Sunday, 3 pm - As the weekend comes to a close, the man of the house plans the most exciting and unique activity for us this time. It is maintained as a surprise until I am done with catching up on an afternoon siesta, meanwhile Google Bhaijaan is kept on his toes in order to ensure our short trip to Niagara on The Lake winds up to be one of the best. Sorry Baahubali ji, please excuse us for breaking away from the norms - I just have one more evening left with the husband and a three hour encounter with your antagonist Bajrangi ji seems more productive, which we choose to shelve till the mid week. As I try to make it hay while the sun shines, my partner in crime comes up with the most surreal ambition. We decide to set off on a mission of a lifetime; in quest for capturing a glimpse of the goofy grins of those phantom friends, who claim to sit on the throne of Fort George situated across the Niagara River. Fort George happens to be one of the most frequented Historic sites in Canada as well as the most haunted monument in the city of Ontario. There is a ritual of attending a 'Ghost Tour' at night wherein a guide takes you from one conspicuous spot to another through a story-telling with a single candle lit to heighten the suspense and thrill.
4 pm - My Sunday evenings have always resonated with the
helplessness of a sacrificial lamb and its morbid fate. It's like someone
treating you with a plateful of delicacies and suggesting to gorge on as much as you can, while the Melancholic
Humor knows - Gah! You are slated for slaughter!
'I wish Monday never came and we could stay over in Ontario
tonight. Isn't?' I chortle.
Sipping on his Diet Coke the man by the window examines the
strength of the sun outside and replies, 'Now hurry up. The tour is at
8.30 pm and I am keen on a sightseeing of the surrounding countryside prior to
that.'
4.30 pm - I head for a quick shower completely oblivious to
what pandemonium awaits in sometime. Anyone who knows my greatest shortcomings,
wouldn't be alien to the unmindful self in me especially at the time of embarking
on such shenanigans. When you are small and unable to take care of your
valuables, the best and the most appropriate way to warn you of any possible
loss is to tell you - 'Ma Lakshmi Raag Korben,' (The Goddess of wealth and
prosperity will be displeased) and failing to find it back could be inauspicious,
inviting misfortune for an undetermined period of time. Having said that, I must confess - I have
been able to recover my diamond ear stud from the streets of Delhi's Connaught
Place and perhaps the Goddess is still regretting to have killed me with her
kindness many times in the past. Such occurrences have convinced me that I am possibly born under the influences of a darn lucky planet, which also makes the task of the deity easy to allow me another chance. Every time I was granted one such chance, I promised to myself
that I WILL be more watchful ONLY until the entry of my Knight In Shining Armor
who is now responsible for almost anything and everything in relation to me.
But this time I am perhaps meant to be
left crestfallen, once and for all, not as a lesson, but a final retribution.
By the time I can safely place the pair of solitaire on the vanity counter, I
can see one of the two, (gifted by my mum when I was in high school) flowing
inside the shower drain, and I am left with the most harebrained idea that the
Super Man in disguise of a consort will come to the aid of my lost diamond. As
the sauna soon turns into a battle field for me, leading its way to hell, I can
clearly visualize Goddess Lakshmi standing at the door with her fourth arm held
up in the air denoting my Moksha. Perhaps it is time for her to liberate me
from all the 'Dharmas' that I have not accomplished properly, and all the
'Kamas' (Those who wish to look beyond the spiritual meaning, please send your
dirty minds to the laundry) and 'Arthas' I have been indulging in. Before
Lakshmi Mata's Lotus seat overflows with the holy water sprayed from the four
Mastodon's golden vessels, I rather hastily turn off the shower water only to stop the
force from pushing the ornament further into the sewer.
This is the worst that a Sunday can bring to a despairing
wife who is literally armoring herself for next five days and the blow seems
like an endless nightmare. My savior contacts the House Keeping department and
pacifies me with the help of the staff members. The only silver lining remains their prompt action
to locate my lost belonging. It is Mr. Kuhan, the Assistant Manager of
Maintenance department and Mr. Wilson of Engineering and Housekeeping, who start looking into the matter immediately putting in their
sincere efforts, sound technical knowledge, and perfect coordination with the
front office to ensure that the water pipe of our room and the room below are
blocked.
Mr. Kuhan is dark-eyed, olive-skinned - a lean fellow in his
fifties hailing from the state of Ceylon, who doesn't mind going out of his way to scrutinize the inter
connecting water pipes with the support of a plumber straight off.
Colliding in my hubby dear's arms which to me, is the most
secure place on the face of this earth, I bat my teary eyelashes and mourn - 'I
have always been careless and forgetful. I should have taken them off before
wearing my hair loose in the shower.'
The stupendously doting man consoles me as though it isn't
even my mistake but a case of accident : ' when you want
something, all the universe
conspires in helping you to achieve it'....'I have always loved such optimism coming from you ever since I have known you; I can't believe you are behaving wishy-washy????'
Thanks to Mr. Coelho for the astounding
impression he has been making on my life all these years! A perfect moment of
truth for the child wife, when she has no option but to hold her breath, and
peer through as resolute and sanguine as she can.
Now, Mr. Wilson, our manjan friend too is on
board for the search. As those puffy hands maneuver the tool box fastidiously,
Mr. Kuhan finally resorts to the Housekeeper's vacuum. Both of them
exhibit immense efficiency and incredible eye for detail which feels like my
only weapon to stay hopeful of getting my mum's blessing back. 'Every little
bit helps madame. As long as it is stuck in the duct, there is hope,' responds
Mr. Kuhan. Removing the drain cover, sucking out the water and restoring back
such a tiny yet precious possession - None of these has been easy. But in no time they both exceed our
expectations in all possible ways and succeed in restoring my earring back to
me in one piece.
As we thank them both from the core of our heart, the sense
of relief on our face is perhaps something Mr. Kuhan can instantly ally with,
and his statement - 'I can understand your sentiment behind this personal asset besides its monetary value,' brings a beam of triumph to light up the
rest of the evening for us. How can I not pin all my hope on this world - that
virtue still exists in this age of vice?
Leaving aside the subject of goodness and gentility, being
from the hotel industry I do understand what it means and what it takes to
render exceptional guest services. In our last two weeks' observation, I found the staffs extremely welcoming, professional and helpful.
Starting from the well-informed Concierge to the generous Bell Desk, the
pleasing front office assistants to the diligent House Keeping executives and
cordial Food and Beverage Service personnel as well as the master chefs, I have
been interacting with all, and each of them have impressed me with their
politeness and excellent service standards. But this particular incident has
completely blown me away.
7 pm - We sally forth to embrace our idiosyncrasies, and
the drive continues to multiply my excitement and curiosity as we cover miles after miles.
We are almost there, just a few yards away from Fort George, and I am like -
'Do you realize what is it that we are aiming at? Going out
on a tour to an abandoned fort that is known to be possessed is like evoking
the dead out of the grave! Is it right?' I whisper.
The husband seems to pay no heed and instead, doubly turns
up the volume of J.LO screaming her lungs out - ' If you're a party freak
then step on the floor (Yeah).....If you're an animal then tear up the floor'...Meh!....I quite satisfactorily pull out the lip gloss from my kitty for some touch up, looking forward to something, that I can later term as the most phenomenal experience in recent times.
8 pm - We are at the entrance of Fort George and there seems to be a huge secrecy in the air that this entire place has engulfed in itself for decades, may be
even for centuries. Antique canons, telescopes, the History of the Battle Of
Fort George inscribed on stone tablets - Each of them has a surreptitious venture of their own
to disclose. The husband gets busy recording everything on the lens, and my fingers
spontaneously skim along the artifacts. We keep wandering within the
premise for a while, absolutely bewildered by the neighboring pastures, we await our expedition. Our route leads to on and off pitfalls, irregular and steep moats, marking the territory for the
enemies in the ancient times, and now for the visitors. The towering rampart of Fort George is my ultimate gateway into the
world of mystique fantasy and the wait till the gate opens is a test of my patience now. The very thought of unveiling what might have happened on the
other side exhilarates me.
9:30 pm - Here comes the underpass, with a narrow, wet, mucky
trail. The aura is macabre, tending to smother a group of ten to twelve
visitors who see no light at the end of the tunnel. Karl has meanwhile blown out
the candle, to substantiate his narration of the paranormal activities that has
been rampant all around this place for a coon's age. A forsaken, corkscrew
stair case leading up to the gloomy, sooted skylight is another addition to
this nerve racking voyage. It's only the flash of our handheld devices and Karl's shadow. His accounts now repetitively engage a little
female figure, loitering hither and thither in the dark, and how that has avowed
Fort George as cursed. Ever since the battle of 1813 and its aftermath, the
benevolent apparition of young Sara Anne has followed Karl during his tours inside and out of the fort only to make her omnipotent and omniscient presence discerned
time and again.
10 pm - One of us, a lad in his teens starts
expressing sheer discomfort around his throat, possibly a repercussion of
remaining confined within the claustrophobic compartment for too long. Karl,
from the start has been very clear about our own responsibilities in regard to how
well we can handle all this. Our safety is customarily his concern, while our
physical welfare isn't something that he can guarantee. As we cross the hospital,
we learn about creaking sounds coming from the kitchen doors, unanticipated
shrieks of women and a distant bleating of sheep those never graze on the
nearby grasslands. Something uncanny, something intangible runs a chill down my
spine. My man grasps my hand more firmly, trying to pull me closer to him, as
he can see the supernatural clawing across my face gradually. Steadily, but more
precariously. I move forward, and the blockhouse seems to be another den for
occult practices. Karl warns me of the 'Watcher' by the window, but I care two hoots. The
specter adheres to no rules, and always lures the unguarded. Leaving the love
of my life behind and Karl along with the group, I walk ahead. The walk feels
like the longest, on a road not taken earlier. Though my consciousness has tried clasping the bosom of eternity and unleash the obscurity behind
life after death multiple times, until distracted. Until I looked back, ensnared in the hedonism of the material world. This time I am steadfast and nothing can impede me from unlocking the doorway to
the evasive. I fear not the perils lurking in the night, I fear not lending an
ear to my phantom friends. They have so much to recount of the school girl
giggles, their blond ringlets and garden fancies. That anonymous lover, his first kiss and those
unforgettable vows. Those candid laughter, and family picnics. The unwavering zeal to conquer, the undaunted oath to vanquish. The torridity of the grenades and the
galloping horses. The prayers of loved ones, the hatred of the foes. The booming
of the guns and the reverberating shootouts. The infinite sufferings and the gruesome
deaths. And my teller of tales is none other than a red-coated knight, standing
on the other side of the blockhouse window - the forbidden, the hexed, a much
dreaded sighting of the spirit of a British army man that uninterruptedly haunts Fort George.
Monday, 8 am - As Karl's warnings go in vain, the morning alarm
does it again. I am lying with my eyes fixed on the ceiling still trying to
regroup myself, while the husband struggles and tries to drag
himself out of the bed. Oh my sweet baby Jesus! I always knew the stories we love the best do
live in us forever. In our dreams, and in reality. They continue to occupy a
certain part of our brain. But what I had been in-cognizant of, will now remain my greatest treasure until the cows come home : Some never cease to torment us, some evade
temporarily to return by page or by big screen. And we wait to welcome those glorious
kings men back.
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