Fear in the pines
Living alone in wilderness is likely to trick us into imaginary reverie. A supernatural experience in Ghoon Rest House
By Syed Rizwan Mahboob
For anybody who has spent an extended period of life time in jungles – and I mean living day in and out and not a two-day pleasure jaunt – an encounter with the unexplained is a near certainty. For one thing, living alone in wilderness is likely to trick our ordinary senses into imaginary reverie, as much out of fear as out of natural curiosity about the unknown. But it is also a fact of life that the desolate parts of jungles or less visited recesses in hilly country are often house to mysterious phenomenon, as hard to explain, as these are real to be ignored.
Leaving G.T. Road near Rawat close to the city of Kallar Syedan, one would enter a great expanse of hills and ravines, covered with mixed scrub and Chir Pine forests. The road passing through these forests gains and loses gradient across sharp bends before abruptly descending in a narrow gorge to reach the frothy waters of River Jhelum. Some ten kilometres short of the confluence of road with Jhelum River, a kacha path can be seen leaving diagonally in a western direction. Before this road, the eight mile long kacha path was used as a forest bridle track, connecting the now dilapidated Rajgarh Forest Rest House (dating back to Sikh times) with the notoriously haunted Ghoon Forest Rest House (built 1901).
Ghoon Rest House was one of the few places where I (along with a team of few stout-hearted foresters) came across some unforgettable experiences during our ramblings in jungles of Kahuta, Kotli Sattian and Murree around early 1990s. The jungles in the vicinity of Ghoon Bungalow in those days were well-stocked with wildlife such as barking deer, pheasant, peacock (rarely found along the steep banks of Jhelum River) and other game birds.
Besides these, we had also seen pugmarks of at least two male leopards along the Rajgarh-Ghoon bridle path. Our work required us to spend a few weeks in those dense jungles and notwithstanding the warnings by local DFO regarding leopards and djins of Ghoon Bungalow, we had no option other than staying in that haunted place.
I still remember the first two nights in the Bungalow which passed peacefully without any mentionable incident. It being hot, we were forced to put our beddings in the bungalow compound.
By the time our party had the evening meal on the third night, we had almost forgotten the many scary stories, graphically narrated to us by the local forest guard. It was one of those nights when moon takes inexplicably long before the jungle is flooded with its celestial light, putting the tense nerves and trembling hearts to rest. Tired as we were, nearly all of us were about to fall asleep when an eerie moaning sound of a woman struck the night silence.
We had been told that at times, djinns threw stones in that rest house (broken window panes as evidence) or doors would open and close suddenly and without any reason, but nobody had warned us about this eventuality. With the closest habitation a good three miles away and presence of leopards in the surrounding jungles, it was simply impossible for any woman to have ventured in that remote part of thick jungles during midnight. Instinctively, all five of us knew that there was something mysterious, strange and ominous about that moaning sound.
The sound was repeated three to four times and it appeared to come from beneath a groove of Amla trees where we knew a small spring was located alongside a brick platform. Moon had just appeared over the hills of Azad Kashmir and the heights of Chir jungle to our east and north were silhouetted against its mysterious light.
However, despite straining our eyes at the spot, we could see nothing – woman or otherwise. That we were terrified would be an understatement as we could easily hear our hearts madly throbbing in our throats. And we were not the only ones to have noticed the wailing sounds as the periodic noise from a colony of crickets and some night birds had also come to an abrupt halt.
But our predicament was by no means over as the worst was yet to come. All of a sudden, the sobbing stopped and in its place, we were now hearing a clear voice of an apparently old woman, repeating, “Way puttar Niaz, tun kithay hain (My Son Niaz, Where are you)”. There was something depressing and weighty about that sound and it really petrified whatever courage we could summon. The only reason, all of us did not start madly running in all four directions was the fact that our feet were virtually glued to the ground. It was then that one of our colleagues finally overcame his fear and in a panicky and jittery voice shouted and asked, “Why are you crying?”
After that, the voice was not heard again though we did hear what we thought were some sobbing sounds after which the jungle plunged in deep silence. To make matters worse, the silence was greeted by a sudden crescendo as a pack of jackals in the adjoining chir jungle burst in their devilish chorus. By that time, moonlight had nearly flooded the jungles around the rest house including the pucca platform and spring. It was not until half an hour later that five of us took the thirty odd steps and reached the platform from where the sound of wailing and crying had come.
Surprisingly, there was no evidence of anybody having set foot on that spot for days (evident by undisturbed twigs, pine needles and amla leaves). That the voice of old woman was real was beyond doubt as the night birds and crickets had also abruptly ceased activity on hearing it, only to resume after it stopped. The deafening heartbeats and streams of cold sweat on our foreheads (having spent more time in jungles than cities we were least likely to be terrified without reason) were evidence good enough that the episode of midnight was real.
After a sleepless night – towards small hours of night, we also heard “sawing” sound of leopard in close vicinity, attracted in all likelihood by the laughing jackals – we were eagerly awaiting the local forest guard who came a little late than usual. After brewing him a cup of hot tea, I narrated the events of the last night in detail. The sudden transformation of expression on forest guard’s face was remarkable, as he appeared shaken and equally terrified.
Overcoming his initial jolt, he gave us an explanation; saying that Niaz was a distant relative of the last caretaker of this rest house and had fallen in love with a comely girl from a village some four miles from the rest house. Both would meet at the masonry platform around the fresh water spring every afternoon. Niaz was warned time and again against meeting the girl in the vicinity of the rest house by his uncle (the caretaker) as the rest house was haunted by sacred entities (djinns) but he paid no heed.
One late evening as Niaz was collecting brushwood from a pine tree, he fell and died over jutted rocks beneath. For next one month, his old and wretched mother would daily visit the rest house to moan the death of his son right at the spot of his killing. His mother also died several years ago and since then some of the visitors to the rest house had reported similar incidents from time to time, especially on moonlit nights. He also admitted that despite spending countless nights in those jungles, he had only once heard some mysterious voices which he had ignored as figment of his imagination.
After a heated debate, we concluded that since no logical explanation for these queer events could be offered it was safe to assume that jungle solitude and fear had played tricks with our senses.
Needless to say, we shifted our camp the same day and although we worked in those jungles for next few weeks, we never dared visiting the bungalow nor heard those dreadful voices again. I have been told that the bungalow collapsed in 2005 earthquake and has since been re-built. Hopefully, the renovations in that picturesque rest house amidst beautiful chir, amla, amaltaas, retha and scrub jungles would have put to rest the restless entities, credited with stories of fear and awe.