Share Story
As a matter of policy I do not meddle with ghosts. I mind my own business and they mind theirs. We have a live and let live policy. Or should I say, live and let die?
The dictionary meaning of ghosts describes them quite ambivalently as: “the discarnate soul of a deceased human being or animal still occupying the physical realm. These spirits may or may not know that they are dead”.
Right! Therefore, one can believe or not believe in ghosts because they might or might not be alive. Does that even make sense? Venturing from the realm of the known to that of the unknown can be tricky business.
When I was studying in college, if a bored bunch of youngsters started relating ghost stories around a campfire on frosty nights, I usually made a hasty exit. Most of the tales were grossly exaggerated anyway. The only constant was the gradual escalation of the fear factor that was underlined by muffled squeals and exclamations of horror. They were gullible in their youth and everybody believed everything.
Like I said earlier, I stayed away from matters of the supernatural. Cramming for exams, applying for jobs, learning to drive and managing my ever-dwindling pocket money kept me on my toes. I had enough on my plate and I did not want any additional stress. I quite deliberately steered clear of all spooky controversies.
But last week, three decades after I graduated from university, I found myself walking on a ghostly path. I was in Petra once again. It was maybe my 20th trip to the Rose Red City, which had been viewed from corner to corner. There was hardly a rock, camel, donkey or guide that did not recognise me. I felt as familiar around the Siq, the Treasury, the Coliseum and the Royal Tombs as I was in my own kitchen.
However, this time around, I decided to do the “Petra by Night” tour as well. Since it was only scheduled on three particular days of the week, I had missed it on my earlier visits to the place.
After sundown, at the appointed hour, I stationed myself at the entrance gate and waited for the rest of the tourists to arrive. Mohammed the guide scanned our tickets and told us to follow him as he strode ahead in long strides.
This was easier said than done because it was completely dark by now and the small candles that flickered inside tiny brown paper bags that lined our way looked beautiful but hardly provided any light. When I tripped for the third time on the uneven cobbled path, my friend and her teenaged daughter clutched my elbows protectively, on either side.
Mohammed would not allow us to talk because it disturbed the serenity of the place. He forbade us to flash our torches too so we walked in complete silence behind him, listening to the quickening of our own breath.
The 2,000-year old tombs in the caves, which were carved into the rock-face of the ravine, cast an uncanny spell around us. It was difficult not to imagine one of the apparitions floating eerily in front.
To distract us, I tried to sing.
“If there’s something strange in your neighbourhood,” I sang softly.
“If there’s something weird and it don’t look good,” my friend joined in.
“Who you gonna call?” her daughter crooned.
We stopped for a split second unanimously.
“Ghostbusters,” announced Mohammed.