by Ruskin Bond
There was silence for a couple of minutes, and then Ruby said, ‘We all saw him. Colonel Wilkie.’
‘We saw his ghost,’ Vijay murmured.
‘He came for his pipe,’ said Suresh quietly. ‘I told you he wouldn’t go anywhere without it.’
Colonel Wilkie was buried the next day, and we made sure his pipe was buried with him. We did not want him turning up from time to time, looking for it. It could be a bit unnerving for the customers.
In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about the sausages, but decided they would keep until after the funeral.
All the regular barflies turned up for the funeral. H.H. was quite sloshed when she arrived and had to be extricated from an open grave into which she had slipped, the ground being soft and yielding after recent rain. She blamed Secretary Simon for the mishap and called him an ‘ullu ka pattha’—son of an owl—but he was quite used to such broadsides and took them in his stride. Was it love or loyalty or dependence that kept him in abeyance? Or was it, as some said, the prospect of becoming her heir? If so, he was paying a heavy price well in advance of such a prospect. Not everyone relishes being abused and kicked around in public by a half-crazed maharani.
When Colonel Wilkie’s coffin was lowered into the grave, we all said ‘Cheers!’ He would have liked that. We then returned to Green’s for an early opening of the bar. Alcoholics Unanimous held a subdued but not too melancholy meeting.
But bad news was in store for everyone. A day or two later, I heard the owner, our Sardarji, inform my mother that the hotel had been sold and that she’d have to leave at the end of the month. She’d been expecting something like this and had already accepted a matron’s job at one of the schools in the valley. As for me, I was to be packed off to England, to my aunt’s home in Jersey. The prospect did not thrill me, but I was more or less resigned to it. And there did not appear to be much future for me in Dehra.
Even before the month was out, workers had begun pulling down parts of the building. It was to be rebuilt as a cinema hall, and would show the latest hits from Bombay. It was even rumoured that Dilip Kumar, the biggest star of that era, would inaugurate the new cinema when it was ready to open.
The spirit and character of a building lasts only while the building lasts. Remove the roof beams, pull down the walls, smash the stairways, and you are left with nothing but memories. Even the ghosts have nowhere to go.
An old hotel that once had a personality of its own was now dismantled with startling rapidity. It had gone up slowly, brick by brick; it came down like a house of cards. No treasures cascaded from its walls; no skeletons were discovered. In two or three days the demolishers had wiped out the past, removed Green’s Hotel from the face of the earth so effectively that it might never have existed.
Searching through the ruins one day, I found a bottle opener lying in the dust, and kept it as a souvenir.
The bar had been the only common factor in the lives of those disparate individuals who had come there so regularly—drawn to the place rather than to each other.
Now they went their different ways—Suresh Mathur to the Club, the maharani to her card table and private bar, Vijay to a public school as cricket coach, Reggie Bhowmik and Ruby to Darjeeling to make a documentary . . . Sitaram continued to work for my mother, so I had his company whenever he was free.
The cinema came up quite rapidly, but I had left for England before it opened. When I returned five years later, it was showing Madhubala and Guru Dutt in a romantic comedy, Mr & Mrs 55.
Then I moved to Delhi.
In recent years, some of the old single cinemas have been closing down, giving way to multiplexes. The other day, passing through Dehra, I saw that ‘our’ cinema hall was being pulled down.
‘What now?’ I asked my taxi driver. ‘A multiplex?’
‘No, sir. A shopping mall!’
And such is progress.
I think I’m the only one around who is old enough to remember the old Green’s Hotel, its dusty corridors, shabby barroom and oddball customers. All have gone. All forgotten! Not even footprints in the sands of time. But by putting down this memoir of an evening or two at that forgotten watering place, I think I have cheated Time just a little.
THE BLACK CAT
Before the cat came, of course there had to be a broomstick. In the bazaar of one of our hill stations is an old junk shop—dirty, dingy and dark—in which I often potter about, looking for old books or Victorian bric-a-brac. Sometimes one comes across useful household items, but I do not usually notice these. I was, however, attracted to an old but well-preserved broom standing in a corner of the shop. A long-handled broom was just what I needed. I had no servant to sweep out the rooms of my cottage, and I did not enjoy bending over double when using the common short-handled jharoo.
The old broom was priced at ten rupees. I haggled with the shopkeeper and got it for five.
It was a strong broom, full of character, and I used it to good effect almost every morning. And there this story might have ended—or would never have begun—if I had not found the large, black cat sitting on the garden wall.
The black cat had bright yellow eyes, and it gave me a long, penetrating look, as though it were summing up my possibilities as an exploitable human. Though it miaowed once or twice, I paid no attention. I did not care much for cats. But when I went indoors, I found that the cat had followed and begun scratching at the pantry door.
It must be hungry, I thought, and gave it some milk.
The cat lapped up the milk, purring deeply all the while, then sprang up on a cupboard and made itself comfortable.
Well, for several days, there was no getting rid of that cat. It seemed completely at home, and merely tolerated my presence in the house. It was more interested in my broom than in me, and would dance and skittle around the broom whenever I was sweeping the rooms. And when the broom was resting against the wall, the cat would sidle up to it, rubbing itself against the handle and purring loudly.
A cat and a broomstick—the combination was suggestive, full of possibilities . . . The cottage was old—almost a hundred years old—and I wondered about the kind of tenants it might have had during these long years. I had been in the cottage only for a year. And though it stood alone in the midst of a forest of Himalayan oaks, I had never encountered any ghosts or spirits.
* * *
Miss Bellows came to see me in the middle of July. I heard the tapping of a walking stick on the rocky path outside the cottage, a tapping which stopped near the gate.
‘Mr Bond!’ called an imperious voice. ‘Are you at home?’
I had been doing some gardening, and looked up to find an elderly straight-backed English woman peering at me over the gate.
‘Good evening,’ I said, dropping my hoe.
‘I believe you have my cat,’ said Miss Bellows.
Though I had not met the lady before, I knew her by name and reputation. She was the oldest resident in the hill station.
‘I do have a cat,’ I said, ‘though it’s probably more correct to say that the cat has me. If it’s your cat, you’re welcome to it. Why don’t you come in while I look for her?’
Miss Bellows stepped in. She wore a rather old-fashioned black dress, and her ancient but strong walnut stick had two or three curves in it and a knob instead of a handle.
She made herself comfortable in an armchair while I went in search of the cat. But the cat was on one of her mysterious absences, and though I called for her in my most persuasive manner, she did not respond. I knew she was probably quite near. But cats are like that—perverse, obstinate creatures.
When finally I returned to the sitting room, there was the cat, curled up on Miss Bellows’s lap.
‘Well, you’ve got her, I see. Would you like some tea before you go?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Bellows. ‘I don’t drink tea.’
‘Something stronger, perhaps. A little brandy?’ She looked up at me rather sharply.
Dis
concerted, I hastened to add, ‘Not that I drink much, you know. I keep a little in the house for emergencies. It helps ward off colds and things. It’s particularly good for—er—well, for colds,’ I finished lamely.
‘I see your kettle’s boiling,’ she said. ‘Can I have some hot water?’
‘Hot water? Certainly.’ I was a little puzzled, but I did not want to antagonize Miss Bellows at our first meeting.
‘Thank you. And a glass.’
She took the glass and I went to get the kettle. From the pocket of her voluminous dress, she extracted two small packets, similar to those containing chemists’ powders. Opening both packets, she poured first a purple powder and then a crimson powder into the glass. Nothing happened.
‘Now the water, please,’ she said.
‘It’s boiling hot!’
‘Never mind.’
I poured boiling water into her glass, and there was a terrific fizzing and bubbling as the frothy stuff rose to the rim. It gave off a horrible stench. The potion was so hot that I thought it would crack the glass; but before this could happen, Miss Bellows put it to her lips and drained the contents.
‘I think I’ll be going now,’ she said, putting the glass down and smacking her lips. The cat, tail in the air, voiced its agreement. Said Miss Bellows, ‘I’m much obliged to you, young man.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ I said humbly. ‘Always at your service.’
She gave me her thin, bony hand, and held mine in an icy grip.
I saw Miss Bellows and the black cat to the gate, and returned pensively to my sitting room. Living alone was beginning to tell on my nerves and imagination. I made a half-hearted attempt to laugh at my fancies, but the laugh stuck in my throat. I couldn’t help noticing that the broom was missing from its corner.
I dashed out of the cottage and looked up and down the path. There was no one to be seen. In the gathering darkness I could hear Miss Bellows’s laughter, followed by a snatch of song:
With the darkness round me growing,
And the moon behind my hat,
You will soon have trouble knowing
Which is witch and witch’s cat.
Something whirred overhead like a Diwali rocket.
I looked up and saw them silhouetted against the rising moon. Miss Bellows and her cat were riding away on my broomstick.
WHISTLING IN THE DARK
The moon was almost at the full. Bright moonlight flooded the road. But I was stalked by the shadows of the trees, by the crooked oak branches reaching out towards me—some threateningly, others as though they needed companionship.
Once, I dreamt that the trees could walk. That on moonlit nights like this they would uproot themselves for a while, visit each other, talk about old times—for they had seen many men and happenings, especially the older ones. And then, before dawn, they would return to the places where they had been condemned to grow. Lonely sentinels of the night. And this was a good night for them to walk. They appeared eager to do so: a restless rustling of leaves, the creaking of branches—these were sounds that came from within them in the silence of the night . . .
Occasionally, other strollers passed me in the dark. It was still quite early, just eight o’clock, and some people were on their way home. Others were walking into town for a taste of the bright lights, shops and restaurants. On the unlit road, I could not recognize them. They did not notice me. I was reminded of an old song from my childhood. Softly, I began humming the tune, and soon the words came back to me:
We three,
We’re not a crowd;
We’re not even company—
My echo,
My shadow,
And me . . .
I looked down at my shadow, moving silently beside me. We take our shadows for granted, don’t we? There they are, the uncomplaining companions of a lifetime, mute and helpless witnesses to our every act of commission or omission. On this bright, moonlit night I could not help noticing you, Shadow, and I was sorry that you had to see so much that I was ashamed of; but glad, too, that you were around when I had my small triumphs. And what of my echo? I thought of calling out to see if my call came back to me; but I refrained from doing so, as I did not wish to disturb the perfect stillness of the mountains or the conversations of the trees.
The road wound up the hill and levelled out at the top, where it became a ribbon of moonlight entwined between tall deodars. A flying squirrel glided across the road, leaving one tree for another. A nightjar called. The rest was silence.
The old cemetery loomed up before me. There were many old graves—some large and monumental—and there were a few recent graves too, for the cemetery was still in use. I could see flowers scattered on one of them—a few late dahlias and scarlet salvia. Further on, near the boundary wall, part of the cemetery’s retaining wall had collapsed in the heavy monsoon rains. Some of the tombstones had come down with the wall. One grave lay exposed. A rotting coffin and a few scattered bones were the only relics of someone who had lived and loved like you and me.
Part of the tombstone lay beside the road, but the lettering had worn away. I am not normally a morbid person, but something made me stoop and pick up a smooth, round shard of bone, probably part of a skull. When my hand closed over it, the bone crumbled into fragments. I let them fall to the grass. Dust to dust.
And from somewhere, not too far away, came the sound of someone whistling.
At first I thought it was another late-evening stroller, whistling to himself, much as I had been humming my old song. But the whistler, approached quite rapidly; the whistling was loud and cheerful. A boy on a bicycle sped past. I had only a glimpse of him, before his cycle went weaving through the shadows on the road.
But he was back again in a few minutes. And this time, he stopped a few feet away from me and gave me a quizzical half-smile. A slim, dusky boy of fourteen or fifteen. He wore a school blazer and a yellow scarf. His eyes were pools of liquid moonlight.
‘You don’t have a bell on your cycle,’ I said.
He said nothing, just smiled at me with his head a little to one side. I put out my hand, and I thought he was going to take it. But then, quite suddenly, he was off again, whistling cheerfully though rather tunelessly. A whistling schoolboy. A bit late for him to be out, but he seemed an independent sort.
The whistling grew fainter, and then faded away altogether. A deep, sound-denying silence fell upon the forest. My shadow and I walked home.
* * *
Next morning I woke to a different kind of whistling—the song of the thrush outside my window.
It was a wonderful day, the sunshine warm and sensuous, and I longed to be out in the open. But there was work to be done, proofs to be corrected, letters to be written. And it was several days before I could walk to the top of the hill, to that lonely, tranquil resting place under the deodars. It seemed to me ironic that those who had the best view of the glistening snow-capped peaks were all buried several feet underground.
Some repair work was going on. The retaining wall of the cemetery was being shored up, but the overseer told me that there was no money to restore the damaged grave. With the help of the chowkidar, I returned the scattered bones to a little hollow under the collapsed masonry, and I left some money with him so that he could have the open grave bricked up.
The name on the gravestone had worn away, but I could make out a date—20 November1950—some fifty years ago, but not too long ago as gravestones go . . .
I found the burial register in the church vestry and turned back the yellowing pages to 1950, when I was just a schoolboy myself. I found the name there—Michael Dutta, aged fifteen—and the cause of death: road accident.
Well, I could only make guesses. And to turn conjecture into certainty, I would have to find an old resident who might remember the boy or the accident.
There was old Miss Marley at Pine Top. A retired teacher from Woodstock, she had a wonderful memory, and she had lived in the hill station for more than half a centu
ry.
White-haired and smooth-cheeked, her bright blue eyes full of curiosity; she gazed benignly at me through her old-fashioned pince-nez.
‘Michael was a charming boy—full of exuberance, always ready to oblige. I had only to mention that I needed a newspaper or an aspirin, and he’d be off on his bicycle, swooping down these steep roads with great abandon. But these hill roads, with their sudden corners, weren’t meant for racing around on a bicycle.
‘They were widening our road for motor traffic, and a truck was coming uphill, loaded with rubble, when Michael came round a bend and smashed headlong into it. He was rushed to the hospital, and the doctors did their best, but he did not recover consciousness. Of course, you must have seen his grave. That’s why you’re here. His parents? They left shortly afterwards. Went abroad, I think . . . A charming boy, Michael, but just a bit too reckless. You’d have liked him, I think.’
* * *
I did not see the phantom bicycle-rider again for some time, although I felt his presence on more than one occasion. And when on a cold winter’s evening, I walked past that lonely cemetery, I thought I heard him whistling far away. But he did not manifest himself. Perhaps it was only the echo of a whistle, in communion with my insubstantial shadow.
It was several months before I saw that smiling face again. And then it came at me, out of the mist, as I was walking home in drenching monsoon rain. I had been to a dinner party at the old community centre, and I was returning home along a very narrow, precipitous path known as the Eyebrow. A storm had been threatening all evening. A heavy mist had settled on the hillside. It was so thick that the light from my torch simply bounced off it. The sky blossomed with sheet lightning, and thunder rolled over the mountains. The rain became heavier. I moved forward slowly, carefully, hugging the hillside. There was a clap of thunder, and then I saw him emerge from the mist and stand in my way—the same slim, dark youth who had materialized near the cemetery. He did not smile. Instead, he put up his hand and waved me back. I hesitated, stood still. The mist lifted a little, and I saw that the path had disappeared. There was a gaping emptiness a few feet in front of me. And then a drop of over a hundred feet to the rocks below.
