House of Dark Shadows

Every child growing up is fed with eerie stories of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So was I. I remember a few oldies and a bunch of cousins during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha douse me with blood chilling and frightening tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

It was utterly horrifying to walk the narrow and deserted pathways at night even if there were adults for company. The pale lights of the incandescent bulbs atop street light poles seem to provide more shadow than light. When one pass by the holy groves at night a frightening sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often we use to sprint muttering holy names. Dark and lonely rooms in the house were another area where one was quite likely to confront a ghost or spirit of an old grand uncle, or a hunchback grand- aunt. Chairs and bed by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. Those days in the village, toilets were either outside the house or one had to take leak in the open under the moonlit sky, or often under the starless dark sky. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins who were familiar with the place to come along as escort so one could relieve outside by the mango tree and that was a thankless effort. They curled deeper under their sheets. Then holding one’s bladder full and almost bursting, counting minutes and moments of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, lying terrified until streak of daylight wafted through the mullioned windows….! Elder cousins always scared   me a city born  with eerie tales. I felt they even relished the vicarious pleasure gained from utter consternation I felt at night. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or just the fanciful dance shadows played, would send my heart thumping that even the ghost lurking in the shadows could hear it. Urine would lose direction and force and wet the nicker. And in the haste to get back to the comparative comfort of indoors, drops of urine would drip down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the dead grand uncle who watched with amber like eyes in the dark from the sacred grove? Or of that woman in the neighbourhood who died of snake bite? The occasional shrieks and yelling of gibberish by the lunatic namboothiri in the nearby illam where he lived with his octogenarian mother would waft through the still night, not helping to relieve in comfort.

Well, growing up and I remember the late evening- walking back one day after watching the film “House of Dark Shadows”. Every few steps I turned back to look behind. Later, reading the Dracula of Bram Stalker, on a Sunday late afternoon and sitting frozen in the chair unable to move but roving over sentences after sentences, page after page, often ceasing breathing I did not realize it was dark. That was in our apartment in Kochi. My fellow house mates were all away for the weekend and it was me alone and Count Dracula for company. I was even scared to move from the chair to switch on the light. I preferred to strain my eyes in the fading light, than move a limb. Soon it was very dark, but for the streaks of rays from the street light at the gate. Oh behold, it was 7 and off went the street light - it was load shedding for thirty minutes. One of those moments when the resolve to be an atheist was not helpful!

Fear of the dead! The dead are sure to be about as ghosts and would often wreck vengeance. The carried their animosity to their afterlife said old stories. Once dead they did not take disobedience and past acts of rudeness towards them with levity. That was an awfully dire and unkind narrative put into my head right from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one died at home or among friends and relatives. For the dead even for no reason can remember be our nemesis. Even as recently, a tragic death of a friend’s son would disturb me. That was because the boy was close to me, he liked me much. Some nights, immediately during the days after his passing I would even wonder if he was about near me, about my cot. Dark rooms at night were always places the dead can pounce upon you - the grim reminders of my cousins rang in my ears!

When Amma died, and I spent almost a year alone in the house after her passing, strangely that fear was not felt. Sometimes I wished she confronted me and I could straighten with her things left undone and not spoken. Well the confidence was there, she may come as ghost or spirit but cannot hurt me, won’t hurt me! Even the mother ghost can be yelled at, argued with, shouted at and why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand uncles, and hunchback aunts. The confidence I felt was often amusing, or was it comforting?

I still hope some of them who were close to us would come by one of those dark lonely nights for a chat. Perhaps help us even out things left undone and unspoken!

It is an amusing thought. I can only laugh about myself.