Hail Houdini

This week I have brought you a true incident from the life of a great man, the one whose life was a storm that raged across continents. Harry Houdini, one of the greatest magicians till-date and the greatest ever Escape Artist known to the mankind (with an arguable exception of the current American sensation David Copperfield).

Harry Houdini, his real name Ehrich Weiss, was born in Budapest, Hungary on 24th March, 1974. At the age of three he moved with his family to United States. Growing up in an economically tight situation, he was forced to do several jobs at an early age, one of which was as an apprentice of a locksmith. This job proved to be the sweetest strike of fortune for young Ehrich, a job that unleashed the great talent he was born with - opening locks without use of a key.

Before long Harry had turned into a professional magician and taken the name Harry Houdini. Although he did several tricks as a magicians, clever games with cards and astonishing illusions, his tricks as an escape artist amused people most.

At the age of 26, Houdini left for London with his wife having money enough only for a week’s survival. After some search, Houdini succeeded in having a theatre book him for a brief period. Clever Houdini perceived that he needed publicity to further elongate his contract with the theatre. That was precisely when he came to know about Scotland Yard, the famous headquarters of British Police, and their most intelligent handcuffs till date.

Houdini made a public announcement that he can free himself from the handcuffs of Scotland Yard. Given the small name of Houdini in the country, Scotland Yard ignored him offhandedly. But soon the news of the challenge spread everywhere and finally Scotland Yard allowed Houdini a chance so that the madman would be proved wrong and the issue doused.

An officer guided Houdini to a small ground enclosed by walls within the premises of Scotland Yard. There was a pillar in the centre of the ground. The officer cuffed Houdini with the pillar and said with a smirk, ‘Try as you may, magician, I’ll return after lunch.’ But as soon as he turned to leave the ground, Houdini said from behind him, ‘Wait, officer, I am coming for the lunch as well,’ and handed the officer the handcuffs.

Dark Verses

The strong and intimidating tower of Dunmor, looming tall atop the soaring mountain of Miranha, pierced the angry hoard of clouds that thundered upon the valleys around and gleamed in the slanting sunrays prior twilight. An omen of doom, some would have called this chancy setting. But none of them lived now, their age was long past.

An Eagle, terrified by the raging thunderstorm that had suddenly caught her, breached the clouds soaring and waved her wet wings in the hopeful sunshine. The lamb she had clutched from the ground, twitching, heavy now with the wetness, strained her claws and threatened to remove the power from her wings, which would keep her above the thunderstorm until she reached her hatchlings waiting inside the rocky hole in a peak yonder. The hatchlings would sustain the hunger for another night, she decided finally, but if she never reached them… The lamb descended. It travelled towards the doom of humans, the ones who had ceased to exist long ago would have said.

The Well of Spike, opening atop the tower of Dunmor like an eyeball, a pit that travelled the entire height of the tower and went deep until the centre of the Miranha Mountain, gobbled the shrieking animal. The lamb plunged down and down, crying madly, filling the chasm, pitch dark at this time, with the bloodcurdling echoes Finally, it hit the ground, a sword erected from the bottom of the pit rising through its chest, the spike after which the well was named. Blood spurted out of the flesh-hole and dribbled inside the thirsty foundation of the pit. The meeting of final condition, was what this was according to a hugle wizard who had died thousands of years ago.

A quake originated from beneath the bloodied sword and the mountain shook, the tower trembled and all went silent, but only for a moment. Then a crack ran across the bottom of the pit, guzzling in the sword and the lamb, and made a fissure through which smoke emerged in a thin wisp, followed by a green light that dispersed out and illuminated the bottom of the pit. Then came a claw-hand, its fingers long and rigidly bent, nails long and pointed.


The long deminished realm of hugles would have remembered the dark verses dreaded in their lands.

In the vault of a mountain sleeps the hugle king,
Evil is in his blood, and strength in his wing,

When the brightest one is eluded, and so is the raging god
When a slave of old, but reborn, pays tribute to his lord

The earth shall be shaken and the mountain shall shudder
The curse then shall be broken and the vault shall shatter

Rise then shall the king, the supreme emperor
To spread again his realm... of power and fear

The claw-hand seized the opening and gave a pull, the hugle emperor, the king of kings, of hugles and non hugles, of mountains and valleys, sprang out of the earth, and landed beside the crack. Its tall and slender body, keenly wrought, almost like a man, showed no signs of a nearly perpetual rest. Its long hands rose up and his fingers slid against each other feeling air for the first time in eight thousand years. A low growl escaped his blood-stained mouth and filled the pit; a long breath went in through his slender nose, which would have suited an attractive human. Then the head of the Hugle-supreme dropped behind and his sharp eyes, crimson as the rising sun, looked up. Light glimmered at the end of the pit, and beyond that loomed the sky.

The hugle bent his knees and sprang up. It’s long hair waved towards earth as its body rose up and up until the leap ended. The hugle clutched the rocks of the well with the fingers of its claw-hands and feet. That well had not been there before he was cursed and defeated. A snarl of irritation escaped its mouth and he leaped again.

He closed its eyes as sunlight caressed them and the wind stroked his forehead. The sounds of the thunderstorm aside rang upon his ears, and the wetness in the air tickled him. He cried to fill the sky. He was free again.

He landed atop of the tower and looked around. Another growl of irritation fumed out of his nostrils. He stood upon circular base that was circumvented with parapet walls, of which he knew nothing. He walked towards the wall and jumped upon it, then strolled in a circle. All that he could see around was an amassment of clouds.

He leapt into the haze and plunged towards the earth head-first, enjoying the wet touch inside the murky world. Dropping down, he broke out into a heavy shower, above a wet valley. Deep down, somewhere in that land of valleys, was the smell of food, his favourite smell of human flesh.

But that had to wait. He had other aims to be achieved before the feasts began. His hands spread aside and took form of large wings, with which he shifted into a glide and turned towards the distant peaks in his sight, where lay his minors, his hundreds of old hugle slaves, whom he was going to wake now.

The Sculptures of Mist

It was a ravenous night, craving for blood and flesh like a pack of hyenas. Riots were scorching every part of Eastern Russia. Tsar’s soldiers were ravaging through towns and villages, slaughtering the mutinous lords, their families and supporters. The animals within them were unleashed.

I was ten and Vera, my little sister, five. We were hiding inside a storeroom full of apple boxes, their sweet smell all around us. Huddled together between two large wooden boxes, we shivered with terror of the violent soldiers crying outside vehemently.

Minutes ago we had seen my friend Vladimir and his mother die. First bullet had seared through the eleven-year-old’s heart; the second had spurted blood out of his dumbstruck mother’s head. Their bodies still lay lifeless on the street outside. The hounds who had taken their lives were now hunting for us. We could hear their shouts from the nearby houses and an odd round fired followed by a scream.

‘Mother will take out of here, Vera,’ I said in a trembling voice to my sister, holding her head tightly on my chest. In reply, she only continued to quiver.

‘None will escape the Tsar’s men,’ a husky voice startled us.

We jumped in panic. Two feet away from us sat an old man, trembling like us, hiding like us. The late afternoon light coming through a broken window was scanty enough to have hidden him from my eyes so far, but now that I had noticed him, I could see him well. A shrivel head stuck out of his fur coat. Sparse stubble sprouted out of the wrinkles on his face. A fur cap, like the ones we had worn, covered what was surely a bald head. His knees were drawn into his chest.

‘You don’t know my Mother. She will get us out of here,’ I said bravely, more to Vera than to the man.

‘None who follow Lord Emelya will live,’ he mumbled looking into abyss. His voice was rapped by fear. I did not understand the reason he said so, but that name… I used to hear it thousand times a year.

‘Net (no). My mother will take us out of here.’ I said angrily. He was scaring Vera more and more.

But the man paid no attention to me. He continued to mumble in a petrified manner. ‘This village will not see tomorrow’s –’

‘Shut up,’ I screamed fervently, and to some effect this time. Now that the man was shaken out of his trance, he observed us intently, as if to rid his mind of the hunters for a moment.
‘What happened to your father?’ he asked.
‘He is not in Ingrova. Gone to another village leading the troops,’ I answered, my voice now shivering a little less. Oddly, the old man’s company comforted me in a way. His manner wasn’t encouraging, but he was a grown up man after all.
‘What’s his name?’ the old man asked with a sudden glint in his eyes.
‘Lord Emelya,’ I answered hesitantly, fearing how the man might react to it. I now had an idea that it was my father who had brought the Tsar’s men upon the village. But the old man had nothing to do with it. He only observed us with shocked eyes. Perhaps, he did not know what to say. I looked away from his hopeless face.
‘Your mother must be dead by now,’ he said after a while. ‘Da. Yes, she’d be the first one to die. They must have taken her and… She must be dead.’
My heart stopped for a moment. That possibility had not occurred to me so far. Mother had been gone for at least fifteen minutes now. Many a rifle round had been fired during that.
Just then, the door of the storeroom creaked opened. A gentle but swift pair of feet came towards us.
The old man shrank in horror. ‘I thank you, Lord, for all that I was given. With what little time I am left with, I must repent all my sins….,’ he began whispering looking up. I had heard my grandfather say those words before going to sleep every night when he had been sick. It was one’s last prayer.
I hugged Vera tighter.
‘Ivan, Vera,’ mother’s voice came in a loud whisper and we immediately found ourselves in her tight embrace. I was relived greatly. Vera started sobbing as mother clutched her close while standing up. ‘Lord is gracious. You are safe. The soldiers have moved to the other part of village. I’ve made arrangements. We are leaving Ingrova right now. Come,’ she said to me.
‘You all will die,’ the old man spoke abruptly.
The voice startled mother. She looked at the old man alarmed, but calmed down as she noticed he wasn’t dangerous. ‘Come, Ivan,’ she said to me and started walking towards the door, then stopped. She looked at the old man. He was still sitting in the same posture.
‘You can come with us. You’ll be saved,’ she said to him, but he did not respond. ‘Soldiers will be here soon, to rob and burn the storeroom. They’ll show no mercy,’ Mother warned him inching towards the door. Grasping her fur coat, I remained close to her.
The old man only looked back, with terror in his eyes.
‘Come, Ivan.’ Mother did not waste another moment. Leaving the old man to his fate, we dashed out of the door and started climbing down the stairs.
‘Where are we going, Mat’?’ I asked Mother. Vera looked at me from over mother’s shoulder. Her small face was wet with tears and pale with fear. Strands of hair sprang out from under the rim of her fur cap and curled over her forehead and hazel eyes.
‘To the next village, dear.’
We stepped out under the darkening sky on a vacant, narrow street crisscrossing ahead through the closely huddled wooden huts. Snow that had been swept aside a couple hours ago bordered the road thickly. The gunshots and the shouts of the hunters had now moved to another corner of the village. We jogged away from them.
‘Are we going to Zanmotsa?’ I asked Mother as I hurried after her.
‘No dear, Zanmotsa would be no different than this town,’ Mother answered looking ahead. ‘Besides, that road would be crowded with the Tsar’s soldiers.’
‘Then where?’
‘To Nikrova. At your uncle’s place.’
I stopped in my tracks. Mother looked back and stopped to clutch my shoulder; we moved again. ‘We never go to Nikrova unless we are in a large group and travelling during the day.’ I said. The road to Nikrova went through a scary forest. All the horrible stories I had heard about it sprang in front of my eyes.
‘We have no other option,’ said Mother. ‘You’ll have to be brave tonight. And I am sure you’ll be.’
Her words perked me up a bit, but not much.
‘Opizdol ovca (idiot woman)!’ the voice of the old man startled us again. ‘None passes through the land of Mozoko at this hour. You’ll all die.’
We halted looking behind. The old man had been following us silently.
‘Do not despair us, Master,’ said Mother addressing the man respectfully. ‘I will save you if you come.’ Her tone was resolute and encouraging. But the old man’s face did not change.
Ushering me, Mother started walking again. The old man followed us.
‘How do you plan to leave the town? Every border gate must be watched by the enemy,’ he said.
‘I’ve made arrangements,’ was Mother’s only answer in a firm tone.
After trotting through the hushed lanes for about five minutes we came in front of a stone house, which I had been visiting since as long as I could remember. It belonged to farmer Teryosha, my father’s friend, whose daughter, Masha, two years younger to me, was my best friend. The door of the house was slightly ajar; mother pushed it open and we entered.
‘Is Masha coming with us, too?’ I asked stepping inside. The place felt stuffy.
Mother looked at me and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Do not look around, Ivan, just follow me. Okay? We are going to the backyard to take Uncle Teryosha’s wagon.’ With those instructions delivered in a trembling voice, she closed Vera’s eyes and we crossed one dark room after another. The old man followed.
There was an eerie silence inside the house. Perhaps, Masha and her parents were hiding somewhere. How would they feel if we went on without taking them along? The thought disturbed me. Despite mother’s instruction, I looked around, and screamed when saw Masha’s mother lying dead near a table. Her apron was daubed with blood around her chest. Flies hummed around the blood stains, their sound ringing inside the dull and dark room.
‘It’s all right, Ivan,’ Mother shouted. Holding my arm, she pulled me out of the room hurriedly.
The old man laughed sardonically behind us. He had probably gone mad. ‘The whole family… that’s what they have finished. Mocit! Murdered,’ he shouted. ‘See that, see that. They didn’t spare the little girl. All dead.’
I never had a last look at Masha, but I knew she lay somewhere around, dead like Vladimir. My head spun. The old man’s words pounded inside my head. I would never see Masha again now. Her dead mother’s picture was as if fixed in front of my eyes. I couldn’t take all that. Looking at a hazy glow through the door opening into the backyard, I fainted.

The first thing I noticed after my return to consciousness was a strong headache, the second was a burning wagon in front of me… surely the one we meant to take along. The invaders had set it alight and taken away the horses. My hand was grabbed tightly by the small hands of Vera, with whom I was sitting on the doorstep. The old man, standing a few feet away from me, was looking at the blaze frantically, the fire dancing in his mad eyes. He was murmuring something under his breath, surely something I would not want to listen.
‘It’s not as grave as it looks,’ I heard mother call. She was returning from an old stable near the house. There was hope in her eyes and urgency in her manner. ‘They ignored a cart and a horse in the old stable. Come, help me,’ she called the old man to the stable. ‘We’ll be on our way soon.’
‘Just one horse and a cart, what use will that be?’ the man whimpered, but joined Mother nonetheless.
Vera and I walked towards the old stable. It was almost dark inside, but mother was already ushering out a tall and strong stallion, the black warhorse, whose neck Masha and I had caressed every time after hearing his heroic war stories told by Uncle Teryosha. The horse was called Aza. He was a valiant bearer. However, he was now old and had spent most of his time in the stable since last two years.
‘The horse looks just as old as I am, and I can’t lift a box of apples now,’ said the old man mockingly as he took Aza’s rein from Mother.
‘You’ve probably been a storeroom worker whole your life, Master, but Aza is a warhorse,’ said Mother. ‘I have full faith in him.’
‘I’ll take your word, Damy (lady), for both ways… the death is inevitable.’
Within next minute or so, Mother and the old man had harnessed Aza with the cart. It was an open cart, save only a large wicker sheet bent in the shape of a horseshoe acting as roof.
‘How now do you plan to breach the Gate?’ asked the old man after the cart had been led out in the open.
‘Wait a while,’ said Mother and disappeared inside the house.
When she returned, she had a box of cartridges held in both her hands and a long rifle hung around her shoulder. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her armed like that. Mother was one of the best aim-getters in the village. I had heard that mother’s very liking towards the game had been the reason my father had come to know her.
She placed the box in front of the cart and sat at the driver’s position taking the reins. ‘Mount,’ she said and we all climbed inside the cart through its rear.
‘This will not work,’ said the old man, but he settled himself in the cart nonetheless.
‘Vera will sit between the two men,’ said Mother addressing me as a man, which certainly boosted my morale.
The cart took off. The gate towards Nikrova wasn’t far. In two minutes it appeared before us. The watery road shining in twilight led us straight at it. The main purpose of the white wooden gate was to keep out the wild animals from the forest. There was a small sentry-hut aside the gate, which was probably unoccupied at the moment, or so it appeared because of the stillness around. The invaders had not bothered securing this end of the village, as it led to the forest no sane man would enter during night.
‘Put your heads down,’ said Mother and took aim at the bolt fastening the gate. The scanty light could hardly have helped her, but she probably trusted her judgement. Sitting right behind her with my back to the wicker wall, I lowered my head looking at the Gate.
The sound of the gunfire beat upon my eardrums, but the gate was unmoved. Vera burst out wailing. With a curse she would normally not utter in front of us, Mother grabbed another cartridge from the box and reloaded the gun. But while she did that, two armed soldiers, alerted by the gunfire, trotted out of the hut and took position in front of the gate. They raised their guns and aimed at us.
‘Stremno (dangerous),’ the old man whispered.
But having reloaded the cartridge in time, Mother’s gun sounded first, and one of the soldiers went down. The cart was close to the gate now.
The other soldier, somewhat disturbed by his friend’s fall, missed his target. His shot went right through the wicker sheet behind me. Mother’s gun was ready before the soldier’s to be fired again. I saw her take aim at the man, but then decided against it and shifted it at the gate. Her gun sounded and the gate clattered this time. The bolt broke and the gate opened leaving a small gap.
By the time the soldier’s rifle was reloaded, Aza had neared perilously close to him. At the last moment, he decided against shooting at us and jumped out of the cart’s way, loosing his rifle in the effort. The man rolled off the road and Aza fumed ahead through the gap between the two doors. We were jolted as the cart crashed the gate wide open. We were out of the village.
The man got back to his feet and came trotting on the road looking at us, ‘Go, go, die your own death,’ he shouted.
‘Paka, svoloc (goodbye, rascal),’ shouted the old man laughing. He was thrilled. ‘Obaldennyj (brilliant)!’
I tore my eyes away from him and looked at Mother.
‘Is everyone all right?’ she asked looking behind.
‘Yes, everyone,’ I answered.
Vera was still crying. The gunshots and the crash through the gate had badly scared her. The old man, who so far had been sitting rigidly, was now relaxed. He probably had been saying his prayers again while we were crossing the gate.
‘Did I not say I’ll get you out, Master?’ asked Mother sounding cheered up after the fall of the first hurdle.
‘There were only two men,’ said the old man, ‘but you did get us out, yes.’
‘And I will get you to the next village as well.’
‘I wish I could believe that. The realm of Mozoko appraches.’
‘You believe in that story?’
Oddly, the old man remained silent this time.

Soon, fear was creeping over me again. The tale of Mozoko would terrify every child in Ingrova. It was a legend some people strongly believed in. It went like this: Mozoko was a fiend of frost who would freeze people and feed upon their flesh. Then one day, a wizard defeated him inflicting magical fire upon him. Mozoko became vapour and retreated into the forest of Ingrova. There, from vapour he became mist. And since that day, whenever a traveller dared to go through the mist during night, Mozoko created the sculptures of brutal predators out of the mist, put life in them and set them upon the traveller.
Mother always said the story was just a tale. All the travellers that died in the forest were the victims of wild creatures. However, a lot of other people from Ingrova disagreed with this. But Mozoko or no Mozoko, the forest was deadly, and none disagreed with that.

As the chilly wind passed through the cart, I came out of my reverie. Hair beneath my woollen sleeves had gone all prickly. To shove away the creepy thoughts from my mind, I decided to speak. I asked Mother, ‘How long will it take us?’
But the old man spoke first, ‘To die? Not too long, not too long.’
‘Old Man,’ Mother shouted, ‘If you continue to discourage us, I should leave you here and proceed ahead.’
‘What difference will it make, Damy?’ asked the old man even more sarcastically.
Mother snorted and ripped her attention away from him. ‘Within six more hours, we’ll reach there, Ivan.’
‘I am hungry,’ said Vera in a weak voice. She had spoken for the first time since last one hour.
‘Oh dear, you’ll have to wait until we reach Uncle’s house,’ shouted Mother with the wind, but she was proved wrong instantly. The old man put a hand inside the large pocket of his jacket and fetched out some apples, which I could hardly recognize in the dark. ‘Have these,’ he said handing Vera two of them.
‘What’s that?’ asked mother looking behind.
‘Apples from the storeroom. Spizdit (stolen)! I carry them for my grandchildren every evening,’ said the old man. Trembling, his voice waned to a whisper as he said that.
Vera took the apples and noisily bit a large chunk out of one. The old man handed me a couple as well. Unsure whether Mother had permitted us to eat them, also not feeling hungry at all, I kept them in my hand.
Suddenly, the old man drew his knees close to him and started crying loudly looking up at the sky, letting out a long wail.
That scared Vera and she moved closer to me.
‘They’re all dead,’ the man shouted sobbing loudly. ‘They’re all dead,’ he repeated in a whisper after a while, then continued crying for some more time.
‘Are my children not like your grandchildren, Master?’ asked Mother tenderly.
The old man and observed us through watery eyes for a while. ‘Eat them, child,’ he said to me kindly.
I obliged at once. That probably made him feel better. He looked out of the cart at the dark and looming spruce trees falling behind us.

Some time later, I heard him shriek all of a sudden. ‘There comes the death,’ he said forcing himself into the wagon cramming us.
With a jolt of fear I looked at the road behind us, which looked much clearer now under the moonlight. As I spotted what feared the old man, my heart went cold and limbs lifeless. There was a pack of wolves racing after us. At least five of them, each one of them easily larger than the biggest dogs in Ingrova, and each seeming as ferocious as the invaders we had faced some time ago. Howling and growling they approached, reducing the gap speedily.
Vera began crying loudly and the old man started saying his prayer again. I myself wasn’t much in a different state. The way the wolves ran after at us, the moment wasn’t far when they would be leaping inside the wagon.
‘Calm down, Vera,’ shouted Mother over the wind whistling through the cart. ‘Don’t worry.’ Mother’s voice trembled, but it hadn’t lost its vigour. ‘Father, take the reins,’ she shouted stepping hazardously inside the bounding and sprinting cart. ‘Take the reins I say,’ she shouted.
The old man finally unfroze and looked at her, his eyes a pool of terror. He did as he was told. As soon as he took the reins and occupied the place Mother had vacated, Mother took the rifle in her hands and loaded it with a cartridge. Then she kneeled and fired a round. The sound shook the jungle, birds taking of from the trees and filling the night with loud clamour. One wolf went down, its body skidding ahead to a stop on the turf. Scared, his partners slowed down and stopped. More than their companion’s death, I think it was the sound that had feared them. Standing where they were, they howled at us till we lost them.
‘See, there wasn’t much to worry,’ said Mother putting down the gun. She took Vera into a tight embrace with one hand and pulled me close with the other. She was breathing hard.
‘That was just an ordinary pack then,’ the old man’s words floated through the cart. ‘Not Mozoko’s.’

For the next three hours or so, the old man reined the cart silently. Sitting close to us Mother told us stories of valour and greatness. At first her tales hardly attracted me, but then I listened to them with some attention. However, the persistent fear of being attacked again was there all the time. Every now and then the distant howls of wolves coming from every corner of the jungle would clench away our courage, but Mother would restore it, saying, ‘Did you notice, Vera, no wolf answered the howls from anywhere near us, which means there are no wolves around. We are safe.’
Despite the road falling back and hours flying by, my anxiety was increasing. I was hoping hard that the journey ended without any further trouble.

As we descended down a hill after some time, the forest around us got thicker. Mother said, ‘Just a half an hour now, children.’
But just then something happened that we would not have expected at all. The wagon suddenly slowed down and stopped completely giving us a jolt. I feared that Aza might have burnt all his strength.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mother asked tensed, but the old man didn’t answer. Mother repeated the same question getting onto her knees to look ahead. The old man did not answer this time as well, but from Mother’s face I grasped that she had spotted something really bad.
‘What is it?’ I asked looking ahead over the old man’s shoulder, but I could see nothing dangerous. In fact, I couldn’t see the road ahead of us at all. I wondered why; the moonlight was fair behind us. Then it struck me. The road ahead was shrouded by mist.
‘If you make the horse pause longer, he might not pick up strength again,’ Mother warned the old man.
The vivid images from my father’s stories of Mozoko began dancing in front of my eyes. I paid no attention to the panting and slumping Aza. However, Mother noticed it and jumped down from the cart, then looked around for something.
‘There is a puddle there,’ she said and walked around the wagon up to Aza. She took the horse by his belt and guided him, and the wagon with him, to the little water reservoir aside the road. The horse drank gladly.
‘We are going to Nikrova, and we are going to make it,’ Mother turned to us and spoke in a tone so sharply resolute that even the old man seemed to loose his fear for a moment. ‘This mist, no matter what stories are told about it, cannot stop me from restoring my children to the safety. But I need everyone to be brave.’
I felt myself conquering some of my fear. Some strength returned to my weakened legs. Even Vera, who had become a lump of flesh as soon as Mother had gone out of the wagon, stirred somewhat.
After Aza was done and rested for whatever meagre amount of time, Mother guided him back on the road and got in.
‘Start now, Father,’ said Mother sharply, ‘We’ll be inside a warm house before the next half-hour is over. That is all that remains of this journey.’
The old man set Aza moving and we entered the mist.

That part of the forest as though existed in a different world altogether. The air around us was still and intimidating, and a lot colder. The mist, closing in on us as we moved ahead, disallowed us a view of the surroundings farther than a few feet. The sounds of our cart which moved slowly due to the mist shrouded turns ahead were the only sign of life.
We remained silent for many a minute, throwing nervous glances around.
‘Soon we’ll come to a straight road. We’ll be faster then,’ said Mother, but even she sounded nervous now. Perhaps, there was something in the air that stole courage from everyone.
After a while, the old man broke the silence speaking loudly. ‘O father of frost, the lord of mist, forgive us, we dare not pass your realm, but we have to.’ His voice had an eerie sound to it.
‘Do not say that, Father,’ Mother warned him, but he continued.
‘We mean no offence. We mean simply to pass…’
‘I said, stop saying that.’
‘Ignore us as feeble beings, insignificant…’
‘You will raise the fiend if it is asleep,’ Mother shouted. The words had an instant effect on the old man, but the silence wasn’t restored.
‘So you believe in the legend, then?’ he asked in a deep and grave voice.
‘According to the story you must pass silently. If you are fortunate, you escape. According to the story,’ said Mother. ‘If you believe it, be silent. I want silence because noise seems unnatural in these surroundings. It does not seem correct to do so.’
‘But you believe in the story, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Do not say such words here, ovca,’ the old man shouted. ‘Do not offend the Lord of the mist. You will set upon us the wrath of Mozoko.’
‘Oh I won’t,’ Mother shouted back. ‘Nothing will happen even if I-’
But Mother did not finish her sentence. Suddenly, a clamour of birds rose in the forest around us. We went silent as statues, looking around. Our eyes tried in vain to penetrate the thick walls of the mist around and look at what stirred beyond. Instinctively, the old man whipped Aza and the cart picked up speed.
Followed by the din of disquieted birds came a sound of dead leaves churning beneath several feet, or, probably, claws. The old man started whispering his prayer. Mother released her grip on us and picked up the gun, then pulled the box of cartridges closer to her and loaded the weapon. All the while I was just staring into the mist.
And then finally… it began.
Several ferocious wolves, much larger than the previous lot, broke out from the mist and fell behind us on the road. Several red eyes gleamed in the scanty moonlight. Several woolly throats let out terrorising wails. Several claws tore the turf beneath us.
‘Hold your nerves! We’ll get away,’ Mother shouted, and her gun roared. But the sound of it was easily muffled by the ferocious cries of the hunters behind us. One wolf, nonetheless, faltered back into the mist.
But this pack was different. Instead of slowing down, instead of retreating like the previous lot, they took up an even fiercer manner and chased harder. More of them appeared from the mist. The gap closed speedily.
‘That’s it. They are Mozoko’s creatures,’ shouted old man whipping Aza hard. ‘Formed out of the mist.’
Surprisingly, this time, the old man hadn’t lost all his courage, and it was relieving in a way. But the relief was barely palpable under the terror that had now seized me.
‘We have enough bullets to last them all,’ said Mother as she reduced one more wolf from the pack, but only to further close the gap and increase their number. More wolves kept emerging and I began doubting Mother’s calculation. From what I could see, there could not have been more than ten cartridges in the box now, but the wolves, save those still hidden by mist, were easily twenty.
Just then, I noticed Vera had gone unconscious. I pulled her closer to me. Her hands were cold, a lot colder than they had ever been. I shook her and started rubbing her palms. Tears welled up in my eyes. But despite the tears and the terror outside, my hands hadn’t gone weak. I wished I had a weapon too.
Mother’s rifle kept roaring, the wolves kept falling down, but they kept nearing us as well, chasing relentlessly, as though hunting us down was what they were born for. By the time Mother had reduced six of them, the leading wolf passed ahead of the cart, its front feet flapping on the rear as it sprinted, its body soaring.
The rifle brought down another wolf, the one right behind the leader.
‘Vypizdit (kill it)! This one is death,’ the old man cried loudly, as the wolf leading the pack neared perilously close to Aza. The horse increased speed, but just when it seemed that the chaser might fall behind, the wolf showed the limitations of an old horse pulling a cart full of people. It leaped in the air launching its jaw full of knives at Aza’s throat. But the wolf never succeeded.
The barrel of Mother’s gun sounded from right over the old man’s shoulder and cut short the wolf’s flight. Its body came down and got trampled under the wooden wheels of our cart. I saw the twitching wolf go back over the road as though carried by a strong river current from beneath a bridge. Another wolf, who had readied itself to leap inside the cart tripped over its dead comrade’s body and crashed into the ground, giving Mother sufficient time to reload the gun again.
After nine shots there were still about ten to twelve wolves behind us, but they were now lagging behind somewhat. However, worry over Mother’s face was increasing. She lowered the gun as the wolves were not going to get near us for at least another few moments. My attention went to the box of cartridges. I noticed that the box had almost been emptied. I feared to lean closer and count the exact number of cartridges remaining.
That was precisely when the old man did something he hadn’t done the whole evening. He shouted something that encouraged us. ‘The lights of Nikrova,’ he shouted with excitement. ‘Just five more minutes and the forest falls behind.’
I looked ahead. The mist was finally relenting, unveiling the tiny specks glowing a mile away. Our hopes soared. Mother raised the gun again and another wolf went back into the thinning mist. Her gun bellowed twice more and then, finally, went silent.
The distance between us and the chasers, seemed to expand, but only for a few moments. Then, the wolves probably understood why they weren’t falling down anymore. And so they decided to give one final thrust and doubled up their ferocity, reaching for us with all their might.
We looked anxiously at the lights of Nikrova, but now they seemed a minute too far. Tired and almost spent Aza did his best, but that did not seem enough.
‘Why aren’t you shooting them down? We are just minutes away,’ the old man shouted, but when mother did not answer he looked behind. Mother’s still but calm posture and the laid down gun told him the reason. He looked at the wolves and then hopelessly looked ahead at Nikrova.
‘There is another way,’ said Mother, more to herself than us, her voice suddenly positive. She looked at the old man and said, ‘keep moving, Master, I m going to keep my word.’
The wolves were now just a few feet away.
‘Ivan,’ Mother said to me suddenly, in her ever strong and vigorous tone, ‘Look ahead at those lights, and keep looking at them… until we reach there. If you do so, we will be saved.’
‘How?’ I asked edgily.
‘Just do it, dear,’ she said.
It did sound weird but I did as I was told.
She then kissed the unconscious Vera on her cheek and me on my head, her palm caressing my face affectionately. A tear fell on my head. And then… a jolt shook us and the cart lightened.
I heard a body fall out, the wolves stop the chase and then… a painful grunt leave Mother’s throat followed by the victorious snarls of the wolves. My jaw was clenched and throat stuffed with a cry I wasn’t letting out. I forgot Mother’s final instruction and looked back at the road, but by then all was lost in the mist.

***

The Fun Agent

Standing on a footpath, Mat Grin looked forlorn at his Ford Angela as the snatcher sent by the money lender drove it away from the front of his office. The black car was the first one he had bought. Gone now, like the others.

With a deep pit in his heart, which he knew he would never be able to fill up, he dragged himself away from the building of Grin Incorporations. The imposing structure would soon bear some other name. From the fear of meeting curious looks of the employees he had retained until the day, the pity workers he had played and toggled with to meet his cunning purposes, he did not even glance for one last time at the empire he had raised. Neither those windows belonged him now, nor did he rule the people standing behind them. All was lost.

As he walked past a turn, he interested a taxi driver. And that was the confirmation of his defeat. Normally he wouldn’t notice the mundane things on the road as he would fly past those lost in some business papers sitting in a cosy sit of his car, but today, he was one of those. He still had some money in his pocket to pay the taxi up to his home, but no, his pride did not allow that. His feet would not turn towards the hire-car, they would rather walk all the way.

He suddenly realised that he was forgetting something he used to tell the staff members standing rigidly in front of his desk. Change with the time, or you’ll break - a quote he had followed throughout the last decade while the industries under his wing were multiplying and his name was getting stronger by the day. He halted abruptly as the quote rang in his head now. The times were changing for him, and he needed to change with them. The taxi man was still interested, waiting for a wave.

‘I’ve broken already,’ Mat whispered adamantly and pushed himself away from the taxi.

Have I really? he asked himself after a while as the busy evening blurred about him over the footpath. He wanted to believe there was some way he could regain at least some of what he had lost, but his brain hadn’t forgotten the logic yet. He was smashed flat, as he would describe his competitors some time back. Even the house that he walked towards wouldn’t be his the next morning. His wife had foreseen it all and already left him a week ago.

Just then a familiar whiff of roasted beef engulfed him, which his air-conditioned car hadn’t allowed to in many years. He was standing at the mouth of 17^th Lane, the place he hadn’t entered since long. Very long. It was the lane occupied mostly by poor people having their miserable dwellings on its either side. It was the lane he used to dash through over his bicycle as a kid.

Of late he hadn’t even thought about having a peep inside the 17^th Lane, one of the most notorious parts in the high society. But today, the lane offered him the closest way to his home, the one that would do a favour to his much pampered legs.

I will have to change, or I will well and truly break, Mat told himself and entered the lane, forcing himself to accept the truth that he was just as poor now as the few people who hurried up and down the way.

The roadside beef seller at the entrance had packed his mobile shop and was moving. Mat left him behind and gazed around wistfully. Nothing much had changed there. Only, the buildings had gone older over the years, some now were apparently vacant and some ramshackle. But the trees, the houses, the people, the smell… the life out there, it was all still all the same.

Mat laughed at his perfect decline, within his very first hour back to poverty he was in the 17^th Lane. Strange, but true.

‘You look sad.’ A husky voice disturbed his thoughts. Stopping, he looked in the direction.

A drunkard was looking at him sitting on a roadside bench. His hair was dishevelled and he had a stubble fortnight old. His cloths made of cheap fabric were probably stained and definitely stinking. He drank through a bottle, at the bottom of which some liquor churned.

Aw, a drunkard! Mat hated liquor. He hated every little thing that made men loose their logic and self control. ‘A man should always be in his wake to keep moving ahead’ was what he believed.

‘I can tell a sad man when I see one,’ the drunkard droned in a sluggish tone. His voice echoed on the walls around. The lane was almost hushed now, save a man or two walking nearby. The place looked quiet dismal in the low light cast by the distantly planted street lamps and the trifling moonlight.

Mat decided to leave.

‘Don’t walk away, friend,’ said the man. ‘Come, sit here with me. Tell me about your worries. I just might have a solution.’

Mat halted again and immediately wondered at himself for doing so. The very idea that a roadside drunkard’s offer interested him was a proof of his helplessness. He knew there was no way the drunkard could help him regain even a shred of what he had lost, yet he felt an inclination towards the man. He was lonely, he understood, and needed some company. All the well if a total stranger gave it to him, at least he wouldn’t know of Mat’s terrible fall. So ready to change with the times, Mat Grin, the founder of Grin Incorporations, sat beside the drunkard.

‘There you are,’ said the drunkard taking in a big gulp. ‘My friend is really sad. Unhappy, is he?’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Mat unbuttoning his tweed jacket.

‘Simple. If you were happy, you wouldn’t be here,’ the drunkard said, his voice was shaky due to drinking. ‘You would be spending cash at some rich place.’

Mat laughed in a dejected tone. ‘Ahh, true. But gone are those days now,’ he said. ‘Bankrupt, I am. I’d never go to a rich place again.’

‘Hmm, that might be true, if you say so,’ said the drunkard observing the moon after a while. ‘However, it does not mean you’ll never be happy again.’

‘I don’t get you,’ said Mat. ‘All that I had earned was due to a very lucky chance I got a decade back. Do whatever I may, I’ll never get that chance again. And the life of an ordinary man can never make me happy. I am not used to it.’

‘There is a solution, friend…,’ said the drunkard. ‘It is my business to make sad people like you happy.’

‘What? As in, that is your profession?’ asked Mat amazed.

‘Aye. Perfect. I am a Fun Agent,’ the drunkard said.

‘Interesting. And Weird,’ said Mat. ‘Never heard of such a profession before. What exactly do you do?’

‘I make unhappy people happy.’

‘Yes, but how?’ asked Mat. ‘How will you make me happy like I was a couple months ago.’

‘You did not have the worries of life then, friend,’ said the drunkard. ‘I mean, even if you had some, you were not forced to think about them all the time. And there were ways out of those troubles. That’s why you were happy.’

‘And you can help me achieve that again?’

‘Yes. That and more besides.’

‘How?’

‘Simple. You’ll have to be a part of those people who are always happy,’ said the drunkard.’

‘Ahh. Where are such people, man,’ asked Mat in disbelief. ‘I don’t see them.’

‘True, you don’t see them, but they are everywhere,’ the drunkard said. ‘You don’t notice them because You yare too burdened by the worries of life.’

‘How do I notice them, then?’ asked Mat. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘I’ll show you the way,’ the drunkard said with a wink, then took out another bottle from his pocket and stuck it forward. ‘Drink it.’

Mat’s amazement vanished in a jiffy. ‘So that is your way to make unhappy people happy, eh?’ he said suddenly uninterested. ‘Simple it is, indeed. But no, I don’t drink liquor.’

‘Aww, my friend,’ said the drunkard taking up a tone of persuasion. ‘This is not liquor. This is a solution to all your worries. Drink it and you’ll be in a world where no worries will touch you.’

Should I drink it? Mat asked himself fixing his gaze at the bottle. What was the point in not loosing his logic now, not loosing the self control? He had nothing to guard anymore. And there was no other way to get out of his miseries. Well, he needed to change with times.

He grabbed the bottle and emptied the bitter liquid inside in one swallow. It felt as though his throat had been clutched, but only for a moment though. He closed his eyes shut and contracted his face and let the sensation pass. Then he felt lighter. He dropped the bottle and enjoyed loosing himself in completely another world. He dropped his head back ad felt all the worries leave him. The drunkard was right, it seemed.

After a while he opened his eyes. The drunkard was still drinking from his own bottle. ‘I think you were right, friend,’ he said to the drunkard and stood up to go.

Just as he was about to leave, he heard a man laugh nearby, merrily. A little surprised he looked at the bench on the other side of the street. Three or four men had gathered there while he had been drinking. They were having fun together. He felt a pang towards them, they looked the happy lot the drunkard had been talking about. He crossed the street.

‘Welcome, my friend,’ said one of the men.

‘So you just learned the trick from our Fun Agent, eh?’ asked another one.

‘Yes, it looks like it works,’ said Mat happily.

‘Oh yes, it does,’ said one, ‘It works for all of us, you see. You leave behind all your worries and we get another friend. The more, the merrier.’

‘It’s good to join you,’ said Mat not as earnestly as he felt. It was strange that he was amidst a pack of scoundrels. And even stranger that he was trouble-free as he hadn’t been in some time.

‘What trouble nagged you?’ asked an old man.

‘Ah, I got bankrupt,’ said Mat.

‘Oh, sad. But don’t tell me you have nothing to give to the fun agent now?’

‘What, no, there was no deal as such,’ answered Mat a little perplexed.

‘Well look, the rule is,’ explained one of the men, ‘you give all your belongings to the fun agent, because he gets money from nowhere else. When he gets money he can have liquor and food. As long as he is up and alive we keep getting new friends.’

‘Yes,’ said the other man. ‘We gave him whatever little we had.’

‘I won’t do it,’ said Mat, ‘All that the court will let me have is a very little amount and possessions to live. I won’t them to him.’

‘You’ll give them to him. Sooner or later. And you’ll do it wilfully.’

‘That’s weird,’ said Mat. ‘You pay him so that he makes more men drink liquor and they join you?’

‘He didn’t make you do that,’ said a man mischievously.

‘Oh, that’s what he did,’ said Mat. ‘You were not here. He made me drink liquor.’

‘You are mistaken,’ the old man said. ‘We were here all the time and watching you. Only, you did not notice us, because you were not one of us. I heard the Fun Agent tell you it wasn’t liquor, and he meant it. It was poison, my friend. A solution to all the worries of life. Liquor was what he was drinking.’

"The above story is protected under intellectual property laws. Copying it or any part of it without prior permission of the author could and will lead to serious legal consequences"

The Legend of the Treasure Guard

Back in the June of 2005, when I was working on the project of a tourism CD, I witnessed the weirdest and scariest incident of my life.

The plan for the day had been that I pick up Mr. Lambat, an elderly friend of mine and an enthusiast about historical places, and we go to the caves of Ellora for a daylong visit and photography. I packed my camera, a tripod, a torch and extra batteries in the bag and turned up at Mr. Lambat’s place. He had been eagerly waiting for the doorbell. Within next five minutes we were on my bike and a move, ten minutes earlier than the scheduled time of morning seven.

The weather was hazy right since the beginning. The murky sky promised to be a killjoy.

‘You’ve chosen a wrong month for this project, Sarang,’ said Mr. Lambat from behind me as we were speeding on our way. He observed the lurking clouds through his specs rather worried.

‘It’s another thirty kilometres to go,’ I said over the wind hoping things would be different at Ellora. If not the bright sunlight for nice and clear pictures, I begged it did not rain at least. I raised the accelerator as we hit the highway.

However, the clouds got depressingly darker mile after mile. And finally, when we were on the halfway mark and passing from the feet of the grand fort of Devgiri, the heavens descended upon us with all might. We took an instant shelter inside one of the restaurants in front of the fort. As we helped ourselves with hot bhajiya and tea (rather enjoyably instead of an early setback), the rage outside became fiercer by minute.

An hour later the pour reduced to a light but steady drizzle. We stepped outside. Conditions greatly unsuited bringing out the camera for a long session, and even more - moving ahead on our way to Ellora over the sinuous mountain way that would begin after a kilometre. The road onwards would offer no shelter if the rain got heavier.

We decided to take a small trip around Devgiri fort (which we had already covered the other day) and try our luck at a distant shot or two for the CD.

Cleaving the Daulatabad village that clings to the fort we came onto the planes behind it for the first time. The shapely structure of the pyramidal fortress looked quite exquisite (however, a little murky) on the background of clouds. Leaving the bike at a point from where we couldn’t take it any further, we walked closer to the fort. Holding the camera underneath the shelter of bag, I got some of the best shots for the project until then. Satisfied that we had at least grabbed something, we walked further to the west of the fort.

That was precisely when we spotted the intriguing structure of an old, historical palace standing on a green hillock a kilometre away from the fort.

‘What’s that place over there,’ I said as both of us noticed it for the first time.

‘Let us find out,’ said Mr. Lambat already attracted by the dilapidated structure.

As we left half a kilometre behind us, the skies cleared all of a sudden and cast a gentle sunlight upon us, as if to put us in a dilemma over choosing between the unknown palace and loosing another precious hour from our Ellora visit.

‘Can we go to the Caves tomorrow? As it is, we have lost so much of time,’ I said expectantly to my companion.

‘I think I’ll call a colleague later and get my tomorrow’s shift rearranged,’ answered Mr. Lambat taking a step ahead. I smiled at the man’s curious nature.

Minutes later we were at the base of the hillock. Shaped like a train bogie, but many a times larger, the neglected edifice looked mostly in ruins. I took a few distant shots and we began climbing up the hill.

‘Looks like an old palace,’ said Mr. Lambat panting slightly as we finished the climb. ‘Such buildings were used by the Lords of old. They would often come to spend leisurely hours at such palaces.’

Yes, the place must have been a palace, I thought. The walls, however strong, were delicately decorated from the outside. The crust of an expensive bluish colour they would make using natural resources in this region was visible in patches. Such an extravagance would hardly be allowed for an ordinary building. Doubtful of finding any stairs intact, we climbed up above the four feet high base of the construction and stepped onto the floor for the first time.



A creepy sensation came over us. The place as though asked us politely to step down and go away.

Should we go inside? I asked myself. And as if my feeling was contagious, Mr. Lambat asked me the same question loudly with a weak laugh revealing his nervousness.

‘Umm, let us take a round first,’ I said cursing myself in mind for being weak-hearted. We jumped off.

For the next twenty-five minuets we strolled around the construction. We examined and shot (with the camera) a large elephant house a hundred meters away at the backside of the palace, studied a cleverly constructed, concealed water reservoir nearby and returned to the same point again.

‘I think we must go inside,’ I said climbing up the base again. The creepy sensation was back.

Pillars, some broken some still erect, halls, some housing the ceilings collapsed inside and the rest dense bushes, many strong staircases of stone going towards the roof and windows giving an intense feeling of isolation, was all that we found inside. Howling wind made eerie sounds beating upon the walls covered with fungous and escaping through the age-made holes in them. The place, wet with the recent rains, had a deathly chill everywhere.

We climbed up the stairs and walked around the place over the broad parapet-wall that once must have skirted an intact roof. As we gazed at the land around the palace, we noticed there wasn’t even a single residence (or the signs of it) in the circling kilometre. We (mostly Mr. Lambat) deduced that the palace might have served the Lords as a point of contact with ordinary people that the fort didn’t offer. And if not that, it might have offered a peaceful dwelling for a day or two away from the business of the fort, yet comfortably near from it.

‘Done,’ said I after I had taken as many pictures as the memory chip of my camera allowed. We climbed down and got off the palace at once. Just as we stepped onto the grass, the strange weight that had mounted over us vanished. It relieved us to be out of the palace.

‘If we knew something truthful about the place other than our deductions, I could include it in the CD,’ I said.

And as if it were a wish made to a jinni, Mr. Lambat spotted two young boys leaving for school towards Daulatabad. They probably lived in a nearby village.

‘Hey there… my friend, come here,’ called Mr. Lambat.

The boys, who had already spotted our bike standing about a kilometre away from the hillock, looked at us. They exchanged a few words and stopped beneath the hillock.

‘Can you please come up?’ asked Mr. Lambat.

The boys stared at us dumbly.

‘Do you stay around here?’

No reply again. Only the stares.

‘I think we will have to go down,’ I said and we jogged down the mount.

‘You stay nearby?’ I asked as we reached up to them.

‘Yeh, ‘round there,’ said a boy pointing northwards at a wooded area where there seemed to be a village. Both of them looked around fifteen years old.

‘Do you know this place?’ I asked pointing at the palace.

They exchanged dark looks. ‘We’ll, yes. But we never go there like you just did,’ the first boy said.

‘What is your name?’ asked Mr. Lambat.

‘Shiva,’ the boy said.




‘I see. And that of this place?’

‘It is called Rangmahal,’ the boy mumbled.

‘And why don’t you go there?’

‘They say that inside, there’s a cruel snake with two mouths and long moustaches,’ told Shiva.

‘A snake? With two mouths, and moustaches at that? Interesting!’ I said in a flippant tone. ‘What does it do?’

‘It guards an ancient treasure,’ said Shiva.

‘Ahh, we just had been in there,’ I said jokily again. ‘We didn’t see any signs of a treasure. And forget the snake there’s not even a lizard.’ I was sure we had seen all of the place that we could.

‘You say so because you’ve seen nothing,’ said the boy getting pumped up by my tone. ‘It was just the first storey you visited. The snake doesn’t stay there.’

‘You mean there’s a second storey as well? Where?’ asked Mr. Lambat intrigued.

‘Not above the one you had been into, beneath. There are seven stories in there, Saheb. One beneath the other. They go down even lower than this hillock,’ said the boy receiving the looks of surprise from us he had expected.

‘Tell more,’ we said.

‘When this land was rich once (we took this for the period of 12th century), there was a lot of gold in the fort,’ began Shiva. ‘You might have heard their is a big network of underground tunnels beneath the fort. Those secret ways used to serve the spies in times of besiege. One of those tunnels connects Rangmahal with the fort –’

‘You mean there is a tunnel that long?’ I interrupted.

‘Well, that has got to be the shortest of the tunnels,’ the boy
replied putting hand to another mystery. ‘There are tunnels so long that you could go to Ellora (fifteen kilometres away). Some months ago, the goat of a man from Daulatabad entered a tunnel down there (he pointed towards the fort). He thought he had lost it. But couple of days later it was found wandering alone near the caves of Ellora. No doubt the goat was same, it had the same colour and the thread around her neck, also a pierced ear that would be the man’s mark on every of his goat.’

‘Goshh, that’s some tale,’ I said amazed.

‘What of the Rangmahal?’ asked Mr. Lambat after a while.

‘Yes. So it is said that they carried whole of the gold from the fort through the tunnel and stored it over here at a time of besiege,’ the boy began again. ‘They preferred Rangmahal, because they thought it was safer than the fort. The battle was lost and the fort was taken (not by force, Devgiri fort was simply impossible to be conquered forcefully, its every defeat was tactical) by the Mughal. All the gold, filling seven stories jam packed, lay forgotten. Then, a hundred years ago, a man found golden coins and ornaments while digging around this hillock. After that, as the word spread, the search began in the surrounding areas and people found gold in big quantities. However, the main treasure inside the palace was still neglected. When someone found a golden statue in there, in the Palace, they started going in with pickaxes and digging everywhere. That was when the Snake came into knowledge for first time.’

‘How? Did it attack those treasure-hunters?’

‘Oh yes,’ the boy said. ‘They say it warns you first, but if you go on, it kills you. It either melts your dead bodies or gobbles them. You never return!’

‘How then do you know what the Snake does, if none has ever returned?’ I asked intelligently.

The boy looked at us perplexed. ‘That, I do not know, Saheb, but I told you what I’ve heard.’

I wanted to say that the tale is hard to believe, but I thought it might not sound polite as the boy seemed to believe it firmly. So I asked the boy, ‘what makes you take the tale seriously? Have you ever witnessed a proof?’

‘Of the gold? There are many proofs,’ the boy told us zealously. ‘One man in Daulatabad found some gold around here fifteen years ago. He disappeared with it for a month. When he returned he had sold it all and had lot of money. He was one of those cunning villagers who hid it cleverly from the government (he meant the archaeology department). Now he’s a well-to-do man. He has his own house. If you go to him he might recount you that, as he has to some of the villagers. But he is generally wary of the city-men like you.’

‘Hmm, that’s something,’ said Mr. Lambat smiling in appreciation. ‘But is that all?’

‘No, there’s a man in my city who found a sword with a golden hilt,’ the boy delved into another account. ‘He found it somewhere ‘round here, but the government people got a hint of it and took it away from him. That happened some ten years ago. After that the government set a ban on the diggings.’

We remained silent for a while. ‘All right, there might be gold,’ I said, ‘but what of the Snake? How do we believe that?’

‘I have no proof of that, Saheb, but there are some people who returned after receiving the warning,’ said Shiva. ‘Though I know none personally.’

‘What say you, Uncle?’ I asked Mr. Lambat. ‘Can there be a snake?’

‘Hmm! Such tales are hard to believe, I agree, but when people say such things they cannot be completely baseless, can they!’

‘Yeh, there has to be some point,’ I said looking at the palace, now with some dread.

‘But people have died around here,’ said Shiva with a spark in his eyes. ‘Come I’ll give you a proof of that.’ With that he, and after him us, set off towards a sparsely wooded area near the hillock some distance away. His friend joined us as well.

Shiva showed us several holes on the way that were surely not natural. There lay dug out earth around them in heaps. I did not realise it then, but I was beginning to believe the boy’s account slowly, even the bit about the snake.

‘Look there,’ said Shiva looming over a well that soon approached.

We peered inside. ‘What?’

‘See those bones at the bottom. They were men once. Died, or rather, were killed while treasure hunting,’ Shiva told us.

We did spot the bones, but it was hard to tell whether they belonged to men or some animals.

‘Complete skeletons have been discovered from this area in past,’ said Shiva. ‘These bits lay ignored somehow.’

I still wasn’t convinced fully, but, I have to admit, I could not be flippant about the tale anymore. Whatever little belief I had now gathered over the tale acted like a fuel to go further. ‘Let us go in,’ I said to the boy.

The boy dismissed me with a mere gesture.

‘In where? We’ve been there already?’ asked Mr. Lambat.

‘That was just the first (actually the topmost) storey,’ I said, ‘let us see if we can find the entrance to the lower-next storey.’

‘I’ve heard the second storey can be found easily,’ said the boy. ‘It is the third that you can’t find or get into.’

‘If that is so, we are going,’ I said and started climbing the hillock again. Knowing that I wouldn’t listen and curious himself as well, Mr. Lambat got on. ‘Come,’ I shouted at the boy over my shoulder. ‘We’re together, don’t worry.’ I lingered suddenly as I saw hesitation over the boy’s face which I hadn’t expected. Shiva looked at his friend uncertainly.

‘Don’t go,’ the other boy said.

‘Are aa jao,’ I persuaded Shiva. ‘Even if we find the second storey, we won’t enter. The first storey is safe. We’ve been there before just a while.’

‘All right,’ said Shiva putting up the courage.

‘You go if you want to,’ the other boy said. ‘I’ll wait over there.’

With that Shiva’s friend went back to the place we had met each other some time ago and the three of us left for the Palace. We reached the base of the first storey in a minute or so.

Before any discouraging thought touched my mind I climbed up the base and stepped onto the first storey and ignored the creepy sensation that made no delay in returning. My two friends did the same.

We wandered inside the ruins again, but with a purpose this time. After five minutes or so, when I was climbing down from the parapet down a staircase I hadn’t taken the last time, something grabbed my attention. While going towards the ground the stairway wound around a large pillar, which, as I noticed now, wasn’t a pillar at all. It was actually a hollow structure. And there was a large hole in it, through which branched off another stairway that descended towards the underground floor.

‘Here it is,’ I said.

Mr. Lambat and Shiva joined me.

‘What do we do now?’ I asked as we all observed the stairway with racing hearts.

As none replied, I climbed down the stairs and bent to get inside the opening.

‘Are you going?’ asked Mr Lambat curiously.

‘Yeh,’ I said knowing he would definitely follow. I wasn’t too sure about Shiva though.

As soon as I entered the hollow I smelled a terrible stanch of decay, which grew stronger with every step down. When I stepped onto the floor, I found myself in a medium-sized chamber. And surprisingly, there was light. As I looked at the source of the light, to my shock, I saw a door which was another entrance to the second storey that we had completely missed while taking the round of the palace.

‘Oye, how did we miss that?’ said Mr. Lambat just as amazed. He had a keen eye for such things.

Just as his words echoed in the hall, a huge commotion rose somewhere close.

‘Bats!’ we said at the same time. There were, probably, thousands of them nearby.

At the end of our chamber was a door that led to another chamber.
As I stepped towards it, I splashed my foot inside a puddle formed by the seeped-in rainwater. Such puddles were all across the floor. I shuffled across the hall crossing the deep and shallow puddles and peeped inside the next chamber. Just as my eyes took in the view, I stood fixed at the ground. There was hardly any light in the next hall, yet I could see a whirlwind of stridently screeching bats unsettled by our arrival.

‘There must be a lot of them!’ said Mr. Lambat as he joined me.

I took the torch out of the bag and handed it to him. Then turned on the display screen of my camera and quickly deleted about twenty of the less important pictures to free some memory. I did not want to miss a bit of what I was watching. With the aid of my camera flashlight and the torch we took a few pictures of the chamber we were in. Then I decided to move into the chamber of bats.

‘They might bump into you,’ said Mr. Lambat.

Let them bump, if they do, I thought, but let them not behave like those from the movie ‘Bats’.



‘They might, if that cannot be avoided,’ I answered Mr. Lambat (more bravely than I felt) and shuffled ahead. Before I left the hall, I noticed that Shiva had joined us as well.

The second chamber in the link was a total mess of scary missiles flying at random. The noise was simply deafening. Holding camera in front of my eyes to protect them I clicked pictures randomly. In the flashlight, I saw that there was yet another door going into yet another chamber. The palace was tricking us in, it felt. That was precisely when a bat struck square on my hand holding the camera. The camera slipped from my grip but did not fall down as its chord had been looped around my wrist. I returned and joined the party, rubbing the fingers the bat had struck.

‘Did you get a good picture?’ asked Mr. Lambat hopefully.

‘May be, may be not,’ I answered examining the camera for any damages. The functionality had not been affected, but a corner of it had been marred permanently. May be it was a claw that did it. But to hell with the scratch, I could still take a few pictures with the thing.

‘There’s another chamber next to this one.’ I informed Mr. Lambat.

‘Is it necessary to go in?’ he asked.

‘Those bats can draw blood,’ said Shiva. I believed him.

‘I think we’ll be okay if we dash across real fast. They seem to miss you if you don’t flash light at them.’ I said and looked at them expectantly.

The two remained silent again, neither affirmative nor negative. I took it for an ‘all right’ and entered the second chamber again. As we kept the torch closed this time and took no pictures, the bats did not bump into anyone of us. Within seconds we were in the third hall.

There was no water here. And the number of bats was relatively low. As Mr. Lambat put on the torch and turned it at the floor, we saw what thrilled us greatly. There were holes dug in the floor, heaps of rubble surrounding them.

‘Such holes were there in the first chamber too. That’s what the puddles were,’ I said, my voice echoing around. The chaos of bats was still going on and on in the previous chamber.

‘Yeh, they are everywhere. All around the place,’ said Mr. Lambat. ‘Who knows, someone really might have found gold from one of these.’

‘I think we should go back,’ said Shiva in an anxious voice.

‘Yeh, all right,’ I said observing the ceiling in Mr. Lambat’s torchlight. Most of the bats had escaped into the previous hall. Those who had remained had chosen to stay stuck to the ceiling and walls (except one or two stupid ones that still fumbled about). Just as I took the picture of a group of dangling bats, Mr. Lambat nudged me in the ribs and brought to my attention what he had spotted. There was one more chamber ahead yet. And this one surely seemed to be the last one.

Before Shiva could protest, as we both thought he might, Mr. Lambat pushed me towards the final hall. I obliged. With a little grunt, Shiva followed after us.

The last hall was the smallest, and, I had to admit as soon as we entered, the one with the scariest feel about it. It was the most daunting. There was no trace of light whatsoever. And the smell of decay was at its peak. The lack of ventilation made the room extremely stuffy.

The very first feeling that came upon me as soon as I stepped inside was that I should return as quickly as possible. And my second feeling was that I was doing something sinful by not listening to my first feeling. I knew it was a place with something more to it than just the dereliction. For many a moment none of us said a word. We all stood close to each other. The distance of the three chambers we had left behind suddenly seemed a lot greater than it actually was.

After some restless moments Mr. Lambat turned the torch towards the floor. Yes, there were holes here as well. He took a look at the walls. They were covered with fungus.

Just get out of here! a voice inside told me, but I did exactly opposite of that. I took a step inside.

‘Where might be the entrance to the third storey?’ I whispered observing the holes on the ground.

‘We should leave,’ said Shiva. The sound of his breathing was just as loud as ours.

Mr. Lambat followed after me ignoring Shiva. As he held each hole on the floor in torchlight, I noticed they were a lot bigger than those in the previous halls. When we came to what might have been the biggest we would encounter, I stuck my foot underneath a broken flooring slab to move it aside.

‘Don’t, do that,’ said Mr. Lambat.

‘Why, the Snake?’ I asked trying to sound bravely funny (without any success).

‘If not the snake, there might some other, an ordinary snake, may be. Or a scorpion.’ he said.

But a strong urge had taken hold of me. What if there’s the way to the third storey? I thought. We have made it up to here this time. Might never dare repeat it again.

I applied force.

Don’t do it, said my heart.

‘Don’t’ do it,’ said Mr. Lambat.

But I had done it. The slab was pushed aside and it seemed that we had uncovered a vary big hole. That must be it! I indicated Mr. Lambat to put the torch on it properly.

However, that last act was not supposed to happen. The light was not to be shed upon that hole.

We heard a sound. A loud and angry sound. And that was of no other species on earth than snake. The Snake! As loud as the whistle of a pressure cooker, and as menacing as a wounded lion, the sound pierced our courage. But that wasn’t all, there was one more sound in the background. And that was of rattling, like that made by a rattlesnake. An overlarge rattlesnake.

The two sounds, surely coming from one source, shook us terribly from inside. From outside, we were glued to the spot. At first we couldn’t make out the direction the Snake (we were sure it was the Snake) hissed from. Then our eyes set over a large pile of rubble that lay at the end of the hall, just a few feet away from us. After hissing for about ten seconds the Snake went quiet.

That’s the warning!

My body was trembling. Without another look at the hole I had unearthed, I removed my foot from under the slab and hobbled towards the door. All three of us did the same, but none was dashing yet. We were too stunned and terrified to think or act fast.

That was when the sound came again. The second time.
This time the tone of the hiss, if that was possible, was angrier than before. But this time there wasn’t just the sound: the heap of rubble from where the sound was coming moved and shifted. The stones atop it (we saw less in he misdirected torchlight, but heard more) rolled down onto the ground. Something was coming out from beneath the heap.

Forgive me Snake, I want no treasure, I said in my mind, hoping the creature would listen to my plea.

With muffled shrieks and our hands trembling, we took off towards the door. Three bloody chambers to be crossed! I cursed myself for being there. And for being over-adventurous.

Stumbling over the pits and rubble, we crossed the two chambers and came into the first hall. Splashing through the water we crossed the chamber. The warning was dying behind us now. We took the door we had missed from outside and literally flied out of it over the staircase.


The clear sky opened above us and the fresh air entered our nostrils.

‘We have escaped,’ I said aloud, and that did not sound stupid at all.

‘I think we have,’ said Mr. Lambat as we sped down the hillock without stopping.

We stopped running only when we had reached near Shiva’s friend waiting for us at the base of the hillock. I threw a frightened glance towards Rangmahal, terribly scared by a thought that the Snake might leap out of the door and come after us, but everything about the palace looked still. The structure was laughing at us, and, I have to admit, I had no courage to give a stare back to the palace.

Walking speedily and without a word when we reached our bike, we noticed Shiva was not with us anymore. As we looked back over the planes we had left behind, we spotted two boys running in the opposite direction, towards a village they had come from. All that was on their mind was reaching home as quickly as possible. None of them paid us a glance. But one of them personally knew those now, who had received the warning and returned.



So we entered, so we escaped!



Friends, every word of the account I have stated here happens to be true. Even if I do not have the video filming of the incident, I have loads of pictures I took, including those of the bats soaring inside the chamber and the dug out holes. Besides these I have the two witnesses of the fact. But I am not too sure I’ll ever see Shiva again. And even if I do he will not entertain me even for a minute. However, Mr. Lambat is our man to speak to!

A group of friends went to Rangmahal after listening to my episode, but they returned from the first hall underground. Until they reached that far they were sure I had been trying to fool them, but after getting the feel of the place they seemed to believe the fact and needed no more deeper visit.



As a respect to the guard of the treasure, I did not include Rangmahal in my CD. And I ask you not to go there. Let the Snake be at peace, and be at peace yourself.

- Sarang Mahajan


Contact me for more pictures of Rangmahal on -
sarang_mahajan@rediffmail.com