Article #2: Twist

One of our first articles, a unique ghost tale that does not end up with someone being swallowed, posessed or killed, Twist, by Jagruti Vojjala.

It has been a year of ups and downs , a little adjustment and lots of enjoyment, a few tears and many laughs for all of us. We’ve all learnt something new, something different.  This incident,  narrated to us by  a student of BPHC in the first couple of weeks we spent here, gives you a glimpse of what it’s like living in a hostel for the first time and learning to love it.

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled outside and it was raining as if for the first time ever. The kind of night, incidentally, on which your friend’s cousin’s uncle (or anyone equally distantly related, for that matter) generally has an encounter with a ghost or two. All I needed now was a knock on my room door, and the stage would be set for a lovely, spooky, ghost story.

As I was reflecting along these lines, there was a knock at the door. (I know, a cliche, but what can I do?) And before you start hypothesizing, no, it was not a floating figure dressed all in white. It was something much, much scarier. (“What? What?” I hear you ask. Oh yes, amazing hearing I’ve got.)

It was my next door neighbour, looking like a dishevelled devil. And a very badly frightened dishevelled devil it was too.

“What?” I asked suspiciously, thinking that maybe she had suddenly remembered an exam we were going to have. (Her expression supported this deduction of mine.)

“Oh, nothing. Just a couple of monsters under my bed, so I thought I’ll sleep in your room instead.”

“What?!” I repeated, not sure if this was her idea of a joke. I mean, okay, my friend was not exactly a model of sanity, but I found it hard to imagine that she actually believed in the monsters-under-the-bed stuff.

“There. Are. Monsters. Under. My. Bed...” she began, repeating each word slowly as if I was thick.

“Yes,” I said impatiently, “I understood that. What I did not understand is: SINCE WHEN HAVE YOU STARTED BELIEVING IN GHOSTS?!”

I shouted out the last part.

“I’m telling you, it’s not ghosts, it’s monsters. M-O-N-S-T-E-R-S. Now will you let me in? I’m not exactly warm and cosy out here in the corridor.”

By now, I was convinced my friend had finally cracked.

“Let’s go meet these “monsters” of yours,” I said, not really willing to give up on my sleep for the night. (She sang in her sleep, you see. Actually sang. Sheesh.)

“You can go if you’re so interested. I’m going to sleep,” she announced.  Reluctantly I dragged myself to my feet and went into her room to investigate. The corridor was dark. As I lifted the sheet and bent down to check under the bed, I saw—

Nothing. At first, that is. Then I saw a really huge dustball. All big and grey and round. We stared at each other for a moment. Then I sighed and turned to go and reclaim my room.

“Aaaargh!”

It was a perfectly pitched, theatrical scream. I whirled around and, needless to say, the owner of that scream stood with her hands over her mouth. It was the girl who stayed a few rooms away from mine.

“Whew, I thought you were a zombie!” she said, as if that excused everything.

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically, wondering why on earth everyone had chosen that night to act like perfect dolts.

“Hey, since you’re already awake, why not go to my room and solve those assignment problems we’ve had since ages?”

She actually sounded excited. It was 11.30 p.m. Now, I am the kind of person who usually cannot sleep before 1 am. But as soon as my ears picked up the word “assignment” (and believe me, they’re very sensitive to such data), I remembered about a dozen reasons (fourteen, to be exact) why I should be in bed at that very moment. If only she had suggested a nice movie...

Thinking it would be highly rude to refuse, I went with her and racked my brains over Laplacians and Divergences for about half an hour.

And then, finally, my friend was hit by the brilliant idea of turning in for the night. About time, too, I thought. But I didn’t say it out loud.

She walked back with me to my room, seeming strangely preoccupied.

As I knocked at my door, demanding to be let into my own room, a blinding glare from my room suddenly lit up the entire corridor.

I blinked.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Two of those who had been lying in wait in my room (this I found out later) grabbed my arms and legs, and proceeded to toss me up into the air eighteen times, all to a badly sung chorus of, “Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to You...”

And then, they threw me down onto the floor real hard. Ouchie.

It turned out that it had all been a deliberate hoax—the monsters-under-the-bed, the late-night assignment problem - solving, all of it—just to get me out of my room for a while and set it up for a surprise birthday party for me. And all I had been expecting was a phone call from the folks at home...

I pride myself on being a cynic. I never get emotional, not even when I watch Karan Johar flicks. But on that day, even though my face and hair were dripping with chocolate cream, even though my backside hurt, I must admit, I was touched.

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