A Christmas Carol, by Sarla Dhiken

In one corner of the great city of Delhi, a favourite Yuletide song plays ad nauseam as a tired old, white-bearded man, puffy eyed and blue turbaned, shuffles around in a semblance of energetic perambulations. "Silent night.... silent night…. silent night…" the song goes on and on, its soulful tune limited to these two words. The old man listens, for that is all he does. You could say he is a miser, but not of the normal variety. For, he is a miser who is loath to part with words, with sentences, with responses. He craves the solitude of silence, the mystique of wordlessness.

And as he listens to "Silent night…", an airy being descend in wisps, startling the white-haired miser. "And who are you?" the old man mouths, for no words will emerge from his lips. "I am the ghost of Christmas past," cackles the wraith. He takes the voiceless oldie by the hand and transports him at once to a Delhi 20 years earlier. The white-whiskered man sees himself with a touch of grey around his cheeks and above his lips. "How white my hair has become," he sighs. But most things else are in black back then. What fills the wizened old man most with nostalgia is the stark black of the country's economic balance sheet. And one other thing is not black at all - for he can see himself being feted as an impossibly honest man, with not a spot on his dazzling white kurta. He also sees himself with a free rein in his hands as the horses of economy gallop ahead. He espies himself constantly beaming, as he sees the nation's GDP rousing itself from slumber. Then just as suddenly the care-worn octogenarian finds himself back in his soundless room.

As "Silent night…" wafts in again, another wispy being floats in. "And who would you be?" the antique human mouths. "I am the ghost of Christmas present," the apparition answers. The good ol' doctor now sees himself flying over the trapezium of India, looming dark and joyless below him. He alights at a place filled with the vilest beings. There is one, the tallest of them all, looming metres above anything else. "I am Inflation, and I am come to haunt you," he says in a chilling voice, and the old man trembles. "I am Corruption and I am come to haunt you," titters one corpulent, ugly phantasmal, and the old man averts his gaze from the wretched sight. "I am Indecision and I am come to break you," drawls one slothful spirit, and the old man shivers. "I am Bad Image and I have got to get a grip on you," rasps one putrescent flotsam, and before the old man can do anything, the abominable creature grabs him by the kurta, leaving its snowy expanse splattered with malodorous, repulsive stigmas.

With a start, the ever-silent stalwart finds himself back in his room, listening to the two words of "Silent night". As another ectoplasmic spooks begins to form in the air around him, the man in the sullied kurta wishes he didn't have to face the ghost of Christmas future. But there is no escape, for, he is whisked away from his abode of silence to a future of gargantuan terrors. There is one that dwells south-west of his palace that towers over the Statue of Unity, and for every word he will not utter, that outspoken spectre has twenty of the worst kind. There's another, beatific in look, but yielding a repugnant broom that can sweep away matronly aunties and hardened mentors alike. There are other minor beastly beings, all foaming and frothing and wanting a piece of him.

"Nooooooo," finally something emanate from the wizened worthy's lips. It is an expression of defeat. All he can do now is to get on his knee and pray. "In the name of the mother and the son …" he begins. "And, oh, for a holy split ..."

Free Run is a fortnightly look at alternate realities

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