The Revelers

The Revelers

Nothing seemed to go right for Mathews that night. It was an unfamiliar route for the truck driver since he had never driven to Rodapur before. The lighting on this infernal State highway was very poor. Potholes and a dark moonless night added to his woes. Besides, he was hungry enough to eat a horse and there seemed to be no dhabas or other type of hotels on this God forsaken road. As he was cursing himself for accepting this job, he suddenly saw to his delight a modest wayside hotel which seemed to be still open though it was pretty late- well past 10 in the night.

There were only a handful of people at the tables. They seemed to be local gentry who had strayed in for dinner from the local liquor ‘bar’. The customary tough looking truckers were not to be seen. While the normally reticent Mathews was toying with the idea of enquiring why there were so few truckers and other travelers, the guy at the payment counter asked him, “ Surely you are not planning to continue on the road tonight, are you, pal?” Mathews laughed and said, “What else did you expect me to do? Sleep on the road?”

The counter guy, who appeared to be the proprietor sighed and said, “Well, you could always stay the night in one of our rooms…or even sleep in your own cabin. Anything- even sleeping on the road might be a better option than driving on that terrible stretch on this New Moon day.” Seeing Mathew’s quizzical expression, another guy continued the story, “This is the ghost revelers’ night and you could be in deep trouble.”

 “Never heard this bullshit before- what on Earth do you mean?” said Mathew irritably, eager to get going, now that his tummy was filled. He had a deadline to meet.

The man at the counter said, “I will relate the facts first: On a moonless night like this, a few holiday revelers were dancing in the open somewhere nearby when a drunken truck driver ploughed through them- finishing them all. I still have the newspaper which reported this gruesome accident, with their photos in it.”

The proprietor fished out the yellowing newspaper from below his desk but no one showed any interest, presumably having seen it already.  Then he continued his story.

“Many trucks have had inexplicable accidents on this route while climbing up a hill on the way to Rodapur- always coincidentally on New Moon days. The trucks generally end up in a deep gorge nearby here, where the hairpin bend is sharpest. Now for the gossip or rumor or whatever you want to call it: there are guys who swear to have seen a group of people dancing right smack in the middle of the road at midnight on moonless nights-believed to be the ghosts of the revelers. The accidents are said to be their handiwork -as a kind of vengeance against all truckers.”

As Mathews was about to reply, a new guy- who had probably just walked in- laughed derisively and asked the gathering, “Has anyone here seen this so-called ghost dance, eh?”  When no one replied, he continued to speak, addressing Mathews, “ Look buddy, don’t know who you are and what’s your business-but believe me, these guys are just scaring you silly just so that they can get you to occupy the hotel room--starved of guests you know, ha ha!”

“If I were you, I would mind my business and go on… ghosts indeed! Never heard such bullshit.”

But before Mathews or the angry proprietor could react, this guy got up and went out as suddenly as he had come. Mathews, fed up with the whole thing, got up and said, “I have a deadline to meet, so I am leaving.”

Mathews had hardly left when one of the guys who had been idly looking up the old photos shouted, “Stop him! Call him back immediately!” But Mathews had already revved up his engine and left by this time.

The guy with the newspaper was now shivering with fear. His hands trembled as he pointed to one of the photos of the dead in the newspaper. There could be no doubt that it was the photo of the new guy who had just left, after trying to encourage Mathews to proceed.

“Oh God!” screamed the late night patrons of the hotel as the proprietor scrambled to close shop and rush home.  

***

  The next day’s local newspaper carried an account of another grisly accident at the same spot. It was Mathew’s photo this time.

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