INSOMNIA - FOR THOSE SLEEPLESS NIGHTS

Last night my uncle told me about an apparently true incident which had happened to his grandfather. Considering that my uncle is seventy right now, I think this could be placed as having happened in the 1800s.

I don't know if you believe in ghosts. To be honest, I really don't know if I do either.Here goes.....

If you were to observe carefully any town which had a river running through it, you would probably notice that there always is a bridge that spans across the river connecting its two disjointed halves with a burial ground on either side. Even during the day time the gushing sounds of the river as it strikes the bank is an extremely overpowering one. Imagine it in the night time. The moon shining bright in a cloudless sky. The dry smoke that mildly mists above the ground that remain as final traces of the corpses burnt that day. The sounds of the river are no more just overpowering; they are also unnerving and quite eerie in the contrast to the silence that suffuses the night sky.

It had struck eleven one night. Unusually I had just completed my work and was trying to find my way home.Reluctantly , a man agreed to drive me across the bridge after much persuasion. In those days the mode of transport was a miniature caravan led by two horses. The caravan was open ended on both sides. One side seated the driver while the other had an iron rod across its middle to prevent a passenger from falling off in the event of sudden jerks and pulls.

I sat in the caravan right at the end one foot folded underneath me while the other dangled down.I gazed outside admiring the beauty of the river in the nightime.It looked magical, lit by moonlight. We were probably halfway across the bridge when I saw this lady leaning at its edge, her palms covering her face, sobbing. From what little I could see , she was beautiful.Slim, shapely, with milk pale hands and feet and exotic black hair cascading down her back. I could not really see her face. But what peeped out her hands was captivating. I turned to the cart driver and asked him to stop so we could console her in her sorrow and probably offer her a lift to the town. He ignored me and continued to whip his horses. We had hardly crossed a furlongh when the lady turned towards us and just stared. I was stunned. The body of an angel , the face of an old hag. She started to chase behind our caravan. We were travelling quite fast so I did not pay much heed. But much to my consternation, she was running extremely fast herself and was coming close to catching up. When she came near she lunged trying to grasp my leg which dangled down the side of the caravan.

In all haste I quicky dragged my leg inside, and crept closer towards the driver, huddling at his side. The driver turning back told me, "Whenever a corpse is burnt in the graveyard this lady tends to roam the bridge.Whatever else, we never stop, ignore her and try to go as fast as we can. We try to avoid travelling by night , but since you seemed desperate to get home I consented". We looked back to see that the lady was now close enough to grab the rod at the other end of the caravan. The driver quicky drove his whip to the horses , urging them to go faster. The horses were old and lame ones. They struggled. In those days, the end of each whip had a nail attached to it. When the horses is whipped the nail marks its hide and the pain tends to spur the horse to reach greater speeds. A wicked practice I know, but what you are used to , you do not look in askance at that.

We were lucky that night. We reached the end of the bridge without the lady reaching us. I was terribly shaken. I never crossed any bridge after that in the night time.