I have always been interested in knowing the unexplainable, in finding the truths of the paranormal and afterlife and in pondering over them. I have liked mostly those books, movies and stories that somehow enable me to think more and more about them, to go deeper in order to quench the curiosity and thereby, hopefully, come closer to the unknown.
However, the task seemed next to impossible, until a few weeks back. It of course is not that easy to defy years of practice of the exorcists, demonologists and yogis and come face to face with the other world just without a qualification. But something happened to me recently that blew me enough to believe that we, the humans, are nothing but a huge pack of mystery-solvers—I mean, in some way or other, all our hunt comes down to this, our only purpose—and that there can be just about anything around the corner. ANYTHING!
Once I confronted the event, it was, first of all, more than difficult to absorb it and let my brain draw some meaning out of it. And it had been an almost impossible task to decide to share it with you all; since I was, and still am, pretty sure you would all sneer at it all in the end, thinking I am some sort of a god damn retard, some madman who is trying to fool you with his utterly dull-witted ghost stories. But finally, I made up my mind. I cannot keep it any longer, and I really need to put it out there, for it is no joke. It is not something one can just face and forget. I’ve got to be courageous enough to confess, no matter how many people laugh at it and think I am a fool.
I know things like this are indigestible. They simply do not get down the gut. A so-called rational man will never ever believe it to be true at any cost, because, well, he cannot. But since I have finally been face to face with this and so, know it is not in the least fictitious, I request you to take everything written here absolutely at face value and, if you are open-minded enough to absorb even a bit of it, just give it a deep thought. If not, at least read, do your research, go deeper and try to find the truth for yourselves.
Ever since my siblings have left home for higher studies, the room is all for myself. I live and work there all alone, without my parents sneaking in. Two or three weeks back, I was in my room, reading a book. It was around 1 o’ clock midnight. I should add that I have a bad habit of staying awake late in the night, till around 3-4 AM. I pass that time reading and thinking and writing, and I go to bed only when I feel like it. If not, I stay awake until the crack of dawn.
My personal diary was lying on the other bed in the room. The windows were open—it was a windy night. At around 2.30 AM, I turned out the lights and went to sleep.
I woke up the next day at 11 AM (yes, I am a late riser), made the bed, kept my diary in my shelf and set out for the day. I did not open the diary then, because, of course, I did not have to.
I should share that in the morning, my room was reeking badly of some foul smell. And I was told that the maid had found cat shit beneath the other bed (by ‘other bed’, I mean the bed that I do not generally use, where my diary was kept last night), and so the smell. She had cleaned it well enough, though.
After lunch, when my parents went for an afternoon nap, I decided to write a bit. As I opened my diary and flipped the pages, I was taken aback to see a page scribbled badly with a pencil. I of course had not done it. And I do not let anybody else even touch my diary, let alone write something in it. Looking at it, I made out that it was the word ‘talk’ written in there. It was written as if somebody did not know how to write a legible hand or had recently learnt the ABCs of it, like a kid, and thus, tried to write ‘talk’, as if she wanted to talk, to make a conversation. It was the most illegible handwriting I had ever witnessed. The rest of the page was scratched just as badly with a pencil.
When my parents woke up, I asked them if it was one of them who had touched my diary. They told me they did not even know I had one, giving me a confused look. I did not ask any further questions. They were not lying. My mind was absorbed in deep brooding and, seeing the lost look on my face, they asked what the matter was. I said, ‘Nothing.’
I brushed it aside, believing some friend of mine might have done it when I had taken it to school or coaching.
I wrote incessantly that night, and went to sleep at 6 AM, this time, putting my diary beneath the bed mattress so no one could find it.
I had barely managed to sleep for 2 hours when the maid’s loud scream woke me up. She had found a big mouse lying dead beneath the other bed in my room. Its body was stained with blood and nipped hither and thither. Apparently, it had become a cat’s prey last night. It was undoubtedly a fresh kill. Oh, and there was cat shit again, which confirmed our guess.
As soon as I was ready for the day, I opened my diary, a little portion of my mind still moping over those scribbles. I checked it thoroughly, as always, before beginning to write, trying to conjure up thoughts before making the start. My heart skipped a beat when I found another page fraught with scribble-scrabbles—the same scratches, the same dark pencil marks, the same patches, the same indecipherable handwriting but a different word written in between them: ‘छत’ (a Hindi word for ‘terrace’). Shiver ran down my spine, my face drenched in sweat and my heart racing. My mind lost its thoughts for a while. It was not a joke, nor a prank. It was not a happenstance. It was not teasing, either. Surely, it was a visitor but not an acquainted one. My hands trembled as I turned the pages. There were several ‘छत's’ written in a few more pages.
We may find it difficult to even get out of bed at night after watching horror movies but when we sense glimpses of it in reality, trust me, the curiosity triggers and we agree to go beyond measures. Not sure of others but such was the case with me.
At around 12 PM, I rushed to the terrace. It was a hot summer afternoon so nobody was up there. I scanned the entire place. As I looked left, I saw a black cat standing on the ledge. It was looking intently at me with its deep yellow eyes. I got fixed at my place lest it should run away. I was almost lost in its oceanic eyes. They were so deep, so penetrating, as if the cat wanted to talk through its eyes. All of a sudden, it jumped down.
I ran up there and looked down to see where it had gone. It was walking far down the roof of the adjacent building. It stopped for a while, looked above, as if to pay me a final glance and vanished into the buildings.
I stood there, lifeless. I felt a strange surge of emotions flowing through my nerves. My legs went cold and I was unable to walk back. I don't know why I felt that way merely after seeing a cat. My mind was lost devising a way to chase that little black cat that stood right here as though waiting for me. I felt like a fool. Somebody scribbles shit on the pages of my diary and I run to the terrace to see a cat feeling like it had called me down here. How god damn stupid! Wait, but who was that someone? Who wrote those things into my diary? And why did she write ‘Chhat’ this many times? ‘Who should I talk to about this matter?’ I thought. It sounded too stupid to be shared.
I came down home, tore those pages and threw them into the dustbin. I lay in my bed, facing nothing but the ceiling, trying to make sense of what was happening to me. My whole body was cold as an ice cube, and I was perspiring nonetheless. It was only a cat, wasn’t it? I was unable to close my eyes and whenever I did, the image of that black cat flashed before my mind’s eye. My eyes burnt so much they filled with tears. I was feeling a strange sensation in my body, a different vibration, the kind I had never felt before. It was not positive to be very certain. What I was feeling was beyond me. It was so indescribable that it hurt. I did not know whom to share it with. What would I say? That presumably, a black cat with deep yellow eyes called me down to the terrace and ever since I looked into her eyes, I have been into pain, an inexplicable state of turmoil? I preferred not to disclose it to anybody.
That night, I determined on finding the answer. I deliberately left my diary on the other bed, turned the whole room as dark as possible, with not a tinge of light entering the room and lay awake in my bed, awaiting what was to come. At about 3 o’ clock midnight, I heard the cats fight outside, howling clamorously. I looked out the window. Right in front of me, I saw the cat with the same features as the one I had seen on the terrace ledge in the afternoon—black, small, and yellow eyes, as deep as the Pacific, looking at me, and it had grabbed the other cat’s neck, blood draining out of its mouth. It was a horrible sight. I shooed it away but it did not move. Unlike any other animal, it stood still. Its eyes were fixed on me. I closed the window, trying to look away, my hands shivering and my face drenched with perspiration.
However, unable to keep my desperation, I opened the window to see where it had gone.
Holy fucking crap!
A little girl stood right in front of me. I was blown at the sight. She looked about 5-6 years old. Her eyes were deep brown. She was fair and she was clad in a stained blue frock. She had a skinny physique. Her face revealed no expressions—not a single one—making her look helpless. I gasped, panic rising up my chest. A little girl is standing out the window, at fucking 3 o’ clock midnight. What was happening? I probably was not supposed to go mad. Did I need to go out and ask her whence she came? Did I need to call the police for her help? What the fuck was I to do?
I said, my voice quivering, ‘Kya chahiye? (‘What do you want?’)’
She remained silent.
My hands and my legs were shaking. I was choked but I managed somehow to speak.
I repeated, ‘Kya chahti ho? (‘What do you want?’)’
‘Chhat pe chal ke baat karein? (‘Let us go to the terrace and talk, shall we?’)’
I involuntarily began walking back. My heart was throbbing out of my chest. I had nearly fainted. She began to walk away and vanished in the dark.
I felt like vomiting. I did not know what to do, how to react. I racked my brain to reason it out but of course, it was not reasonable. I tried to pull myself together. My hands are still shivering over the keyboard as the image of that girl flashes before my mind.
I opened my diary. It was as it had been. No new scribbles.
The clock struck 4. The birds began to chirp. And I was still standing in my room.
Ever since, I have been researching about the paranormal. I have read several books dealing with otherworldly incidents, read a hundred and one anecdotes relevant to the subject and tried to delve as deep into the matter as possible. What I have made out is, these are not mere fairy tales and fictions. They are real and they make a lot more sense than we can imagine. Just because we have not seen them does not mean they do not exist. We have trapped the mind into limits when the truth is that it is limitless, able to perceive the unseen, to know the unknown and to visit the other world. Only a moron will say it is false.
It is not the mind’s fault but ours. Instead of kindling it with the true knowledge, we have been filling it with more and more information, as if it were a vessel. And what we do not see or find in science, we criticize. Well, the result of our arrogance is, what the so-called modern human mind does not see or understand, it either discards or criticizes. It does not in the least want to accept it is not aware yet and be honest enough to say, ‘I do not know.’
“There are an infinite number of universes existing side by side and through which our consciousness constantly pass. In these universes, all possibilities exist. You are alive in some, long dead in others, and never existed in still others. Many of our ‘ghosts’ could indeed be versions of people going about their business in a parallel universe or another time—or both.”
–Paulo F. Eno
“I fully believe in ghosts. I have, my entire life. The first house I ever lived in was haunted. There was a grave of a man in the backyard. I was just a baby then, but my parents would tell me that every night, at the same time, they would hear someone walking up the stairs.”
--Meaghan Rath
“I believe in ghosts now because of New Orleans. I never did before. I was so skeptical, but now I have seen one, which sounds insane, but it is true.”
--Brett Dier
“A person terrified with the imagination of specters, is more reasonable than one who thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous and groundless.”
--Joseph Addison
[Note: I am still willing to find the truth about the girl. What did she want to talk about? And why only on the terrace? Through this narrative, my only goal is to ignite your interest in finding out what we, as humans, are capable of besides scoring greats marks in exams or going to a top university or landing a high-paying job or marrying and having kids. It is up to you to criticize or praise, or leave both aside and set out for the discovery of the infinite world within yourself, in order to be able to know if you are only limited to this body or there is some other reality. Remember: it is not just about the ghosts. It is about seeing the world we do not know—a world that the minds cannot reason and the scientists cannot analyze, a world that has a different vibration, a world that consists both of the gods and the demons.]
However, the task seemed next to impossible, until a few weeks back. It of course is not that easy to defy years of practice of the exorcists, demonologists and yogis and come face to face with the other world just without a qualification. But something happened to me recently that blew me enough to believe that we, the humans, are nothing but a huge pack of mystery-solvers—I mean, in some way or other, all our hunt comes down to this, our only purpose—and that there can be just about anything around the corner. ANYTHING!
Once I confronted the event, it was, first of all, more than difficult to absorb it and let my brain draw some meaning out of it. And it had been an almost impossible task to decide to share it with you all; since I was, and still am, pretty sure you would all sneer at it all in the end, thinking I am some sort of a god damn retard, some madman who is trying to fool you with his utterly dull-witted ghost stories. But finally, I made up my mind. I cannot keep it any longer, and I really need to put it out there, for it is no joke. It is not something one can just face and forget. I’ve got to be courageous enough to confess, no matter how many people laugh at it and think I am a fool.
I know things like this are indigestible. They simply do not get down the gut. A so-called rational man will never ever believe it to be true at any cost, because, well, he cannot. But since I have finally been face to face with this and so, know it is not in the least fictitious, I request you to take everything written here absolutely at face value and, if you are open-minded enough to absorb even a bit of it, just give it a deep thought. If not, at least read, do your research, go deeper and try to find the truth for yourselves.
Ever since my siblings have left home for higher studies, the room is all for myself. I live and work there all alone, without my parents sneaking in. Two or three weeks back, I was in my room, reading a book. It was around 1 o’ clock midnight. I should add that I have a bad habit of staying awake late in the night, till around 3-4 AM. I pass that time reading and thinking and writing, and I go to bed only when I feel like it. If not, I stay awake until the crack of dawn.
My personal diary was lying on the other bed in the room. The windows were open—it was a windy night. At around 2.30 AM, I turned out the lights and went to sleep.
I woke up the next day at 11 AM (yes, I am a late riser), made the bed, kept my diary in my shelf and set out for the day. I did not open the diary then, because, of course, I did not have to.
I should share that in the morning, my room was reeking badly of some foul smell. And I was told that the maid had found cat shit beneath the other bed (by ‘other bed’, I mean the bed that I do not generally use, where my diary was kept last night), and so the smell. She had cleaned it well enough, though.
After lunch, when my parents went for an afternoon nap, I decided to write a bit. As I opened my diary and flipped the pages, I was taken aback to see a page scribbled badly with a pencil. I of course had not done it. And I do not let anybody else even touch my diary, let alone write something in it. Looking at it, I made out that it was the word ‘talk’ written in there. It was written as if somebody did not know how to write a legible hand or had recently learnt the ABCs of it, like a kid, and thus, tried to write ‘talk’, as if she wanted to talk, to make a conversation. It was the most illegible handwriting I had ever witnessed. The rest of the page was scratched just as badly with a pencil.
When my parents woke up, I asked them if it was one of them who had touched my diary. They told me they did not even know I had one, giving me a confused look. I did not ask any further questions. They were not lying. My mind was absorbed in deep brooding and, seeing the lost look on my face, they asked what the matter was. I said, ‘Nothing.’
I brushed it aside, believing some friend of mine might have done it when I had taken it to school or coaching.
I wrote incessantly that night, and went to sleep at 6 AM, this time, putting my diary beneath the bed mattress so no one could find it.
I had barely managed to sleep for 2 hours when the maid’s loud scream woke me up. She had found a big mouse lying dead beneath the other bed in my room. Its body was stained with blood and nipped hither and thither. Apparently, it had become a cat’s prey last night. It was undoubtedly a fresh kill. Oh, and there was cat shit again, which confirmed our guess.
As soon as I was ready for the day, I opened my diary, a little portion of my mind still moping over those scribbles. I checked it thoroughly, as always, before beginning to write, trying to conjure up thoughts before making the start. My heart skipped a beat when I found another page fraught with scribble-scrabbles—the same scratches, the same dark pencil marks, the same patches, the same indecipherable handwriting but a different word written in between them: ‘छत’ (a Hindi word for ‘terrace’). Shiver ran down my spine, my face drenched in sweat and my heart racing. My mind lost its thoughts for a while. It was not a joke, nor a prank. It was not a happenstance. It was not teasing, either. Surely, it was a visitor but not an acquainted one. My hands trembled as I turned the pages. There were several ‘छत's’ written in a few more pages.
We may find it difficult to even get out of bed at night after watching horror movies but when we sense glimpses of it in reality, trust me, the curiosity triggers and we agree to go beyond measures. Not sure of others but such was the case with me.
At around 12 PM, I rushed to the terrace. It was a hot summer afternoon so nobody was up there. I scanned the entire place. As I looked left, I saw a black cat standing on the ledge. It was looking intently at me with its deep yellow eyes. I got fixed at my place lest it should run away. I was almost lost in its oceanic eyes. They were so deep, so penetrating, as if the cat wanted to talk through its eyes. All of a sudden, it jumped down.
I ran up there and looked down to see where it had gone. It was walking far down the roof of the adjacent building. It stopped for a while, looked above, as if to pay me a final glance and vanished into the buildings.
I stood there, lifeless. I felt a strange surge of emotions flowing through my nerves. My legs went cold and I was unable to walk back. I don't know why I felt that way merely after seeing a cat. My mind was lost devising a way to chase that little black cat that stood right here as though waiting for me. I felt like a fool. Somebody scribbles shit on the pages of my diary and I run to the terrace to see a cat feeling like it had called me down here. How god damn stupid! Wait, but who was that someone? Who wrote those things into my diary? And why did she write ‘Chhat’ this many times? ‘Who should I talk to about this matter?’ I thought. It sounded too stupid to be shared.
I came down home, tore those pages and threw them into the dustbin. I lay in my bed, facing nothing but the ceiling, trying to make sense of what was happening to me. My whole body was cold as an ice cube, and I was perspiring nonetheless. It was only a cat, wasn’t it? I was unable to close my eyes and whenever I did, the image of that black cat flashed before my mind’s eye. My eyes burnt so much they filled with tears. I was feeling a strange sensation in my body, a different vibration, the kind I had never felt before. It was not positive to be very certain. What I was feeling was beyond me. It was so indescribable that it hurt. I did not know whom to share it with. What would I say? That presumably, a black cat with deep yellow eyes called me down to the terrace and ever since I looked into her eyes, I have been into pain, an inexplicable state of turmoil? I preferred not to disclose it to anybody.
That night, I determined on finding the answer. I deliberately left my diary on the other bed, turned the whole room as dark as possible, with not a tinge of light entering the room and lay awake in my bed, awaiting what was to come. At about 3 o’ clock midnight, I heard the cats fight outside, howling clamorously. I looked out the window. Right in front of me, I saw the cat with the same features as the one I had seen on the terrace ledge in the afternoon—black, small, and yellow eyes, as deep as the Pacific, looking at me, and it had grabbed the other cat’s neck, blood draining out of its mouth. It was a horrible sight. I shooed it away but it did not move. Unlike any other animal, it stood still. Its eyes were fixed on me. I closed the window, trying to look away, my hands shivering and my face drenched with perspiration.
However, unable to keep my desperation, I opened the window to see where it had gone.
Holy fucking crap!
A little girl stood right in front of me. I was blown at the sight. She looked about 5-6 years old. Her eyes were deep brown. She was fair and she was clad in a stained blue frock. She had a skinny physique. Her face revealed no expressions—not a single one—making her look helpless. I gasped, panic rising up my chest. A little girl is standing out the window, at fucking 3 o’ clock midnight. What was happening? I probably was not supposed to go mad. Did I need to go out and ask her whence she came? Did I need to call the police for her help? What the fuck was I to do?
I said, my voice quivering, ‘Kya chahiye? (‘What do you want?’)’
She remained silent.
My hands and my legs were shaking. I was choked but I managed somehow to speak.
I repeated, ‘Kya chahti ho? (‘What do you want?’)’
‘Chhat pe chal ke baat karein? (‘Let us go to the terrace and talk, shall we?’)’
I involuntarily began walking back. My heart was throbbing out of my chest. I had nearly fainted. She began to walk away and vanished in the dark.
I felt like vomiting. I did not know what to do, how to react. I racked my brain to reason it out but of course, it was not reasonable. I tried to pull myself together. My hands are still shivering over the keyboard as the image of that girl flashes before my mind.
I opened my diary. It was as it had been. No new scribbles.
The clock struck 4. The birds began to chirp. And I was still standing in my room.
Ever since, I have been researching about the paranormal. I have read several books dealing with otherworldly incidents, read a hundred and one anecdotes relevant to the subject and tried to delve as deep into the matter as possible. What I have made out is, these are not mere fairy tales and fictions. They are real and they make a lot more sense than we can imagine. Just because we have not seen them does not mean they do not exist. We have trapped the mind into limits when the truth is that it is limitless, able to perceive the unseen, to know the unknown and to visit the other world. Only a moron will say it is false.
It is not the mind’s fault but ours. Instead of kindling it with the true knowledge, we have been filling it with more and more information, as if it were a vessel. And what we do not see or find in science, we criticize. Well, the result of our arrogance is, what the so-called modern human mind does not see or understand, it either discards or criticizes. It does not in the least want to accept it is not aware yet and be honest enough to say, ‘I do not know.’
 |
| Paul F. Eno |
“There are an infinite number of universes existing side by side and through which our consciousness constantly pass. In these universes, all possibilities exist. You are alive in some, long dead in others, and never existed in still others. Many of our ‘ghosts’ could indeed be versions of people going about their business in a parallel universe or another time—or both.”
–Paulo F. Eno
 |
| Meaghan Rath |
“I fully believe in ghosts. I have, my entire life. The first house I ever lived in was haunted. There was a grave of a man in the backyard. I was just a baby then, but my parents would tell me that every night, at the same time, they would hear someone walking up the stairs.”
--Meaghan Rath
 |
| Brett Dier |
“I believe in ghosts now because of New Orleans. I never did before. I was so skeptical, but now I have seen one, which sounds insane, but it is true.”
--Brett Dier
 |
| Joseph Addison |
“A person terrified with the imagination of specters, is more reasonable than one who thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous and groundless.”
--Joseph Addison
[Note: I am still willing to find the truth about the girl. What did she want to talk about? And why only on the terrace? Through this narrative, my only goal is to ignite your interest in finding out what we, as humans, are capable of besides scoring greats marks in exams or going to a top university or landing a high-paying job or marrying and having kids. It is up to you to criticize or praise, or leave both aside and set out for the discovery of the infinite world within yourself, in order to be able to know if you are only limited to this body or there is some other reality. Remember: it is not just about the ghosts. It is about seeing the world we do not know—a world that the minds cannot reason and the scientists cannot analyze, a world that has a different vibration, a world that consists both of the gods and the demons.]
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