by Ruskin Bond
Markham’s was a normal mind handicapped by a physical abnormality. But how long can a mind remain normal in such circumstances?
Markham took the chowkidar’s lamp and advanced into the lobby. Moth-eaten stags’ heads stared down at him from the walls. They had been shot about a hundred years ago, when the hunting of animals had been in fashion. The taxidermist’s art had given them a semblance of their former nobility; but time had taken its toll. A mounted panther’s head had lost its glass eyes. Even so, thought Markham wryly, its head is in better shape than mine!
The door of the barroom opened to a gentle pressure. The bartender had been tippling on the quiet and had neglected to close the door properly. Markham placed the lamp on a table and looked up at the bottles arrayed in front of him. Some foreign wines, sherries and vermouth. Rum, gin and vodka. He’d never been much of a drinker; drink went to his head rather too quickly, he’d always known that. But the bottles certainly looked attractive, and he felt in need of some sustenance, so he poured himself a generous peg of whisky and drank it neat. A warm glow spread through his body. He felt a little better about himself. Life could be made tolerable if he had more frequent access to the bar!
Pacing about in her room on the floor above, Mrs Khanna heard a noise downstairs. She had always suspected the bartender, Ram Lal, of helping himself to liquor on the quiet. After ten o’clock, his gait was unsteady, and in the mornings, he often turned up rather groggy and unshaven. Well, she was going to catch him red-handed tonight!
Markham sat on a bar stool with his back to the swing doors. Mrs Khanna, entering on tiptoe, could only make out the outline of a man’s figure pouring himself a drink.
The wind in the passage muffled the sound of Mrs Khanna’s approach. And anyway, Markham’s mind was far away, in the distant Shalimar Bagh where hands, pink-tipped, touched his lips and cheeks, his face yet undespoiled.
‘Ram Lal!’ hissed Mrs Khanna, intent on scaring the bartender out of his wits. ‘Having a good time again?’
Markham was startled, but he did not lose his head. He did not turn immediately.
‘I’m not Ram Lal, Mrs Khanna,’ said Markham quietly. ‘Just one of your guests. An old resident, in fact. You’ve seen me around before. My face was badly injured a long time ago. I’m not very nice to look at. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m quite normal, you know.’
Markham got up slowly. He held his cape up to his face and began moving slowly towards the swing doors. But Mrs Khanna was having none of it. She reached out and snatched at the cape. In the flickering lamplight, she stared into that dreadful face. She opened her mouth to scream.
But Markham did not want to hear her screams again. They shattered the stillness and beauty of the night. There was nothing beautiful about a woman’s screams—especially Mrs Khanna’s.
He reached out for his tormentor and grabbed her by the throat. He wanted to stop her screaming, that was all. But he had strong hands. Struggling, the pair of them knocked over a chair and fell against the table.
‘Quite normal, Mrs Khanna,’ he said, again and again, his voice ascending. ‘I’m quite normal!’
Her legs slid down beneath a bar stool. Still he held on, squeezing, pressing. All those years of frustration were in that grip. Crushing out life and waving it farewell!
Involuntarily, she flung out an arm and knocked over the lamp. Markham released his grip; she fell heavily to the carpet. A rivulet of burning oil sped across the floor and set fire to the hem of her nightgown. But Mrs Khanna was now oblivious to what was happening. The flames took hold of a curtain and ran up towards the wooden ceiling.
Markham picked up a jug of water and threw it on the flames. It made no difference. Horrified, he dashed through the swing doors and called for help. The chowkidar stirred sluggishly and called out, ‘Khabardar! Who goes there?’ He saw a red glow in the bar, rubbed his eyes in consternation and began looking for his lamp. He did not really need one. Bright flames were leaping out of the French windows.
‘Fire!’ shouted the chowkidar, and ran for help.
The old hotel, with its timbered floors and ceilings, oaken beams and staircases, mahogany and rosewood furniture, was a veritable tinderbox. By the time the chowkidar could summon help, the fire had spread to the dining room and was licking its way up the stairs to the first-floor rooms.
Markham had already ascended the staircase and was pounding on doors, shouting, ‘Get up, get up! Fire below!’ He ran to the far end of the corridor, where Negi had his room, and pounded on the door with his fists until Negi woke up.
‘The hotel’s on fire!’ shouted Markham, and ran back the way he had come. There was little more that he could do.
Some of the hotel staff were now rushing about with buckets of water, but the stairs and landing were ablaze, and those living on the first floor had to retreat to the servants’ entrance, where a flight of stone steps led down to the tennis courts. Here they gathered, looking on in awe and consternation as the fire spread rapidly through the main building, showing itself at the windows as it went along. The small group on the tennis courts was soon joined by outsiders, for bad news spreads as fast as a good fire, and the townsfolk were not long in turning up.
Markham emerged on the roof, and stood there for some time, while the fire ran through the Empire Hotel, crackling vigorously and lighting up the sky. The people below spotted him on the roof, and waved and shouted to him to come down. Smoke billowed around him, and then he disappeared from view.
* * *
It was a fire to remember. The town hadn’t seen anything like it since the Abbey School had gone up in flames forty years earlier, and only the older residents could remember that one. Negi and the hotel staff could only watch helplessly, as the fire raged through the old timbered building, consuming all that stood in its way. Everyone was out of the building, except Mrs Khanna, and as yet no one had any idea as to what had happened to her.
Towards morning it began raining heavily again, and this finally quenched the fire; but by then the buildings had been gutted, and the Empire Hotel, that had stood protectively over the town for over a hundred years, was no more.
Mrs Khanna’s charred body was recovered from the ruins. A telegram was sent to Mr Khanna in Geneva, and phone calls were made to sundry relatives and insurance offices. Negi was very much in charge.
When the initial confusion was over, Negi remembered Markham and walked around to the rear of the gutted building and down the cellar steps. The basement and the cellar had escaped the worst of the fire, but they were still full of smoke. Negi found Markham’s door open.
Markham was stretched out on his bed. The empty bottle of sleeping tablets on the bedside table told its own story; but it was more likely that he had suffocated from the smoke.
Markham’s artificial nose lay on the dressing table. Negi picked it up and placed it on the dead man’s poor face.
The hotel had gone, and with it Negi’s livelihood. An old friend had gone, too. An era had passed. But Negi was the sort who liked to tidy up afterwards.
THE OVERCOAT
It was clear, frosty weather, and as the moon came up over the Himalayan peaks, I could see that patches of snow still lay on the roads of the hill station. I would have been quite happy in bed, with a book and a hot-water bottle at my side, but I’d promised the Kapadias that I’d go to their party, and I felt it would be churlish of me to stay away. I put on two sweaters, an old football scarf and an overcoat, and set off down the moonlit road.
It was a walk of just over a mile to the Kapadias’ house, and I had covered about half the distance, when I saw a girl standing in the middle of the road.
She must have been sixteen or seventeen. She looked rather old-fashioned—long hair hanging to her waist, and a flouncy sequined dress, pink and lavender, that reminded me of the photos in my grandmother’s family album. When I went closer, I noticed that she had lovely eyes and a winning smile.
‘Good evening,’ I said.
‘It’s a cold night to be out.’
‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. And I can see from your lovely dress that you’re going too. Come along, we’re nearly there.’
She fell into step beside me, and we soon saw lights from the Kapadias’ house shining brightly through the deodars. The girl told me her name was Julie. I hadn’t seen her before, but I’d only been in the hill station a few months.
There was quite a crowd at the party, and no one seemed to know Julie. Everyone thought she was a friend of mine. I did not deny it. Obviously, she was someone who was feeling lonely and wanted to be friendly with people. And she was certainly enjoying herself. I did not see her do much eating or drinking, but she flitted from one group to another, talking, listening, laughing; and when the music began, she was dancing almost continuously, alone or with partners, it didn’t matter which, she was completely wrapped up in the music.
It was almost midnight when I got up to go. I had drunk a fair amount of punch, and I was ready for bed. As I was saying goodnight to my hosts and wishing everyone a merry Christmas, Julie slipped her arm into mine and said she’d be going home too.
When we were outside, I said, ‘Where do you live, Julie?’
‘At Wolfsburn,’ she said. ‘Right at the top of the hill.’
‘There’s a cold wind,’ I said. ‘And although your dress is beautiful, it doesn’t look very warm. Here, you’d better wear my overcoat. I’ve plenty of protection.’
She did not protest, and allowed me to slip my overcoat over her shoulders. Then we started out on the walk home. But I did not have to escort her all the way. At about the spot where we had met, she said, ‘There’s a shortcut from here. I’ll just scramble up the hillside.’
‘Do you know it well?’ I asked. ‘It’s a very narrow path.’
‘Oh, I know every stone on the path. I use it all the time. And besides, it’s a really bright night.’
‘Well, keep the coat on,’ I said. ‘I can collect it tomorrow.’
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded. She then disappeared up the hill, and I went home alone.
The next day I walked up to Wolfsburn. I crossed a little brook, from which the house had probably got its name, and entered an open iron gate. But of the house itself, little remained. Just a roofless ruin, a pile of stones, a shattered chimney, a few Doric pillars where a veranda had once stood.
Had Julie played a joke on me? Or had I found the wrong house?
I walked around the hill, to the mission house where the Taylors lived and asked old Mrs Taylor if she knew a girl called Julie.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Where does she live?’
‘At Wolfsburn, I was told. But the house is just a ruin.’
‘Nobody has lived at Wolfsburn for over forty years. The Mackinnons lived there. One of the old families who settled here. But when their girl died . . .’ She stopped and gave me a queer look. ‘I think her name was Julie . . . Anyway, when she died, they sold the house and went away. No one ever lived in it again, and it fell into decay. But it couldn’t be the same Julie you’re looking for. She died of consumption—there wasn’t much you could do about it in those days. Her grave is in the cemetery, just down the road.’
I thanked Mrs Taylor and walked slowly down the road, to the cemetery; not really wanting to know any more, but propelled forward almost against my will.
It was a small cemetery under the deodars. You could see the eternal snows of the Himalayas standing out against the pristine blue of the sky. Here lay the bones of forgotten empire builders—soldiers, merchants, adventurers, their wives and children. It did not take me long to find Julie’s grave. It had a simple headstone with her name clearly outlined on it:
Julie Mackinnon
1923–39
‘With us one moment,
Taken the next,
Gone to her Maker,
Gone to her rest.’
And although many monsoons had swept across the cemetery, wearing down the stones, they had not touched this little tombstone.
I was turning to leave, when I got a glimpse of something familiar behind the headstone. I walked round to where it lay.
Neatly folded on the grass was my overcoat.
No thank-you note. But something soft and invisible brushed against my cheek, and I knew someone was trying to thank me.
A TRAVELLER’S TALE
Gopalpur-on-sea!
A name to conjure with . . . and as a boy I’d heard it mentioned, by my father and others, and described as a quaint little seaside resort with a small port on the Orissa coast. The years passed, and I went from boyhood to manhood and eventually old age (is seventy-six old age? I wouldn’t know), and still it was only a place I’d heard about and dreamt about, but never visited.
Until last month, when I was a guest of KiiT International School in Bhubaneswar, and someone asked me where I’d like to go, and I said, ‘Is Gopalpur very far?’
And off I went, along a palm-fringed highway, through busy little market-towns with names Rhamba and Humma, past the enormous Chilika Lake, which opens into the sea through paddy fields and keora plantations, and finally on to Gopalpur’s Beach Road, with the sun glinting like gold on the great waves of the ocean, and the fishermen counting their catch, and the children sprinting into the sea, tumbling about in the shallows.
But the seafront wore a neglected look. The hotels were empty, the cafes deserted. A cheeky crow greeted me with a disconsolate caw from its perch on a weathered old wall. Some of the buildings were recent, but around us there were also the shells of older buildings that had fallen into ruin. And no one was going to preserve these relics of a colonial past. A small house called ‘Brighton Villa’ still survived.
But away from the seafront a tree-lined road took us past some well-maintained bungalows, a school, an old cemetery, and finally a PWD rest house, where we were to spend the night.
It was growing dark when we arrived, and in the twilight I could just make out the shapes of the trees that surround the old bungalow—a hoary old banyan, a jackfruit and several mango trees. The light from the bungalow’s veranda fell on some oleander bushes. A hawk moth landed on my shirt front and appeared reluctant to leave. I took it between my fingers and deposited it on the oleander bush.
It was almost midnight when I went to bed. The rest-house staff—the caretaker and the gardener—went to some trouble to arrange a meal, but it was a long time coming. The gardener told me the house had once been the residence of an Englishman who had left the country at the time of Independence, some sixty or more years ago. Some changes had been carried out, but the basic structure remained—high ceilinged rooms with skylights, a long veranda and enormous bathrooms. The bathroom was so large you could have held a party in it. But there was just one potty and a basin. You could sit on the potty and meditate, fixing your thoughts (or absence of thought) on the distant basin.
I closed all doors and windows, switched off all lights (I find it impossible to sleep with a light on) and went to bed.
It was a comfortable bed, and I soon fell asleep. Only to be awakened by a light tapping on the window near my bed.
Probably a branch of the oleander bush, I thought, and fell asleep again. But there was more tapping, louder this time, and then I was fully awake.
I sat up in bed and drew aside the curtains.
There was a face at the window.
In the half-light from the veranda, I could not make out the features, but it was definitely a human face.
Obviously, someone wanted to come in, the caretaker perhaps, or the chowkidar. But then, why not knock on the door? Perhaps he had. The door was at the other end of the room, and I may not have heard the knocking.
I am not in the habit of opening my doors to strangers in the night, but somehow I did not feel threatened or uneasy, so I got up, unlatched the door and opened it for my midnight visitor.
Standing on the thre
shold was an imposing figure.
A tall, dark man, turbaned, and dressed all in white. He wore some sort of uniform—the kind worn by those immaculate doormen at five-star hotels; but a rare sight in Gopalpur-on-sea.
‘What is it you want?’ I asked. ‘Are you staying here?’
He did not reply but looked past me, possibly through me, and then walked silently into the room. I stood there, bewildered and awestruck, as he strode across to my bed, smoothed out the sheets and patted down my pillow. He then walked over to the next room and came back with a glass and a jug of water, which he placed on the bedside table. As if that were not enough, he picked up my day clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a vacant chair. Then, just as unobtrusively, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he left the room and walked out into the night.
Early next morning, as the sun came up like thunder over the Bay of Bengal, I went down to the sea again, picking my way over the puddles of human excreta that decorated parts of the beach. Well, you can’t have everything. The world might be more beautiful without the human presence; but then, who would appreciate it?
Back at the rest house for breakfast, I was reminded of my visitor from the previous night.
‘Who was the tall gentleman who came to my room last night?’ I asked. ‘He looked like a butler. Smartly dressed, very dignified.’
The caretaker and the gardener exchanged meaningful glances.
‘You tell him,’ said the caretaker to his companion.
‘It must have been Hazoor Ali,’ said the gardener, nodding. ‘He was the orderly, the personal servant of Mr Robbins, the port commissioner—the Englishman who lived here.’
