Posted on by Sonia Dogra

The Phantom of the Opera

Hello everyone!

Welcome to this month’s WEP entry on the movie prompt ‘The Phantom of the Opera’. If you would like to join with your take on the movie or read the other wonderful entries, please visit the website here.

Before I add my piece of flash fiction, I’d like to give a background. The hills in my part of the world are known for their fantastical stories. These stories run down generations and the faith of the locals in them is immense. We have our tradition of mythological tales and the spooky ones, stories of gods and demons, of the possessed and of the fine line that separates the real from the imaginary.

This story that I present here, has come down to me from my husband’s mother. The end in the original tale is slightly different from this one, in fact, it’s even stranger than the one I have chosen for my version. As they say, truth is stranger than fiction. But that one, for another time. For now, I hope you enjoy this piece of flash. For your reference,

manjeera- cymbals; arti- prayer; charpoy- bed made of a light jute rope; mandali- group; aana- an old monetary unit in India; nagada- drum; Yama- God of Death who lives under the earth.

This story is set in the pre-independence era, hence the reference to freedom fighters.

Without taking more of your time, here we go!

TAGLINE: Stories that did rounds of villages, were after all, only stories.

Nandu sat up with a sharp jerk. Was he late for the morning arti? It was still dark, except for the faint moonlight gliding in through the window. As his eyes adjusted to it, he saw the silhouette of a man towering over his charpoy. A bitter aroma filled the air around him. Nandu recognized this smell. It was the smell of the wolf who ran away with newborns; it was the smell of the lonely forest road after dusk. He shuddered.

The silhouette moved; there was a rustle. The shimmer from his clothes nearly blinded Nandu. What could he do? Light up the lantern? Na, it would take too much time. He could lunge for his manjeeras and strike them hard to wake up the neighbours. But the silhouette appeared huge; he could easily overpower the boy’s lanky frame. It wasn’t like Nandu hadn’t seen better days. But ever since his parents’ disappearance in the fearsome Bikki ke tel wali kothi (the house of Bikki Oil), popular for consuming freedom fighters or their likes, he’d turned into a skeleton.

The silhouette moved closer. A tall frame, broad shoulders and terrifying eyes – as if shooting lasers from the pupils. ‘Nandu, it’s you!’

Nandu stared, hardly able to open his mouth.

‘Nandu, the manjeera player of the mandali at the temple on the top of the hill.’ The gravelly voice echoed in the modest shack.

For last two years Nandu had been playing cymbals with the music group that sang bhajans at the temple. A fixed job for two humble meals a day, a glass of piping hot tea in the mornings and an anna or two that a happy visitor blessed with a baby or the family of a young bridegroom bestowed on the group once in a while.  Nandu was famous for adding zing to a dull song. He would twirl and dance in the temple courtyard, the ringing of the manjeeras rising above the da-dum of the nagada.

Nandu gulped. He mustered up all the courage of a seventeen-year-old and stood up. ‘I am! But what… what do you want from me?’

The visitor laughed; a surly chuckle for a burly fellow. ‘I am Yama, and it’s time for you to bid goodbye to the world.’

Words throttled in Nandu’s gullet. He sat down with a thud, and a smile flickered across his face.

What happened next was a complete blackout. When he woke up in the morning, it took him a moment to realize that he was in his own bed, unharmed. The memory of last night, however, was vivid. His heart felt heavy with grief as he trudged uphill to the temple. Striking the cymbals one against the other, he joined the group singing praises of the almighty. At first, the clanging was feeble as the memory of last night haunted him. But gradually, with the rising crescendo, the phantoms cleared up and reality dawned on him finally.

Stories that did rounds of villages were, after all, only stories. Nobody can escape walking down the blazing path of mortality, but for that gods wouldn’t walk all the way from under the earth. He’d been a fool to allow a nightmare to literally consume him.

With a million thoughts crossing his mind, he played, rising effortlessly above the sound of the entire orchestra, the timbre muting every other instrument in the ensemble. He played and he danced and twirled and whirled until all the other sounds felt flat, while his manjeeras accentuated the climax of the morning prayer.

When Nandu finished, his hair was wet and his cheeks flushed. His heart raced as he took in the happy faces around him. A hand offered him a bottle of water, which he grabbed and ran out into the courtyard. A wisp of cool air brushed against his face as the huge temple gong announced the beginning of a new day. Everything seemed to have slowed down. Nandu reached for the cap of the bottle. Something pierced his shoulder – a pinch, leaving him with a stricken look. The cap refused to turn and he felt his legs give out. The bottle rolled out of his hand and he fell, first to his knees and then to the ground. Faint sounds of running feet and loud mumbles reached his ears. He saw through the slits of his eyes, blurred faces – among them, the silhouette from last night, his hand reaching out for Nandu.

(Total words: 743; FCA)

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39 Replies to “The Phantom of the Opera”

  2. I loved this, Sonia. And it was even more intriguing because you explained how you’d borrowed from the legends and tales in your part of the world. Great job.

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    1. I don’t seem to be able to identify myself on your blog these days. I’ll check my settings and see if I can correct this. No longer Anonymous….C. Lee McKenzie

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  8. Hi Sonia – I thought Nandu had side-stepped Yama … but obviously not. I enjoyed the notes you gave us, and the culture of your area … one day I’ll learn more, for now there are only snippets I pick up. The description of the area in which Nandu lived … then the mythological tales … while ultimately he whirled himself to a death-like frenzy … scary for the youngsters around. Thank you for this take on the prompt – cheers Hilary

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  11. Hi, an outstanding depiction of death. Surreal as in a dream but the reality is there. You engaged me totally in this flash. I like how you didn’t tell us when Nandu would die but showed us through his music and dancing which led to the bottle of water that he was going to drink but didn’t.
    Shalom shalom

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  14. This story brings Nandu to life — even briefly I celebrate his joy in making music and his passion and commitment to life, however short. Even so subtly, Nandu (through your storytelling) realizes he cannot know how long he will live. Beautifully written!

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  21. Oh god! The atmosphere you created in your story made my heartbeat flutter. And I decided to read this story now, a couple of hours before midnight! I hope I am able to sleep without any nightmares ;P
    Poor Nandu. Yamraj did finally come down to take the boy away 😦
    As much as I find horror or scary stories intriguing, a tiny part of me still panics.

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