When I was young my father said
'Son I have something to say'
And what he told me I'll never forget
Until my dying days
He said son you are a bachelor boy
And that's the way to stay
Son you'll be a bachelor boy
Until your dying days
Ghosts are like People. People are like Ghosts. -- From the Book of Ghosts.
When I looked up again, the old ghost was gone. In his place sat a female ghost wearing a delicate white dress with little pink flowers that stirs and floats. At first, I thought it was the moonlight ghost coming to blame me again for what might have been. But then I noticed the short hair. A vaguely familiar figure like someone I knew from a long time ago but had long since forgotten. A rather cheerful voice asked, “You said she was your first love, what about me then?”
That shocked me. The melodious voice that floated across like riding on a breeze, I had heard it before. Though, the question is accusatory, I detected no resentment, regret or malice in the tone. In fact, it sounded playful as if she was deliberately pulling my legs and taking pleasure in my discomfort.
I racked my brain but I could not recall anyone I was intimate with before
“Oh, how completely you’ve forgotten. You forgot the laughter but you could not forget the tears. I should cut and make you bleed, then your tears will nourish my memory. I think I would rather be hated than forgotten.”
Again, there was laughter in her voice. If I meant something to her, why is she so cheerful? But I am now quite sure I knew her though there is just no recollection except for the voice I had heard before. My mind went over all the girls I knew but I could not place her. I could not fit a memory to the voice that sings.
“You said I sang to Heaven.”
I felt blood rushing to my face. Oh, my god! How could I forget her? She observed me with great interest seeking to peer into my feelings beyond the embarrassment. I could not meet her eyes and hang down my head to avoid her steady gaze. She said nothing but continued looking intensely, a smile appearing at the corner of her sensual lips. She is quite ordinary looking but there are moments when an inner brilliance shines through and you will think her terribly attractive. Like now.
Finally, I found the words “I’m sorry, Beth. I have not forgotten about you but I do not know why I have not even recalled you once this last twenty years. Please forgive me.” I said honestly.
“And do you really remember me now?”
I first met you in the apartment above mine where I stayed as a student next to a Coca-Cola bottling plant in
I did not know what you were doing there nor how you knew that family and I never asked. I only remember hearing you sang that day I was there. A voice in need of no music. When you sing, people stops to listen. It is not like a storm that seized attention by its volume and power. No, it is like a running drizzle moved by shifting winds. You strained to hear the softest note. It is like the light quivering of the bamboo leaves on a still summer day. Like the dripping drops rolling off roofs surrendering to the puddle below. Like the splintering waves expiring with sighs on unyielding rocks. I stood there afraid to breathe, worried the coarseness of my breath will mar the perfection of your song. I fell in love with your singing before I fell in love with you. Or is it I fell in love with you because of your singing? Or is it I think I fell in love with you because when you sing, you were the most attractive woman in the world to me?
“Ha ha, you remember. And after all these years, you still do not know if you love me.”
“But you’re right. Whether I truly love you or not, you’re my first love.”
“Contradiction. You are always the confused one and good in confusing others. Do you know that is because you think too much? You feel too much too. Then you need to ask – what is this I’m feeling? Then you go on, like a dog chasing its tail. Whether you love me is not as important as whether you remembered me.”
Yes, I remember now. But I do not know why I forgot everything about her for so long. When the memory now is as clear as the tinkle of the metal spoon against the crystal glass. I felt I have wronged her.
“It is okay.” There is gentleness in her voice. “You did not forget but you bury me. Why, I don’t think even you know.”
Her seriousness suddenly evaporates like the mist under the rising sun. She laughed, “We can explore that together later. But now, tell me more. What else do you remember? I want to know.” Her whole body was shaken by her merry laugh. And tonight, I am glad I have company.
I wrote this story because a friend asked me to write a story for her. I do not have a complete story ready (in fact, the story was created on the spot) so I’m writing it as I go along. The idea of using ghosts to tell the story came about from the theme of ‘ghost’ that I used to unite my blogs. And I wanted to write a love story. Other than that, I’ve no idea where the story will lead to or how it will end or if I’ll even manage to end it (she will kill me if I don’t). It may take 6 months or a year to complete the story but I cannot write faster. Every 2 weeks (if I can manage) when I sit down, I take the story from where I left it and continue but try to ensure it has continuity.
The Fisherman ghost just returned. So may the moonlight ghost or the railway ghost but I’m not sure if and when. You may think it strange that since I’m the one writing, how can I not be sure? But in a way, the story is writing itself. For every time I sit down, depending on the mood or what happened recently or what memories I recalled, the direction dictated by the ghosts are determined by them not me. This much I know. There will be more ghosts to be introduced. For I don’t think the tales can be told without them. They will reveal themselves to me when the time is right.
How this all can come together into a coherent story is a challenge and sometimes when the juice is not flowing, I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Those who stumbled on this site and who are equally insane to want to continue reading, you should start from the first post – “The Ghosts & I” or you’ll never make head or tail of what is going on. I’m writing this story to fulfill a pledge as much to myself as the one I’m writing this story for. I’m not looking for readers for this blog – try my other blogs where I welcome readers. But if you want to continue on this dubious journey, maybe you as mad as me and as mad as the narrator/narrators of the story. Maybe you believe in ghosts.