From a scientific point of view, the existence of ghosts is untenable. From the rural fear of spirits to séances, mediumship theories, and the sudden shock of seeing impossible shadows in the dead of night—these provide ample material for debate. The idea of supernatural existence, much like that of God, is entangled in various schools of thought. There is no shortage of believers, atheists, skeptics, or agnostics on the subject.
Simply put, there is no place for ghosts in the realm of reason. To believe in them, one must blindfold oneself and retreat to the primitive Paleolithic age. Those who are steadfast believers in the doctrine of disembodied spirits are beyond argument today—any final settlement would require physical confrontation rather than debate.
Yet, even amid all scientific reasoning and theoretical arguments, a "but" remains. Certain questions arise—questions for which no answers are readily available. This does not mean that such answers will never be found. Perhaps one day science will expand enough to provide complete explanations. But until that happens, some strange incidents continue to stir our minds in various ways.
I will narrate one such incident. I do not know whether it qualifies as a ghost story. Nor am I prepared to judge whether it was merely an illusion of the eyes or the mind. I will simply recount what happened. Readers are free to interpret it as they wish. I must mention only one thing—these events occurred before fully open and unprepared eyes; neither cannabis nor alcohol had any influence in this case.
It was about twelve or thirteen years ago. At that time, I used to commute daily from a small village in West Bengal to the city. I had to cycle eight miles to the railway station. We would leave our bicycles at a small shop near the station, catch the train to town, and return by the evening train. After coming back, we would collect our bicycles and ride home to the village.
I say "we" because there were two of us who traveled daily—Priyonath and I. After finishing my work at the Munsif Court around five o'clock, I would go to Priyonath's bicycle repair shop. We would chat for a while and have tea. Then, at seven, he would close the shop, and together we would catch the 7:22 train. Unless one of us had some urgent reason to rush home, this was our regular routine.
From the station almost up to the boundary of our village stretched a barren stretch of gravelly land known as Brahmadanga. The District Board road ran through the undulating field, rising and falling, in some places climbing twenty or twenty-two feet above the surrounding slopes. For a mile and a half or two miles along the way, there was no village nearby—only scattered clumps of wild phanimansa and akanda shrubs growing here and there.
Once upon a time, the field had been notorious for dacoities. But no such incidents had been heard of for the past five hundred years. Even so, returning alone along that road after dusk would often send a chill down one's spine. Now and then, one would hear a ghost story or two associated with the place. Yet it cannot be said that such fears ever left the slightest mark upon our minds—at least, not consciously.
That day, after leaving the court, I was delayed by several official tasks and it grew late. When I arrived at Priyonath's shop, his young assistant informed me that Priyonath had waited for quite some time but had finally left on the usual 7:22 train.
My spirits sank. It was not only the prospect of returning alone that troubled me—the day itself had turned hostile. A torrential downpour had just swept through, accompanied by thunder that seemed to split the sky. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the heavens were still wrapped in a thick layer of pitch-black clouds. It could burst forth again at any moment. And now, after nine at night, I would have to ride eight miles alone through that endless dark field. Naturally, on such a deserted road after evening—especially on a stormy night like this—it was foolish to hope for any fellow traveler.
Yet there was no choice; I had to go. I looked up at the dense black clouds and let out a long sigh. Then I went to the station and boarded the 8:28 train.
Hardly had the train started moving when the rain began again. It was an unusually violent downpour. It felt as though the entire sky had melted and was pouring down in torrents—the darkness turning pale beneath the mist of rain. My anxiety settled even deeper within me. Water would not collect on the elevated gravel road, but in the open field, if wind joined the rain, it was not difficult to imagine what the situation might become.
The rain, however, did not last long. Within half an hour, as I got down at the station, I saw that it had already stopped. The clouds had thinned somewhat; only a fine drizzle fell softly in thin, slanting lines.
The grocer with whom we kept our bicycles was just about to pull down his shutter. Seeing me, he yawned and said with a smile, "You're going back on a night like this? Why not stay at my shop?"
I replied, "That won't do. Everyone at home will be worried."
There was another reason I did not mention—one that was even more compelling. I had been married barely a month, and my wife had returned from her father's house only three days ago.
The shopkeeper brought out my bicycle. I asked, "Has Priyonath already left?"
"Yes, he got down from the 7:55 train. The rain was breaking then, lightning flashing frequently. I asked him to wait it out, but he wouldn't agree. Said he would ride off in a whoosh."
Ride off in a whoosh—I thought the same. And then, into that dense black darkness, under the thin, trembling drizzle, I almost plunged forward with my bicycle.
Within fifteen minutes I reached the road that cut across the open field. On both sides lay dense darkness, alive with the croaking of frogs, the shrill chorus of crickets, and the murmuring sound of rainwater flowing through small and large channels. In the faint circle of my lamp, I could see nothing beyond five or seven cubits ahead—only the red earth of Bankura. But after a while, even that vanished. I had not noticed that there was hardly any oil left in the lamp. Growing dimmer and dimmer, it suddenly flickered once and went out.
Now I began to feel afraid.
The road was familiar—no matter how dark, I should be able to ride along it without mistake. And yet—this darkness, this desolation! A single moment of carelessness, and I would tumble down ten or twelve feet along with the bicycle.
Straining my eyes to their utmost, I kept riding. I did not dare to go too fast, yet out of nervous excitement my feet began turning the pedals more quickly of their own accord. It was an old B.S.A. bicycle; heedless of my attempts at restraint, it seemed to fly forward with a whirring rush.
"Stop, Sen—stop!"
The voice shot through the darkness like an arrow. My feet froze abruptly on the pedals. From behind, in a clear voice, Priyonath called out, "What's the hurry? I've been standing here in the field for the past hour, waiting desperately for you!"
In surprise and relief, I got down from my bicycle. Even in the darkness, I could see Priyonath hurrying toward me from behind.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "You got down from the 7:55 train—what have you been doing in the middle of this field all this time?"
Priyonath replied, "It's a long story. Something rather interesting happened."
"Interesting? On a rainy night like this, in the middle of this field? And where has your bicycle gone?"
In the darkness, Priyonath gave a soft laugh. "I told you—it's a long story. You'll hear it when we get back to the village. For now, let me climb onto your carrier."
"Alright, get on quickly."
He came closer and said, "Just look at me! I'm completely soaked—covered in water and mud. I'm shivering to the bone."
"Did you fall down or something?"
"Fall? You can say that again! What a crash! Straight into what felt like bottomless water. I almost sank into the mud. Never mind—you'll hear all about it once we're home."
I began pedaling. With a quick movement, Priyonath sprang up and sat on the carrier behind me. I felt a jolt as he climbed on; I could sense him gripping the ring beneath the seat firmly.
On such a wet road, in such darkness, carrying another person on the carrier is no small ordeal—there is no need to describe it. Yet I felt as though my strength had suddenly doubled. Priyonath's considerable weight did not burden me in the least. The old, sturdy B.S.A. bicycle sped along with a whirring sound. Even the lurking dangers of the darkness seemed to fade from my mind.
Priyonath said nothing—nor did I. After riding silently for nearly fifteen minutes, I suddenly heard, from somewhere ahead, the fierce roar of rushing water. Startled, I exclaimed, "What's that—has the khowai flooded?"
At that moment, something extraordinary happened. Priyonath answered me—but not from the carrier behind. To my utter astonishment, I saw him standing about fifteen cubits in front of my bicycle, both arms outstretched. Yes—even in that darkness, I could clearly see that it was Priyonath.
He called out, "Get down, Sen—get down! The rotten wooden bridge over the khowai has been swept away by the flood. If you go any further, you'll plunge straight down thirty feet!"
In an instant, a surge of electricity seemed to run through my entire body. When had Priyonath climbed down from the carrier? When had he run fifteen cubits ahead like that? As I slowed the bicycle, I heard again: "Get down, Sen—get down now. Otherwise, what has happened to me will happen to you."
I do not know how everything unfolded within those few seconds. I saw Priyonath's eyes suddenly blaze. Then, as if leaving the sockets of his skull, those two eyes flew toward me like sharp beams of light—like two gigantic phosphorescent insects.
The next morning, I was found lying on the road, clutching my bicycle.
And Priyonath was found twenty-three or twenty-four feet below the broken bridge, buried three or four feet deep in mud and water. His legs were sticking upward, his body embedded in the sludge up to the stomach. His broken bicycle hung some distance away, caught upon a large stone.