Mishra Buddha's Ghost House

In the narrow lanes of our colony—where kids played gilli-danda in the evenings and old women sat with their knitting on the verandahs—a new presence disturbed our familiar peace. We called him Mishra Buddha. Not because he was a sage, but because he behaved like one—loud, irritable, and always full of unsolicited wisdom. He had purchased a big plot of land that stood on the edge of our colony, just where the paved road met the open fields. For years it lay vacant, growing wild grass and occasionally serving as a cricket ground for the local boys.

But then one day, the tractors arrived. Then came the trucks, carrying sand, bricks, and iron rods. Concrete mixers grumbled like dinosaurs in the narrow lanes. People grumbled more. Mishra Buddha was building his dream house after retiring from government service. Instead of hiring a contractor to manage things smoothly, he supervised the construction himself—standing in the middle of the road in his banyan and lungi, screaming at workers, correcting measurements, and sipping tea with the foreman as if chaos were a badge of honour. The narrow colony lanes weren’t meant for heavy vehicles. Every morning, commuters found themselves trapped between a concrete mixer and a mound of bricks.

One morning, I—rushing to the college where I taught English—found a huge truck blocking my way. Honking didn’t help. I got down and called out to Mishra Buddha, who stood nearby barking orders at a mason. "Uncle, could you please move the truck? I'm getting late for my class," I said politely. He didn't even look at me. "The driver has gone to eat his breakfast in the bazaar," he said, scratching his head. "What’s the hurry? They won’t suspend you if you're fifteen minutes late. Be a little tolerant!” I clenched my teeth. Half an hour passed before the driver returned with a packet of puris. I reached college late and flustered.


 Mishra Buddha's wife, equally unfriendly, soon earned her own reputation. She was rarely seen smiling. When the neighbourhood children played hide-and-seek in the vacant ground floor of the half-built house, she screamed, “Go away! You’ll break the tiles! You know how costly it is?” On another occasion, when a few of my stray dogs took shelter from rain under the scaffolding, Mishra Buddha came out with a kettle and poured boiling water at them. The dogs howled and ran. I confronted him, but he stared me down and said, “They’re animals. Let them stay in the drains where they belong.” The colony soon buzzed with complaints. No one dared to confront him directly—he always had a sharp tongue and a louder voice. The cement mixers were placed right in the middle of the road. The labourers, backed by the old couple, blocked passage at will. But slowly and painfully, the house got completed.

It was big, painted light pink, with ornate railings and carved iron gates. Peace, however, didn’t return. One morning, loud shouting drew us out. Mishra Buddha was standing on the edge of his second-floor balcony, abusing a neighbour whose cow had wandered into his garden. His arms flailed. His rage had no end. Then we heard a loud cry. He slipped. His body fell like a log. A sharp-edged stone cracked his bald head. Blood oozed into the mud. We rushed, but it was the labourers who picked him up and took him to the hospital. The news came quickly—he was dead on arrival. Strangely, the colony fell silent that night. No one played music. The children didn’t laugh. Even the dogs whimpered as if they knew. His wife, now a widow, fell into depression. We heard her wailing sometimes, especially in the early hours. She spoke to the neighbourhood women occasionally, her bitterness momentarily replaced by confession. “He was a good man,” she said once. “We both struggled hard. This house… it was our dream.” For a while, she even tried to feed the dogs. A few of us thought she was changing. But the change didn’t last. One morning, she was out in the garden, plucking hibiscus flowers for her puja. A stray bull, agitated by something, charged at her. She screamed, stumbled, and fell. Her leg was fractured; she had multiple internal injuries. For three months she lay in a government hospital, mostly unconscious, visited only by a distant niece. She died one morning in July. Few attended the cremation. The pink house now stands silent. Weeds grow around its compound. The windows are always shut. Stray dogs sleep under its porch. Children play cricket again in front of it. And we call it Mishra Buddha’s Ghost House.

Some say they still hear angry voices echoing from the walls of Mishra Buddha’s house. Ever since the grumpy old man passed away, tales have grown around his crumbling house like the moss on its damp, forgotten walls. The colony people, once irritated by the ruckus of his construction work, now spoke of strange lights, doors banging in the windless night, and eerie sounds that couldn’t be explained. Children took the longer route to school, and even adults whispered while passing by, especially after dark. The most repeated tale was that of the old man’s ghost – a hunched figure with white eyes and clenched fists, shouting at invisible labourers, cursing thieves who stole bricks, and muttering about building codes and the drainage system. I never believed any of it. I had known the man — loud and irritating, yes, but a ghost? Come on. I used to laugh at these stories, tell people they were just being superstitious, letting their discomfort about the man’s lifetime behaviour spill into their imagination. But something happened one stormy night that shook my certainty. It was well past midnight, and I was deep in sleep when my wife pushed me awake, whispering urgently, “Look… look at that!” I rubbed my eyes, annoyed, but then followed her pointing hand through the rain-blurred window. The rain was lashing the street, and the trees were swaying like dancers possessed. There, on the flat roof of the half-finished house that once annoyed the entire colony, I saw it — a shadowy figure, unmistakably human in shape, pacing slowly. My heart froze. It was moving deliberately, not like something blown by the wind. The figure paused at the edge of the terrace, turned as if listening, then resumed walking, just like Mishra Buddha used to do when yelling instructions to masons from the top. For a second, lightning lit the sky, and the figure seemed to be raising a hand, pointing furiously — a gesture I had seen the old man make dozens of times. My wife clutched my arm. I wanted to rush out, maybe convince myself it was a prank, a trick of the light, anything — but something in me hesitated. The rain was loud, yet through it, I felt I could hear something — a low growl, not quite a voice, more like a protest or a warning. We shut the window quickly and stayed awake till dawn, not speaking much. The next day, I went over to the house, just to check. The roof was wet, muddy with rainwater, but undisturbed. No footprints, no signs of life. And yet, from that day on, I stopped laughing at the stories. I never told anyone else what we saw, because part of me still clings to reason. But each time I pass the house now, I walk a little faster, never looking up. We don’t argue. We just nod. And walk faster when we pass by.

How short life is! Yet how resolutely the stupid worldly-wise cling to it.They think this life and their possessions are the things they should value the most.They were childless, and their adopted son lived in the States.He hardly cared to come to India even when the old couple had expressed their eagerness to behold their grandchildren! He didn't come to attend the cremation services of the crabby old man. After his wife died, the house suffered atrophy.There was none to claim it. This is the fate of greedy officers who rob government money, and live and die a life of futility and meaninglessness!