The coolies and the overseer left for the village in the valley before sunset. The Dysons got busy settling in. The bearers went about lighting hurricane lanterns, laying the dinner table, and fixing mosquito nets on the beds. Mrs Dyson and Jennifer went round inspecting the rooms. Dyson stretched himself on a large cane armchair in the veranda, lit his pipe and ordered a Scotch. He watched the setting sun fire the monsoon clouds in a blaze of burnished gold, then a copper red, orange, pink, white, and finally a sulky grey. The tropical jungle was hushed into an eerie stillness as the twilight sank into night. The birds settled down, and within a few minutes it was quite dark. Now the jungle was alive with a different variety of noises, the croaking of frogs and the calls of jackals and hyenas. As Dyson sat sipping his Scotch and smoking, the fireflies came out on the lawn almost up to where he was sitting.
The bearer announced dinner. The dining table was lit with candles. From the mantelpiece a hurricane lantern spread a sickly yellow light on the grey plaster walls discoloured by age and monsoon rains.
There was very little talk at the dinner table. Only the bearer coming in or going out with plates and courses, and the tinkle of crockery and cutlery broke the oppressive silence. Jennifer was fidgety. She had been exploring the house when the bearer had interrupted her with summons to the dining room. Suddenly she put down her knife and fork with a loud clatter—
‘Look, mummy, there’s a picture on the wall.’
Mrs Dyson shuddered and turned back to look. The distemper on the wall was discoloured by long lines where rain water had trickled down from the ceiling to the floor. There were many patterns on the wall which changed shape with the flickering of the lamp.
‘Jennifer,’ said Mrs Dyson hoarsely, ‘do stop frightening me and get on with your dinner.’
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Jennifer was sent to bed when the coffee was brought in.
Mrs Dyson looked back at the wall once more. There was nothing on it.
‘John, I don’t like this place.’
Dyson lit his pipe with deliberation, pressing down the tobacco with a match box.
‘John, I don’t like this place,’ repeated Mrs Dyson.
‘You are tired. You’d better get to bed.’
Mrs Dyson went to bed. Her husband joined her after a while, and in a few minutes he was asleep and snoring.
Mrs Dyson could not sleep. She propped her pillows against the poles of the mosquito net and stared at the garden. It was a moonless night but the sky was clear and the lawn was dimly starlit. Beyond the lawn was the forest, like a high black wall. The frogs and the insects, an occasional screech of a bird, the laugh of a hyena and the howling of jackals filled the jungle with noises. This brought cold sweat on Mrs Dyson’s forehead.
Many hours later, a pale moon came up over the crest of the jungle and lit the garden with a sickly glow. The dew covered the lawn in a gossamer white.
Mrs Dyson decided to take a walk to shake off the feeling of eeriness. The grass was cool and wet under her bare feet. As she walked she looked at the green trail she left in the dewy whitewash on the grass. She shook her head as if throwing off a weight, and took several deep breaths. It was fresh and exhilarating. There was nothing eerie and nothing to be frightened of.
Mrs Dyson strolled up and down the moonlit lawn for several minutes. Feeling refreshed, she decided to go back to bed. Just as she approached the veranda, she stopped suddenly. A few paces ahead of her, the lawn showed footprints. A trail continued to be marked by invisible feet till the edge of the clearing and then disappeared into the jungle. Margaret Dyson felt feverish and weak in the knees and collapsed.
When she recovered, it was nearly morning. The whole countryside was alive with the singing of birds. Mrs Dyson dragged herself to bed utterly exhausted.
When the bearer brought in the tea, the sun was streaming across the veranda. Dyson had had his breakfast and was ready to go out. At the further end of the lawn, the overseer and coolies were waiting for him.
Dyson was back shortly before sunset. He ordered his whisky and soda and stretched out his legs for the bearer to unlace his boots. With a couple of whiskies in him, he became jovial.
‘What are we having for dinner? Smells like curried chicken. I am hungry—can’t beat the country air!’
The family had their dinner in silence, Dyson enjoying the food. A jackal walked up the lawn almost to the dining room door and set up a howl. Mrs Dyson’s fork fell from her hands. Before her husband could speak, she stood up and said in a hoarse whisper: ‘John, I don’t like this place.’
‘Your nerves are in a bad way. It was only a jackal. I’ll shoot a few. They won’t disturb you. There’s no need to be jittery. Did you sleep well last night?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I saw you walking on the lawn, Mummy,’ butted in Jennifer.
‘You eat your pudding and go to bed,’ answered Mrs Dyson.
‘But I saw you, Mummy—you were in your white dressing gown and you looked inside my net to see if I was asleep and I shut my eyes. I saw you.’
Mrs Dyson went pale.
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Jennifer, and go to bed. I haven’t got a white dressing gown and you know it.’ Mrs Dyson got up from the table and her husband joined her.
‘Did you have a disturbed night?’
‘I couldn’t sleep at all. But, John, I haven’t got a white dressing gown and I did not look into Jennifer’s bed.’
‘Oh, this is all hooey. Come on, Jennifer, finish your pudding and off to bed. I’ll get my gun and shoot one of these jackals. Would you like a jackal for a fur coat, Jennifer?’ said Dyson, affecting a hearty manner.
‘No, I don’t like jackals.’
Dyson got his gun, loaded it, and stood it against the wall near his bed. He lit his pipe and kept up a continuous conversation till it was time to go to bed.
‘If you hear any jackals,’ he said to his wife, ‘just wake me up.’
‘Yes, dear.’
Within a few minutes, Dyson was fast asleep.
Jennifer was also asleep. But Mrs Dyson lay in bed with her eyes wide open staring through the net at the lawn and the wall of trees that was the jungle.
Out of the misty haze emerged a figure of a woman in a long white dressing gown. Her hair was tied in two plaits which fell on her shoulders. Her features were not discernible but her eyes had an inhuman brightness. Mrs Dyson turned cold, petrified with fear. She tried to scream, but only a muffled moan escaped her. John Dyson continued to snore.
The phantom figure started moving towards the veranda, fixing Mrs Dyson with a stare. When it was halfway across the lawn, a jackal scampered across and stood facing it. The animal raised its head and sent up a long howl, and immediately, others joined in the chorus.
Mrs Dyson found her voice and her moan changed into a frantic shriek.
John Dyson got up with a start and darted for his gun. Before he could collect his wits and take aim, the jackals dashed away in different directions. Dyson emptied both his barrels at one of them, but was well out of range.
‘Missed the bastard’ Dyson muttered to himself.
Next morning, the Dysons’ nerves were more frayed than ever.
‘I am sorry, dear, I frightened you last night,’ said Dyson, ‘I must get those jackals tonight.’
‘John, didn’t you see anything else?’
‘Else, what else?’
‘A woman in white. She was walking straight at us when you fired the gun.’
‘Nonsense. I am sorry I missed the jackal. You must pull yourself together.’
‘But, John, you must believe me. The first night I saw her footprints on the lawn.’
Mrs Dyson paused, and then got up. ‘Come and see.’
She led her husband to the lawn, still milky white and shimmering in the sunlight. There were the footprints. Dyson followed them till he came to a clearing. In the centre of the clearing was a grave—an old dilapidated grave without any ston
e or inscription. The moss had grown all over it and from the cracks in the plaster grew weeds and ferns.
Dyson was shaken but did not change his tone. ‘This is too damned silly for words,’ he said.
When the overseer arrived. Dyson sent for him in his office and shut the door behind him.
‘Sunder Lal, what do you know about this house?’
‘Not much, sir,’ faltered the overseer. ‘Many stories are told in the villages around here and superstitious folk believe them. The house has remained unoccupied for many years, and even after the Government acquired it, Indian officers refused to stay here. But the mali has been here all this time and seems quite happy.’
‘Send for the mali.’
Sunder Lal fetched the mali.
‘The Sahib wants to know about the house. Tell Sahib all you know.’
‘Defender of the poor,’ said the old mali speaking in Hindustani, ‘the house was built by Jean Memsahib who came from Mandla. She had a school for children. It was on government land, and after many years of litigation, the Government won and acquired it.’
‘What happened to Jean Memsahib?’ asked Dyson.
‘She died in this house, Sahib. After the Government acquired the house she closed her school. Then she fell ill. She used to walk about in the garden during the rainy season and got malaria. She died after many attacks. Only Riaz, her Muslim bearer, and I were present. We went down to Mandla to inform the Sahibs there, but no one seemed to know about her. We buried her in the forest. Riaz left and is now in Mandla working as a bearer. I stayed on with the Government.’
‘How many people lived in this house after her death?’
‘No one has lived here, Sahib. Officers come and go. People have spread tales about her having cursed the place. But I have lived here more than fifty years and no harm has come to me.’
Dyson dismissed the overseer and the mali and went to his wife.
‘Just had a word with the mali and the overseer’ announced Dyson nonchalantly, ‘lot of poppycock about no one being able to stay in this house. The mali’s been here for fifty years. In any case, I am going to stay right here and settle this ghost once and for all.’
That night, Dyson again loaded his gun and removed the safety catch. After dinner he drank several cups of black coffee. He had a hurricane lamp put beside his bed, and he began to look at some old copies of Blackwood’s Magazine he had found in an almirah. Comforted by the light and the knowledge of her husband being awake, Mrs Dyson fell fast asleep as soon as she put her head on the pillow.
For some time, Dyson smoked his pipe and read. Then he dimmed the lantern and just smoked.
The night was darker than the two previous ones. It was clouded over and a damp breeze indicated rain. Some time well after midnight, there was lightning and thunder and it began to rain in torrents, as it does in the tropics. The breeze carried a thin cooling spray across the veranda and into the mosquito nets. Mrs Dyson and her daughter slept through the lightning and thunder. The cool spray made Dyson sleepy. He began to nod and then dozed off sitting against his pillow.
A jackal came up close to the veranda and sent up a howl. Dyson woke up with a jerk. Just then the lamp flickered and went out. Through the net Dyson saw the outlines of a human figure standing at the foot of his bed. A pair of bright eyes fixed him with a steady stare. There was a flash of lightning and he saw her—the woman in white with plaits falling about her shoulders. The thunder which followed the lightning shook him into activity. With a cry of fear he leapt out of bed and groped for his gun, not taking his eyes off the figure beside his bed. He caught the butt and wildly went for the trigger. There were two loud reports. Dyson fell with the full discharge of the gun in his face.
Dhanno
There were still another four days to Sunday, when most papers carried matrimonial ads. And it would be another week or ten days before anyone would respond. Nevertheless, Mohan looked more carefully at the advertisement pages to see if any carried midweek matrimonials. None did.
As he sat down for his post-breakfast Havana (Romeo and Julieta—Rs 150 each), the sweeper woman came in carrying her broom, a bucket of phenyl water and a mop and asked him if she could do the floors. She had taken orders from his wife about which room to do first: their bedroom, the children’s room and the bathrooms were given priority; the sitting-dining room came last. Without looking up at her, Mohan nodded his head.
As she sat on her haunches mopping the floor with a piece of rag soaked in phenyl, Mohan noticed her rounded buttocks separated by a sharp cleavage. He could not take his eyes off her ample behind. He had never bothered to look at her before nor did he know her name. She was just the jamadarni—sweeper woman. She often brought her three children with her. He had sometimes seen them playing in the garden while their mother was busy in the house. The sweeperess stood up, turned her face towards him and brushed aside a strand of hair from her forehead. He noticed that she was full-bosomed and had a narrow waist. She was dark but not unattractive. The woman got down on her haunches again to do another part of the room. Mohan turned to his paper.
He recalled his college days in India. One of the boys had told him that sweeper women made the best lovers; they were uninhibited, wild and hot. Mohan had often reflected that as a class, the so-called untouchable women were in fact the most touchable. What about this one in his own house? It would not be very difficult to persuade her to come to his bedroom when the other servants were in their quarters or out buying provisions. He could double her salary, give her children toys and sweets. Such master-servant liaisons were not uncommon. Poorly-paid menials welcomed a second income and their spouses were not very particular about infidelity provided it brought in some money. No messy hassles with women demanding attention and presents and wanting to be taken out to parties. There was also the advantage of convenience: sex on the tap, as it were. Mohan decided to keep the sweeper woman in mind in the event of failure on other fronts. She would provide no companionship but would at least solve his most important and most immediate problem: his need for sex.
Sarojini
Professor Sarojini Bharadwaj arrived at the house a couple of hours after Mohan had left. Jiwan Ram and the bearer took her cases to the guest room.
After the servants had left, she looked around the room. Her eyes fell on an envelope on the pillow. She tore it open. She felt the thick wad of currency notes. For a moment she felt ashamed of herself, then put the money in her handbag. She read the note. It said nothing about the money. He had fulfilled his part of the contract in advance; he was a gentleman, true to his word. She had no option but to fulfil her part of the deal.
Sarojini unpacked, arranged her clothes in the empty wardrobes and laid out her books on the work table. By the time she had finished her bath, it was 10 a.m. She had toast and a cup of coffee for breakfast, then told the bearer that she was going out to do some shopping and would be back in time for lunch.
Sarojini was not familiar with New Delhi’s shopping areas but had heard that the best saris were to be found at the South Extension market. The chauffeur knew exactly where to take her. They made slow progress on the Ring Road choked with overcrowded buses and more cars and two-wheelers than she had ever seen. At the Moolchand traffic light, a fancy steel-grey car stopped next to their Mercedes. Sarojini found herself examining the woman in the back seat. She had her hair permed, her lips painted a bright red, and rouge on her cheeks. She wore a sleeveless blouse with a plunging neckline. There was a prosperous looking man sitting next to her, with gold rings on his fingers. The man put his arm around her, pulled her to him and said something in her ear. The woman threw her head back and laughed, a manicured hand at her cleavage. ‘Slut,’ hissed Sarojini under her breath. It was only after the lights had changed and the cars were moving that Sarojini realized what she had done. She had condemned a woman who perhaps was doing nothing worse than what she herself had agreed to do. Only, she, Sarojini Bharadwaj, Professor of English, did not look t
he type. For the second time that morning, she felt ashamed of herself. But the feeling soon died. Only a vague apprehension remained.
The market was crowded, but the chauffeur took her to a shop where it did not take her long to find what she wanted. She bought herself a beige-coloured cotton sari—beige suited her best—and a pink dressing gown. The two cost her a little over a thousand rupees. While paying for them, she counted the notes. The purchases and what remained amounted to exactly ten thousand rupees.
She was back in time for lunch. The bearer had laid out an elaborate meal of cucumber soup, vegetable pilaf, daal and vegetable curry, followed by rice pudding. She sampled everything but ate very little. She locked herself in her room and tried to get some sleep.
But sleep would not come to her. Her mind was agitated. She dozed off for a few minutes, and woke up to check the time. Dozed off again, then woke up with a start and again looked at her watch. It seemed as if time had come to a stop. She switched on her bedside lamp and tried to read, but her mind was too disturbed to take in anything. She gave up, closed her eyes and resumed her battle with sleep. So passed the restless afternoon. She heard the servants return from their quarters. By the time she came out to have tea it was 5 p.m. She found herself looking at her wristwatch every few minutes. As it came closer to 6 p.m., the time when Mohan left the office, her nervousness increased. She went back to her room and had yet another bath—her third of the day. She lit sticks of agar and put them in a tumbler that she placed in front of a figurine of Saraswati, her patron goddesss, that she always carried with her. She sat down on the carpet, joined the palms of her hands in prayer and chanted an invocation to Saraswati. Her prayers told, she changed into the beige sari she had bought that morning, put a fresh bindi on her forehead, a light dab of colour on her lips and splashed cologne on her neck and breasts. She put on her pearl necklace and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Still nervous, she went out and sat in the balcony to await Mohan’s arrival.
Khushwant Singh's Book of Unforgettable Women Page 11
