Disclaimer: This post is a work of fiction and all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. URBAN LEGEND A thin ray of sunlight crept in from the tiny orifice between the dark green drapes and the window and rested on my head as I lied on the bed on my side - providing much needed warmth on a cold November morning. It was the last week of November, and the winter had all signs of being brutal that year. “Wake up”, someone gently kicked my backside. “You need to hear this” “Get lost you stupid” I muttered halfway through my sleep. “No seriously, Francis saw a ghost last night” He kicked again, this time a little harder. Saturday morning slumber was something I wouldn’t trade in return for even Sharon Stone, the then Hollywood bombshell who I fantasized about every night. Although I always considered myself a morning person, sleeping until lunch was a common practice among most of the boys during weekends. “What??” I sprang up from my sleep, bounced on bed and sat on it with my legs wide open, trying to focus my vision. It was Jugal, my dear classmate and the boy who slept on a cot next to mine. There were only two of us in the little dorm that morning. I had a history of getting very excited upon hearing stories that involved spirits, be it good or evil. And even though I thought I was smart enough not to believe them, I couldn’t help but listen to it with my undivided attention. When we were young, ,my grandfather always told us stories about a ghost that lived underneath the bridge over bagmati at Thapathali and how it scared pedestrians on a moonlit night. He used to repeat the same story over and over flanked between me and my brother every other night until we went to sleep. I guess my fascination for ghost stories started right then. To be honest, I still have cold sweat trickle down my spine whenever I walk on that bridge late at night. And to be more honest, I loved ghost stories more than I loved Sharon Stone, even when Sharon and ghosts were poles apart, look-wise. “…..as I locked the door and squatted to take a shit, this voice called my name”. Francis’s face suddenly turned white as he recalled the incident, he was surrounded by the boys down in the cafeteria as me and Jugal made our way towards him. “It kept calling my name throughout the time I was dumping, and when I cleaned myself and came out, there was no one”. He added. “Then as I was washing my hands on the sink, it called my name again, I looked around and realized that the name was coming in from the window, I peered outside, and there was no one. Of course, I was in the third floor” “Could it be one of those senior boys?” I asked. “Very true, but he’d be hanging on to his dear life, clinging on the windowpane if that was the case, and I already told you guys I looked outside the window.” Francis replied. We all knew Francis was the most intelligent, objective, analytical and conscientious boy in our class and he would never make up such a story. Also, the bathroom on the third floor was so tiny; someone hiding inside without getting noticed wouldn’t have been possible. So even if a senior boy was pulling a prank on him, where did the voice come from? As the week progressed, two other boys were victimized by that supposed ghost. One was Rohan, whose dad was a senior policeman of West Bengal and the other was Tshering, the boy from Kurseong. The ‘voice’ had seemed to caulk Rohan’s ureter temporarily since he always claimed to have extreme pain while urinating after that incident. And poor Tshering had fainted near the sink. Soon all the boys on the third floor dormitory avoided going to the bathroom at night. Occasionally I’d witness few boys urinating out of the dorm’s window late at night, and I sometimes joined them. In fact one night as I was pissing out of the window, the projectile almost hit the only security guard of our school as he was strolling in the quad. He had cursed out aloud which sounded more like a frantic scream. And except me, all were led to believe he must have heard the ghost too.   The ‘voice’ had started invading the areas beyond that ghoulish third floor lavatory; it could now even be heard in the quad. “Guys, please escort me to the bathroom, I need to take a shit” Pankaj Chaudhary, one of the boys in our dorm pleaded me and Jugal after waking us up in the middle of the night. “I’ll die out of fear if I go there alone.” It was so far the most miserable night in my hostel life. I was standing outside the toilet with Jugal in a cold December night hearing Pankaj Chaudhary grunt and fart. We both were shivering as we waited Pankaj to clean up. I wasn’t sure if it was the biting Darjeeling cold that made us shiver so badly or it was the fear of the supposed ghost. “I once came to dump alone, it was only 7:00pm and it was dark. And as I was crapping, I masturbated thinking about Sharon Stone and I felt no fear” Jugal confessed. I learnt two new things that night. One, that Jugal admired Sharon Stone as well (who wouldn’t), and two, that sex is a remedy for almost every darn ailment on planet earth. Soon enough, our warden made the principal aware that there was some kind of foul play in the third floor dormitory bathroom. As a result, some policemen paid a visit to us one fine day. They interviewed every student on the third floor; they even summoned the seniors in the second and first floor. The verdict was out next morning. And as our teachers believed, it was one of those senior boys – Jatin Bose, a 12th grader from Calcutta who was historically a troublemaker. His dad had brought him a wireless speaker from Germany, which he could access from twenty feet away and which he would plant in the window pane of the third floor bathroom at night. He had few accomplices, who would notify him of a potential victim so he could traumatize them from the bathroom on the second floor, right beneath the one on the third floor. Justice was served; they were suspended from school for the entire month of March when the school resumed after the winter holidays. Initially, the boys still had mixed feeling about going to the bathroom at night, but since nothing happened to few brave hearts at first few instances, everyone forgot that ‘voice’ episode ever happened. Winter holidays were around the corner, everyone was happy, we were soon going home. The clock struck eleven as I woke up and made my way to the bathroom. It was our last night in Darjeeling before the holidays and we had a feast in the cafeteria that night. I had devoured a full plate of biriyani and few chicken legs and was now ready to excrete the undigested remains. Singing aloud an old U2 number, I jogged towards the toilet with a small bucket, a matching plastic mug and a tiny piece of soap – three most important accessories that vouchsafed good dumping practices after the job was done. As I reached the bathroom, I was surprised it was dark, the switches didn’t work which made me believe that the fuse was perhaps out. I entered into my favorite toilet, it was usually cleaner than the rest. I then set aside the bucket, ran the water , disrobed myself and squatted – still humming the song. “Nice song”, someone said as I was preparing to clean up. “Who’s that?” “You know who I am” he chuckled. “Bullshit! You know those guys were suspended, don’t you?” I was suddenly frightened. Although I knew it was a prank, there was something about that voice that scared me. “So aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked again. Whoever he was, this time he was doing a lot more talking than just calling out names. “Heck no” my voice trembled as I stood up and was ready to bolt for the door, even if it was a senior and not ‘the voice’. As I was unlatching the door, along came a question from the ‘voice’ that I would remember for the rest of my life - if I were alive after that incident that is. “Then why are you always afraid walking over that Thapathali bridge at night?’