My Father the Warrior: Remembering Him and His Battles With Ghosts!

Peace: Joyce Singha

For many years, my father suffered from a ‘ghost problem’. When he first told me about the nightly battles he'd been having with various creatures, I shuddered, laughed, and quickly shuddered again lest those creatures came upon me as well. Such is the fear of ghosts in the Indian culture! This is what my dad told me. He said those guys wanted to sit on top of his head and did so; he said they were pinching him, he said they were blowing air on him, he said they whistled at him, he also said they were pushing him from his bed. I was shocked that any creature could be so rude as to push a man from his own bed. My Dad threw different things at the creatures: shoes, slippers, pillows, spoons, sticks, mud, water, anything he could lay his hands on.

Nonetheless, it all amounted to a lot of activity so I asked my dad to be less dramatic and a little more reasonable. My Dad said that when they bared their teeth, he had enough and that is the time he whipped out his Bible and whacked the life out of them. Then he did his favorite thing, which is to let out choice curses in Hindi. Believe me, some of the curse words in Hindi can be very scary. On a side note, when my dad used profanity, it was not gentle at all; he could really grind it out good.

It seems with the Bible in one hand, a shoe in the other, and a mouth full of curses my father was successful in scaring those creatures, for a while. Most likely they retreated for a while. My Dad also saw a Maulvi (Muslim priest) who wrote few powerful stanzas on bits of paper, which my father stuck all over his house. Unfortunately, in the ensuing weeks, bits of paper and my father’s curses were not potent enough to keep wily creatures away; they were back to torment my father. I requested my father see his doctor before the situation got completely out of hand.

Dad duly headed for his PCP who happens to be a benign Jewish fellow complete with cap, keys, and threads; jingle-jangle of Doctor’s keys usually informed of his arrival. In the monthly or weekly meetings, my father and doctor usually discussed various political situations and rarely my father’s troubles, which fortunately had remained unchanged and hence no need of changing of the guard. Kind Doctor diagnosed my father’s battles with ghosts as sleep disorder/ anxiety/ depression, and recommended anti-depressants, which my dad refused to take just in case they interfered with his heart medicines. Then the doctor suggested maybe he should see a psychiatrist at which my dad went completely ballistic. When the doctor seemed exasperated, my dad came to his rescue and said he would get some priests to wipe out those night creatures! Medicine and juju somehow never went together.

As rescue-from-ghosts mission began, the group comprised of two priests, one designated priest and another one for added support, my Mum, my Mum's two friends, Dad, Dad's friend, and me. The idea was to present a very formidable group just in case any of those creatures were hiding under the carpet or in the walls or something. The priest soaked the house with holy water and read numerous Bible chapters to banish the creatures to depths of hell. The group lead by the priest made a few rounds of the house making sure all bases had been covered. My father was satisfied, slept peacefully for a few days till a few days later when his troubles started again.

I decided to take matters in my hand, fished out my Homeopathic books and read all the troubling symptoms. Voila I had the right remedy for Dad. He was given Stramonium. Dad became well, slept well and even gave advice to all and sundry about how to tackle ghosts! My Dad also told me about a certain distant relative who had regular sessions of boxing with some local nocturnal creatures as well! My mind began to whirr and I thought could this thing run in the family? Could God be so unkind as to allow generations to be troubled by these restless creatures? Should I get ready with some shoes and slippers? Or should I just keep some Stramonium nearby for myself? May my father rest in peace and those creatures as well; he was a true warrior, fought with ghosts and all.

Notes: Author is a Homeopath; Stramonium is a Homeopathic remedy to ease the mind among other things.

When my Sister visits...

No, we don't lock horns. In fact, I'm just too happy to get rid of them for a week, two weeks, two months, two years - whatever my sister Jackie chooses. Yes, she tells me but she adds so many destinations to her itinerary that by the time I finally grasp it, she is eager to get back to her original place. I tell her be like the Indians, ring the bell or better just walk in because you happened to be in the neighborhood. She does not believe in traveling light. Her visit means countless bags and suitcases and more bags and suitcases. I won't be surprised if some day I saw a house parked outside just as an after thought to the bags and my sister's arrival. My mind goes into an endless debate of Nurture vs Nature. I quickly move from horror to resignation and then quietly slink into a state of discombobulation. 

How could my sister be so different from me? Did we not grow up in the same household? Did we not eat the same foods and breathe the same air? She leaves nothing to chance. There is no concept of let it be. She is akin to the shark. If she doesn't keep moving she might dissipate. I believe in doing nothing. What I am trying to figure out is how did she develop this love of the kitchen and cooking? I follow the police advice when they get a distress call - avoid the kitchen; it has lethal weapons. For me, the place is dangerous as well till my sister arrives. She attacks it, reduces it to mush, readies it for consumption. I hear my husband and children sigh with relief. I also detect loud rumblings of awe from them. No more will they starve. I sigh.

Jackie knows exactly what she's doing. The kitchen knows it too. It better do. If it were not my home she were visiting, I would be forbidden from it too. Somehow Jackie condescends to let me linger there, just near the sink, just within reach to pass her the ingredients so she can whip up the magic. I am just a souffle or as the French put it Sous Chef. Those French need their own script. Anyway, between loads of heavenly aromas, stories are exchanged, tears are shed; Jackie has a tendency to dissolve into real and imagined childhood tales of having been mistreated - by her sibling, her aunts and uncles, nuns, the world in general. After we go over the mistreatment and cruelty, she regretfully takes off a few from the list. Her husband gets worried, the dark mood may shift to the kitchen and he may collapse with hunger or inattention. 

It's a good time. For brief moments I am no longer in charge; I like it. I feel the same when my Mum is around; something tells Jackie and my Mum there is a desperate need for them in the kitchen and elsewhere. They are survivors and they see the miserable lot around them survive as well. Heaven forbid if on their watch, anyone decides to take a break from surviving! Is there any thing to eat - is a phrase of the past; it's almost as if the phrase never existed. I feel less than a ghost; at least ghosts have a purpose; I have none. Somebody I know found loads of intentions and purposes while in Timbaktu. Perhaps I should head there. There is no paucity of finding things there. Things are always there.