When Shadows Hold Secrets

In the heart of Nowshera Cantt, my birthplace nestled in Pakistan, my family bought a piece of land, a plot that seemed steeped in silent whispers and unsettling rumors. It was a corner plot, last in our secluded street. By day, it appeared like any other parcel of earth. But by night, especially in the eyes of the elderly, it was a haunted ground, a place to avoid and regard with superstitious reverence. At the time, Nowshera Cantt was a modest town, quiet and reserved, with a close-knit community unafraid of sharing tales both of life and of the beyond. 

This piece of land was marked by an ancient ber tree, a Jujube tree common to the Indo-Pak subcontinent. It loomed large, its dense, twisted branches stretching impressively above, casting shadows so deep they seemed to reach into other realms. In our part of the world, trees like these were often planted as boundary markers, resilient and thriving even in barren soil. Yet this one, towering over the otherwise empty plot, carried a peculiar aura. People whispered of strange occurrences beneath its limbs, hinting that a spirit of a woman with a payal, an ankle bracelet. appeared to dance beneath it in the thick of night. 

My father, a seasoned hunter, moving through shadowed jungles with his rifle in hand, was fearless, unfazed by darkness, unshaken by tales of spirits. He neither feared ghosts nor believed in their existence, trusting only what he could hear amid the wild. He dismissed the rumors, calling them relics of an older, more fearful time, and set in motion the process of getting our family home built. The mighty tree was cut down, its roots severed from the land as my father set the foundations for the house. And as the walls rose, the ghostly dancer became just that, an old story. 

My father lived in this house for five brief years before he passed, leaving behind traces of himself, echoes and quiet remnants that I would only come to know through the voices of others. I was just a year old when he died, but as I grew, fragments of him were woven back to me by the elderly townsfolk, the neighbors who had walked beside him, those who had glimpsed moments of his life under our roof. They became my storytellers, their voices painting vivid images of a man I could never remember. 

Yet, there was one story that clung to me like a breath in the night, a tale of someone ghostly haunting our own house, the specter of a woman, her spirit bound to these walls. Elders said she was vibrant, enchanting, and celestial, moving to a rhythm only God knew the source of. They spoke of her with caution, describing how her jingling payal marked her presence in a melody that was haunting yet hypnotic, mesmerizing those who dared draw near. Her territory, they said, was marked, a sacred, invisible circle beneath the tree. Anyone who crossed her path faced her wrath, though only a few ever had the courage to even come close. As a child, these tales fascinated me, and like many, I waited in some blend of dread and hope that I might one day catch a glimpse of this elusive dancer under the cover of night, but at the same time I was also gripped by a fear so tangible that it often kept me rooted in terror. The dark itself seemed her accomplice, draping me in an unshakable unease; the silence of the night filled with her invisible presence, and the loneliness of my own room too vast, too heavy with the weight of her myth.

But somewhere, entangled in that fear, a seed of something else took root, a curiosity as haunting as the specter herself. The way her story was told to me, her beauty described like a ghostly work of art, seemed to carve her image deep into my young soul. She was an apparition but still, in the tellers’ words, somehow achingly alive, a female ghost whose presence both frightened and fascinated me. I found myself yearning, in the secret corners of my heart, to catch even a fleeting glimpse of her, to meet the eyes of this mystery that lingered just beyond the edges of night. 

The fear remained, but it held a strange allure, a pull that I could not fully understand, a longing to step into her shadow, if only for a moment, to see with my own eyes the spirit that had become part of my story, part of the house, and in some way, a part of me. 

Seasons came and went, years slipped by, and yet, nothing unusual ever happened. Not once did the familiar chime of Payal echo in the corridors, nor did the flicker of a ghostly figure disrupt my quiet nights. It seemed the spirit, if she ever truly existed, had moved on, leaving only traces of memory and faint hints of what might have been. 

But still, a part of me wonders, was I simply not one of the fortunate ones to whom she revealed herself? Perhaps the stories of her beauty, her spectral dance, and her enchanting music were lost to time, buried along with the roots of the old Ber tree. 

Growing up in Pakistan, in the midst of a predominantly Muslim society and a culture rooted in the Pushtun tradition, most women were enveloped in modesty, often draped in burqas that appeared in shades of white. Their coverings transformed them into ethereal, ghostly figures, resembling delicate shuttlecocks drifting through the streets. Even those who did not wear the full burqa would still conceal themselves, faces hidden save for the glint of their eyes peering out from the veil. 

In this environment, where every woman’s face was hidden behind a veil, the thought of a young, beautiful enchantress with her face revealed and ankles adorned with payal ringing out a slow, entrancing melody stirred a sense of impossible wonder in me. My youthful imagination, fueled by the whispers around me, was filled with a longing to glimpse this beautiful apparition, to hear the song of her dance under the canopy of night. The thought of her beauty, the flash of her gaze, her swaying movements within that forbidden circle, it was a dream I clung to, a ghostly fantasy that haunted my own young heart. But the dance never came, nor did I ever see her flickering, dreamlike presence of ephemeral figure. 

And so I was left only with the stories, the shadowed images I had painted in my mind of the mysterious beauty, the woman of the night, whose legend faded with the last echo of the payal into the silent, indifferent dark. 

Time flowed like the slow trickle of an old clock, and eventually, college welcomed me to its grand halls. It was my first year, a time of fresh beginnings, when an unexpected visitor from the UK arrived. His name was Yaqub, a man of Pakistani origin, elderly but vibrant, with a history interwoven with my family’s own. Yaqub Uncle had once served in the British army alongside my maternal grandfather, in a world that existed before the divide that forged India and Pakistan. After the Partition, my grandfather returned home to Pakistan, while Yaqub uncle had chosen a different path, settling in the UK and raising a family there. He had two children: a son who resided in the UK and a daughter happily married in Rawalpindi, a city not far from us, just two and a half hours away by the roads of those days, before the motorway bridged the distance. He was visiting his daughter and chose to stop by and see us as well. 

The night of Yaqub Uncle’s stay was one I wouldn’t soon forget. As I floated between consciousness and dreams, murmurs and laughter filled our home, my grandfather’s voice mingling with Yaqub’s as they shared tales of a world I could only imagine. They spoke of times under the British rule, of adventures and camaraderie in an era long gone. 

Morning came, and as we settled down to eat, I asked him if he had slept well. He gave me a look, part curiosity, part bewilderment. “I slept well,” he replied, pausing thoughtfully, “but in the stillness, I heard music. It was faint, like the notes were dipped in shadow, but clear enough. And at times, I could almost hear the delicate jingle of anklets, as if someone were dancing close by.” 

His words stilled the air around me. The room felt colder, the light softer, almost unnatural. I forced myself to smile and replied, “We have Hindu neighbors next door. They love music; it must have been coming from their home.” My words were calm, a gentle explanation, yet my insides churned. I felt my pulse thunder beneath my skin, blood rushing and hammering against my bones, stirred by an unspoken terror. But I kept my face still, hoping the calm words would bury any questions in Yaqub Uncle’s mind. 

Later that day, I approached my grandfather. I asked him if he’d ever shared with his friend the tale of the tree in our garden, the haunted story that had lingered around our home for generations. He looked at me with mild irritation, dismissing my question with a wave of his hand. “Superstitions, nothing more,” he muttered. “Why would I tell an old friend such nonsense? I don’t believe in these stories, so why share lies?” 

His words had a finality to them, yet they only deepened the questions that gnawed at me. I was certain there was something more to that night, to that soft sound of anklets in the darkness. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had been there, close enough to feel, though always just beyond sight. People had told me of a beautiful girl who roamed those shadows, her spirit lingering just out of reach. Her allure was undeniable, captivating, and chilling all at once. In another world, she might have even been my type, a hauntingly lovely presence hidden from sight, yet close enough to touch. 

But it seemed she had her own choices to make. Whether I was her type or not was of no concern; she remained behind the veil, hidden just beyond the reach of mortal eyes. It was as though she watched from the folds of some other realm, her ghostly beauty lingering like a soft breath in the night. Whether I would ever glimpse her was uncertain, but the lingering memory of that night and the jangling anklets haunted me still, settling into my bones like an echo that could never be quieted. 

The second encounter unfolded when a relative arrived from the scorching city of Multan, a place where the summer heat can be hot as hell, yet yields some of the most divine mangoes in the world. He was my second cousin, the owner of Multan’s largest fruit market, and his business had brought him to Peshawar, which was a mere 40 kilometers from our home. After finishing his business, he paid us a visit and decided to spend the night at our place. 

The next day, just before noon, he prepared to take the long train journey back to Multan, a trek that, in those days, and even now, seemed to drag on endlessly. I accompanied him to the railway station, his only luggage a small bag in hand. We hired a tonga, a humble horse cart, for the short mile ride from our house to the station. 

When we arrived, we found out the train was late. It had begun its journey in Peshawar, and Nowshera was its first stop, yet for reasons unknown, it was already delayed. Such was, and is, the unbending nature of time in Pakistan; even a train at its starting point might take an hour or two before beginning to move. 

As we waited for the train to arrive, his expression grew serious, and he mentioned feeling like he had a bad dream. “I was half asleep,” he said, “but I thought I felt someone dancing, making a strange sound with her feet touching the ground.” He added that he couldn’t sleep well, but the long train journey would give him plenty of time to rest. He spoke plainly, showing no signs of fear, while I struggled to keep a smile on my lips to mask my own panic, feeling like I was about to lose control, barely holding myself together and nearly shitting my pants out of sheer terror. Mercifully, the faint rumble of the train’s approach spared me any further torment. As it pulled into the station, I offered a hurried goodbye, not daring to reveal the relief I felt as he boarded and disappeared into the crowded carriage. 

Yet, even as the train pulled away, his words lingered in the air, wrapping around me like a cold shadow that refused to fade. 

Aside from these two strange incidents, not a single guest who stayed with us ever complained of hearing or sensing anything out of the ordinary. Jaffar Bhai, who lived with us like family and helped with chores around the house, was a staunch believer in ghosts. He had his own tales to share, spirits lurking in the shadows, mischievous children of ghosts who, as he claimed, would sometimes snatch his snuff-can right from under his nose. But he, too, never mentioned a word about this woman with her dancing payal. I even hinted at the story, and though the Hindu neighbors on our street had also spoken to him about it, he always remained silent on that particular figure. 

Then there was my aunt, one of my father’s elder sisters., Chachi, a serene woman who floated through life at her own deliberate pace. She prayed with quiet reverence, each prayer stretching long as if time slowed for her alone. She used to say that she had a visitor, a woman who would come to her and whisper secrets only Chachi could understand. Her predictions, uncanny in their accuracy, would come to pass without fail. Yet, she too never once spoke of a woman with payal around her ankles. 

As a child, I was haunted by a paralyzing fear of ghosts, a dread that lingered well into my early college years. Yet, within that fear, there stirred an unsettling curiosity. The tales of her presence filled me with terror, yet I found myself yearning to catch a glimpse of her. It was as if I had stumbled upon a peculiar offer to buy one, get one free. I convinced myself that she came with the land, a haunting bonus I was entitled to, and in my heart, I believed I now had the right to claim her as my own. 

Years later, life took me far from that house, that street, that world of haunting whispers and unseen shadows. I sold the old house and called Japan my permanent home, where I settled down with a Japanese wife and a beautiful daughter. 

Now, at 62, far from the young boy or eager man I once was, I live with memories of that home. In the deepest corners of my heart, in every shadowed moment, that house lives on, as vivid today as the days I walked its halls. 

And yet, even now, after all this time and distance, I feel the presence of this dancing ghost like an unfinished whisper. Somewhere in my soul, I know she’s out there, beautiful as the vision carved in my memory. She waits just beyond reach, in the hidden dimensions of dream, waiting for a moment to step forward. One day, I tell myself, she’ll return. She’ll come dancing into my life, just as she did for others, her anklets singing a song only I am meant to hear. 

If she’d been a male spirit, I’d have shown him the door without a second thought, told him to go haunt someone else or disappear into the dark where he belonged. But a female? Well, that’s an entirely different matter, isn’t it? The way they spoke of her, blossoming and graceful, with eyes that glowed like embers and payal that hushed secrets with each step, it’s enough to make a man wonder, even after all these years. 

And here I am, with silver in my hair and more years behind me than ahead, yet some part of me would wait a lifetime for even a shadow of her. Maybe it’s foolish, or maybe it’s something only a man understands—the allure of an enigma cloaked in elegance, the enchantment of an intrigue shrouded in grace, the attraction of a puzzle veiled in charm. It’s the quiet pull of something just out of reach, like a shadow on the edge of dawn, or a melody faintly heard and never quite grasped. It’s the mystery that lingers, drawing you deeper into a realm where beauty is elusive, yet ever-present; where the intangible becomes captivating, and the unknowable becomes a spark that won’t fade. 

She lingered in my mind, tempting me, haunting me, stirring a longing that never quite faded, as if she’d planted herself somewhere deep within my heart. 

Yes, a man might outgrow his old ways, might leave behind dreams and faces of his youth, casting aside the remnants of a time when hope felt limitless and the world seemed painted in vibrant hues. He may wander through the corridors of adulthood, weighed down by responsibilities and the harsh realities of life, yet somewhere deep within, the echoes of those dreams linger like a distant song, soft yet insistent. Each fleeting memory, a whisper of the laughter and love that once illuminated his path, reminds him of the vitality of youth, a gentle tug at the heart, urging him to remember what once stirred his soul. In this journey of growing up, the past becomes a bittersweet companion, a reminder that while he may evolve, the essence of who he was remains intertwined with the man he is destined to become. But waiting for a beautiful woman? Now, that is eternal. Men will always be men, drawn irresistibly to mystery, to beauty that flickers just out of reach, to whispers that drift from the shadows. And so, even now, in the quiet moments, I find myself still waiting for her, hoping that one day, out of nowhere, she’ll step into my life just as vividly as she lives in my memory, young, enchanting, and just beyond reach. 

And if she were ever to appear, how I would respond remains a mystery yet to unfold. Would I be consumed by fear, trembling at the sight of her? Or would I voice my frustrations, demanding to know where she had been all those years? Perhaps I would question her identity, seeking to unravel the enigma that had lingered in the shadows of my mind. 

But what if fate never grants us this encounter? In my last breath, might I become a jujube tree, soaring through memory back to Pakistan, back to the fragments of my old home in another world? A dense, resolute tree, my branches open wide, casting a sheltering shadow, reaching to hold her as she dances in the soft embrace of my shade. Or might I, in a whisper of surrender, join her as a ghost beneath a sympathetic moon, a moon that blurs the lines between now and forever? In that moment, we would drift into our dance, a tango woven of hope and remembrance, a rhythm pulsing across lifetimes, echoing the timeless whispers of the past, swirling like autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze, intertwining like the branches of ancient trees reaching for the sky, and resonating with the soft cadence of heartbeats that have known both joy and sorrow, as if the very air around us held the stories of every lover who had ever embraced beneath a moonlit sky, reminding us that each step we take together is a brushstroke on the canvas of eternity, painting a vivid portrait of our souls united in a symphony of unspoken words and shared dreams. 

Neither earth nor heaven would dare to part us, for ours would be a love that lingers past every boundary, a dance of souls woven beyond time, a haunting, eternal duet bound by love’s most delicate tether. 

As a Gemini, I often find myself contemplating whether she might be the other half of me, the missing piece that completes my journey through this intricate tapestry of life. Could it be that our paths are intertwined by the threads of destiny, each twist and turn guiding us closer to one another? Who knows what fate holds in its mysterious hands, weaving the fabric of our stories with threads of chance and choice, leading us through a labyrinth of experiences that shape our souls? Perhaps the universe conspires in ways we cannot yet understand, aligning the stars to illuminate our shared destiny, hinting at a profound connection waiting to be discovered amidst the chaos of existence.

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