The Suicide Well

The village Chaandi was nowhere like its name in appearance. The Indian village, situated in a remote corner in one of its poorest states, translated literally to ‘silver’. Its GDP and HDI status, however, did not make it any lesser for siblings Rashmi, Rahul, and Rama, all of 10, 8, and 7 respectively. For them, Chaandi was not just silver, it was the gold of their annual vacations.

They came here every year with their parents, for this is where their paternal grandparents lived. The excitement would begin much before the journey did. They’d save money and buy their stockpile for months in advance. Jam-centred Jim-Jam biscuits, candies which could stand the sweltering heat of Indian topical summer, and the chief favourite of all - Cigarette shaped toffees. The toffees were bought with equal contribution and rationed out with exact accuracy. In their 36 hour train journey and two months of village stay, the trio would mimic smoking adults in all ways possible. Each trying to outdo the other in swagger. The eldest one did the best at it, a truth known by all and acknowledged by none. The siblings were stubborn as bull in their claims of self-supremacy, and the cigarette game was all too popular to concede a point.

It was in one of those holidays that they met Babbal, the first real tomboy of their lives. For a girl of fifteen, she had the body of an adult youth. Almost double the height of Rama, she boasted of broad shoulders and a weightlifter’s frame. The siblings learnt later that she was the daughter of a neighbor, who too had come visiting his parents. She wasn’t a city dweller like them, though. The siblings could lick their wounded pride for once. Besides, she went to an ordinary school, and supported her father’s bike repair business. That explained her physique. She strutted about in the exaggerated gait of a teenager, and maintained a zero-fucks-given face to the world. They ran a cigarette wager if any one of the siblings could spot her smiling. She inspired a mix of fear, awe, and unity among the siblings.

Babbal’s raving popularity among all village children was backed by a mysterious and fearful story. It was the Voldemort of village lore, talked about in hushed tones.

In the deserted bylanes Chaandi, there was an infamous Suicide Well, in which hundreds of villagers over hundreds of years had committed suicide. Legend had it, that the well could draw people into the abyss, in an unexplained and forceful vertigo. The word spread, and tales of horror were spun around the well. Some said it was the act of ghosts of suiciders who were still doing their rounds on earth before Yamaraja, the Hindu god of death and justice, could liberate their souls back in space. Some others said it was the abode of Yama himself, who continuously watched residents of Chaandi, and could send an untimely invite to anyone who displeased him, or even thought too much about him. Since all the stories had unspeakable terror as their very foundation, the subject assumed notorious silence. To even mention it, let alone challenge it, was to invite the wrath of Yama.

And of all people, there was only one Babbal, who openly claimed that there was nothing ghastly about the well. Because, she said, she-had-been-there-and-done-that. In one claim, the girl had demolished and challenged generations of belief. The villagers were stupefied.

Tale travelled to the trio, and an immediate resolve made home in three bodies. Not that the siblings were ever known for being daring, but they were famed for their zid, that is, stubbornness. Their mother would often lament looking heavenwards, ‘Oh god, why did you have to give the three bulls in the same house?’ They knew it was all drama. She was the leader of the bull pack, they took after her.

Plans started getting forged. There was no way in which the siblings could reveal it to their parents. Dad would award with one look, and that would be enough to diffuse the plot. Mom would smack so hard that they could lose hearing for a while. It couldn’t be done in the day then. And night was...well, too scary and that’s why, delectably tempting. It was decided. They would have to sneak out in the dead of night and be back in the dark.

With minor stealth here and there, they were able to manage the resources. One stick to ward off ghosts in case they were attacked. A torch to find their way in the dark. Some cow dung to smear on their hands and legs, a sign of Hindu purity, a therefore a potential bribe for Yama to spare devout young children. The scene was set.

As usual, the children went to sleep, all by themselves, on the open terrace. Rahul was the one who suggested they choose a night of waning moon, and he was visibly pleased with himself for this beaming presence of mind. He was in fact so happy with himself for this idea that he couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to. With a keen ear, Rashmi and Rahul waited for the ground floor to fall silent. The escape route was known to all three. They had to leave from behind the cow shed, without disturbing the cow or the calves. Rama, blissfully asleep on the night of action, was woken up roughly and immediately. With their slippers silently on, one behind the other, the three slithered out of the cowshed; silent as snakes.

Though it was peak of summer, the night air was cool. The siblings didn’t utter a word. They walked along, without putting on the torch, lest someone notice. After fifteen minutes of brisk walking, they came to the bend of the road near their destination. Sticking word by word to their plan, they formed a human chain. Though Rashmi was originally planned to lead the chain as the eldest of all, Rahul earned his number one position after proffering the waning moon idea. Rama, the youngest, was ever discounted from such positions.

Words were not needed. Step by step, they inched towards the well. The torch was lit. There was nothing to be seen in that part of the village, save derelict houses and wild weeds. The boundary of the well came in view. Their hearts were racing. The deal was to touch the boundary, look under the well, and then return. Grip tightened between the hands. The siblings were sweating, but dogged. They dragged their feet until they reached the edge. The clasp between hands was released. They touched the boundary wall with both hands, and looked inside the darkness.

………………

Three decades have elapsed since then. The siblings are telling this story to their children on a winter night in Delhi. Six pairs of eyes are absorbing this with incredulous eyes. They can’t believe that their parents did it. Threw the cow dung inside the well to tease Yama. Which was actually thrown to test if there was water inside.

Didn’t their hands shiver? Their children ask.

The siblings look at each other. And answer in union. Only the stubborn know, that all ghosts live in the mind.

………………