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Dinner with the Dead: A Ghost Story
Dinner with the Dead: A Ghost Story
Dinner with the Dead: A Ghost Story
Ebook224 pages7 hours

Dinner with the Dead: A Ghost Story

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Sami Ullah, an Indian executive, feels mysteriously drawn to the ruined mansion. His move to Purfiza plunges him into a complex political mess outside his doors, and a bewitching romance within. A shape-shifting ghost claims him as her own lost love, drawing him inexorably into a drama of greed, passion, betrayal, and violence that has been waiting for him for more than 150 years.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherShahzad Rizvi
Release dateNov 14, 2011
ISBN9781452490946
Dinner with the Dead: A Ghost Story
Author

Shahzad Rizvi

Shahzad Rizvi was born and raised in a princely state in India. He now lives and works in the Washington area with his family. He enjoys travel, reading, and learning languages, but his greatest passion is storytelling.

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    Dinner with the Dead - Shahzad Rizvi

    Chapter One

    Janpur, India, 2011

    When the mansion came into view, Sami Ullah—Sam for short—accelerated his Nano car. His heart pounded fiercely. After a full year’s search, up and down the Indian countryside, he had finally found the place that had been haunting his dreams, night after night. He’d begun to wonder whether it was merely a figment of his imagination or the creation of his disturbed dreams, as his friends had told him time and again. He drove as close as the overgrown grass and shrubbery would allow, and got out of the car. He couldn’t take his eyes off the once-grand mansion, its pointed arches and delicate stone details adding grace-notes to its massive size. He stood for a long time, staring at it. It looked much worse than it had in his dreams, with parts of it decayed, and others overgrown with vines. Stones had fallen from the façade and lay heaped at the foundations, and the roof sagged to the point of imminent collapse.

    All of a sudden, he felt as if he’d been pulled into a long tunnel where he heard the echoes of voices—familiar voices—calling his name. Then, he heard an unfamiliar voice hailing him from nearby. It jolted him out of his trance. His eyes focused on an old man who was supporting his frail body on a staff. The stranger’s long hair was completely white and there were deep lines like ravines on his gaunt face. He peered at Sam from his sunken eyes. The old man wore a long white shirt which fell to his ankles. He spoke in a rusty voice, What do you want here?

    I…came…to see this…building.

    Why? asked the old man, suspiciously.

    I don’t know.

    It’s haunted, you know.

    Who used to live here?

    "A nobleman and his family. The house was called Purfiza–full of ambience."

    Where are they now?

    They’re dead. They’re all dead, every one of them.

    What happened to them?

    Never mind that. It was all a very long time ago. The old man stared at Sam fiercely, adding, This is no place for you. Go home! The stranger turned around and quickly shuffled away, his staff tap-tapping on the stony ground. Sam stared at the old man’s stooping back, as he receded and then vanished.

    Sam’s eye caught a rapid movement and he spotted a black cobra, hissing and moving menacingly in on him. He jumped into his car and jammed it into reverse, but the tiny car shook sideways as the snake struck at its wheel. Sam realized, its fangs must have punctured my tire. A white owl swooped from the eaves of the mansion and circled over the car, hooting eerily. With a cold jolt of dread, Sam turned the car around and sped away as fast as the crippled vehicle would go.

    * * *

    Janpur 1839

    It’s a boy…it’s a boy! The word spread throughout Purfiza like lightning that summer evening. Servants ran through the mansion, screaming with joy. Now they’d receive the extra pay they’d been promised with the birth of the long-awaited son and heir. Children shrieked with excitement in anticipation of receiving sweets and toys. The house was full of relatives and friends, and more were arriving as the news of the boy’s birth began to spread all over the city.

    Hamid Ullah Khan was sitting grandly on the carpeted platform. His back was resting on a wedge-shaped cushion and the mouthpiece of a hookah was clamped between his teeth, as he received congratulations on the birth of his son. He was a fat, proud man of 40; his salt-and-pepper beard and moustache made his round face look even rounder. His wife, whom everybody called Hasina Bibi—the beautiful lady—was just his opposite; she was tall and statuesque, with long, elegant features like Helen of Troy. When she was young, her family had been bombarded with marriage proposals for her; every mother had wanted her for her own son’s wife. But her parents had accepted the proposal from Hamid Ullah’s family because his sister was married to the Nawab and was the queen of the little kingdom. Hamid Ullah’s brother-in-law, the ruler—Obeid Ullah, by name—had bestowed lands, titles, and a prominent seat at his court upon him. Hasina Bibi’s parents chided their reluctant daughter, So what if he’s ugly? With the privileges and wealth you’ll enjoy by making such a match, you will surely learn to live with it!

    As Hamid Ullah sat, a long line of men filed past, bowing and reaching out with both hands to congratulate him. Hamid Ullah received their felicitations between puffs on his hookah, a halo of smoke circling his head. A few boasted to the new father that the boy was the direct result of the prayers that they had made at the shrines of saints.

    Everyone wanted to know what the child was going to be called.

    Rehmat Ullah, of course—blessing of God, the father answered, with gratitude in his voice and expression. Some asked what plans he had for the education of the boy, while others wondered aloud what kind of family he’d seek for his son’s marriage. To all those questions, he simply answered, "All in good time. All in good time, insh’Allah."

    Music broke out in the women’s quarters, the center of activity where the object of all this jubilation and his mother were resting. To the beat of a drum, women were singing:

    This little one

    This lucky one

    Will pluck the stars

    And conquer lands;

    This lucky one will be the heir

    Of his beloved parents.

    This beautiful one…

    * * *

    Janpur 2011

    That night, Sam tossed and turned. He couldn’t sleep. The old man’s terse and eerie words, the owl circling over his car, the snake’s strike, and the strange voices he’d heard in his trance haunted him. And the mansion! It actually existed outside of his dreams. What does it all mean? he wondered. What does the mansion have to do with me, and why have I been driven to find it, compelled to search relentlessly for a year? It seemed that some powerful force had taken hold of him, as if he were in the eye of a storm and could not escape. He felt totally helpless and powerless in the grip of this compulsion.

    He wished he had a family to look to for support and comfort, but he was unmarried, an only child, and his parents had died in a traffic accident. They had often talked about his getting married; his mother was always looking for a girl for him. But every girl she proposed, every girl who was shown to him, he didn’t like. Each one fell far short of the radiant ideal he carried in his heart, the woman he knew was his destiny. If only I could find her, he had thought. Sam’s parents finally resigned themselves to his resistance and said, All right, do as the young people do in the West; go find your own bride. But he never could.

    Remembering this, and thinking of all he’d been through, Sam began to sob. Oh God, what’s happening to me? Finally, he fell asleep, exhausted.

    In his dreams, a woman’s voice spoke to him, her caressing voice somehow familiar. "So, you came to see the house today. I’m sorry for the way you were treated. I saw it all with my own eyes. It upset me, and it will never happen again, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. When will you come back? Would you like to come back? It would give me such joy…"

    Sam would have said, Yes! but he suddenly was buffeted by a strong gust of wind. He saw leaves and twigs swirling and receding before him until they vanished and the air became still once again. There was no one around. He was all alone. He stared at the mansion before him in all its luxurious splendor; it was intact, gleaming amid its lush and carefully tended gardens.

    There was a repeated knock at the door of his flat which startled him from his deep sleep. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 9:00. He wondered, Who can it be, so early on a Sunday morning? The knocks continued intermittently. Bleary-eyed, he walked to the door and asked, Who is it?

    It is me, sir, Shyam Patel.

    Sam opened the door and found Mr. Patel standing, his hands joined before his chest in the Hindu greeting, a wide grin on his thin, sun-baked face. A bag dangled from his crooked arm. Sam returned his greeting and made an effort to smile, though he could hardly keep his eyes open.

    I have very good news, Samji, Patel said, moving his head from side-to-side without losing his smile in the effort.

    Please come in. I just got up.

    I hope I didn’t wake you, sir?

    No, no. I was stirring when you knocked at the door. May I offer you tea, Patelji? Sam asked, putting the kettle on the stove.

    Only if you’re having some. Don’t go to any trouble just for me.

    So, what’s the good news?

    After you called me, I made a lot of phone calls and did a lot of leg work, and tracked down the ownership of the building you’re interested in. I can get it for a very good price.

    I knew you would come through for me! That’s why I chose you over all the other real estate agents.

    My commission is higher than other agents, but I will get you a very good deal, sir.

    I’m not worried about your commission, Mr. Patel. I want that building.

    "After the original owners of the house died, it has changed hands several times. It was used as a college for a time, and then again as a private home, owned by distant relatives of the original family. They tried to live there, but so many accidents and calamities befell them that they decided it wasn’t worth living in the house. But then they couldn’t find buyers, either. Word had gotten around that the place was haunted. Eventually, they donated it to a charity called Auqaf—The Islamic Trust. The Auqaf people are willing to sell it. In fact, they’ve never known what to do with the property. I can persuade them to accept a very reasonable price." Patel reached into the bag he was carrying, pulled out a pile of documents and spread them out on the table.

    Great! Sam said, Although I’m too tired to go over these papers now, I am eager to buy the property and proceed with my plans.

    "I’ll get on it right away. By the way, Samji, what do you plan to do with the mansion?"

    I plan to repair it, then set up a call center in one part and my residence in the other.

    That’s a great idea, sir! What about your current executive position with Call America?

    I’ll give it up and go into business for myself. I know a lot about the business and it doesn’t make sense for me to keep making money for someone else.

    Then, sir, leave everything about this building to me—its purchase, repair, everything. All you’ll need to do is sign some papers, period. I know you’re a busy man, sir. I’ll be your full agent and take care of everything. You can trust me.

    "Of course I can trust you. I do trust you, Patelji. All right, we have a deal." They shook hands.

    Patel folded his hands again and backed out of the flat, bowing and repeating, You can trust me.

    Chapter 2

    Janpur 1857

    Salima, the Purfiza housekeeper, walked in one morning with a young girl in tow, a girl of no more than 16 or 17. Salima approached her mistress, Hasina, and said in a beseeching voice, Bibi, with your permission I would like to hire this girl. There is a lot of work and I’m short of help. I could certainly use another pair of hands.

    Hasina gave the young woman a good look. Where did you find her? She is so beautiful.

    That, she is. She’s an orphan. I knew her parents.

    Hasina focused her gaze on the girl once again. Looking at her, it seems she must be from an upper-class family.

    Salima laughed under her breath. No, Bibi, she said, she’s an Untouchable—from the lowest caste.

    Hasina’s brow furrowed, and she flinched. From the lowest caste?! An Untouchable?! Salima, how could you… Untouchables, at the very bottom of the ancient Hindu caste system, had been consigned for millennia to society’s filthiest jobs, such as emptying latrines. Their mere presence was thought to pollute more privileged members of society.

    But Bibi, in Islam we don’t worry about these things, do we? said Salima, slyly. "Besides, I thought I would ask her to take a good bath and recite the Kalma a few times, and she could become one of us."

    You mean, a Muslim?

    Yes, Bibi.

    Hasina gazed at the girl, who was standing all this time behind Salima with her head bowed and eyes downcast. What’s her name?

    Kiran.

    All right, hire her if you must, but no funny business. Make it clear to her. One wrong step and she’ll be out!

    No Bibi, she’ll be good. I’ve known her since she was a child.

    Kiran raised her head for the first time, the hint of a smile spreading across her sad face. She folded her hands in greeting and gratitude towards Hasina, but Hasina had already turned her face away. Salima turned around and said, Come, come, let’s go inside. There is much work waiting for us.

    Delhi 2011

    Sam’s announcement that he was leaving Call America exploded like a bombshell. The news spread rapidly all over the company. At first, there was all kinds of speculation about his departure; was there some kind of rift between him and the CEO? Was it a sign that the company was in the process of a major organizational restructure? Or was this the beginning of the end for Call America?

    Sam was no ordinary employee and executive. His rise in the company had been meteoric. He had begun as a lowly telemarketer, but rose to become Executive Vice President in record time. He had an unusual command of the English language and an excellent ear. He could mimic any accent. The moment he would hear a caller’s speech, he would immediately adapt his own speech accordingly, a strategy that invoked both confidence and comfort in the caller. Soon, Sam was in great demand by the call center’s American clients, and the revenues of Call America grew tenfold. When he became an executive, he showed talent there, as well. He employed innovative management techniques, raising morale and productivity at the same time. Once, a team from the Wharton School of Business had come all the way to India from Pennsylvania to observe Sam’s management techniques.

    Sam’s departure from the company was taken very seriously. Every employee felt as if the rug had been pulled out from beneath him. The stock of Call America plummeted. By water coolers and copy machines, in cafeterias and bathrooms, people speculated, Is the future of the company at stake? Everyone was asking, What next? During all this uproar, Sam himself was on leave.

    Mr. Shyam Patel proved true to his word. He negotiated an excellent price for the mansion, found a skillful contractor, and quickly got the restoration underway. However, the contractor complained that strange things were happening to his workers on the job. The mason reported that any time he tried to use a brick with even a tiny flaw, the brick would seem to eject from the wall and shatter on the floor. Once, when workers were trying to hoist a heavy beam for the interior of the roof, the rope broke, but the beam remained suspended in the air without any support. It frightened the workers and they ran away. Another time, when a worker groused, You’d have to be crazy to buy a place like this, some invisible force slapped him hard; an undeniable handprint remained on his cheek and would not go away.

    And then there were the strange sounds. Sometimes, they would hear someone crying. Other times, it was singing. The workers also found a well in the building’s basement, though a well within a building constructed more than 150 years ago was no surprise to anyone.

    * * *

    After several nights of dreaming that he heard the mysterious voice, Sam began to feel a kind of relationship to it. One night, he asked, Whoever you are, what do you mean by frightening my workers?

    What do you take me for…an evil ghost? I was only trying to help. If that beam had fallen, the workers would have been crushed.

    "You have created a real problem for me! The workers were so frightened that they ran away and won’t

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