by Ruskin Bond
Miss Mackenzie stopped speaking, and I noticed that the thunder had grown distant and the rain had lessened; but the chimney was still coughing and clearing its throat.
‘That’s true, every word of it,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘But as to Burnt Hill being haunted, that’s another matter. I’ve no experience of ghosts.’
‘Anyway, you need a fire to keep them out of the chimney,’ I
said, getting up to go. I had my raincoat and umbrella, and my own cottage was not far away.
Next morning, when I took the steep path up to Burnt Hill, the sky was clear, and though there was still a stiff wind, it was no longer menacing. An hour’s climb brought me to the old ruin— now nothing but a heap of stones, as Miss Mackenzie had said. Part of a wall was left, and the corner of a fireplace. Grass and weeds had grown up through the floor, and primroses and wild saxifrage flowered amongst the rubble.
Where had they sheltered I wondered, as the wind tore at them and fire fell from the sky.
I touched upon the cold stones, half expecting to find in them some traces of the warmth of human contact. I listened, waiting for some ancient echo, some returning wave of sound, that would bring me nearer to the spirits of the dead lovers; but there was only the wind coughing in the lovely pines.
I thought I heard voices in the wind; and perhaps I did. For isn’t the wind the voice of the undying dead?
The Haunted Bicycle
I was living at the time in a village about five miles out of Shahganj, a district in east Uttar Pradesh, and my only means of transport was a bicycle. I could of course have gone into Shahganj on any obliging farmer’s bullock-cart, but, in spite of bad roads and my own clumsiness as a cyclist, I found the bicycle a trifle faster. I went into Shahganj almost every day, collected my mail, bought a newspaper, drank innumerable cups of tea, and gossiped with the tradesmen. I cycled back to the village at about six in the evening, along a quiet, unfrequented forest road. During the winter months it was dark by six, and I would have to use a lamp on the bicycle.
One evening, when I had covered about half the distance to the village, I was brought to a halt by a small boy who was standing in the middle of the road. The forest at that late hour was no place for a child: wolves and hyaenas were common in the district. I got down from my bicycle and approached the boy, but he didn’t seem to take much notice of me.
‘What are you doing here on your own?’ I asked.
‘I’m waiting,’ he said, without looking at me.
‘Waiting for whom? Your parents?’
‘No, I am waiting for my sister.’
‘Well, I haven’t passed her on the road,’ I said. ‘She may be further ahead. You had better come along with me, we’ll soon find her.’
The boy nodded and climbed silently on to the crossbar in front of me. I have never been able to recall his features. Already it was dark and besides, he kept his face turned away from me.
The wind was against us, and as I cycled on, I shivered with the cold, but the boy did not seem to feel it. We had not gone far when the light from my lamp fell on the figure of another child who was standing by the side of the road. This time it was a girl. She was a little older than the boy, and her hair was long
and wind-swept, hiding most of her face.
‘Here’s your sister,’ I said. ‘Let’s take her along with us.’
The girl did not respond to my smile, and she did no more than nod seriously to the boy; but she climbed up on my back carrier, and allowed me to pedal off again. Their replies to my friendly questions were monosyllabic, and I gathered that they were wary of strangers. Well, when I got to the village, I would hand them over to the headman, and he could locate their parents.
The road was level, but I felt as though I was cycling uphill. And then I noticed that the boy’s head was much closer to my face, that the girl’s breathing was loud and heavy, almost as though she was doing the riding. Despite the cold wind, I began to feel hot and suffocated.
‘I think we’d better take a rest,’ I suggested.
‘No!’ cried the boy and girl together. ‘No rest!’
I was so surprised that I rode on without any argument; and then, just as I was thinking of ignoring their demand and stopping, I noticed that the boy’s hands, which were resting on the handle-bar, had grown long and black and hairy.
My hands shook and the bicycle wobbled about on the road. ‘Be careful!’ shouted the children in unison. ‘Look where you’re going!’
Their tone now was menacing and far from childlike. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and had my worst fears confirmed. The girl’s face was huge and bloated. Her legs, black and hairy, were trailing along the ground.
‘Stop!’ ordered the terrible children. ‘Stop near the stream!’
But before I could do anything, my front wheel hit a stone and the bicycle toppled over. As I sprawled in the dust, I felt something hard, like a hoof, hit me on the back of the head, and then there was total darkness.
When I recovered consciousness, I noticed that the moon had risen and was sparkling on the waters of a stream. The children were not to be seen anywhere. I got up from the ground and began to brush the dust from my clothes. And then, hearing the sound of splashing and churning in the stream, I looked up again.
Two small black buffaloes gazed at me from the muddy, moonlit water.
Dead Man’s Gift
‘A dead man is no good to anyone,’ said Nathu the old shikari, as he stared into the glowing embers of the camp-fire and wrapped a thin blanket around his thin shoulders.
We had spent a rewarding but tiring day in the Terai forests near Haldwani, where I had been photographing swamp-deer. On our return to the forest rest-house, Nathu had made a log-fire near the front verandah, and we had gathered round it—Nathu, myself and Ghanshyam Singh the chowkidar—-discussing a suicide that had taken place in a neighbouring village. I forget the details of the suicide—it was connected with a disappointed bridegroom—but the discussion led to some interesting reminiscences on the part of Ghanshyam Singh.
We had all agreed with Nathu’s sentiments about dead men, when Ghanshyam interrupted to say, ‘I don’t know about that, brother. At least one dead man brought considerable good fortune to a friend of mine.’
‘How was that?’ I asked.
‘Well, about twenty years ago,’ said Ghanshyam Singh, ‘I was a policeman, one of the six constables at a small police post in the village of Ahirpur near the hills. A small stream ran past the village. Fed by springs, it contained a few feet of water even during the hottest of seasons, while after heavy rain it became a roaring torrent. The head constable in charge of our post was Dilawar Singh, who came from a good family which had fallen on evil days. He was a handsome fellow, very well-dressed, always spending his money before he received it. He was passionately fond of good horseflesh, and the mare he rode was a beautiful creature named Leila. He had obtained the mare by paying two hundred and fifty rupees down, and promising to pay the remaining two hundred and fifty in six months time. If he failed to do so, he would have to return the mare and forfeit the deposit. But Dilawar Singh expected to be able to borrow
the balance from Lala Ram Das, the wealthy bania of Ahirpur.
‘The bania of Ahirpur was one of the meanest alive. You know the sort, fat and flabby from overeating and sitting all day in his shop, but very wealthy. His house was a large one, situated near the stream, at some distance from the village.’
‘But why did he live outside the village, away from his customers?’ I asked.
‘It made no difference to him,’ said Ghanshyam. ‘Everyone was in his debt, and, whether they liked it or not, were compelled to deal with him. His father had lived inside the village but had been looted by dacoits, whose ill-treatment had left him a cripple for life. Not a single villager had come to his assistance on that occasion. He had never forgotten it. He built himself another house outside the village, with a high wall and only one entrance. Inside the wall
was a courtyard with a stable for a pony and a byre for two cows, the house itself forming one side of the enclosure. When the heavy door of the courtyard was closed, the bania’s money bags were safe within his little fort. It was only after the old man’s death that a police post was established at Ahirpur.’
‘So Ram Das had a police post as well as a fort?’
‘The police offered him no protection. He was so mean that not a litre of oil or pinch of salt ever came from him to the police post. Naturally, we wasted no love on him. The people of Ahirpur hated and feared him, for most of them were in his debt and practically his slaves.
‘Now when the time came for Dilawar Singh to pay the remaining two hundred and fifty rupees for his mare Leila, he went to Ram Das for a loan. He expected to be well squeezed in the way of interest, but to his great surprise and anger the bania refused to let him have the money on any terms. It looked as though Dilawar would have to return the mare and be content with some knock-kneed ekka- pony.
‘A few days before the date of payment, Dilawar Singh had to visit a village some five miles down-stream to investigate a case. He took me with him. On our return journey that night a terrific thunder-storm compelled us to take shelter in a small hut in the forest. When at last the storm was over, we continued on our way, I on foot, and Dilawar Singh riding Leila. All the way he cursed his ill-luck at having to part with Leila, and called down curses on Ram Das. We were not far from the bania’s house when the full moon, high in the sky, came out from behind the passing storm-clouds, and suddenly Leila shied violently at something white on the bank of the stream.
‘It was the naked body of a dead man. It had either been pushed into the stream without burning or swept off the pyre by the swollen torrent. I was about to push it off into the stream when Dilawar stopped me, saying that the corpse which had frightened Leila might yet be able to save her.’
‘Together we pulled the body a little way up the bank; then, after tying the mare to a tree, we carried the corpse up to the bania’s house and propped it against the main doorway. Returning to the stream. Dilawar remounted Leila, and we concealed ourselves in the forest. Like everyone else in the village, we knew the bania was an early riser, always the first to leave his house and complete his morning ablutions.
‘We sat and waited. The faint light of dawn was just beginning to make things visible when we heard the bania’s courtyard door open. There was a thud, an exclamation, and then a long silence.’
‘What had happened?’
‘Ram Das had opened the door, and the corpse had fallen upon him! He was frightened almost out of his wits. That some enemy was responsible for the presence of the corpse he quickly realized, but how to rid himself of it? The stream! Even to touch the corpse was defilement, but, as the saying goes, “where there are no eyes, there is no caste”—and he began to drag the body along the river bank, panting and perspiring, yet cold with terror. He had almost reached the stream when we emerged casually from our shelter.
‘ “Ah, bania-ji you are up early this morning!” called Dilawar Singh. “Hullo, what’s this? Is this one of your unfortunate debtors? Have you taken his life as well as his clothes?”
Ram Das fell on his knees. His voice failed, and he went as pale as the corpse he still held by the feet. Dilawar Singh dismounted, caught him roughly by the arm and dragged him to his feet.
‘ “Thanadar sahib, I will let you have the money,” gasped Ram Das.
‘ “What money?”
‘ “The two hundred and fifty rupees you wanted last week.”
‘ “Then hurry up,” said Dilawar Singh, “or someone will come, and I shall be compelled to arrest you. Run!”
‘The unfortunate Ram Das realized that he was in an evil predicament. True, he was innocent, but before he could prove this he would be arrested by the police whom he had scorned and flouted—lawyers would devour his savings—he would be torn from his family and deprived of his comforts—and worst of all, his clients would delay repayments! After only a little hesitation, he ran to his house and returned with two hundred and fifty rupees, which he handed over to Dilawar Singh. And, as far as I know—for I was transferred from Ahirpur a few weeks later—he never asked Dilawar Singh for its return.’
‘And what of the body?’ I asked.
‘We pushed it back into the stream,’ said Ghanshyam. ‘It had served its purpose well. Nathu, do you insist that a dead man is no good to anyone?’
‘No good at all,’ said Nathu, spitting into the fire’s fast fading glow. ‘For I came to Ahirpur not long after you were transferred. I had the pleasure of meeting thanadar Dilawar Singh, and seeing his fine mare. It is true that he had the bania under his thumb, for Ram Das provided all the feed for the mare, at no charge. But one day the mare had a fit while Dilawar Singh was riding her, and plunging about in the street, flung her master to the ground with a broken neck. She was indeed a dead man’s gift!’
‘The bania must have been quite pleased at the turn of events,’ I said.
‘Some say he poisoned the mare’s feed. Anyway, he kept the police happy by providing the oil to light poor Dilawar Singh’s funeral pyre, and generously refused to accept any payment for it!’
Whispering in the Dark
A wild night, wind moaning, trees lashing themselves in a frenzy, rain spurting up from the road, thunder over the mountains. Loneliness stretched ahead of me, a loneliness of the heart as well as a physical loneliness. The world was blotted out by a mist that had come up from the valley, a thick white clammy shroud.
I groped through the forest, groped in my mind for the memory of a mountain path, some remembered rock or ancient deodar. Then a streak of blue lightning gave me a glimpse of barren hillside and a house cradled in mist.
It was an old-world house, built of limestone rock on the outskirts of a crumbling hill-station. There was no light in its windows; probably the electricity had been disconnected long ago. But, if I could get in, it would do for the night.
I had no torch, but at times the moon shone through the wild clouds, and trees loomed out of the mist like primeval giants. I reached the front door and found it locked from within; walked round to the side and broke a window-pane; put my hand through shattered glass and found the bolt.
The window, warped by over a hundred monsoons, resisted at first. When it yielded, I climbed into the mustiness of a long- closed room, and the wind came in with me, scattering papers across the floor and knocking some unidentifiable object off a table. I closed the window, bolted it again; but the mist crawled through the broken glass, and the wind rattled in it like a pair of castanets.
There were matches in my pocket. I struck three before a light flared up.
I was in a large room, crowded with furniture. Pictures on the walls. Vases on the mantelpiece. A candlestand. And, strangely enough, no cobwebs. For all its external look of neglect and dilapidation, the house had been cared for by someone. But
before I could notice anything else, the match burnt out.
As I stepped further into the room, the old deodar flooring creaked beneath my weight. By the light of another match I reached the mantle-piece and lit the candle, noticing at the same time that the candlestick was a genuine antique with cutglass hangings. A deserted cottage with good furniture and glass. I wondered why no one had ever broken in. And then realized that I had just done so.
I held the candlestick high and glanced round the room. The walls were hung with several water-colours and portraits in oils. There was no dust anywhere. But no one answered my call, no one responded to my hesitant knocking. It was as though the occupants of the house were in hiding, watching me obliquely from dark corners and chimneys.
I entered a bedroom and found myself facing a full-length mirror. My reflection stared back at me as though I were a stranger, as though it (the reflection) belonged to the house, while I was only an outsider.
As I turned from the mirror, I thought I saw someone, something, some reflection other than m
ine, move behind me in the mirror. I caught a glimpse of whiteness, a pale oval face, burning eyes, long tresses, golden in the candlelight. But when I looked in the mirror again there was nothing to be seen but my own pallid face.
A pool of water was forming at my feet. I set the candle down on a small table, found the edge of the bed—a large old four- poster—sat down, and removed my soggy shoes and socks. Then I took off my clothes and hung them over the back of a chair.
I stood naked in the darkness, shivering a little. There was no one to see me—and yet I felt oddly exposed, almost as though I had stripped in a room full of curious people.
I got under the bedclothes—they smelt slightly of eucalyptus and lavender—but found there was no pillow. That was odd. A perfectly made bed, but no pillow! I was too tired to hunt for one. So I blew out the candle—and the darkness closed in around me, and the whispering began. . . .
The whispering began as soon as I closed my eyes. I couldn’t tell where it came from. It was all around me, mingling with the sound of the wind coughing in the chimney, the stretching of
old furniture, the weeping of trees outside in the rain.
Sometimes I could hear what was being said. The words came from a distance: a distance, not so much of space, as of time. .
‘Mine, mine, he is all mine. . . . ’
