Nine Spirits, One Song

Author's Note

Long ago, in a quiet village, Babai's disappearance unveils a haunting connection with restless spirits bound by their tragic past. Guided by a priest, the villagers confront fear and pain, seeking peace for the spirits through rituals.

It was a bright morning, the sun casting golden hues across the village, and Babai was sitting cross-legged on the cool veranda floor, rhythmically practising his tabla. The beats echoed softly, a familiar sound that intertwined with the chirping of birds and the rustling of bamboo leaves. His delicate fingers moved with precision, each note speaking of his devotion to his craft.

Babai was a simple soul, radiating innocence and kindness in his every action. He was caring and decent. At 24 years old, he stood at a medium height, his slender frame not marked by much muscle but carrying a quiet strength. Neatly combed, his medium complexion complemented his sharp, small nose and clean-shaven face, which often bore a gentle, warm smile.

Babai moved with a quiet grace that reflected his respect for his elders and his preference for speaking less, letting his actions and manners speak for him. Always dressed traditionally in a dhoti and kurta, Babai was a man who found joy in simple things, and his presence brought comfort and calm to those around him.

The sound of an approaching bicycle bell broke the melody. Babai looked up to see his maternal uncle, Mamaji, arrive at their house, dressed in a grey kurta and white dhoti. A sturdy umbrella rested on the cycle handlebar, shielding him from the midday sun.

"Very good, Babai!" Mamaji called out as he stepped off his bicycle. "You’ve improved so much! The next Keertan will have your tabla; I’ll ensure it."

Babai immediately rose to his feet, bowing respectfully to receive his uncle’s blessing. "Namaste, Mamaji. Please sit down, I’ll fetch Mother."

"First, get me a glass of water," Mamaji requested, parking his bicycle against a tree.

Babai hurried to the kitchen, filled a steel tumbler with cool water from the earthen pot, and handed it to Mamaji along with a wooden stool to sit on. He placed a book by his side, knowing his uncle’s fondness for reading.

"I’ll be back soon," Babai said, stepping out onto the veranda and calling into the open air, "Maa! Mamaji has come home!" His voice carried over the sprawling courtyard and into the neighbouring houses.

A faint reply came, "Who came?" It was distant, but Babai recognised his mother’s voice.

Babai's mother was a picture of traditional grace, always clad in a soft Bengal cotton saree draped ankle-length with its loose end hung modestly over her head. A streak of vermillion adorned her hairline, paired with a small red bindi on her forehead, symbolising her devotion and marital status. Her wrists jingled softly with the clink of red and white shankha pola bangles, a mark of her cultural roots.

A middle-aged woman, she carried herself with calm dignity, her hands perpetually busy with household chores or community work. Hardworking and deeply attached to her only son, her quiet strength and enduring love for Babai defined her presence in the family and the village.

Babai reached his mother, who was visiting a neighbour. "Mamaji has come," he informed her. "There are no big fish in our pond. I’ll head to the community pond to catch something better for his meal."

His mother nodded approvingly. "Go quickly, and don’t forget to bring back enough for everyone," she said, a soft smile on her face. Babai, carrying his fishing net, headed toward the common pond, his figure disappearing into the shimmering afternoon heat.

By midday, the sun blazed fiercely, its rays glaring against the village rooftops. Inside the house, Mamaji sat comfortably, sipping the tea Babai’s mother had prepared. She bustled around the kitchen, cooking rice and lentils, occasionally peering out the door, expecting to see her son’s familiar figure walking up the path with a catch in hand.

"Where is he?" she muttered, concern beginning to seep into her voice.

"Don’t worry," Mamaji reassured her. "He’s a grown man. He’ll be back soon."

The afternoon wore on. The rice was ready, the fish curry remained uncooked, and Babai was still nowhere to be seen.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the house grew restless. Babai’s mother stepped out into the courtyard, shielding her eyes from the remaining sunlight. She made her way to the pond, her sandals sinking slightly into the soft, dry earth.

"Babai!" she called, her voice trembling with unease.

The pond’s surface rippled gently, but there was no sign of her son. As she walked closer, her gaze fell on a heap near the water’s edge. Babai’s kurta lay crumpled on the ground alongside the fishing net he had taken. Her breath hitched.

"Babai!" she cried out again, her voice louder now, but the only response was the distant call of a cuckoo bird.

She picked up his kurta with trembling hands and rushed back to the house, panic now evident in her eyes. "He’s not there," she gasped, her voice cracking as she clutched the kurta tightly.

Mamaji immediately sprang to his feet. "Where can he go? He’s a grown man, not a child to wander off!"

They began searching the neighbourhood, moving from house to house. Villagers joined in, shouting Babai’s name, their calls filling the air as the twilight descended. Young boys dived into the pond, their energetic splashes sending ripples across the surface as they checked the depths for any signs of him.

"Did a snake bite him?" one villager speculated.

"Could he have gotten stuck in the muddy bottom?" another whispered nervously.

Babai’s mother sat by the edge of the pond, her tears blending with the rising worries of the crowd. The once-calm village buzzed with chaos.

The courtyard was thick with an uneasy stillness, broken only by the muffled sobs of Babai’s mother as the village women tried to console her. Men sat in clusters, their faces tense, debating the next steps, while young boys took turns diving into the murky pond, tirelessly searching for any trace of Babai. His fishing net and kurta lay abandoned by the pond, grim reminders of his sudden and baffling disappearance.

A group of boys had already left to inform Babai’s father at his grocery shop in town, pedalling furiously on their bicycles. The men waited for the father’s return before heading to the police station to file a missing person’s report.

As the sombre air deepened, a sudden, dull thud echoed from the veranda’s far corner. Heads turned toward the stack of rice and flour bags, delivered just the day before but left unsorted. 

The courtyard was silent. Babai walked out from behind the stacked rice and flour bags in the veranda’s corner. The sound of his footsteps against the kuccha floor drew everyone’s attention.

Without a word, he moved toward the hand pump nearby. The old iron handle creaked as he pumped water into the bucket, the splash of water breaking the uneasy stillness. Babai then poured the cold water over himself, drenching his thin frame entirely. 

The entire courtyard froze. Villagers, men, women, and young boys alike stared at him with wide eyes, their shock palpable. No one uttered a single word, the scene punctuated only by the rhythmic drip of water from his bare, thin frame.

Babai’s mother, her voice breaking the silence, rushed toward him. “What were you doing there? Where were you? Do you know how worried we were?” Her trembling hands reached for him, her eyes falling on the scratches and fresh blood. She gasped, “What happened?”

Babai, still shivering from the cold, glanced at his wounds as if noticing them for the first time. He said nothing, brushing past his mother’s outstretched hands. He walked straight to the wooden cot kept on the veranda, the one with an old woven mat laid over it, and sat down heavily.

His shoulders slumped, and his eyes were distant and focused into nothingness. The crowd, standing frozen in the varenda, began whispering among themselves, trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed. Babai, almost inaudibly, murmured, “I play the tabla. They like me playing the tabla. They took me... they will come again.”

The words sent a chill through the crowd. His mother stood frozen in place, her hand clutching her chest, her worry now tinged with fear. The villagers exchanged nervous glances, their whispers growing louder. Babai, however, remained still, his body shivering slightly.

The villagers were restless, huddled in the dim courtyard lit by a single lantern. The tension grew thicker as Babai sat shivering on the cot, held firmly by two men. His mother stood close, weeping silently, while others chanted prayers. Babai’s father arrived hurriedly, his face pale with worry. Upon seeing his son’s state, he clenched his fists but composed himself, trusting the priest, who had just now arrived.

The priest sat on a low wooden stool in the courtyard's centre. He turned to the crowd and said firmly, “Children and pregnant women must leave immediately. Men can stay, but ensure no one stands near the windows, doors, or any passage. The exits must remain open.”

As the women ushered the children inside, Babai’s mother hesitated. The priest gestured gently. “You may stay, but keep your distance. Have faith.” She nodded, clutching the edge of her saree.

The priest then signalled the men to release Babai’s arms. Babai sat hunched over, trembling. The priest leaned in, his voice calm but firm. “Babai, tell me—what happened?”

Babai, his voice weak, replied, “Nothing.”

The priest softened his tone. “Where did you go from the pond?”

Babai’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp and unfamiliar. “I took him,” he said in a voice not his own. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The priest leaned closer. “Who are you?”

Babai’s tone grew hostile. “I am Ranjan.” Then his voice shifted, now soft and sorrowful. “I am Sudha.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. "Who, Sudha?" “How many of you are there?”

Babai’s voice trembled, switching between tones. “Nimi... Sudha... Nayan... Ranjan... Prakash... and the rest are at home.”

The priest inhaled deeply, his voice low, unable to believe what he had heard. “Home? Where is this home?” 

Babai, now speaking as Ranjan, replied, “The bamboo grove near the abandoned fields.”

The villagers exchanged nervous glances, their fear growing.

The priest asked softly, “Why did you take Babai?”

Ranjan, the dominant spirit, sneered. “The girls wanted him. They heard him play the tabla at the Keertans. They needed him to play the tabla for them.”

Villagers are astonished upon hearing this.

The priest pressed further. “What did you do with him?”

Ranjan’s tone darkened. “We danced. We laughed. He played beautifully. He was one of us now. But the girls... they ruined it. They dropped him back.”

How did you get here? What happened to you? The priest delved deeper.

Ranjan confessed his own story. Once a married man with three daughters, his life became unbearable due to his wife’s cruelty. “One day, I tied the rope, and I ended it,” he said, his tone filled with sorrow. “My wife... she tormented me. I couldn’t bear it.”

The priest’s voice grew sombre. “What about Sudha and the Rest?

A voice emerged, softer, filled with regret. “I miss my family,” Babai said, now speaking as Sudha. “I wanted to go to the village fair. I wanted to meet him there, a guy whom I loved so much. I begged my father, but he refused to let me go to the fair. All of my friends left me alone. I was so angry... frustrated and hurt, I was so upset that I tied the rope in my barn and I hung to it. I don’t remember anything after that.” Sudha’s sobs echoed, her pain visible. “I just remember how my family cried when I came to my senses, and I could never see them again.”

Another voice emerged. My husband cheated on me, I gave him all my trust, and what did I get? He cheated on me with my cousin. I couldn’t do anything about it; I wanted to die out of pain and make my husband and cousin suffer the burden of my death, so I jumped in the well. I have hated him since then.

Nayan told his tragic story: "I was in love with a girl, and she married a man of her father’s choice. I couldn’t bear the pain, and I drank poison. The next moment, I realised I was lost, and Ranjan took me to the bamboo grove." everyone stood there was shaken to their bone.

Babai's father asked with a worried look, "What do we do now, sir?" 
The priest got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked away from Babai. "I am not worried about the rest, but Ranjan seems adamant." He informed both his parents.
The mother, with tears of worry in her eyes, pleaded, "Please help my son. I would do anything you ask."
The priest addressed the spirits directly. “I know your pain, but Babai is alive. You cannot take him.

Ranjan’s voice turned defiant. “I will not. He belongs to us now.”

The priest was now preparing for exorcism, and as a final reminder, he said with his tone sharpened. “If you do not leave, I will bind you here forever.”

A loud crack as the heavy wind had just passed through the courtyard, and a wooden pillar split slightly, leaving a jagged mark. The spirits’ presence seemed to have left. Babai fell to the ground, breathing but steady.

Babai’s mother rushed to his side, wrapping him tightly in a blanket, her trembling hands gently patting his face as she whispered soothing words. She quickly gave him the medicine to bring down his fever, her eyes scanning him for any signs of improvement.

The priest, standing tall amidst the worried villagers, addressed them with a solemn tone. “These spirits are trapped by their unresolved pain. We must contact their families and perform the necessary rituals to release them. Without peace, their torment will persist, and so will the disturbances in our village.”

Over the next few days, the village transformed into a hub of activity. Word spread quickly, and families of the deceased were located. Villagers explained what had happened, urging them to join in the rituals. The once-quiet village brimmed with life, the courtyards filled with the sound of conversations, the faint aroma of incense, and the hum of collective prayers.

Every evening, Babai’s house became the heart of the village. Men, women, and children gathered to chant mantras, their voices rising in unison as the glow of earthen lamps illuminated the space. The village lit up like a festival of lights, each home contributing its lamp to push away the darkness and negativity.

On the third day, with the deceased’s families gathered, the villagers, led by the priest, made their way to the Bamboo Grove. The air was thick with anticipation and the faint scent of freshly cut grass. At the grove, they built a ceremonial altar adorned with flowers and offerings. The priest led the rituals, invoking peace and forgiveness for the souls.

As the chants filled the air and the sacred fire crackled, it felt as though the weight of pain lifted from the grove. The villagers stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces illuminated by the flames, as they watched the ceremony bring closure not only to the spirits but also to the families left behind. Babai, sitting at a distance with his mother, in silence.

Babai slowly recovered, though his memory of the events remained hazy.

He recalled faintly that he was dragged through thorny fields to a bamboo grove. They gave him a tabla and requested him to play. They danced—two girls and the rest were men. It felt unreal, and when he wanted to leave, the men argued, but the females in the group were kind... they brought him back because they knew the mother's loss and pain for her son.

Years later, villagers talked about a musician whose songs carried the songs of the spirits. Babai could never remember the whole incident, but every time he played, he felt the presence of the nine spirits dancing in the melodies, free at last.