by Ruskin Bond
"He walled him up in the battlements of Sehwan fort, that is the hill on which the resthouse now stands. As you pass it you can see a sort of hollow in the side of it. That is where they walled up Anu the butcher."
"But what is this talk of the khansama being his reincarnation?"
"Well, Sahib, he has only been here three or four months and yet several people in the town have disappeared. Whenever they have done so, a large hyena has been seen galloping through Sehwan. Not only that, but two Chota Sahibs (subordinate Europeans) who went to the resthouse also have disappeared. The khansama said the same in both cases. They dined and slept outside the resthouse, but when he brought the tea next morning they had vanished. We say the khansama turns himself into a hyena and eats them during the night. You will never see the Major Sahib again, I am afraid; but thank God you are here! Still, at night close the doors and windows of your saloon, otherwise that khansama may attack you even here. We always shut ourselves in at night, although it is so hot."
Bollinger was far too wise to laugh at the station master's story. He did not believe that the khansama and the hyena were the same: but remembering his villainous expression he did think it possible that he was a murderer; and after Isarmal had left he began to wonder what he should do.
At last, he determined to go to the resthouse and share the danger, if any, with Sinclair. He had no gun, but he had a long heavy hunting knife that, had it been a bit sharper, would have been a very efficient weapon. He did not bother to take his servant as he did not wish to have him on his hands, too. In the glare of the setting sun he walked alone along the dusty limestone road and then up the steep side of the old fort, now the rest-house. He noticed as he walked a depression in the fort wall and said to himself that that must be the place where they walled up Anu Kasai. At last, he reached the top of the old fort. It Formed a plateau and in the centre was the rest-house. He arrived just as Sinclair was sitting down to dinner outside the building. It certainly was far cooler than in the station siding, for a cool breeze blew from the river.
"Come along, Bollinger, I am so glad you have come," said Sinclair cordially. "You must dine with me. We can get a good night here in the breeze. I say, I'm awfully sorry for having been so grumpy just now. I cannot make out what came over me."
"Oh, that's all right!" said Bollinger cheerily, wondering secretly what Sinclair would think of Isarmal's tale. The khansama also welcomed Bollinger and made ready a place for him. He then served an excellent dinner and after dinner began to put the two officers' cots outside.
"Oh, don't do that, we shall sleep inside."
"It will be damned hot, almost as hot as in your saloon below."
"Oh no, we shall leave the windows open and so get a through draught. The station master tells me that the place is alive with scorpions and that one may well get stung if one sleeps outside."
Sinclair looked towards the khansama, but he made no objection, so Sinclair said, "Very well; but it will be so hot that we shall not get a wink of sleep."
"Oh well, no matter, we'll play picquet until midnight. After that it will cool down sufficiently for us to sleep indoors."
"Right-o!" said Sinclair gloomily, wishing Bollinger in the infernal regions.
From nine on the two men played cards and Bollinger deliberately played badly so that Sinclair might win and remain interested in the game. The simple device succeeded and Sinclair was so pleased that at 11 p.m. he was still absorbed in the picquet. Just then, someone tried the door, but Bollinger had bolted it. A few seconds later, the khansama appeared at the window in front of which had been fixed wire netting to keep the numerous pigeons from soiling the rooms.
"I have brought iced lemonade for the Sahibs," said the khansama with an obsequious grin. Bollinger thought that he had never seen any man with such an odious expression and his yellow eyes were twinkling as if with some horrible anticipation.
"All right," said Sinclair. "I'll open the door." He rose, and before Bollinger could stop him he had drawn the bolt. Bollinger pushed him aside and flung his weight against the door. It was too late. A huge paw and the muzzle of a monstrous hyena forced their way through the opening. Bollinger brought his knife down with all his strength on the paw. It was too blunt to cut deeply through the hair, but the blow was a heavy one and numbed the brute's limb. A bloodcurdling growl followed and the paw and snout were withdrawn. Bollinger slammed the door and shot the bolt.
"Thank God, we got the better of that brute. I fancy we're rid of it for the night!"
Hearing a noise he looked round and cried "By God! we're not!" Through a gap in the netting of one of the windows the hyena had forced its head and in a few seconds would have been in the room. This time, Bollinger decided to use the point and not the edge of his knife. He made a thrust at the brute's throat. It swung its head aside in time to avoid a fatal stab; nevertheless, the knife scored a deep cut in its neck. It gave another bloodcurdling growl, dragged out its head and, with blood streaming from its wound, it raced off laughing in the diabolical way that hyenas do when hurt.
"By Jove! What an escape!" said Sinclair thankfully; "but I suppose you fight that sort of brute everyday."
"No, thank Heaven, I don't," and then Bollinger told Sinclair the station master's story and how, on hearing it, he had come to the rest-house to see if his help was needed.
Sinclair went up to Bollinger and shook him cordially by the hand: "Then, my dear chap, I owe you my life. I cannot say how grateful I feel. I shall never forget your help."
The other smiled and said: "Oh, nonsense! You'd have done the same for me. But, I say, didn't you bring your boy with you?"
"Yes, I did. I wonder where he is. I hope to goodness the khansama has not killed him."
"Well, we had better go and look but we must be very wary, for if the hyena killed your boy he'll come back."
"All right, come along. You've got a knife, haven't you? I'am afraid I've got nothing."
The two men went to the back of the resthouse and there they found below a slight slope the dead body of Sinclair's Goanese servant. His throat was completely torn open. The hyena must have crept up noiselessly to the servant's bed and torn out his throat, killing him instantly. Then, it must have again become the khansama and tried to enter the resthouse with the iced lemonade.
Sinclair stood sorrowfully by the dead man, who had been many years in his service and to whom he was greatly attached.
"I say, we can't do anything for the poor chap," said Bollinger, "so we had better go straight back to the resthouse. I have a horrid feeling that the brute is somewhere near, coming back to its kill. By God! there it is!"
He pointed to where a huge striped form was galloping straight for them. The two men ran for the resthouse as fast as they could; they only reached it in time through Bollinger throwing his coat at the brute's head and thus gaining a moment's respite.
"I wonder what it will do now," said Sinclair, but it did nothing. It went slowly back to the body of the Goanese and began to crunch it up, every now and then breaking into screams of diabolical laughter when its neck hurt it.
"I wish to God I had a gun", said Bollinger, "but as we haven't, let's try to get some sleep. One will sit up and watch while the other lies down. I'll sit up first."
"All right," said Sinclair, and lying down on one of the cots fell dead asleep in spite of the heat and his servant's death.
Bollinger sat in a chair and tried as best he could to keep awake. Still, he must have dropped off for a minute or so, for waking up with a start he saw in the bright moonlight the baleful glare of the hyena's eyes as it stared at him through the wire netting. He drew his knife and ran with a shout towards the netting but the hyena with a growl of fury jumped back and galloped off.
Sinclair woke and hearing what had happened said: "We must both sit up, otherwise the brute will return and get us."
The two friends sat and smoked and talked through the weary hours until about 5:30 a.m. when their troubles came
to an end. A crowd of Sindis, led by Isarmal, came to the resthouse to see what had happened to the two Englishmen.
"God be praised!" exclaimed Isarmal earnestly. "Nothing has happened and you are both safe!"
"We are safe, but look at this," and Bollinger led the crowd of Sindis to the half-eaten remains of the unfortunate Goanese: "The khansama killed him!"
Isarmal's face grew grim and turning to the rest of the crowd he cried: "Brothers, we are Sindis. The khansama is a Panjabi and therefore, of a race that we hate. He is clearly the reincarnation of Anu Kasai. When the train has gone we must deal with him."
The two Englishmen walked back with Isarmal to the station, where the train was standing; as they walked, Bollinger related the events of the night. Afterwards, Isarmal repeated the story in Sindi to the men following him. On reaching the saloon nothing more was said. The two weary travellers got in and Isarmal, as he waved on the train, turned to the Sindis, who were mostly Musulmans, and cried: "The Sahibs are safe, Alhamdalilla (God be praised)!"
After a hot, slow journey the Englishmen reached Karachi. On the way Bollinger said: "I fancy the khansama has had a bad quarter of an hour. He is a Panjabi and as Isarmal said of a race hated by the Sindis."
"But why do the Sindis hate the Panjabis? I like them."
"I really do not quite know. Perhaps, like French and Germans Sindis and Panjabis live too near together. The Panjabis, too, are bigger men as a rule than the Sindis and they throw their weight about. The Sindis seem very much afraid of them. Indeed I remember hearing a Sindi proverb that says: 'If one Panjabi comes, sit still and say nothing. If two come, then pack up your kit at once, abandon your house and clear out." Anyway, Panjabis are not liked in these parts."
"They don't seem to be!"
Two mornings after their arrival Davidson, the District Superintendent of Police, burst unceremoniously into Bollinger's bungalow and onto the verandah, where he was having his chota hazri or morning tea.
"I'm sorry, Bollinger, but I must see you. I have just received an official report from the Chief Constable of Sehwan to the effect that the villagers, led by the station master, broke into the khansama's house, dragged him out although he was very ill and walled him into the battlements of the old fort. He hints that you know something about it. In the meantime, he has arrested the station master, Isarmal I think he calls him."
"Half a mo,' Davidson! I fancy I have a letter from the station master in my morning post. I'll open it." Tearing open the envelope, Bollinger read aloud the following note, very short and quaintly expressed:
"Honoured Sir,
The Chief Constable of Sehwan, who is a Panjabi, is troubling us 'because of the death of that Anu Kasai, the khansama. After Your Honour's departure we went to his house and found him very ill from a severe wound in the throat. We found in his house the property of the two missing Chota Sahibs; seeing this he became very obstinate and refused to answer our questions. Very soon he died. When dead, we put him where Anu Kasai was walled up. The Sahib knows the facts and will kindly do the needful."
"Well, Bollinger, he says you know the facts, for goodness sake let me have them."
Bollinger told the full story of the adventure and Sinclair supported him in every detail. Still, as told in an Englishman's house in Karachi, it did not sound very convincing.
"Hang it all, Bollinger! You can't expect me to believe this tale of a werewolf.
"Well, Isarmal says that they found in the khansama's house the property of those two missing subordinates. That raises a presumption that he is a murderer, anyway."
"The Chief Constable says nothing about that."
"He is a brother Panjabi and can scarcely be expected to Look here, instead of arguing, let's go off and call on the Commissioner. He is Inspector-General of Police, as well as of everything else and we'll abide by his orders."
"Right-o!" said the District Superintendent and at 11 a.m. all three men met to call on Government House.
The Commissioner was a big genial man who combined with a very cordial manner a vast amount of commonsense. He greeted all three men pleasantly. Then, he turned to the D.S.P. who was in uniform:
"Well, Davidson, what's the trouble?"
"I think, Sir, Bollinger had better tell you his yarn first and then I'll supplement it with my information."
"Capital! Go ahead, Bollinger."
The railwayman repeated his story and Sinclair confirmed it. Then, Davidson shewed the Commissioner his Chief Constable's report and Bollinger produced Isarmal's letter.
The Commissioner's keen intellect grasped immediately all the facts and came at once to a decision.
"Look here, Bollinger, you can't expect me to accept as gospel your story of the werewolf or werehyena; but the khansama seems to have been a murderer all right. The discovery in his house of the property of the two subordinates points to that. I have often been worried as to what became of them. Again, I do not see why we should not believe Isarmal's statement that they did not wall in the khansama until he was dead. Anyway, it will be impossible to disprove it; for all the eye-witnesses will support Isarmal. In any case, if you go into the witness box, Bollinger, and tell your adventure with the khansama-cum-hyena, my administration will be the laughing stock of all India. Think how the young lions of the Pioneer will sharpen their wit at our expense. No! No, we must stop the prosecution at all costs. Look here, Davidson, you wire to the Chief Constable to drop the case and release Isarmal and any others he may have arrested. I shall myself transfer to some other district the Chief Constable; for he seems to have been very slack over the disappearance of the two subordinates. Well, good morning."
Isarmal was duly released and resumed his duties as station master. But Bollinger did not forget him. Using his influence with the railway chiefs, he got Isarmal first promoted to be station master of Radhan and then of Sukkur, a very important post. This Isarmal retained until his retirement. He lived for many years on an ample pension and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to tell the story of the Panjabi who could turn himself into a hyena and how he nearly ate up the two Sahibs. He gave ample credit to Bollinger Sahib for his courage and resource; but the person for whom he reserved the fullest commendation was none other than Mr Isarmal, late station master of Sukkur.
Susanna's Seven Husbands
By Ruskin Bond
Locally, the tomb was known as "the grave of the seven-times married one".
You'd be forgiven for thinking it was Bluebeard's grave; he was reputed to have killed several wives in turn because they showed undue curiosity about a locked room. But this was the tomb of Susanna Anna-Maria Yeates, and the inscription (most of it in Latin) stated that she was mourned by all who had benefited from her generosity, her beneficiaries having included various schools, orphanages, and the church across the road. There was no sign of any other graves in the vicinity and presumably, her husbands had been interred in the old Rajpur graveyard, below the Delhi Ridge.
I was still in my teens when I first saw the ruins of what had once been a spacious and handsome mansion. Desolate and silent, its well-laid paths were overgrown with weeds, its flowerbeds had disappeared under a growth of thorny jungle. The two-storeyed house had looked across the Grand Trunk Road. Now abandoned, feared and shunned, it stood encircled in mystery, reputedly the home of evil spirits.
Outside the gate, along the Grand Trunk Road, thousands of vehicles sped by—cars, trucks, buses, tractors, bullock-carts—but few noticed the old mansion or its mausoleum, set back as they were from the main road, hidden by mango, neem and peepul trees. One old and massive peepul tree grew out of the ruins of the house, strangling it much as its owner was said to have strangled one of her dispensable paramours.
As a much married person with a quaint habit of disposing of her husbands whenever she tired of them, Susanna's malignant spirit was said to haunt the deserted garden. I had examined the tomb, I had gazed upon the ruins, I had scrambled through shrubbery and overgrown rose-bushes, b
ut I had not encountered the spirit of this mysterious woman. Perhaps, at the time, I was too pure and innocent to be targeted by malignant spirits. For, malignant she must have been, if the stories about her were true.
No one had been down into the vaults of the ruined mansion. They were said to be occupied by a family of cobras, traditional guardians of buried treasure. Had she really been a woman of great wealth, and could treasure still be buried there? I put these questions to. Naushad, the furniture-maker, who had lived in the vicinity all his life, and whose father had made the furniture and fittings for this and other great houses in Old Delhi.
"Lady Susanna, as she was known, was much sought after for her wealth," recalled Naushad. She was no miser, either. She spent freely, reigning in state in her palatial home, with many horses and carriages at her disposal. You see the stables there, behind the ruins? Now, they are occupied by bats and jackals. Every evening she rode through the Roshanara Gardens, the cynosure of all eyes, for she was beautiful as well as wealthy. Yes, all men sought her favours, and she could choose from the best of them. Many were fortune-hunters. She did not discourage them. Some found favour for a time, but she soon tired of them. None of her husbands enjoyed her wealth for very long!
"Today, no one enters those ruins, where once there was mirth and laughter. She was the Zamindari lady, the owner of much land, and she administered her estate with a strong hand. She was kind if rents were paid when they fell due, but terrible if someone failed to pay."
"Well, over fifty years have gone by since she was laid to rest, but still men speak of her with awe. Her spirit is restless, and it is said that she often visits the scenes of her former splendour. She has been seen walking through this gate, or riding in the gardens, or driving in her phaeton down the Rajpur road."
"And, what happened to all those husbands?" I asked.
"Most of them died mysterious deaths. Even the doctors were baffled. Tomkins Sahib drank too much. The lady soon tired of him. A drunken husband is a burdensome creature, she was heard to say. He would have drunk himself to death, but she was an impatient woman and was anxious to replace him. You see those datura bushes growing wild in the grounds? They have always done well here."
