My six-year-old self
Would squeal when my brother
used to turn off the lights in our room
And whistle silently, to the wind.

He would tell me stories
Of ghosts;
Translucent and soul-sucking monsters
That inhibit abandoned castles.

I would soak in every bit of his
grey and dim fantasies,
Wide, fearful eyes and a mind reeling.

Those days,
I would wait for the star-drunken night
To show itself;
Just so that him and I could escape our suffocating reality,
Swim into a world we crafted from invisible string.

It has been seven years
Since we last chased each other across our room,
Draped in white bed sheets,
Childish screams in overjoyed octaves.

But sometimes,
He still calls me up,
His eyes drooping and his voice a tired whisper,
Asks me if I still believe in ghosts.

And my answer is stuck,
Between the cracks of my fractured heart.

I see ghosts everywhere, I want to tell him.

In the darkened corners of our attic;
Ghosts of forgotten memories
And half-lived innocence.

In the soft folds of my grandmother’s saree;
Ghosts of our grandfather
Who we never got to see.

In the rose-petals pressed between
Old, old novels;
Ghosts of unfinished love stories.

In the eyes of an eight-year-old
War refugee;
Ghosts of a safe home,
Ghosts which feed on trauma and abandonment.

Instead, I force a laugh and tell him
“Ghosts are stupid, Bhai.
I’m not six anymore.”

I now watch horror movies
Without a single flinch,
My eyes almost glassy
As ghosts chase people through old, abandoned houses.