Have you ever used a ouija board?
When I was 8 or 9 years old, I walked in my uncle’s room and saw him, my aunt, and Khala Ji, my grand aunt sitting around a glass table, talking to a metal piece on the table. The glass was marked with letters of the alphabet and numbers 0-9. They had their fingers on a piece of metal which was moving on its own from letter to letter, forming words. “We are speaking to the spirit of Qaid-e-Azam,” they told me. Qaid-e-Azam was the founder of Pakistan and had died years before I was born. Curious, I watched them ask the ‘spirit’ a question, the metal piece moving from letter to letter, forming words as the ‘spirit’ answered them.
“Can I ask a question?” I remember asking. I don’t remember what I asked, but the spirit answered me and spelt my name. Everyone was so moved that the Qaid-e-Azam acknowledged my presence. I don’t recall how I felt though.
Later I would learn that Aba Ji, my maternal grandfather, had serious objections to the ouija board. It was a combination of ‘this is nonsense’ and ‘don’t go into the realm of the unknown. It’s a sin.’ As I grew up, I bought into his rationale. My sister Neena did not. Actually, I take that back. She was very young, and for her and her friend Samia, it was a game.
It may have been the year 1968. I was in my teens, and Neena and I were visiting our grandparents in Multan. We were anxiously awaiting word from my uncle, Jedi Mamoon, who was returning home from a one-year training in China, and plans for his wedding were in full swing. Ah yes, we were awaiting word on the date of Jedi Mamoon’s arrival. Unbeknownst to Aba Ji, Neena and Samia found a hide-out and would spend hours with the ouija board, calling spirits. Khala Ji was in cahoots with them, dropping by every now and then to check in on the spirits.
“Shall I try?” I asked, just for the heck of it.
“They won’t respond to you,” she said. “You have to be a believer. The piece won’t move if anyone who is not a believer, places their finger on the piece.”
“Are you sure you are not moving the piece yourselves?” I said.
Not offended, she added more spice to it. “Do you know that you can call the spirit of a living person.”
“Really!” That was all three of us.
“Let’s call Jedi Mamoon’s spirit,” I said. “Let’s ask him when he is coming home.”
Neena and Samia placed their fingers on the metal piece, called Jedi Mamoon’s spirit, and in a minute, the piece started moving. “Hello Neena,” it said.
“When are you coming to Pakistan?” she asked.
The piece spelt: Tuesday
“Where are you now?”
The piece moved again, spelling: In Hong Kong.
“What gift are you bringing for your bride-to-be?”
“A coat.”
I made the pronouncement: “Now we will see if this is for real or what.”
The next day we received a telegram from Jedi Mamoon. It read: “In Hong Kong. Will arrive in Pakistan on Tuesday.”
You can picture the looks Neena and Khala Ji gave me, as in SEE!
On Tuesday, Jedi Mamoon arrived. We went running to hug him and before anyone could offer any of the usual and customary greetings, Neena said, “What gift did you get for your fiancé?”
“A coat.”
That was over fifty years ago. I remain a non-believer in ouija board stuff. So what was that all about? All I can offer is: It was a coincidence.
Whatever, it remains one of the craziest things that happened to me.
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