by Ruskin Bond
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.'
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 caught a glimpse of something familiar behind the headstone. I walked round to where it lay.
Neatly folded on the grass was my overcoat.
The Mirror
REETA DUTTA GUPTA
Outside, in the fresh green lawn at 7 Chowrangee Street, Ruby was playing a game of her own. And along the edges of the green grass, white lilies and tuberoses bloomed. So did sweet-smelling jasmines on the trailing creeper. The monsoon had arrived. Among the white flowers, creamish, powder-puff butterflies flitted about when the rains took a rest.
Sitting on the windowsill, inhaling the perfumed air, Anjoli watched her little sister. She was always playing games. Little brat! How Mom indulged in her whims and fancies! And what a wild imagination she had! 'I can see ghosts,' she often said with a straight face. Liar! It sometimes worried Mom and Dad. But, they laughed it off. The other day, when Ruby and Anjoli stood out after dinner in their garden in the silver moonlight, to have a moonlight bath—which Ruby said was better than sunbathing in the hot humid climate of Calcutta—she suddenly looked up into the dark terrace streaked with faint moonbeams.
'There's aunty up there on the terrace, standing all alone in the moonlight,' Ruby had said. 'She is looking at us.'
Aunty was Dad's only sister. Only a year ago she had died of cancer.
How frightened Anjoli was that night! Mom and Dad were away at a party to which children were not invited. Why not? Wondered Anjoli. She was fifteen, going on sixteen and she loved to go to parties. Dress up. Put on her light blue chiffon dress embroidered with little white pearls and sequins. Mom had given her that beautiful dress on her fifteenth birthday, only a month ago. And the ornate dresser with a beautiful mirror, which had inlay work with mother-of-pearl along the edges, was a gift from Dad.
'Aunty is calling us,' Ruby had persisted as she stared into the empty space with her eyes and followed the movement of someone walking about.
'What utter nonsense,' Anjoli had snapped back, putting up a brave face. She didn't want to let her sister discover how afraid she was when she spoke like that. For instance, on her birthday, when she was most happy, Ruby had told her just before going to bed, 'He'll come!'
'Who'll come?… What on earth are you talking about?' Anjoli had asked, pinching her sister's chubby cheek so firmly that it left a red patch on her smooth fair skin. That serves her right for making me worry, she thought.
But Ruby had screamed into her ears, her eyes round like two white-and-black marbles, 'Of course, he will! Don't you believe me?'
The next morning, when Anjoli told her mother about the strange things Ruby had been telling her, her mother kept her cool. At least, she pretended to look all right. And she even sided with the baby of the house.
'She is seven years younger to you, Ann. Why do you take everything she says so seriously? Children of her age play games like that. They live in a world of their own.'
Anjoli said nothing but felt a little hurt and angry inside. Her mother was always taking her sister's side. Spoilt child! Wasn't she glad that evening when Dad had chided Ruby as he was helping Anjoli solve a mathematical problem and Ruby came yelling into the room. 'He'll come! He'll come!'
Dad had sharply said, 'That's enough, Ruby! Mom has been telling me about all the naughty things you say! Have you not heard the story "Cry Wolf"? If you go on pretending, no one will believe you. Now, don't make a noise here, your Didi is studying.'
Days and weeks had passed since that evening. Almost a month was over. Ruby was away at her Grandma's house for the weekend and Anjoli was glad for that. She could now have her Mom all to herself for two days, thought Anjoli. Not that she didn't like going to Grandma's, but monthly tests were round the corner. So, she sat at her desk studying, when the doorbell rang. A short buzz, followed by a long, impatient ring. It had been drizzling outside, which turned into a shower. Anjoli could hear the pitter-patter of rain.
Anjoli's mother was busy at her computer. She worked for an Internet company and was always very busy. Her Dad, too, was busy with his clients discussing legal matters. So, Anjoli got up to answer the doorbell. Opening the door she saw a man, a little away from the entrance. The gentleman wore a white shirt and a pair of neatly pressed white trousers. His hair was completely silver like moonlight. He was thin and frail. Anjoli thought he looked like a stick of tuberose plucked from the garden outside. But how did he come in through the rain? He didn't have an umbrella. The man half-smiled.
'Yes?' Anjoli asked.
At first the man didn't say a word but continued to stare at Anjoli for sometime. Anjoli blinked and stared back. He didn't look happy. He seemed to have a sad countenance.
'Have you come to see Dad?' Anjoli asked looking away from the man as if trying hard to break away from the hold of his stare.
'It's the mirror,' the man said at length, almost in a whisper. I've come for it. Could I please have it back? The mirror you had bought a month ago from The Roy's Auction Mart at Freeschool Street? You see, it belonged to me. I'd no intention of putting it up for the sale. There was some mistake about it.'
Anjoli was horrified. She had grown much too fond of her mirror to part with it. She quickly looked back over her shoulders. Thank god, her parents were unaware they had a visitor. Thank god, Ruby was away. She would never come to know about this man and tattle about it to her mother. Anjoli had no intention of parting with the mirror. She was just discovering the world of teenage cosmetics and junk jewellery. She loved to look pretty for she had a feeling deep inside her—which no one knew—that she was not as good looking as her little sister. So when she was not studying, she spent time before the mirror doing her make up, combing her hair this way and that way and generally fussing over her looks.
In a hushed voice, she quickly replied, Ah, well! But I think it was sold to us. We'd bought it. You see, it was my birthday present.'
The man shook his head resolutely.
Anjoli shrugged up her shoulders. 'I'm sorry,' she said and before the man could say another word, she shut the door.
A week passed. Anjoli kept the visit of the man a closely guarded secret. She almost forgot about it. Then, one evening, when Ruby and she sat on the windowsill listening to the wind making strange noises among the palm fronds just outside their garden—for it had begun to drizzle and they couldn't go out for a stroll—Ruby suddenly stood up, closed her eyes and in a low whisper said, 'He's on his way. That man in white.'
Anjoli's heart missed a beat. Suddenly, she remembered the man who had come asking for her mirror. Of course, Ruby had told her, 'He'll come.' And now she was saying, 'That man in white.' How did Ruby know so much? Perhaps, her sister was not playing any game after all. There was something real about what she said. There was something uncanny about her that made her afraid. Was she what people called a clairvoyant? Was that the word, which meant a person who knew things in advance? Anjoli had read about it in a storybook.
For the first time giving her sister a measure of importance, Anjoli asked, testing her sister, 'How do you know he's on his way ?'
'I know. I can see. He'll be back,' Ruby said.
'He'll be back—what do you mean?' Anjoli asked.
Ruby shrugged her shoulders and looked nonchalant.
Anjoli's heart began to pound. 'Tell me, why should he come?' she dema
nded. Ruby burst out laughing. 'Of course, you know! Don't pretend to be an angel.'
Anjoli held her breath, trying hard not to look too anxious as she continued with her interrogation, 'Tell me what else do you see?'
'I see him coming. I see him coming,' Ruby said closing her eyes and sniffing the air like a police dog.
'What makes you sniff the air, stupid?' Anjoli said.
'I can smell something like dad's eau-de-cologne. Now it is right in this room,' Ruby said, opening her eyes. 'Why, there he is!' she exclaimed.
Anjoli stared at her sister, totally bewildered. 'Where is he?' she whispered.
'He is in your mirror,' she said. 'He is not looking at me. He is looking at you.'
Anjoli was terrified. But, nonetheless, she managed to say, 'Nonsense. What utter nonsense!' giving a quick sidelong glance at the mirror. But there was nothing that she saw. She was sure, Ruby was playing—just playing a game. But how did she know about the man in white? Was it all a coincidence?
Thank god! The children's mother walked into the room just then. 'Ann and Ruby, dinner time!' She announced.
Anjoli wanted to run to her and hold her hand. But before she could get up—her legs were shaking—Ruby followed her mother out. Then, just as Anjoli was about to leave the room, a wind rose and a blast came in through the window. With a howl it banged the door shut. And just then, there was a flash of lightning in the sky. And a faint smell of men's cologne filled the room. Anjoli's heart began to race. She nervously glanced at the mirror and her heart missed a beat. Goodness gracious! There he was! That man in white. Staring hard at Anjoli. He looked displeased. Rather annoyed. Anjoli stumbled and fell and somehow managed to catch hold of the doorknob—it felt slippery and very cold; the room temperature too seemed to take a sudden dip—and opening the door, ran out and fell straight onto her Dad's lap.
'What's the matter, Ann? Why, you're perspiring?' the doting father asked, stroking his daughter's hair. Turning to Ruby, he chided her, 'Have you been frightening your sister, Ruby? Lying again?
Now, for the first time Anjoli came to the rescue of her little sister. 'Ruby's not lying Dad. He is there—in the mirror! I saw him! There's a man in the mirror!'
Mr and Mrs Bannerji were speechless. They exchanged a long worried look. What was wrong with their girls? Were they reading too many nonsense tales? Too many ghost stories?
Mrs Bannerji, who sat frozen on her chair, was truly perturbed. 'This has been going on for sometime. First, Ruby said she saw him. And now Anjoli. Look at their faces!'
'And look at your face, ma'am,' Mr Bannerji smiled, addressing his wife. To lighten the situation he jokingly added. 'Are you going to say, too, that there's a man in Anjoli's mirror?'
Mr Bannerji laughed.
Mrs Bannerji laughed too. But her face was as pale as her girls were for she could sense the terror in Ann's heart. And that look of certainty on Ruby's face gave her the shivers. At once, she sent her husband to the children's room to check it out himself. This act, she was sure, would pacify her eldest daughter.
'Why, I see nothing. Nobody's in here, silly girls!' called back Mr Bannerji. He shut the door and came over shaking his head. 'How absurd can you all get?'
'Well girls, that settles it! There's no one there,' Mrs Bannerji said with visible relief.
But Anjoli insisted, 'I'm going to sleep with you, Mom! He's there in my mirror!'
'Tonight, you may sleep with us. Both of you. But tomorrow, I don't want anymore stories,' Mrs Bannerji reproved.
'But tomorrow, he isn't going to go away,' Ruby said with a straight face.
Anjoli gasped.
Mr Bannerji pretended to ignore the children and began to eat. Mrs Bannerji looked nervous.
That night, when the children fell asleep, Mr Bannerji said, 'We must consul Dr P. K. Majumdar. He's the best child psychologist in the city. I'm beginning to get really worried.'
'My daughters are not mad,' Mrs Bannerji protested. 'You never know with antique stuff!' his wife stated. 'I think you'd better sell if off. I don't want it in my house. A mirror like that, anyone will want to buy.'
Mr Bannerji sighed.
The next day, Anjoli avoided going to her room. Ruby fetched her sister's clothes and schoolbooks from her desk and Anjoli did her homework sitting in the dining room. It was Sunday, and after weeks the sky didn't pour. In the afternoon, Anjoli and Ruby went for a walk in the park. And guess whom they met? Mr Roy, the man who auctioned old furniture.
He called out. 'There you are Anjoli! Your father was there to see me this morning. He told me he was looking for a buyer for the mirror. Why, did you not like it? I've an antique three-legged table made of the finest teak. It came this evening. Would your father be interested?' he asked.
Anjoli was sad to hear that the mirror would now be sold off. However, she asked with growing curiosity, 'Where did you get that mirror from?'
'A lovely piece, isn't it? Exquisite, I'd say! Won't find another anywhere in India,' Mr Roy said.
Was the man deaf? Anjoli raised her voice, 'But where did you get it from, uncle?'
'It must be a hundred years old,' Mr Roy beamed.
'A hundred years old?' Anjoli exclaimed.
'Yes, a hundred years old. It belonged to Mr John's mother. She gave it to her daughter-in-law, Betty John, the beautiful lady of Park Circus. I'd always had an eye on it. John had been selling their old articles to me for many years. But he wouldn't agree to parting with the mirror, even after Mrs John died a couple of years ago. John said, "My mother was fond of it. My wife was fond of it. Betty spent hours at it doing up her lovely hair and make-up." But last year, when John died, a distant relation of theirs sold off all their possessions and their house. That's how I got the mirror. You've got it now, but your father doesn't want it suddenly. Why?' Mr Roy asked grinning at Anjoli. He was an aged man and had endearing ways.
'We know him! It's Mr John who is in our mirror!' Ruby suddenly blabbered.
'What, what?' Mr Roy asked looking curiously at the girl. 'Is she your sister?' he asked, and pointing his thin bony finger to his head he indicated that all was not right with her head.
Anjoli quickly turned her back and walked back home clutching Ruby's hand. 'Goodbye, uncle,' she called out.
That very evening the Bannerjis had visitors. A young man and his wife rang the doorbell and were ushered in straight to the children's bedroom.
'This is the mirror and the dressing-table for sale,' Mr Bannerji said.
'How beautiful!' the woman exclaimed.
Anjoli wanted to cry. She loved the mirror but was afraid of it. Standing at the door, she cast a quick sideways glance at it. Why, there was no one in it. Was it then her wild imagination? It was raining cats and dogs that awful night when she thought she saw him in it. The sky was drumming with thunder. The wind was tearing at the tops of the tress. In a situation like that one was bound to imagine things. Or, was it because of Ruby's influence? After all, if someone kept telling you stories and acted and behaved in the strange way she did, you were bound to be affected by it, thought Anjoli. Naughty girl! Because of Ruby, she was going to lose her mirror. An awful feeling of loss and sadness came over Anjoli. Then, she suddenly recalled the man in white who had actually come asking for the mirror. Anjoli had to admit that there was some mystery in it, after all.
With a sigh, Anjoli gave one last glance at the mirror as it was carted away. How beautiful it was! Suddenly, to her horror, Mr John's face appeared in it. His hair shining like moonlight. His eyes blazing. His skin as white as the lilies. Only Anjoli could see him. And Ruby, who came in just then, stopped dead. The children screamed, 'There is Mr John!'
Mr Bannerji smiled with embarrassment at the man and the woman who looked puzzled. Then, suddenly, a loud smash, like glass breaking, came from the mirror. An awful sound it was! As if someone had got into a fit of rage and was pounding glass. And then, to everyone's horror, the mirror cracked.
The mirror, the lovely mirror,
would never be of use to anyone, anymore. It could never be anyone's mirror, except Mrs John's. Mr John had made sure of that.
The Werewolf
C. A. KINCAID
It was a terribly hot afternoon in July, some fifty years ago, in Upper Sind. In the Deccan, cooling showers had turned the hard earth, baked by the summer winds, into a perfect paradise. The soil there was bright with long green grass. The hills rose emerald to the sky, although their summits were often veiled by the monsoon mists; and delightful breezes swept over the glad earth to the great joy of foreign sojourners in the Indian plateau. Even in the Punjab and the Gangetic valley, heavy rain had fallen, and if the air seemed stuffy to the traveller from southern India, his eyes rejoiced in the rich foliage and endless maize fields, while his ears listened joyfully to the murmuring sound of new-born streams, as they tinkled and splashed on their way to join the brimming rivers.
In Upper Sind, the landscape was quite different. Rain hardly ever falls there except in the cold weather, and while more favoured parts of India revel in the monsoon, none of it reaches that strange land. Irrigated by canals from the Indus, the fields are in winter gay with young wheat, and he who visits Upper Sind in January may well think that he has reached some heavenly spot. But let him go there in July or August and he will soon change his opinion. All day long the hot wind roars, driving the mercury up to 120° in the shade; nor is there much relief at night. The hot wind drops, but the thermometer still marks over a hundred; the sandflies and mosquitoes buzz all night, and moonbeams like the rays of a powerful electric headlight pour down on the would-be sleeper's face, making slumbering exceedingly difficult.
In the middle of this sunsplashed region is Sehwan, formerly an important town, but now greatly sunk in importance. One thing it still claims with justice is that it is one of the hottest places on earth. A Persian poet once in the bitterness of his heart asked the Almighty why, after making Sehwan and Sibi, he thought it worthwhile to make Hell. The afternoon on which this story opens was well worthy of Sehwan's ancient reputation. The train steamed slowly into Sehwan station from Sukkur. The railway on the left bank of the Indus had not then been built, so the railtrack passed through Sehwan on its way to Karachi and the seacoast. The last carriage on the train was the saloon of the Traffic Superintendent. It was far roomier than the ordinary first class carriages, as befitted the quarters of a senior railway official; but nothing could keep out the heat or make the interior cool. The shutters were closed. A railway coolie pulled a diminutive punka fixed on the roof, but he merely stirred into motion the heavy, hot air. There were two occupants of the saloon; one was the Traffic Superintendent, Frank Bollinger; the other was a Major Sinclair, whom he had known for some years. He had invited his friend to share the saloon instead of sweltering in the first class compartment and sharing it with two missionaries, their wives and babies.