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Villagers fear the ghosts of Charkhi Dadri

Tara Shankar Sahay in Charkhi Dadri

Arun Kumar, a milkman, was going past the mustard fields of Kheri Sanwal, where the Saudia and Kazhakh Airlines planes crashed together on November 12 last year.

"I was cycling down hours after the burning wreckage fell here," he says, pointing to the waving saplings.

"Although it was a dark night, I could just about see my way through in the moonlight. Then, suddenly, I heard piercing shrieks and wails. But not a soul was in sight." Arun Kumar suppresses a shudder. "Believe me, sir, it was abnormal. Something was wrong."

While the milkman told the people of his village about his experience, the word spread, "Beware of the ghosts of Kheri Sanwal!"

Even a year after the mid-air crash above Charkhi Dadri, villagers avoid going to the crash site, spread over 30 kilometres, with the dead and dying falling on the fields of three villages -- Kheri Sanwal, Dani Phogat and Tikan.

The villagers too claim they have heard the piercing shrieks and wails of the night of November 12, 1996, again.

Officials of the local administration have tried to assure the villagers there is nothing to fear, but it isn't working. The villagers have even tried to propitiate the spirits. The day after the crash, residents of the three villages contributed money to conduct havans (Hindu rituals to propitiate the souls of the dead, especially those perished through violent means) at the crash zone.

Chandgi Ram, an old farmer, took pride in the fact that the unfortunate victims of the crash had been given a decent burial. He emphasised that while Hindus were cremated en masse in a secluded spot, the Christians and Muslim were given a dignified burial elsewhere. Asked whether he believed in the ghosts of Kheri Sanwal, Chandgi Ram softly said, "It is true, Ab who bhhot-pischacch ka niwas hai" (Now it is the abode of ghosts and spirits).

However, there are no traces of the crash in Kheri Sanwal. The bodies gone, the debris cleared, even the indentations caused by falling metal have been covered, first by the plough, and then by the mustard saplings, waving in neat rows.

Doves and wild pigeons flap through the thorny trees and the piercing whistle of a freight train shatters the silence as it roars into the twilight. An oppressive quiet descends and as the fields get darker, it becomes easier to understand why the farmers find the spot so foreboding.

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