by Ruskin Bond
“I will tell the Sahib all I know,” he said at last, “but I am in great fear. After the train fell off the line, and Brown sahib was killed, I took the red lamp from the brake van, even such a lamp as this sahib is carrying, and went to warn the stationmaster at Sardhana. But there was a great wind, and I could not cross the bridge, else had I been blown into the river. So I put the lamp in the middle of the track and took shelter under the banyan tree yonder. Thrice was the lamp overset by the wind, and twice did I go and set it up. But when I went the third time, the lamp had gone, and I was sore afraid. Without doubt it was a bhut that took it, and men do not fight with bhuts! Then, after a long time came these two sahibs out of the night, and I was afraid and ran away.”
‘While the man was telling his story, I had been thinking of Brown, lying dead under his engine, and suddenly I had an idea.
“Is this the missing lamp?” I asked handing the fireman the one I was carrying.
‘The man examined it for a moment, and I saw his hands tremble. “Allah be praised,” he exclaimed at last. “Without a doubt it is the very lamp; I remember this twisted wire. But where did the sahib find it?”
‘Then I told Andrews how it had come to be in my possession and of my strange encounter with the silent figure in white. At first he was inclined to be sceptical, but after examining the lamp, his tone changed. “Ahmed is right,” he said, “for I remember the number of my lamp, and it was 76321. There is no possible doubt that this is the tail-light of the wrecked train, but how it came to be where you found it is a mystery. What is your theory, Mackenzie?”
“My theory is that Brown was trying to save the mail train, and that it was his ghost I saw.”
“But Brown is not a one-armed man,” objected Andrews, rather taken aback at my suggestion.
“Is it not conceivable that he lost an arm in the wreck?” I rejoined.
“Maybe, but why should he go seven miles up the line to stop you? No, I can’t accept your theory, Mackenzie; it is too far-fetched. But it is time we thought about getting word through for a breakdown train. Do you feel like crossing the bridge again tonight?”
“We’ll wait till it is light before we cross,” said I.
‘By now the storm was over, the rain had ceased, and dawn was at hand. We could distinguish the outline of the bridge against the sky, and as soon as it was light enough to think of crossing, Roberts and I left Andrews to return to his train, and started out towards the bridge.
‘The river was as high as ever; a turbid, muddy, mile-wide torrent, bearing on its surface trees, houses, animals and flotsam of all kinds.
‘Stranded against the third pier of the bridge was a mass of wreckage, from which projected beams and girders; evidently the remains of a considerable structure which had been washed down the river. We were hazarding guesses as to its nature, when Roberts stopped suddenly. “Look at the top of that pier, Mackenzie,” he said in a queer, tense voice, “Do you notice anything peculiar about it?”
‘I could see nothing wrong and said so. “Come here, then,” he said, leading me down the railway embankment till we had a clear view of the bridge. “Now do you see what I mean?”
‘From where we stood the line of mighty stone piers stretched like level stepping-stones across the river, whose sliding surface foamed, almost level with their tops! But the third stepping-stone was not level! Its upstream edge was below the water!
“My God, Roberts,” I exclaimed, “the pier is giving way, the river has undermined it!”
‘It was never satisfactorily established at what hour the mischief started, but there is little doubt that the mail train would have crashed into the river if we had attempted to cross that night. Whoever he was, the one-armed man had saved many lives.
‘There is little more to add: Roberts and I returned to Sardhana, and gave the alarm, the mail train was diverted over another route, and engineers came up from Calcutta to inspect the damaged bridge.
‘There was an enquiry, of which few details were allowed to reach the public; Brown, the dead driver, was buried at Monghyr, and the incident was forgotten.’
There was silence for a while after Mackenzie finished: then several men spoke together.
‘What about the one-armed man, Sir? Did you ever discover who he was? Was it really the driver’s ghost?’
Mackenzie finished his peg before replying; then, with an inclination towards the judge, he went on with the story.
‘It was never ascertained who the man was, for no one could be found who had seen him that night. The affair had given rise to all sorts of rumours, however, and shortly after the enquiry, I was sent for by the Company’s Agent, Mr Rutherford.
“I want to hear your version of what happened on the night of the 23rd of August,” he said, when I was shown into his office. “Please give me the whole story.”
“Before I begin, Sir,” said I, “I would like to know where I stand. Is this another official enquiry?”
‘Rutherford was an Aberdonian, and had a fine sense of humour. He laughed, and told me to tell him the whole story, “ghost and all”. “I have a good reason for asking,” he added with a smile, “May be I ken mair than ye think.”
‘He listened without comment while I told him the story, then, going to a bookcase he took down a red covered volume, turned to a marked page, and began to read aloud. As nearly as I can recollect this is what he read: “The rainy season of 1875 was notable for a regrettable accident, attended with considerable loss of life, when a span of the newly-built Sardhana bridge was swept away by the flooded Barsi river. The engine and five coaches of a passenger train which was crossing at the time were precipitated into the gap, whereby seventy persons were drowned.
“Among those who lost their lives was Mr Aneurin Edwards, the distinguished engineer who built the bridge. Although the private coach in which he was travelling remained, with six other vehicles, upon the bridge, Mr Edwards went forward to attempt the rescue of those left alive in the forepart of the train. When last seen he was trying to reach some survivors by means of a rope.
“Handicapped by the loss of his right arm, which was mauled by a tiger some years before, he is thought to have fallen, and been trapped by submerged wreckage. The body was recovered seven days later, and buried under a banyan tree on the north bank of the river, where a marble tomb to his memory is being erected at the expense of the Board of Directors.”
“That is an extract from the history of the Company,” said Rutherford, returning the book to its place. “That Edwards seems to have been a real sportsman: I should like to have met him.”
“I rather think I have done so,” said I.’
Fritz
Satyajit Ray
After having stared at Jayant for about a whole minute, I could not help asking him, ‘Are you well? You appear a little dispirited today.’
Jayant quickly lost his slightly preoccupied air, gave me a boyish smile and said, ‘No. On the contrary, I am feeling a lot better. This place is truly wonderful.’
‘You’ve been here before. Didn’t you know how good it was?’
‘I had nearly forgotten,’ Jayant sighed. ‘Now some of my memories are slowly coming back. The bungalow certainly appears unchanged. I can even recognize some of the old furniture, such as these cane tables and chairs.’
The bearer came in with tea and biscuits on a tray. I poured.
‘When did you come here last?’
‘Thirty-one years ago. I was six then.’
We were sitting in the garden of the circuit house of Bundi. We had arrived only that morning. Jayant and I were old friends. We went to the same school and college. He now worked in the editorial division of a newspaper and I taught in a school. Although we had different jobs, it had not made any difference to our friendship. We had been planning a visit to Rajasthan for a long time. The main difficulty lay in both of us being able to get away together. That had, at last been made possible.
Most people go to Jaipur, Uda
ipur, Chittor in Rajasthan; but Jayant kept talking about going to Bundi. I had no objection for, having read Tagore’s poem ‘The Fort of Bundi’, I was certainly familiar with the name of the place and felt a pleasurable excitement at the prospect of actually seeing the fort. Not many people came to Bundi. But that did not mean that there was not much to see there. It could be that, from the point of view of a historian, Udaipur, Jodhpur and Chittor had a lot more to offer; but simply as a beautiful place, Bundi was perfect.
However, Jayant’s insistence on Bundi did puzzle me somewhat. I learnt the reason on the train when we were coming down. Jayant had, apparently, visited Bundi as a child and had always wanted to return after growing up, just to see how far the modern Bundi matched his memories. Jayant’s father, Animesh Das Gupta, had worked in the Archaeological Department. His work sometimes took him to historical places, which is how Jayant had had the chance to come to Bundi.
The circuit house was really rather splendid. Built during the time of the British, it must have been at least a hundred years old. It was a single-storeyed building with a sloping tiled roof. The rooms had high ceilings and the skylights had long, dangling ropes which could be pulled to open and shut them. The veranda faced the east. Right opposite it was a huge garden with a large number of roses in full bloom. Behind these were a lot of trees which obviously housed a vast section of local birds. Parrots could be seen everywhere; and peacocks could be heard, but only outside the compound.
We had already been on a sightseeing tour of the town. The famous fort of Bundi was placed amidst the hills. We saw it from a distance that day but decided to go back to take a closer look. The only things that were reminders of the modern times were the electric poles. Otherwise it seemed as though we were back in old Rajputana.
The streets were cobbled, the houses had balconies hanging from the first floor. The carvings done on these and the wooden doors bore evidence of the work of master craftsmen. It was difficult to believe we were living in the age of machines.
I noticed Jayant had turned rather quiet after arriving in Bundi. Perhaps some of his memories had returned. It is easy enough to feel a little depressed when visiting a place one may have seen as a child. Besides, Jayant was certainly more emotional than most people. Everyone knew that.
He put his cup down on the table and said, ‘You know, Shankar, it is really quite strange. The first time I came here I used to sit cross-legged on these chairs. It seemed as though I was sitting on a throne. Now the chairs seem both small in size and very ordinary. The drawing-room here used to seem absolutely enormous. If I hadn’t returned, those memories would have remained stuck in my mind for ever.’
I said, ‘Yes, that’s perfectly natural. As a child, one is small in size, so everything else seems large. One grows bigger with age, but the size of all the other things remains the same, doesn’t it?’
We went for a stroll in the garden after tea. Jayant suddenly stopped walking and said, ‘Deodar.’
I stared at him.
‘A deodar tree. It ought to be here somewhere,’ he said and began striding towards the far end of the compound. Why did he suddenly think of a deodar tree?
A few seconds later I heard his voice exclaiming jubilantly, ‘Yes, it’s here! Exactly where it was before!’
‘Of course it’s where it was before,’ I said. ‘Would a tree go roaming about?’
Jayant shook his head impatiently. ‘No, that is not what I meant. All I meant was that the tree is where I thought it might be.’
‘But why did you suddenly think of a tree?’
Jayant stared at the trunk of the tree, frowning. Then he shook his head slowly and said, ‘I can’t remember that now. Something had brought me near the tree. I had done something here. A European ….’
‘European?’
‘No, I can’t recall anything at all. Memory is a strange business ….’
They had a good cook in the circuit house. Later in the evening, while we sat having dinner at the oval dining table, Jayant said, ‘The cook they had in those days was called Dilawar. He had a scar on his left cheek and his eyes were always red. But he was an excellent cook.’
Jayant’s memories began returning one by one soon after dinner when we went back to the drawing-room. He could recall where his father used to sit and smoke a cheroot; where his mother used to knit, and what magazines lay on the table.
And, slowly, in bits and pieces, he recalled the whole business about his doll.
It was not the usual kind of doll little girls play with. One of Jayant’s uncles had brought for him, from Switzerland, a twelve-inch long figure of an old man, dressed in the traditional Swiss style. Apparently, it was very life-like. Although it was not mechanized, it was possible to bend and twist its limbs. Its face had a smile on it and, on its head, it wore a Swiss cap with a little yellow feather sticking out from it. Its clothes, especially in their little details, were perfect—belt, buttons, pockets, collars, socks. There were even little buckles on the shoes.
His uncle had returned from Europe shortly before Jayant left for Bundi with his parents. The little old man had been bought in a village in Switzerland. The man who sold him had said to Jayant’s uncle jokingly, ‘He’s called Fritz. You must call him by this name. He won’t respond to any other.’
Jayant said, ‘I had a lot of toys when I was small. My parents gave me practically everything I wanted, perhaps because I was their only child. But once I had Fritz, I forgot all my other toys. I played only with him. A time came when I began to spend hours just talking to him. Our conversation had to be one-sided, of course, but Fritz had such a funny smile on his lips and a look in his eyes, that it seemed to me as though he could understand every word. Sometimes, I wondered if he would actually converse with me if I could speak to him in German. Now it seems like a childish fantasy, but at that time the whole thing was very real to me. My parents did warn me not to overdo things, but I listened to no one. I had not yet been put in a school, so I had all the time in the world for Fritz.’
Jayant fell silent. I looked at my watch and realized it was 9.30 p.m. It was very quiet outside. We were sitting in the drawing-room of the circuit house. An oil lamp burnt in the room.
I asked, ‘What happened to the doll?’
Jayant was still deep in thought. His answer to my question came so late that, by that time, I had started to think that he had not heard me at all.
‘I had brought it to Bundi. It was destroyed here.’
‘Destroyed? How?’
Jayant sighed.
‘We were sitting out on the lawn having tea. I had kept the doll by my side on the grass. I was not really old enough to have tea, but I insisted and, in the process, the cup tilted and some of the hot tea fell on my trouser. I ran inside to change and came back to find that Fritz had disappeared. I looked around and found quite soon that a couple of stray dogs were having a nice tug-of-war with Fritz between them. Although he didn’t actually come apart, his face was battered beyond recognition and his clothes were torn. In other words, Fritz did not exist for me any more. He was dead.’
‘And then?’ Jayant’s story intrigued me.
‘What could possibly happen after that? I arranged his funeral, that’s all.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I buried him under that deodar tree. I had wanted to make a coffin. Fritz was, after all, a European. But I could find nothing, not even a little box. So, in the end, I buried him just like that.’
At last, the mystery of the deodar tree was solved.
We went to bed at around ten. Our room was a large one, and our beds had been neatly made. Not being used to doing a lot of walking, I was feeling rather tired after the day’s activities. Besides, the bed was very comfortable. I fell asleep barely ten minutes after hitting the pillow.
A slight noise woke me a little later. I turned on my side and found Jayant sitting up on his bed. The table lamp by his bed was on and, in its light, it was easy to see the look of anxiety on
his face.
I asked, ‘What is it? Are you not feeling well?’
Instead of answering my question, Jayant asked me one himself.
‘Do you think this circuit house has got small animals? I mean, things like cats or mice?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it does. Why?’
‘Something walked over my chest. That’s what woke me.’
‘Rats and mice usually come in through drains. But I’ve never known them to climb on the bed.’
‘This is the second time I’ve woken up actually. The first time I heard a shuffling noise near the window.’
‘Oh, if it was near the window, it is more likely to be a cat.’
‘Yes, but ….’
Jayant still sounded doubtful. I said, ‘Didn’t you see anything after you switched the light on?
‘Nothing. But then, I didn’t switch it on immediately after opening my eyes. To tell you the truth, I felt rather scared at first. But when I did switch it on, there was nothing to be seen.’
‘That means whatever came in is still in the room.’
‘Well … since both the doors are bolted from inside ….’
I rose quickly and searched under the bed, behind our suitcases and everywhere else in the room. I could not find anything. The door to the bathroom was closed. I opened it and was about to start another search when Jayant called out to me softly, ‘Shankar!’
I came back to the room. Jayant was staring hard at the cover of his quilt. Upon seeing me, he pulled a portion of it near the lamp and said, ‘Look at this!’
I bent over the cloth and saw tiny, brown circular marks on it.
I said, ‘Well, these could have been made by a cat.’
Jayant did not say anything. It was obvious that something had deeply disturbed him. But it was 2.30 in the morning. I simply had to get a little more sleep, or I knew I would not stop feeling tired. And we had plans of doing a lot of sightseeing the following day.
So, after murmuring a few soothing words—such as, don’t worry, I am here with you and who knows, those marks may have been on your quilt already when you went to bed—I switched off the light once more and lay down. I had no doubt that Jayant had only had a bad dream. All those memories of his childhood had upset him, obviously, and that was what had led to his dreaming of a cat walking on his chest.
