Subru Babu.” I answered.
“What? Subratoo? Subratoo Chatterjee?” She looked puzzled.
“Yes, Grandma. Why, what’s the matter?”
“He died last month in a car crash with his fiancée,” she said in seriousness, “Did’t you know that?”
“No, grandma, he survived. Though Julia, his fiancée died in the crash.” I told her.
“I’m quite sure they both died.” she said, tickling her nose.
“You must be mistaken. Okay, I’m going now.”—with this I left the house.
I reached Subratoo’s house. It was locked again. I thought he’d be at his office. I dialed his cell phone number…it said that the number was unreachable. So I knocked at his neighbour’s house to inquire if they knew where Subratoo would be at this time.
A lady opened the door. I asked her if she knew where Subratoo had gone.
“Who’s Subratoo?”—she asked a question in the answer to my question.
“The guy who lives there.” said I, pointing to Subratoo’s house.
“What? That guy? That guy died a month ago. That house has been locked since then.” She replied.
“What rubbish! I’ve been talking to that guy for a week face to face.”—I had started to get little worried.
“You need a psychiatrist.”—she flung the door shut on my face.
I tried several other neighbours, but they all related the same story that my grandma and that lady had already told. Sweat had wetted my shirt and my face. I tried dialing his cell phone number again…it wasn’t reachable. I checked my phone’s Recent Calls list. All the entries that described my conversations with him had vanished. I checked my inbox—all the text messages I received from him in the month were not there.
I never felt the breeze of air so cold and scary. The rustle of the trees and the dark night made me feel vulnerable. I dropped the box of cake and the plastic bag that contained the soft drink bottles on the road. I felt no strength in my knees; I bowed down.
I must have spent about an hour in that position—resting on my knees in the middle of that lonely road—when honking from a car brought me back to my senses.
Next day I reached a local library, searched for a month old newspaper. It said:
“August 2nd, 2011
A truck and a car collided on National Highway-7 last night. The sources say that the truck driver was drunk which led to this fierce accident. Both of the passengers in the car, Julia Williams and Subratoo Chaterjee, died in the car crash. The police have arrested the truck driver.”
My rational mind fell into shreds.
