The Curse of Kuldhara - Haunted Village

Earthen pots lay inside the kitchen and a bullock cart outside

A local guide appeared to tell us the story, walking alongside

Almost 200 years since that fateful night, near the Kakni river

No soul has inhabited any of these 84 villages in Kuldhara ever

She must have been 16, the pretty daughter of the village chief

when she was noticed by the Diwan, ill-famed for his mischief

Hell-bent on taking her away with him, he threatened the village

'If anyone comes in my way, he will be at fault for the carnage’

As if the taxes he collected deceitfully were not torturous enough

that they, the Paliwals, were thrown in this quandary off the cuff

Dreading the rage of the Salim Singh, but unwilling to bow down

the villagers had to make a plan to avoid any kind of showdown

By sunset, the word had spread among the thousand-odd residents

to flee in the dead of the night, sans any hint to even the rodents

‘The men of the minister are keeping a watch on us in disguise

and wouldn’t spare anyone if our plan is exposed’ said the wise

They waited until the others had slept, then left for the unknown

leaving behind everything they had painstakingly built and grown

Bowing quietly before the deity at the village temple, they turned
condemning that anyone who tried to live there would be spurned

Walking through the dusty lanes of this abandoned village today

The ruins appeared to me as if it were only a matter of yesterday

Climbing up the steps, I could feel those soft footsteps in a hurry

The man signaling his wife to leave behind even her jewelry

Whatever may be the reason, taxes, famine, assault or oppression

The story of this ghost town will tug my heart at its mere mention

P.S. The story has been written on the basis of various folklores for this post only.

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Crossing over to India - from Myanmar

1600 hrs

I am sitting in a warehouse that houses the ticketing office of TTA express

under a noisy black ceiling fan, watching a hen family outside create mess

1700 hrs

The bus that leaves from Mandalay for Tamu, at India-Burma border is late

So, the woman selling toothpaste and incense sticks returns to try her fate

1800 hrs

Struck still by the sun throughout the day, people now begin moving around

The bus finally rolls in, but we wait until our luggage is set in, safe and sound

1900 hrs

They distribute water bottles, face wipes, dental kits and black plastic covers

for the locals as they trickle in, chewing kun-ya (betel leaves) amidst cheers   

2000 hrs

We cross the Irrawaddy river towards Sagaing, catching a glimpse of the city,

With golden and white pagodas shining bright as if enlightening since eternity

2100 hrs

A rom-com Burmese movie begins and the actor in lungi catches my attention

as he tries to woo the girl with his friends’ silly ideas, but gets caught in action

2200 hrs

Finally, the driver stops for dinner at what is possibly the only place for miles

But it is impossible to ask them for vegetarian food with hand signs and smiles

2300 hrs

We continue with potato chips while dreaming of a good lunch back in India

trying to figure out the silhouettes outside, to make some sense of this area

0000 hrs

I fold and unfold my legs to find an ideal sleeping stance for this long journey

But end up banging my head each time as my arms yield to tiring monotony

0100 hrs

Oblivious of this twisting choreography, my man snores to the beat of the bus

holding on to his bag like a pillow; a perfect travel partner who makes no fuss

0200 hrs

I decide to slay some time browsing the Myanmar trip pictures on my phone

editing the vivid memories of the last ten days spent out of our comfort zone

0300 hrs

From the time my gaze was bound by the grand Shwedagon pagoda at night

till the time, I set foot on the ancient wooden bridge, speechless with delight

0400 hrs

After a brief stop at Kale to unload boxes of fruits and vegetables, we continue

on the road along the Chin hills, the sky yielding from sooty black to inky blue

0500 hrs

Light begins to scatter over the fields, unfolding indigent straw roofed villages

with a church being the only building, people there would have seen for ages

0600 hrs

Now, in the last leg of the drive, we speed over many makeshift, rusty bridges,

fully awake and praying for safe passage, as our bus lurched towards the edges

0700 hrs

The GPS pointer oscillates along the border, as we reach Tamu, much before 8

Out of the bus, we walk over to Moreh, via the Indo-Myanmar Friendship Gate

So what do you do?

Introductory conversation, after my KravMaga class with a fellow student -

Fellow - So, where are you from?

Me - Ah! I am from a lot of places.

Fellow - Ya, but where are you basically from?

Me - Basically from a lot of places.

Fellow - Like I am from Hyderabad, similarly, where you are from?

Me - Similarly, I am from a lot of places in India. If perception is what you want to make quickly about me then I am a bit from Delhi and Mumbai and Patna and Bangalore.

Fellow - Ok. And, what do you do?

Me - I learn KravMaga.

Fellow - Ya, but what do you do actually?

Me - Well, I actually learn KravMaga. 

Fellow - And what did you do before this?

Me - I was working for a company XYZ. 

Fellow - Are you looking for a job then?

Me - No, I am not looking.

Fellow - So you are not working?

Me - I thought learning KravMaga is quite some work. Don't you think?

Fellow - Ya. But I mean, you are a housewife right now, right?

Me (invoking my inner Buddha) - Well, I am a KravMaga student, who also happens to write sometimes. If that's what a housewife is, as per your definition then, YES. 

Hopeless at delta t

Fifteen minutes have passed, but the end is not in sight. I step back from my cubicle steadying myself against the wall, clutching a piece of tissue paper. The ticklish sensation under my nose was now rising into a watery commotion. I shiver slightly and close my eyes while trying to breathe at the same time. I quite know what to expect still I wait rather edgily, trying to cut off all the last-minute distractions. A couple of seconds more and there it is.

Aaa … ahhh ... aaahhhh ... ahchoo!

A gust of steamy air travelling at almost 100 miles an hour explodes through my nose & my mouth leaving me high and dry.

‘Eleventh’, counts my colleague, almost falling off the chair, laughing, while I sniff & withdraw, bracing myself for the aftershock, rubbing my nostrils red. My nasal bone has already turned into jelly from these intermittent jolts. My eyes are watery and my mind is reeling under repetitive sneeze impact.

Many people say sneezing is just one of our body’s many natural defence mechanisms. But my machine seems to be on overdrive. It’s like an automatic machine gun let loose on unsuspecting colleagues & family members.

‘What happened?’ asks my colleague in between.

‘Well, I touched the water bottle.’ I begin to explain.

‘So?’ he looks at me disapprovingly.

‘It was colder than my body temperature’ I add impatiently.

‘That’s hardly cold’ he looks away.

‘Ok. Not cold. But it is cooler than my body, right?’ I plead as I can feel the next one coming.

‘So, you will sneeze at delta t?’ the look changing to utter disbelief.

Well, I … aa … ahhh ... … ahchoo! I stagger towards my desk to get another tissue paper; glad that I am still alive. ‘Not your fault. Till today even my mother refuses to believe this.’ It’s not even lunchtime and the dustbin is full. I wonder if I should call the housekeeping for a change.

Meanwhile, an autonomous movement has already begun inside my mouth in response to the tricky feeling in my upper jaw, just below my nose. I trace its whereabouts flexing my tongue in, hoping that its rough texture would help to ease the itch. Then as if on a cue, I fold my fingers into a fist, clamping it tightly by the thumb as if to stop them from fleeing. In yet another involuntary effort, my toes curl in, insinuating me to turn all my attention inwards.

All that was under my control was to turn away from those normal, non-allergic faces going about their routine work nonchalantly and … Aaa … ahhh ... aaahhhh ... ahchoo!

‘Thirteenth’, consoles my colleague, putting another glass of warm water by my side.