Re: [nukkad] ghosts!!!

["aryaone" <>]

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Indian Rediffji wrote:
> I should know :-) As a child, I used to have an irrational fear of two 
things. One was a dwarves. >

I wonder how many of our adult phobias and aversions are the 
result of fears instilled in us by well meaning but irresponsible
elders.

The implant is structured as a threat, if you dont do this, that will
happen to you. The "that" could be "buddha bawa", and old fearsome 
man, or "buddhi bibi", the witch like old hag with ill intent, and "this" 
could be, better go to sleep, don't yell, don't run when you eat."

Some parents turned poetic and added, "Sleep, or the Hag will come
and eat your liver, she being partial to the insides of little boys."

When I grew the common threat by almost all Gujerati speaking
parents to children who needed discipline was, "Better behave or
else Haji Dhooee will come and get you."

This was around late 40s and early 50s when the memory of an 
unbroken India was still fresh, the World War II was still a valid
happening to reabolitate from, and bunches of prisoners of war and
refugees from Europe and far East could still be seen wandering 
around.

Haji Dhooee was a mysterious, dangerous figure, an apparent
Mongol with fierce Oriental eyes, swarthy and limbering. He was
huge, and carried a large bundle on his back wrapped in khaki
cloth, which everybody knew contained kids who did not heed
their parents.

When he entered the street, kids would heckle him with "Haaaaji
Dhooeeee, Haaaaji Dhoooeee." And when he would swing his
bundle to the ground and run to catch the boys, there was pure
pandemonium.

When in later years I returned from abroad on a vacation, I 
chanced to come upon Haji Dhooee. He sat under a tree which
had been central focus to the kids who lived in the streets.
Now they were grown and were gone, and I had returned,
and no one had noticed I had gone, and Old Haji sat there,
as though not really knowing where to go.

It took all my courage to venture to him, years dropping
faster than beads of sweat on my brow.

I said, "Salaam." Hr looked up, and said, "Salaam baba." I sat by him 
cross legged. He smelled to high heaven, but the odor was that
of an unkempt elder you would find in nay old people's home.

Old Hajji had become senile, and did not know how to go
back to Mongolia. The bundle did not contain small boys, but
cloth he would sell door to door, but now terry-cotton was in
and no one wanted his wares.

My fear of him was rapidly changing into pathos, and the 
fearsome ogre of my tender years, was as quickly turning 
into a tired old man with haunted eyes.

I sat there for an hour, which passed away in minutes, and with it
something precious, almost a child's dream.

I reached out and gave him a hug, and rose, and walked away.
he did not seem to notice. Not another word had passed our lips.

But to this day, if you will come up behind me and suddenly say, 
as theatrical kids of an evil bent loves to do, "Hajjjeee
Dhoooeee!!!", I will turn 6 years old, jump out of my skin and 
make to run into the nearest doorway.

But Haji Dhooee is dead. And so my childhood.

Only the fear remains.

Arya.






















































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